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| A Word About Change.Maybe I was, but now I am not.
So, goodbye journal for a little while.
I'll be back when life settles down, and I can see straight.
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| A Word About Grace.I've come to realize something about myself that is embarrassing.
I don't extend grace to the kids I work with sometimes.
When they try to run away and staff have to run after them, and they're squirming, refusing to relax and give up and they spit in my face and then once they're calmed down they expect me to treat them as if they didn't mistreat me. . .That's hard for me to do.
It's hard for me to treat them as if they did not hurt me. It's difficult not to get offended, and then want to punish them. And while to an extent, it's my "job" to punish them, my mental attitude towards them, and how I'd prefer they serve consequences is far harsher.
And then I realized that my own inner-dialogue about myself and how I "should" act (a sense of perfectionism) too often mirrors what I expect the boys to be.
I don't extend Grace to myself, and I'm finding that I have a really difficult time shelling it out to my kids, too.
I'd like to say I'm one of those people who gives others the benefit of the doubt, but when it comes to work, I don't. The boys are offenders in several ways; they have sociopathic tendencies, they can throw things you wouldn't believe, they can be charming; manipulative. They are in a lock-down facility for a reason.
And I'm finding how confused I am with Grace.
Grace and forgiveness seem to give me the same gnawing sensation inside. I understand that forgiveness isn't forgetting what people did, but what am I supposed to do with the understanding that Grace was freely given to me, and that I should freely give it too?
what is the appropriate mindset that I should have when extending Grace? Because I'm a black and white thinker. It's both a horrible thing, and sometimes a good thing. That said, I either think that I must simply forge on and forget someone has done something in order to treat them the same, or simply not extend it.
"It's all about grace".
That's what I heard today.
So, if it's all about grace. . . I clearly have a lot to learn.
-Press On.
Phil. 3:13-14
-Becca
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| Round Hole. Round Peg.My friend and mentor, Deb, gave me good perspective today.
I talked to her about my Church laments. And concluded that I must grow up.
That's about it.
Recognizing the Church not as a well-oiled machine, but a meeting of messy people trying to do what God is telling them is essential in my understanding of my role in (and the role of ) The Church.
Bethany Dillon:
"The orphan clings to Your hand
Singing the song of how he was found
The widow rejoices
For her oppressors are silenced now
You sit at the table with the wounded and the poor
You laugh and share stories with the thief and the whore
When You could just be silent and leave us here to die
Still, You sent Your Son for us
You are on our side
The runaway falls at Your feet
You are what he has searched for
The rich man is broken
When he stands beneath a sky full of stars
You sit at the table with the wounded and the poor
You laugh and share stories with the thief and the whore
When You could just be silent and leave us here to die
Still, You sent Your Son for us
You are on our side
You sit at the table with the wounded and the poor
You laugh and share stories with the thief and the whore
When You could just be silent and leave us here to die
Still, You sent Your Son for us
You are on our side
Still, You sent Your Son for us
You are on our side"
Jesus is all about relationships. And maybe it's true, as another wise woman told me, that I need to give the church another chance.
That song? That is Church, I guess.
I want to be about relationships and learning and teaching. My expectations may or may not get met, but at the end of the day, it's my responsibility to worship Jesus and read His Word.
So, there.
In other news, I've had chronic headaches for about a month now, and it's not a side effect of my medication. I checked. It's annoying, and it tires me out.
Also, one of my favorite things in the world to do now is walk around Joplin. Just walk. And see where my feet take me. To the library, to Columbia Traders, to the small hole-in-the-wall Taco shop that I'm going to get a delicious burrito soon. . . Possibilities are endless. My feet bounce to the rhythm of whatever floats through my ears from my iPod.
The other day at work I was really silly, and I think the boys liked that. I'm glad they are getting to see more and more of my personality. I pray that I can show them how to have a healthy relationship with a woman that isn't based on sexual advances or feelings, and how to respect a woman. I pray for wisdom. Will you pray too?
Thanks.
Press On.
Phil. 3:13-14
-Becca
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| War is Raw.I probably mentioned this in my other post, but it's quite possibly worth mentioning again: for the love of all things, you should read The Things They Carried--Tim O' Brien
why you ask? Oh. Well. Because it's about the Vietnam war, and history is important. It shows us where we've been, and how to move beyond our circumstances, pitfalls, and craters. But also because O'Brien does an incredible job of writing the stories of Vietnam not like Platoon, but like a real story teller; including embarrassing, awkward, and truthful emotional reactions of the characters (who in themselves are developed well). This is not a collection of gory war stories. It's so much more I tell you!
Anyway. Enough with that plug.
Read this snippet:
To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. At its core, perhaps, war is just another name for death, and yet any soldier will tell you, if he tells the truth, that proximity to death brings with it a corresponding proximity to life. After a firefight, there is always the immense pleasure of aliveness. The trees are alive. The grass, the soil--everything. All around you things are purely living, and you among them, and the aliveness makes you tremble. You feel an intense, out-of-the-skin awareness of your living self, the human being in you want to be be and then become by the force of wanting it. In the midst of evil you want to b a good man. You want decency. You want justice and courtesy. You want justice and decency and human concord, things you never knew you wanted. There is a kind of largeness to it, a kind of godliness. Though it's odd, you're never more alive than when you're almost dead. You recognize what's valuable. Freshly, as if for the first time, you love what's best in yourself and in the world, all that might be lost. At the hour of dusk you sit at your foxhole and look out on a wide river turning pinkish red, and at the mountains beyond, and although in the morning you must cross the river and go into the mountains and do terrible things and maybe die, even so, you find yourself studying the fine colors in the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, and now is not. I've read these sentences over and over, letting them sooth me, resonating with many of the words, and mourning over the beauty of the world, and the possibilities for the world, how it could be, should be, and isn't right now.
