I’m not dead yet… I feel happy…

When I received a call from a friend last night, a little concerned because I hadn’t posted in about a week, I figured maybe it was time for an update.

Fear not: I have not been kidnapped by aliens or killed by the mafia. 

I’ve just been very very busy, and am fighting my second cold in two months.  Life should return to a normal (translation: only semi-crazy schedule) in a week or two. 

Hope everyone had a good easter, and hope to be posting semi-regularly soon.

Much love, stace

hang time

I used to think the leap of faith was the hard part.

I was wrong.

I mean, it’s not easy, the leaping. It’s scary as all hell.

I went cliff jumping with a few of my friends once. This particular jump required us to run full-speed and take a decent-sized leap in order to make sure we’d clear some rather jagged rocks below. The path sloped downward, and then back up right at the cliff’s edge. This last-minute upward slope blocked my view; I couldn’t see where I was leaping. Scary. (Probably more scary for Chad and Andy, who watched from the water below as I barely cleared the rocks).

I learned two things this day. One: I don’t really like jumping off of stuff, at least not when I can’t properly see where I’m jumping. Two: It is never a good idea to wear a two-piece swimsuit when attempting said jumps.  There was a quick adjustment necessary in those precious few seconds before I resurfaced…

Nope, the leaping ain’t easy.

But there’s a rush to it; a surge of excitement and thrill. You’ve scraped up just enough courage to jump; what you lack in necessary courage, you simply make up for in wide-eyed fear. Regardless, there is a fierce determination, a stern zeal: I must do this. I was made to do this. Usually, there’s a bit of an audience on hand. Whether they support you fully or think you’re fully nuts, they’re there, watching; waiting. Drumroll, please… and there she goes.

When I finally lost my mind, found my heart, and made my own leap, I saw it as a moment that defined me, one single action that perhaps would define my life. In a way, it did. In the road-less-traveled sense of it, the course of my life has been altered forever. But there is much more to this call than one simple leap; it’s more than a single throwing of myself at the mercy of unseen hands. I wish it were that easy.

Leaping ain’t easy, but the hang-time is harder. Especially when it’s a long hang time. Especially when the adrenaline is sputtering out like an empty fuel tank and you’re feeling more crazy than courageous, wondering if God or gravity will get to you first.

The best advice in this situation is the oh-so-classic "Don’t look down," but everyone looks down — all of us. And suddenly it sinks in. How far we have to fall. How much it’ll hurt if we do fall. The adrenaline returns. But this time simply as stress. Panic. And when this finally sputters and dies, all that’s left is an acute weariness.

For whatever reason, I’ve been looking down. I don’t mean to complain; I am fortunate in many ways. I get to pour myself into things and people I care deeply about. I still wouldn’t trade. But it’s a difficult dichotomy… I feel like such a wimp saying it, but it’s so hard attempting to squeeze this heart-encompassing life-work in around full-time work I care very little about, (other than working hard for my boss’ sake). My plate is Thanksgiving-meal-full. I am tired and stretched, and this even when my relationships and schedule are running like clockwork (which they seldom do). There’s a piece of me that’s saying, rather discontentedly, How long, God? How long before I touch ground again for a bit? Cause this is starting to feel less like a leaping and more like a falling…

I know this is more exhaustion talking than anything. It’ll pass. I won’t quit.

I’ve been processing this bout of discouragement, as I do most things, searching for some sort of answer to it. Haven’t really found one.  But the tiny conclusion I’m coming to is this: it’s the hang-time-in-the-meantime that defines me as much as anything. How do I respond when the fanfare is gone, my courage is long gone, and the gravity – no pun intended – of this situation fully hits me? What do I do when I realize I leapt into something I hadn’t quite expected?  This matters as much as – if not more than – how impressive I seemed when first I made this fateful jump from security.  What do I do?

Whelp, to be real honest, I cry about it sometimes. I’m leaning on my friends and talking to God a whole lot more than I usually do. I’m trying to take one task, one day, one moment at a time. I’m trying to look up rather than down. Attempting patience.

