navigatingthecrucible

[navigatingthecrucible]

Let Me Put It This Way...

There are things we don’t say, things we don’t even think because we understand there is a very real disconnect between what we would think and the reality we would be speaking to. We don’t tell a person with a seriously injured arm or leg “to just try a little harder to use it, just act like it’s not in pain and you’ll be able to use it like normal.” We don’t shout at a person that is deaf: “if you would just listen to me I know you would understand!” We don’t ask a person that is blind “have you tried opening your eyes wider?” Or “are you sure you can’t see, if you just look a little harder?” We easily understand the source of these difficulties.

But when it comes to mental health, mental illness, we often say the things we shouldn’t say or at the very least think the things we shouldn’t think...betraying our disconnect to the reality we are speaking to. We say to those that carry the burden and weight of past trauma into their present, “just try a little harder to forget, just act like you're not reliving the pain and you’ll be able to live like normal.” We shout with our tones of incredulity to the anxious and chaotically fear-filled, “if you would just listen to me you would know there is nothing to be afraid of.” We ask of the depressed and the imbalanced, “have you tried feeling anything but numb, have you tried loving your life?” Or “are you sure you can’t just relax, if you just tried a little harder to be mellow?” We easily misunderstand the source of these difficulties.

We can identify the injury or the improper way the cells formed to result in the body unable to be as it should. It’s much harder to see the mind that is hijacked by a liar that paints reality differently, whose hands deftly maneuver the control booth of experience and feelings. Do we really think that this individual has not spent days and nights trying to wrest control back from the imposter that looks remarkably like themselves, but a shell of what they know they can be? Do we really think they’re not exhausted from the giant’s game of holding out control saying "just jump higher, take it from my hand and I’ll leave you be?"

Once upon a time in history, our physical and mental ailments were a “less than” life sentence and in some ways today they still are. But in so many other ways our Maker has taught us how to help each other; how to turn our creativity and wonder and intelligence into small gifts of how life can be full for someone who feels empty.

By His inspiration we know how to see the body from the inside out. We know where to prod and to stimulate so that life comes back to a limb. And where a limb must be removed, we know how to make another, turning our bodies into an hybrid fully engaged with life, limitless where limits reigned supreme.

Likewise…

By His inspiration we know how to see the way trauma affects a person from the inside out. We know when to ask questions and when to listen so that the burdens a person carries might be shared, to make space for hope to come back to a life. And where scars cannot be removed, we know how to love a person so that they do not feel damaged. That it’s okay to be both wounded and healed, an hybrid life fully engaged, limitless where limits reigned supreme.

By His inspiration we understand the way sound waves ripple through the world. We know how to create a tiny gadget that will capture those waves and send them to a brain that was beginning to forget, or had never experienced what “sound” could be. And for those, where our gadgets will not work, we know how to say look at my hands. Watch me tell you how much value you have, how much you are loved.

Likewise…

By His inspiration we understand the way fear ripples through the world. We know how to create space to spend time capturing peace and sending it to a brain that was beginning to forget, or had never experienced what “safety” could be. And for those, where our words alone will not work, we learn how to speak it another way. We know how to love a person so that they do not feel alone. Give me a chance, give me some time to tell you how much value you have, how much you are loved.

By His inspiration we know how to look through a lens that will let our eyes see more than our natural gaze. We are enabled to see close things, tiny things, distant things, and color. We even know how to take a small laser and erase degeneration, making vibrant again the way our eyes naturally age or become cloudy. And for those whose eyes will never see, we know how to say let me describe it to you, the ocean: “That sound that you hear is just water. The same water that sounds like peace falling from the sky against the roof while you sleep. The same water you drink only salty, can you smell the salt in the air? It’s the sound that it makes when it reaches as far as it can to embrace the earth and then pull it back in for a hug. Like this, reach out your arms to mine and pull me in for a hug. We are waves and sand, you and I. And the color? Oh, it’s so many colors all at once...blues and greens and darkness and light. But seamless and one, like the instruments of a symphony. The ocean often looks the way life feels, like sadness and chaos, fear and excitement, happiness and peace.”