Church gnaws at me right now. I visited a new Church to which I thought I could be involved in playing drum set for their worship team. Boy, that set was a beauty. The mix in the house was beautiful, and when I played the set with the brushes (metal brushes- not tooth brushes, or brooms. No worries.), it sounded gorgeous. I fell in love. I saw the music minister many times over the next several days at Starbucks where I steal internet from the neighboring hotel, and he remembered my name. I took note of that. We chatted about the vision for their church, I probed to see how "charismatic" was charismatic in Joplin, Missouri at his Church, and searched for a firm understanding of what they meant when they said they were an "Acts 29" Church. I wondered about their involvement in missions and in the community. I asked about programs, and their view of community as folks like me desire. It was an interesting conversation. I said I'd be seeing them Sunday morning.
One person looked at me when I entered the Church, to hand me a bulletin. I instantly started sweating, feeling like a spotlight had been shined on me, like the kid who ALWAYS come to class late and gets red-faced when everyone stares at him in the quiet class. I felt exposed, so to speak. I found the door to the Sanctuary and climbed into the back row of seats. To make myself feel better, I texted a friend and told her I felt fantastically uncomfortable and that a bar made me feel more at ease. I hoped she'd be able to talk on the phone so I wouldn't look so utterly alone. No luck. So I journaled instead. Worship lasted 45 minutes, and it lingered for a lonnnnng time. By the time the preacher (whom they call "teacher", and sunday mornings "meetings") got up, I was ready to scoot, but I decided I would listen for a little bit. He rambled, and I was not part of the club, and I knew it. And it sucked.
So I went outside and dialed my Mom. I saw a sliver of watermelon in the grass and kicked it onto the black pavement. I proceeded to draw several parallelograms until the pink flesh and green rind dehydrated, and I talked to my Mom about a myriad of things going on in my head. I didn't like that I felt so uncomfortable in a Church that I was sweating.
What is wrong with that picture? Now, I'm not trying to say The Church is horrible and needs to "step up", but it hurts my heart to think that a believer can feel out of place. I can't imagine someone who is curious coming to Church! By golly, we scare them all away because the Church is a big club.
And I'm frustrated.
So I'm not going to Church for a while.
You may say- "What a dope."
And I retort- "It is what it is right now."
So, there.
Press On.
Phil. 3:13-14
-Becca
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| On Vacation In Dependance.So.
I graduated. . . And I'm sitting in Starbucks listening to outtakes that I saved from a recording session Megan and I had yesterday, and I feel like a lizard sunning on a rock: content. Perfectly happy to be out sunning; perhaps not a care in the world.
And while the cares I have outnumber both my hands, I cannot express how wonderful it feels to stay up until 3:30 AM reading a book, not worrying about needing to write a two-page summation due the same day. My printer will get dusty. My exegesis skills will probably grow weak. Academia done good to me, but I love that I can learn what I want, when I want, at the pace I desire- and the proof I've learned will not be a test, but life-change, fruits of the spirit...a sweet aroma about me.
One thing is for sure: I will not stop learning. It just won't be in the same fashion. To some degree, I think my vigor for learning is more fierce than it's been in some time because I don't have a time constraint, nor do I have to prove to anyone that I'm intelligent. I am...what I am. And that's good enough, I guess.
Like I said, I spent a few hours recording with my friend Megan, a woman with a dynamic voice and the potential for musical greatness. We recorded vocals and guitar all in the same room, on the same track. We sang and played and had a great time. We recorded in the bathroom- it's got the best natural reverb a house can offer. Aside from perhaps a stairwell with cement walls encasing it. But houses don't have that too often. Except basements, which oddly (due to inclement weather) don't really exist in Tornado Alley. This, I will ner' understand.
We recorded upstairs because the bathroom was a bit bigger. I sat on the toilet. We set up shop. It was so hot that sweat was dripping from us- the mark of true hard work I'd say. Passion, laughter and sweat was poured into a few tracks of girls messing around with a guitar, and I was pretty proud of the way they turned out. Of course, there's always room for improvement. At times I was flat, which gnaws at the musical perfectionist in me. I also could've lessened the guitar's effects so that the voices carried the song, and I could've been more creative in the way I played chords-using variations instead of plain 'ole D's and G's.
But I like the messiness within it. It has character. It has us. Our voices blend and we are a testament to God's gift to His people to reflect His nature, who He is. Nobody ever said Glorifying God came in the essence of perfection. Perhaps it is most often seen in the muck and mire. You think?
There's a man in Starbucks who goes around killing flies with a newspaper. He doesn't work here. He just assumes the postion of exterminator. He wears khaki shorts, but they might look a little better if they were pulled down just a tad. He wears large wire framed glasses that don't frame his face but make it look bigger. He just strolls around the coffee house with a rolled up newspaper, a determined look on his face. He takes his job very seriously.
The ambiance of a coffee house is what I love- but not here at Starbucks. There's no real ambiance. It's noisy, and expensive, and I feel they expect their customers to be quick and nomadic- not lounge around. But I take my time checking my email. Which I don't even get from Starbucks but the hotel whose easter- yellow paint looks bland against this establishment. Take THAT corporate America.
Though if there was an ambiance, it'd be ruined everytime the dude with the high shorts and big glasses incessantly massacred the flies in here. He also grunts victoriously when he gets one.
I'll bet he likes his independence too. He spends his days mostly in here it seems, chit chating with whomever will give him the courtesy of eye contact and a smile, and of course, his integral position as volunteer-extermintator of flying vermon. He people watches. I wonder what he thinks of me.
Until we get internet at my house, I won't be blogging too much. But I'm sure you won't be too disappointed- you being. . . whoever still reads this.
Press On.
Phil. 3:13-14
-Becca
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