Shaky faith is all I have to offer right now. So I’m giving my not-so-brave little self to God once again… with all my shaky heart.

Somehow, I’m pretty sure it’s enough.

I am now a logo…

Yeah, that’s me.  The one with the attitude.  And the hips. 

kindreds

I find myself here, at my desk, with a deep sense of gratitude for friends I have the privilege of calling mine.  I am fortunate, blessed beyond words.

Thank you, WLR, for your message – “Have I told you lately that you’re wonderful and that I love you?  Well, you are & I do.”  You seem to know exactly when I need the reminder that not all friendships are transient — that someone can know me that well and that long and still love me for me.  Thank you also for being my token man-company for weddings and other happenings that require it.

Thanks JL, for knowing right where to find me when you lose me in Barnes and Noble; for knowing – if I’m out of sight – that I’m over in the Essay section, looking to see if they have put Sedaris’ latest collection “Dress Your Family in Corderoy and Denim” into paperback yet, so I can finally afford it.  (They haven’t yet.  Capitalistic sickos.)  Your voice on the phone has become a highlight of my week.  (And not just because I picture you frozen in place, attempting not to move, trying to keep that one bar of cell coverage in that one particular spot in your room… which always makes me laugh).

Thank you, MW, most oddly acquired friend ever (how the heck did that happen?), for leaving me really long messages, in number/bullet form.  These always make me laugh.  For listening to me ramble when I am confused and in need of wise counsel, for winging it when you feel like you have none to give.  For the wakeup calls.  Looking forward to that cup of coffee.

Thank you, AS, my dear roommate, for never getting sick of “I love lamp” and “LOUD NOISES!” as a main joke staple when we’re goofing off.  Thanks for laughing with me and letting me cry on your shoulder, for the easy comeraderie that is ours when on such grand adventures as trips to the grocery store, etc.  Thanks for not minding my addiction to singing – loudly – in our apartment whenever possible.  Oh, and for introducing me to Tim’s Cascade Jalapeno potato chips.  (Diet?  What diet?  That’s why they make jeans stretchy now…)

DB, my dear roommate’s dear boyfriend, for not getting annoyed when I read “Amanda” on my caller ID and mistakenly call you sweetheart.  For being a sweetheart.  For encouraging me to get rid of the blanket – you know the one – and for being, not my roommate’s boyfriend, but my friend.  Thanks for buying lots of DVD’s and letting me watch them on your “pimpinest” TV.

Thank you God, for sending these people into my life, for giving me people with whom I am at home and at rest, comfortable in my own, very human, skin.  Whenever I find myself in the company of these, my amazing friends, I see in just a little more detail how much you love me.

verbally challenged, part one

I stumbled upon an interesting discussion on the Postmodern/Emergent movement over on Dave’s blog. It’s a conversation that’s happening all over right now, and although I’ve been hesitant to jump on in, here I go. My comments were shamefully long over there (my apologies, Dave), and that’s always a good sign that it’s time for your own post.

One wrote that she is so sick of phrases such “community of faith” to replace “church”… “pre-Christian” to replace “saved”… that she could puke. Another: Church is church. Get the f— over it.

Wow, first of all. In a discussion about words, her particular choice made me laugh out loud. People are wicked funny. For the record: I don’t mean to pick on any person in particular; they are obviously not alone in their sentiment. However, I do want to look deeper at the mindset – shared by many – behind statements like these. It’s an important discussion, one for which I don’t even remotely claim to have all the answers. But my thoughts, such as they are, follow.

I think I understand in part where people are coming from when they say things like this. They don’t want the church doing the same thing our culture did not too long ago – throwing itself headlong into a politically correct frenzy. Remember?

Disabled & handicapped: out. Special needs: in.

Short: out. Height-challenged: in.

Black: out. African American: in.

White: out. Caucasian: in. (As a great comedian said, “Where is Caucasia? I long to visit the Motherland and frolic with my people, doing the Dance of the Caucasian [picture bad white-man dancing].”)

And, of course: “I’M NOT FAT! I’M BIG-BONED!”