Likewise…

By His inspiration we know how to become a lens that will let the despairing see more than the darkness that appears endless all around them. We are enabled to see the life events, the questions, the berating, the shame and the guilt that put them there and we can begin to walk with them away from the darkness and into the light. We even know how to give them a small pill that will provide balance, bringing calm and order to a brain that is naturally frenetic or locked in extremes. And for those who fear they will never have hope again, we know how to say let me describe it to you, the Love of God: “The way you are feeling is just a feeling. It is fleeting and changeable no matter how strong it now feels but it is nothing more than a sandcastle waiting to be devoured by the waves. The same hopelessness you feel, the pit heavy with death that surrounds you was freely accepted, carried, and buried by Jesus Christ. He reached out in sacrifice to bring you back to Him, to steep you in love and forgiveness. We are powerless, you and I. But filled with freedom all the same. And that freedom? It is here for you now. Possible, discoverable in all your days if you would but fight through the feelings. If you would but believe the Truth that is stronger; the Lord’s victory will be yours for all eternity.” We know how to love a person so that they have purpose, so they know they are courageous and that their struggle is not in vain when their life belongs to the Lord. Life is so much more than the moments that feel like sadness and chaos, fear and excitement, happiness and peace.

Let me put it this way: everyday is a new opportunity to better understand the people God has placed around us, to love His children well. We just have to be aware.

#mentalhealthawarenessmonth

[navigatingthecrucible]

I have two forms of thinking things through: over-analyzing or not analyzing at all. I have found that the latter is almost always a reaction to staying too long in the former. I can get stuck on the island of my mind, turning over thoughts and problems like smooth, skippable stones: do I build something with these rocks or am I supposed to cast them away from me onto the rippling surface? I trace the graded lines with my finger and I wonder. Perhaps one more look and I’ll know. Perhaps one more perspective and my scattered resolve will be gathered together at last…like particles of sand fused together with moisture, forming precarious fortresses stretching to the sky. The longer I stay, the thicker the fog of indecision rolls around me. All I can see is the island and I am weary of inaction. I begin to throw rocks at random while stacking others, blindly hoping that something will take form. That these pieces of a life that I have been given will be put together one day. That something of value will be left when I’m gone. I sat in church yesterday and in my uncertainty, I asked God: “am I thinking the right things?”; “am I in the places I should be?”; “am I doing what I am supposed to be doing?” These questions hover in the atmosphere of being alive. Organic as the bodies that tether our soul to this earth, they change and require change. They present a bounty of choices, a freedom that somehow feels heavy. Choices we assume, if made incorrectly, will leave one stuck on an overgrown-weedy-boarded-up-end-of-the-road path...nowhere to go and with nothing to show for the steps that we took. The Lord said one thing to me, “you’re making this too hard, My Love.” You’re making this too hard… You see, the longer I stay on the island, the easier it is to forget that it was never an island in the first place, but a peninsula. A place not separated but connected--a place to visit, not stay. The rocks are not meant to be the locus of my focus. Rocks are always present and interchangeable as we walk the path set before us. The problem is that the longer I look down at the challenge I hold, the less I am aware of the One that trusted me with it. If I could but remember Him--the One that dies for enemies, the One that sets a feast before the squanderer, the One that looks upon the helpless with compassion and generosity, the One that treats His adopted as His own--I would remember I have no reason to be afraid. Because I am as I am for a reason and a purpose. His reason and His purpose. My comprehension of my life is but one leaf, in a canopy of greens on the tree of humanity that too often marks its growth by “rings” of accomplishments...forgetting its need for soil and air and water. Gifts given to us, not self-made. We can be conduits of life but only if we remember to be exactly who God made us to be. It takes courage to live out the best of ourselves. But we can’t stop walking for fear of a wrong turn. We steep in a grace we could never extinguish and steps can always be re-traced. Even if we reach a dead end, the place where the weeds grow, we may come to find out those places are not without value and beauty in their own way. After all, wildflowers are also weeds. #itsagoodlife #livewelldiewell #teachmetonumbermydays

[navigatingthecrucible]

Last year I was obsessed with “living a better story.” I tried to push myself outside of my comfort zone. I tried to say yes when God asked me to do something, even if it felt difficult or scary. I tried to be intentional, to live on purpose. In regard to holding myself to personal standards, I am a perfectionist. I am by nature, a “striver” and so becoming caught up in the act of improving myself was indeed an obsession. And not a kind one. The locus of seeing my life as valuable was found in what I was doing, not the incomparable miracle that I was a human, being. That merely being alive is a gift from God. A couple years ago I tried to stop referring to mankind as “people” and “persons.” The terms were too familiar, I noticed that they too easily directed my brain to see them as objects, less important than whatever they were to me. I started calling them "humans" and "human beings." For some reason using those terms makes me think of a heart, an eternal soul, a mind, of a story, of a created masterpiece that exists entirely separate to whatever they are to me. In the process of living a better story, a bolder story, and trying to see people as human beings I have neglected to see myself as one too. This year I want to learn to die well. God willing, I am not dying anytime soon, but to die well is to look back at a life lived well. And in order to do that I must learn to be kind to myself, to be less of a perfectionist. To be okay with not being okay when life is not okay. I am caught up in reading the stories of people that are at the end of life. I want to learn what they have discovered. I want to think about how I want to be at the end because day-by-day my present will take me there. What is becoming apparent to me is that dying well does involve living a better story, a story better than merely good or okay. But “better” encompasses so much more than the challenges and successes of living outside of your comfort zone. It’s also being grateful that you would have a comfort zone. That some days are spent exactly the same, familiar and comfortable. And that you celebrated those moments. Champagne on a Wednesday for no other reason than it marked a day that you had breath and your heart beat out and that you were a human, being. Better is more than smashing through bucket lists. It’s choosing to do nothing once in awhile. Better is not rushing your way to the mountaintops but allowing yourself the time to feel every step through the valleys. I would like to be better at this. I am aware that I am trying to learn to be better at not trying so hard to be better. I think mostly what I want this year to teach me is to be present, so that when I look back I will see peace and a life well lived. That will be dying well. #2018

[navigatingthecrucible]

This song pairs well with finally getting around to dinner at 11pm and days when you look forward to going to bed as soon as you wake up.

[navigatingthecrucible]

Keep Navigating

I got a notification earlier today that today is the birthday of my blog—it’s three years old. Happy Birthday blog!

It seemed like a good moment to turn my thoughts back to the crucible. You see, I am thoroughly caught up in the late 20s and I must say, the crucible life is alive and well. That which I identified in the mids, these days of “testing circumstances,” I’m pretty sure that will extend far beyond my 20s. Life itself will be an adventure of navigating the crucible. The crazy thing is, I respect the crucible now. Before it felt like a burden or a rigorous challenge I must complete before I “arrive”…whatever that was supposed to mean. Now, I respect the fire that burned away the blemish. I respect the heat that pushed me to new levels of endurance. I respect the pressure of not being content with “as is.” I am not dead yet. Praise the Lord! That means simply and ultimately that there is work to be done. God has work to do in me. And I have work to do in learning to love this life that has been gifted to me.

I want to love my life. It sounds like an outrageous piece of optimism. An impractical naïveté that one daydreams while looking up at the clouds on a calm summer day. It’s the kind of dream that you would assume to be born out of safety and privilege. To have enough of everything else that you would dare to hope, merely to love your life. It sounds outrageous because we mistake love for easy. We mistake love for smooth sailing and the kind of circumstances that we breeze through. We mistake love for fun. We mistake love for like. And we forget how “love” and “grateful” bind themselves to “difficult” and “ugly” and transforms them into joy.