Some of the changes in our language were good, because it helped us change our way of thinking about what we were talking about. For instance, I talked to a man yesterday afternoon who calls himself an “adaptee.” An adaptee rather than an “amputee.” He lost his leg when he was three years old and now works to encourage other adaptees to see themselves as more than a lost limb. He said to me, “It would be like you getting in a car accident, and someone calling you a car wreck for the rest of your life. How you see yourself matters.” It is these kinds of well-thought-out shifts in our speech that lead to changes in our paradigm.

Others shifts leave us thinking the same old way, and using newer, shinier dumb words. But boy, we sound cooler. New words mean nothing if they don’t translate into new thinking.

It stands to reason that the new churchy-PC is no different, right? Church = community of faith. Christian = follower of Christ. Sermon = message. Sanctuary = auditorium. Unsaved = seeker. And on and on and on. Ugh. All these Message translation readers who prefer their Christianity dumbed-down… newer, shinier thoughtless words. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

If our attempt is only to sound cool – hip – edgy, to have some brilliant marketing scheme to sell Jesus to the masses… then we have surely missed the point, and the criticisms are well-founded. I believe, however, that there is a deeper reason we’re adjusting the words we’re forever spewing from these gaping holes in our faces. It’s two-fold.

The first part of the reason I’d hope is clear: Jesus and his mission. Reaching out to those who are far from faith, or simply far from church community. (You can be one without the other, you know.)

Communication is important to God. It’s the whole reason he sent Jesus to the world in the first place. Jesus put on skin, joined us in our human-ness, and spoke the language of the times he lived in. He spoke in parables… of wedding feasts and lost coins and good and rocky soil. He talked an awful lot about sheep. He talked about everyday issues, such as arguments between neighbors and money matters. He spoke simply, abandoning religious technical jargon in favor of short stories. To my knowledge, Jesus never used the word “sanctification” in order to get his point across. Yet he revealed the very deepest truths about God and his kingdom.

The Church, as an admittedly generalized whole, stopped speaking the language of our culture a long time ago. We assume that if people really want Jesus, they’ll figure out the technical terms on their own. Or maybe they’ll buy a book or join a special Bible study class. We place the burden on people searching for God to come to us, learn our ways, learn about how we do things.

Church is church… get the f— over it.

We often do the exact opposite of what Christ did for us. And it makes me sad. If I’m being divisive by saying so, I make no apologies for it, because I turn that same microscope on myself. I’ve been lax far too long. Religious too long. Out of touch too long.

We send missionaries all over the globe. These people learn the language, customs, habits, culture of the group they seek to reach out to. It’s expected; practical. No one bats an eye. But ask our community to get back in touch with the culture we live and breathe in, every single day, on our campus or in our workplace or at the grocery store… ask Christians to speak in language that makes sense and communicates clearly… and all of a sudden we’re dumbing down the gospel, selling out, catering to the world. Missionaries can reach out. Us? We’ll just hang out here, using the club lingo, and hope our friends and family somehow figure it out on their own.

Perhaps our words reveal more about us than we’d wish. We call our buildings the “church”, not ourselves. We call our actions within that building our “ministries”, not our actions in our everyday lives. And we call a small percentage of our people “missionaries”, when all of us received the command, not to “wait for them to darken your door,” but to “Go.”

Tomorrow: changing our language not for seekers’ sakes… but for our own.

the everyday sacred

The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.

from John 1, the Message

***

Met with Dan (my pastor, friend, and pretty much my boss at NL) yesterday, as I do every Wednesday, to work on my current project at NewLife – our new website. I’ve begun to affectionately call it my little Frankenstein baby… I truly love working on it, but it’s a bit of a monster.

As we near the soft-launch date of Easter, I’ve been anxious. I’m good at certain portions of this project, but others – html, for instance – I haven’t a clue. I am a consummate let-me-do-it-all-on-my-own person. The parts I don’t know how to do intimidate me like crazy, and there’ve been a few times I’ve wondered if they picked the right person to do this. My friend, who’s been working on the graphic design part of the project, said that he understood my anxiety – "your name’s all over this thing. I’d be nervous too." I hadn’t quite thought of it that way before… thanks a lot.