I want to love my life because I want more for me than the darkness wants for me. The darkness in the world wants us to feel incomplete and worthless. It wants us to feel used and sad. It wants us to feel perpetually out of time and constantly behind. It tricks us into feeling like we live our lives next to the life we were meant to live…never in it…always trying to catch it. The darkness in this world wants us to feel at a distance from the rest of humanity. Lonely and isolated, an Atlas of our own making, holding the world on our own shoulders. When we feel what the darkness schemes, we are anxious and lost and worried and alone. That is not what I want for me or for you. We do not have to live that life. We have a crucible, yes. But the crucible is a plan that perfects, not a plan that destroys. We will never come to nothing in the Hands of our Maker. Feelings are fleeting but refinement through fire is permanent. It changes and burns and leaves its mark and you find you are more than what you feel in a moment. You are a life. And you are good. You are needed. And this is not forever.

Navigate well. Navigate with boldness and braveness and courage. Navigate even when you feel weak. Navigate even when you feel hopeless. Navigate with love. And remember that you are not alone. We have the Ultimate Navigator to follow as we course through our crucible. Don’t ever forget, it will be worth it in the end. Keep Navigating.            

[navigatingthecrucible]

Day 271

It’s Thursday. People always like to “throwback” on Thursday and I’ve been doing a lot of throwing back lately. It has only been in the past couple years that God has taught me in a real way, the importance of remembering my story—or rather, the story that God is living with me. If you spend much time in the Old Testament you find God’s people repeatedly establishing alters to Him. They are milestones of remembrance. Physical things you can point to and say, do you remember when God did that? Do you remember when He provided? Do you remember when He made that promise? Do you remember how He was faithful?

To be honest, I didn’t spend much time thinking about the importance of those alters until I realized I had them in my own life and how deeply important they were for my present and how they informed my hope for the future. One of my favorite hymns, like of all time, is “Come Thou Fount.” If I can be transparent here, I see myself in the verse that says:

“Let that goodness like a fetter Bind my wandering heart to Thee Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it Prone to leave the God I love Here's my heart, oh, take and seal it Seal it for Thy courts above”

I know the rickety nature of my humanity. The easy forgetfulness of how God is good in my life. I am swift to wander from that which I need the most. I was dwelling on this hymn and I realized a couple stanzas earlier there was an answer to my problem: “Here I raise my Ebenezer, here there by Thy great help I've come.” An “Ebenezer” is a stone that commemorates “the divine assistance of the Lord.” By remembering what the Lord has done, I am reminded of the bond of trust we have already established. Every new difficulty or point of decision does not have to be the “make or break” moment. In fact, there is incredible peace in looking back on the decisions we have already made to trust God and saying, “this new moment that wants to unsettle me will not, because I have already made this decision. I already decided to trust God. There is no question here.” It feels like freedom.

A lot of life has happened for me in the past 271 days. Every corner of my world has been examined by God. He has challenged me and questioned me and blessed me. Most of the time it hasn’t felt good but it has produced an amazing amount of growth. Which, by the way, I don’t know where that misconception comes from—why in the world would we ever think that growing was meant to feel good? Growing is leaving something you are good at, to learn how to be something different, something better, but still, something different. Just when you think you have a lock down on what it means to be 10-years-old, it’s time to be 11. When you conquer Junior High, it’s time for High School. When you graduate college, you have to be an adult.  When you succeed at a goal, it’s time to set a new one. When you stop growing, you stop living.

 Part of that sounds exhausting. But the thing about growing, you rarely have to do it alone. And you never have to do it without God. His pace, His timing, His prodding keeps the process of growth vibrant, not burdensome. On day 1 of this year, I prayed this John Wesley prayer over all the days that would follow:

“I am no longer my own, but Thine. Put me to what Thou wilt, rank me with whom Thou wilt. Put me to doing, put me to suffering. Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee. Let me have all things, let me have nothing. I freely and heartily yield all things to Thy pleasure and disposal. And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Thou are mine and I am Thine. So be it. And the covenant which I have made on earth, let it be ratified in Heaven. Amen.”

 This is a dangerous prayer. I think these are words we will always speak lighter than we should, because we will never know the seriousness they require until God answers the prayer. But I also think they are words full of Life—Life to the full. God has been gracious to answer this prayer in the past 271 days and I will continue to pray it over the 94 days that follow. Though it has not been without its difficulties, walking with God this year has etched into stone that 2017 will always be one of my favorites in life. And it makes me feel excited over what is to come.      

[navigatingthecrucible]

This song pairs well with rain and cups of tea and feeling the feels. Also, joy. #musictoliveby

[navigatingthecrucible]

Just One Human

Humanity feels deeply. Far more deeply than we give ourselves credit. Sometimes we merely see each other as objects and perceptions, but other times we recognize that we all pulse blood and dream dreams and leave finger prints of where we have been.

I felt extremely overwhelmed by life today. Not my life, but Life. How it uses us up, how we can be consumed. How we go on living a normal life alongside those who’s normal will never be the same. How do we do that? Our brains are not built to live our days with the expectation of tragedy. If we do we are not truly living, we are breathing in and out anxiety. It’s a disordered existence. And so we step out of our doors expecting to return. We lay our heads down at night expecting to wake again. We live in such a way that tragedy and loss is a surprise. The kind of surprise that bowls you over and whispers the question, “will you get up again?”

I’ve lived long enough to know that yes, humanity does get back up again. We do it by the grace of God. But I’ve also lived long enough to know that it hurts, that it forever breaks what was once whole and unbroken. It’s okay to look at that brokenness and be sad. To wish it was still whole. To cry tears and to groan when words do not come. We cannot undo what has been done, but we would be lying if we looked at it and did not see it as undone.

I often think, I am just one human—what does it matter what I think? But if we frame our lives or if we look at the lives of those around us from a place of insignificance, we will always miss the significant work that God wants to do and is doing. So I spent the day wondering about the significance of the things on my mind, trying to see God

I thought about Taylor Swift and her recent presentation of herself. This may seem trite or pitying but it’s really neither of those things. You see, Taylor and I are the same age. I am not the only person with this story, but I can mark my coming into the world and my shifting perspectives on life and love in a very similar way to her shift in her music and the way she sang about life and love. Love is simple when you are young. Simply devastating at times, but simple all the same. You love someone and they either love you back or they don’t and that’s all there is to it. You sing about its beauty and you sing about its loss and her music is replete with those themes. But then you start to grow. You face the world and capacity of humanity to just be horrifying. If you are able, the intent is to exchange innocence and naive hope for wisdom and a grace-filled, courageous hope in spite of what you know. That’s what growing up is. I think it happens in seasons and spurts and with countless do-overs. I am heartbroken for her, not because growing up is hard—we all have to do it—but it seems impossible in the light of fame. 

We can say that it’s her own fault; she wanted the celebrity life she lives. But if we’re honest, we know that when pride is layered in our dreams it delivers only emptiness and we’re really more ashamed. We’re ashamed because fame and celebrity turns people into objects and life into something that we consume. We eat up their privacy and their relationships. We eat up their addictions and smash their self-images. We eat up their divorces and fifth marriages and estrangements and feuds. We cry at their deaths and wonder at their suicides, how they could give up on something so “precious.” We don’t know them but we consume them all the same. It’s a thing. Celebrity culture is a part of our society and entertainment world and I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what to do with it so I pray. I pray that in light of their days and the way we eat up their lives, that they may experience a glorious redemption. For a chance, for a new beginning, for a freedom that only comes from our Maker. And forgiveness for myself and the ways I consume another’s life rather than affirm and extend.