As I approached my meeting yesterday, I realized that before I took a single step further, I needed to give this to God in prayer. [NOTE: I wish I was some giant of faith, but I'm not. Often this "giving it to God" comes as an afterthought. I forget God often. And he seems to let me stress, let me pile up my burdens, until I remember him.]

So, as we began our meeting, I prayed through tears. I told God I was sorry for not asking for his help on this a long time ago, but that I knew I needed his help to be creative, to be able to lead this thing. Dan echoed my prayer in one word – HELP – and we said "Amen."

Then he said, "Hold that thought," and ran back into the hallway. He came back with two small Starbucks cups left over from a staff meeting coffee run, a bottle of Snapple Rasberry Iced Tea, and some of our leftover communion wafers.

"Do you know the words?"

"I think so… And the Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body, broken for you.’"

We ate the wafers.

"And in the same way, he took the wine, and I can’t remember the right words, but I know he gave it to the disciples – "

"You’re doing fine."

"…he gave it to the disciples, and said, "This is my blood, shed for you…"

"A new covenant…"

"That’s right – a new covenant in my blood, for the forgiveness of sins. Do this in remembrance of me… Whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes."

We drank the Rasberry Iced Tea. (It was so good we finished it off later).

With my stumbling words and Snapple in Starbucks cups, we celebrated Christ there at our table; his sacred presence colliding with our humble gathering; God-himself, with us in flesh and blood.

Needless to say, we had a great meeting.

I drove home, more aware of a beautiful truth than perhaps I’ve ever been: everyday, ordinary things become holy the moment we invite Jesus into them. Communion exists outside of our once-a-month partaking, or however often our tradition includes it… the only thing necessary is to let our hearts remember him.

Thanks, Lord, for all the gracious reminders of your love…

prayers of the saints

In the light of our faith in the Trinity, regardless of danger, I must make known the gift of God and everlasting consolation, without fear and frankly. I must spread everywhere the name of God so that after my decease I may leave a bequest to those whom I have baptized in the Lord — so many thousands of people.

-St. Patrick of Ireland

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
O, Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

-St. Francis of Assisi

attention, less fortunate ladies and gentlemen…

…I am going to see U2 on April 24th!!!  Through a quite unexpected channel, I scored tickets.  I am one happy chica… it’s gonna be good.  Now I just have to wait a month and eight days.  Sigh. 

children of the nations: tsunami relief

1) My pastor, Wes Davis, ladies and gentlemen. 2) My mom, second from left, and dad, in the back, fifth in from left.  3) My second team of the day, kickin’ tail (that’s me in the back… workin’ the hairnet).

****

Sunday was a good day. Spent four hours packaging food for kids in Sri Lanka left destitute by the tsunami. The feeling of so many people coming together, all day long, giving of their time and energy, to tangibly make a difference for people so far away… words can’t describe. We had so much fun.  I drove away in tears, thankful to be a part of it. To think… my hands helped prepare meals that will feed about 700 little ones… part of a grand total of 285,000 meals that will be sent. My heart was so full, it very nearly ached. The good kind of ache.

And a realization accompanied it: More of my life needs to be arranged around compassion. Too much of me is still fully focused on me. Jesus cared deeply for the poor and lonely, the desperate and the hungry. Following him means doing the same.

As much as I like to think that I am “in the world but not of it,” or however the cliche goes, I consistently buy into what our culture sells without even thinking about it. Even my faith is a consumerized one – so often about me. My needs; my fulfillment — my warm fuzzies, when you get right down to it. This isn’t me feeling badly about myself – there have been times in my life I’ve served – but this is my heart responding to a gracious but strong nudge: you can do so much more.

I’m taking a look at my calendar, where I spend my time, how I spend my money (ouch… this one is hard for me). It’s difficult to break out of my normal way of thinking for any meaningful length of time, but I’m asking God to give me clearer vision… to help me see the needs that he sees. Even more than that, I am asking for a deeper, generous passion in my heart for meeting the needs that he sees.