I thought about Hurricane Harvey. I thought about the winds and rain that have been infinitely more than just winds and rain. They have been life shakers and takers. Destroyers and wreckers. All day I prayed for safety and miracles. That heroism would be abundant and that we would remember how strong we can be when we stand together. But mostly I was haunted by the moments yet to come. The returning moments. It’s not likely we have personally experienced a natural disaster of this caliber but we have all had times when life blows through and leaves us standing in wreckage and hopelessness. I thought about the important things that are forever gone. The milestones and mementos that we keep around us, material objects that are physical representations of us that leave gaping holes in our identity when absent. Places forever changed that once held memories and dreams. I am quite certain that only God can truly step into that place, meet that hopelessness and exchange it for beauty and New Life. But as I was reminded tonight by a friend, we do whatever we can to shine light into darkness. We do whatever we can. Give whatever we can. Stand in the gap and pray for extraordinary and remarkable to come from disaster and loss.      

I always feel the need to retreat in these moments when life feels like too much. I want to run away to places that are incredibly big and that make me feel incredibly small. I want to be surrounded by a physical reminder that God is bigger than that which rages and casts deep shadows. That He created the strongest forces this world can muster, the highest range, the deepest ocean, the widest sky. Today I wanted to be on the rocks that hold back the ocean. To stand on the firmness that He set in place to keep the waters where He placed them. There are boundaries that He set and there are times when the world overtakes them in disaster and disorder. But that does not mean He has forgotten us. He remembers the lines that were crossed and the brokenness that invaded. He pushes it back and does Good Work. He paints peace back into our hearts and builds new lives and people that are not afraid to be broken. He makes all things new and He gives us the chance to participate. To carry something precious in spite of the ways we have been undone.

In times of tragedy and loss I always wish there was something that I could say. As if there was something, something that could be said. The cynical soul would say it’s because we want to alleviate the discomfort we feel, being in the presence of raw pain or the awkwardness of not knowing intimately the emotions another person feels. But I think its something else. I think it’s ingrained in our very fibers to cry out against the brokenness. We want to meet it head on. We want to speak against it; in the same way the earth is said to groan, as if in labor pains, for the coming of Jesus—for the New Earth to break through. In the meantime, we are left to be light-bearers and to rage against the darkness. May we do it well.    

[navigatingthecrucible]

The memories this slide holds...

This picture is my childhood. I took it over the weekend after zooming down with my nephew on my lap.

I’ve been whooshing down that slide for twenty years. Twenty years. So many versions of myself have climbed those *somewhat* rickety metal stairs and squished my body at the weirdest angle because of the steep curves on that giant. I waited my turn behind children that, somewhere in this world, are also adults. I wouldn’t know them if I sat next to them in church on a given Sunday but once upon a time we shared the elemental joy of a child at a playground. It’s excitement and daring and climbing in such a way that gives your mother heart palpitations. That’s how you know you’re doing it right. I’ve spent a lot of time at that park, with a lot of people, in the midst of a lot of different things going on in the natural progression of life. That’s how it always is for me when I go home. There are corners of this world that are drenched with the life I’ve lived. I can’t walk down the street without wading through memories and emotions. It’s so personal to me it feels like the sidewalk is somehow mine. But it’s not. It belongs to a great many people throughout decades of time.

Sometimes I’m overcome by the idea that this whole country, the whole world, is filled with people that soak their “sidewalks” with their lives. We can slip through places with such ease and without attachment. It’s a temporary view, a random town’s “city line” sign that we drive by on the way to our real destination. For someone though, it is their home. It fills their brain with anchor memories. They feel the pain their places feel. There will always be pain in a place that grows people. We aren’t capable of feeling the whole world’s pain but we are capable of seeing it. I think we’re very good at seeing with our eyes, we have incredible access to information and places. But we sometimes fail to let the knowledge of what we are looking at—what it means to a real human being living in it—enter into our hearts and minds. I know why we do. It hurts to feel. It hurts to understand. Knowledge was always meant to challenge and to change. It can touch a person in irrevocable ways. To “know” something, to “know” someone, is to know you may never be the same because of that knowledge.

At the beginning of our story, we humans chose to “know” without comprehending the responsibility of what that meant. Now we know what it means and we are afraid of it. But because God only writes stories of hope and redemption, He has enabled us to act upon the very thing that was our undoing. Have the courage to know the pain. Have the courage to know the people. Have the courage to be changed by knowledge in such a way that you will never be the same. Give the change to God and He will make you whole and healed—a new creation. The pain will always be there, it’s what we do with it that reverberates through eternity. Perhaps if we learn to see, if we feel the pain of knowing that all places are “someone’s place,” we might be moved to be gentler and humbler, quieter when our words are unnecessary, and bolder when the gap needs to be filled. The simplest of things are capable of holding a great deal of life.   

#tuesdaythoughts

[navigatingthecrucible]

Sacred v. Secular

Ahh Blog. We meet again. Somehow life gets busy and my aspirations to “blog it all” get lost in the dust. I’m not feeling too terribly bad about it though for two reasons: #1. Last time this happened it was a full year before a new post graced my dash…it’s only been a few months so still solid. #2. While my intent to blog may be falling short, my intent to live better is going strong. So that means I have five books I need to review, a couple of songs I’ve discovered that beg to be shared, and a few movie thoughts that I wish were already written down…but mostly…better to live and forget to blog about life, than to blog about living but forget you have a life.

We’ll catch up at some point, but right now, there is something very specific on my mind. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the sacred and secular life. Not many people talk about these distinguishing parameters these days. It’s very old school terminology (St. Augustine and Martin Luther old school) but it’s the idea that specific duties or aspects of life, could be considered for God—the “sacred,” or pertaining to a more worldly nature—the “secular.”

 I’ll never forget the way it was used in a “just war” theory in one of my grad school classes. That a pastor or a priest was not required to fight in a war (that it would in fact be a sin) because of the sacred nature of his calling, but a government worker or a farmer, his life duties and the nature of his work fell into the “secular” so fighting in a war (or taking another life in the context of war) was not a sin. This all seemed rather convenient for me so I rejected that as good reasoning to justify war but it got me thinking about intent and value. Even though I rejected this reasoning, it still got into my brain! That somehow, a person that had a more sacred calling, their life has greater value than someone that does not. This is not true! But on day when my greatest addition to society as a whole turned out to be copying a few things and mailing out a document (the glamour of an office job), sacred work sounds infinitely more appealing.

 When I was a nanny, I felt that my job had inherent purpose—big life purpose. I was not only keeping humans alive, but I was teaching them how to discover the world. It was brilliant and beautiful and I can’t wait until I have kids. But right now, when I don’t have kids, how do I find purpose and value in my life? That is the question.

 I am a very impatient person when it comes to life. I wish I wasn’t but I am, in fact sometimes I will act or force myself to react in the way that a patient person would but it inevitably catches up to me and I think “no, you are definitely not that patient yet” keep working. On these days I like to remind myself that the Israelites wandered in the desert for 40 years “on the way” to the Promise Land. Sometimes we make a mistake and the fulfillment of God’s promise is delayed but you still have to live life in the midst of the delay. Or perhaps it just takes some time for the mission to get “interesting;” Jesus lived 30 years before he started his ministry. We don’t know the nature of the “every days” that it took until the day that Jesus went a few rounds with the devil in the desert. They were probably vastly normal. The kind of normal that drives me crazy sometimes. But I don’t want it to. I don’t want to begrudge the presence of the secular in my life. Life is too short to waste any of it. That thought usually leads to a greater desire to do big things, go interesting places…ya know, save the world. But in a very real way, wishing away the normal or the present in favor of something grand in the future is just as much of a waste as living life thinking nothing grand will ever happen.