PS – We still are in need of funds to cover the shipping of this food to Sri Lanka.  If you want to help, you can donate ANY AMOUNT online at www.cotni.org.  Thanks!

Matthew 25, The Message:

“I was hungry and you fed me,

I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,

I was homeless and you gave me a room,

I was shivering and you gave me clothes,

I was sick and you stopped to visit,

I was in prison and you came to me.”

“Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?”

Then the King will say, “I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me – you did it to me.”

the book of love

There are countless ways to approach relationships, many schools of thought on the right way to effectively get to know – and grow to love – another human being. Some kissed dating goodbye, a la Harris. Some enjoyed the classic dinner-and-a-movie scenario. I know girls who played so ridiculously hard to get that I’m amazed the poor guy stuck it out. Others nearly stalked the living daylights out of the man they eventually found happiness with. (This approach is not advised, although it seems quite the rage, from bars to Bible college campuses, all across America). Some grew up together, meeting quite literally on the playground. Others – although they’re fully embarrassed to admit it – met on Match.com.

People are different. Their stories will, of course, be different. There are as many analogies and cliches advising the single masses on life and love, passion and pursuit as there are lonely hearts who subscribe to them, but there isn’t one method that outruns all the others. I wish there was. I’d buy the book. You probably would, too. We really are funny. We scoff at books that boast three easy steps toward becoming an instant millionaire – what suckers people are! – but plunk our cash down with little hesitation for “Ten To-Do’s to Say ‘I Do.’” (Don’t even bother searching for it over at Barnes and Noble. I made it up).

If there was one right way to fall in love, we’d surely have it figured out by now. Everyone who had the notion would be married off to Mr. Wonderful or Ms. Perfect. There would be no third wheels, only well-balanced double dates. And we’d finally be able to banish forever the term “singles’ ministry” from our church communities. It would be nice. But hear it clearly: there is no right way to do this. This admission doesn’t get a best-selling book under your belt (goodbye, instant millionaire), but it’s the truth, nonetheless.

When we buy these books, when we subscribe to these theories, what is it that we’re really looking for?

Sometimes, we’re looking for good advice on how to improve the quality and depth of our relationships. This is the reason most of us profess.

More often, what we’re searching for is security. Safety. A money-back guarantee. We want an algebraic formula for love: X (Brilliant Dating Maneuvers) + Y (Profound Insight into Understanding the Opposite Sex) = Z (a Lifetime of Happiness with the Man or Woman of Your Dreams). We want to be promised that if we do everything right – if we’re wise, attractive, mature, fun, and kind – it will all work out the way we want it to.

More than anything, we want someone to tell us that our idealistic hearts won’t get broken or bruised in the process, that we won’t have to experience the agony of loss or rejection.

Here’s the far-less-popular, difficult-to-swallow truth: love, like, and all degrees in between, they are risks; scary leaps of faith. There is no New York Times best-seller that can write a safety net into place. Some moments, we take the dive. Others, we take a step back from the ledge, waiting for another day. Sometimes we wonder if we’ve chosen correctly; other times, we know deep down in our gut that we did the right thing, and never regret it. Nearly all the time, we get bumped around a little more than we’d prefer. And, in all these moments, we’re learning things that no amount of self-help reading can teach: courage. Trust. Grace.

The only certainty I’ve found in this whole deal, the only real security, is this – and it sounds like the biggest cliche of all unless you’ve lived it long enough to find it true – God, the ultimate author, is writing a unique story with my life. I have reason to suspect that love will be a piece of it. I know enough of previous chapters to know that He’s an amazing author, insanely good at bringing unexpected joy out of what once seemed a messy plot.

This particular area of my life is no different. So I trust wholeheartedly, but not in a one-size-fits-all philosophy, or pages full of tempting promises of a pain-free existence. I trust this: bumps, bruises, foolhardy leaps and all – my ending is going to be a good one. God wrote the book on love… I trust that he’s able to handle my own little story, no problem.

That book, I’m quite positive, will be worth a read.