 We/I have to figure out a way to see the sacred in the secular because God will not be divided from any part of His world or our lives. You can’t just say, “this has nothing to do with God.” Everything has everything to do with God. It can take some extra effort and work but what kind of a pansy would I be if I didn’t dig into the life God has given me? The part that really gets me, I usually know deep down exactly what the sacred is. Usually it involves people. And usually it is hard work. But God forbid we ever stop doing something important because it is “hard.” So today I am praying for more courage, more courage to rise to the challenge and do the hard things in the midst of the normal. I will pray the same for you, too.      

[navigatingthecrucible]

This song pairs nicely with trying not to hate Mondays. #musicalpairings #newday

[navigatingthecrucible]

There are a number of songs that bring instant peace and joy to my person and this is one of them.

[navigatingthecrucible]

This song pairs nicely with late night thoughts, the clacking of a keyboard, and finishing a story long overdue.

[navigatingthecrucible]

Fine Art Friday: The Calling of Saint Matthew by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. I like the old stuff. I know I am a millennial and I am supposed to like modern styles and open concepts, straight lines and metallic accents. But I like the old stuff. I actually enjoyed Cathedral history and the evolution of the arch. I like spaces that have character and originality. And I like Caravaggio. I love the way the darkness and light have their own roles in his paintings. And for me, I love that I can feel emotion behind the stories they depict. Some people like to give the old guys a hard time. There was always someone in my art history class that was more than willing to point out the fact that Jesus and the disciples looked an awful lot like Renaissance clad, Italian dudes. I get it. It’s not an historically accurate representation so something important is lost in translation. The problem with that, is it becomes a very narrow way of looking at art. It’s like the difference between studying the historical context of a Scriptural story and thinking about how you would act, feel, be if you were a part of the story. Both perspectives are vastly important. I don’t think art and stories are primarily about representation. I think they are about emotion and identification; it is these two aspects that allow a creative piece of one human being to become a part of another. With that in mind, I have zero problems with Caravaggio’s presentation of Jesus and the calling of Saint Matthew. Also, it would have been entirely out of context for him to paint it in any other way. The philosophy was just different then; depictions of history were often fashioned after an artist’s contemporary culture. Another thing that I love about art and story is that authority and meaning do not have to rest in “intention.” I don’t know Caravaggio’s heart. According to history, the guy was a hot mess. On the surface, looking at his life, it wouldn’t seem like he should be the guy to paint these stories. But when you really think about it, who better than a scoundrel of a guy, to paint the story of Jesus meeting another scoundrel of a guy? You could say that he only painted this because he was told to and that would be true. He was commissioned to do a series of paintings about Matthew. But being paid to do something you love should not allow others to view it as worth less, or to mean less, simply because you are already getting something out of it. It should just make it worth more to you. When you look at this painting, it’s not hard to imagine that the artist knew what it was to conduct business in the “dark.” But he also knew what it was like to be seen. To have light shed on you in a life altering way. I am not the first to say this, but Jesus’ hand in this painting looks a lot like the representation of God’s hand reaching out to Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Perhaps Caravaggio knew that Jesus was the kind of Creator that was willing to step back into His creation for the sake of those He created and to bring light into places filled with darkness.

[navigatingthecrucible]

This song pairs nicely with Friday. #tGif

[navigatingthecrucible]

This song pairs nicely with sleepy yawns after a day well spent, and going to bed early after looking at the week to come and already wishing for more sleep.

[navigatingthecrucible]

Fine Art Friday! This painting is called The Oxbow (The Connecticut River near Northampton 1836). It's one of my favorites and it really encapsulates this quote from the artist, Thomas Cole: "My soul dwells in a mortal tenement, and feels the influence of the elements. Still I would not live where tempests never come; for they bring beauty in their train." I've had the second half of this quote posted around me in one form or another since high school, when I read it for the first time and felt it become a part of me and the way I see the world. It's hard to tell in this painting if the sun is overtaking the storm or if it's the other way around. But the part that I love, is no matter which one is coming--storm or sunshine--there is beauty to be found. Perhaps not right away, but at some point the God-painted beauty will be revealed. #hello2017