The Leather Jacket and Latent Brokenness

My moto jacket is my second skin. I bought it when I moved back to Philadelphia, and it’s accompanied me on many crisp, late-night walks. It survived a particularly fetid journey on the Paris Metro and a drenching surprise thunderstorm in Ankara.

It’s also shredded. Tiny rips trail up the sleeves, the bottom edges are worn down, I keep tacking down fraying stitches, and the leather’s gouged from years of urban spelunking.

It’s time for this thing to retire. But its shiny pleather successor, fortuitously snatched from a summer clearance rack, still hangs in my closet.

Because this jacket is useful. It’s softened and molded to my body. It yields.
I keep thinking about how hard times work in a similar way on our souls if we let the Holy Spirit do his thing. Life has a tendency to wear on us, and I wish we’d acknowledge that a bit more instead of pasting on a church-ready “I’m fine” smile. There’s a reason why blues music is so good—it strokes the deepest feelings of human existence. It resonates.

I was talking with a good friend a bit ago about the idea of latent brokenness: that as we get older, we become more aware that people are not as put together as we think (fear?). For every person visibly coming apart at the seams, there’s a bunch of people who suffer similarly in quiet.

But inside, as the Spirit mends throughout difficulty, the weak sectors of our souls get reinforced. The frayed edges get tacked down. He molds us so we become more like Christ. And then we can turn to comfort others. This is the exciting part. The latent brokenness suddenly becomes useful. And those who used to endure in silence find kinship together.

In this season, my heart/brain gets a jolt of thankfulness every once in a while. I see how God provides in the day, especially in small ways. My favorite sparks are meaningful conversations with coworkers, or an answer to prayer (especially when I didn’t ask for it). I don’t want these to remain short jolts. I want to rest in this. But all I have to offer God is my brokenness. And somehow, He accepts that and begins to shape it.

Aspiration Risk

This is not where I thought I’d be.

Almost a year ago I started what I thought was a dream job. I’d finally found a flavor fusion of writing and ministry with awesome people.

And then it wasn’t.

I’ve always had a sense of purpose, meaning and mission in my work. But all of that vanished. Without exaggeration, everything became meaningless. What should I do next? Would I be any good at it? Would I ever like my work again?

Around the same time, I experienced a personal struggle and loss so sharp that I still can’t quite find pithy language for it. So that’s not for here.

I’ve historically found my identity in my work; my circumstances. As a believer, I know that this identity cannot be the last say. But setting everything on something intangible is horrendously hard when you maintain a physical existence.

My brain and heart are frequently disconnected (I’ve been accused of being too Cartesian), so rational thoughts such as “you’ve survived hard seasons in the past, so you’ll get through this one” might plink on the top of the head, but don’t comfort.

Depression/anxiety is curious because it freezes time. Any idea of the future is horrible because whatever the possibility, it’s fated to be terrible. All that exists is the paralyzing present. For me, time feels like a drawn-out numbing tunnel, devoid of color and light. When feelings surface, they just hurt, often manifesting as physical pain. For a planner and formerly strategy/task-oriented human, it’s terrifying to feel so out of control. No plan. No vision.

Then comes the whispered self-reproach for feeling bad and being a downer because after all, other people have it worse. I’m being too dramatic? Fine.

The Reformed bent of my faith community isn’t helpful when you have thoughts like these.

Stiff-upper-lip sentiments about God’s will and sovereignty smack of quasi-fatalistic resignation, even if it’s unintentional. Much like Job’s friends, they feel uncaring and make the pain worse. I said to one friend (who, thankfully, is nothing like them), “I just need to know that God loves me and has good for me.” And on better days, I ask for hope for the ultimate future.

I can’t really handle much more than that right now. No insecure pastors bickering on Twitter or in the church about minute theological concepts, defending one’s rightness, or trying to pick apart the mysteries of God with man-made systems. Just Jesus, and to know that God’s Word is true. Anything else comes across as callous and indifferent to the Christ I know, who cared.

Dear friends (and the odd wise professional) have shown the Christ who cares to me. This is the main reason I’m walking forward.

Aspiration Risk is a terse hat-tip to the work I’ve been doing the past several months in medical articles. It’s provision for which I’m thankful.

Come and Help

Sometimes I sit at my desk and fight back tears.

No, my job is pretty cool. But, for example, this week I reviewed photos of former child soldiers attending a trauma healing program in central Africa. It’s heartbreaking to think about what these smiling elementary-aged kids have seen and been forced to do. All because some adults desired power.

But there’s hope. I see the evidence of restoration. Because someone cared enough to go to them. To be with them and seek their healing.

The cry of the Macedonian in Paul’s vision is plaintive, begging. “Come over to Macedonia and help us!”

How can Paul help? He doesn’t wait. He goes to them. He spends time in Lydia’s house. And out of that, the Philippian church is born. But we live in a culture with our own divisions, our individual categories. It’s easy to stay here.

I might say I want to help other people, but chances are, I don’t want to sit next to them in the pew on Sunday morning. They’re not like me. They don’t think like me. And it’s easier to stay in my selfish, Christian-flavored life; in my own narrow political sphere and philosophy, than be with people who might make me think differently.

Who is the Macedonian in my life? Who do I need to go and help?

To whom will God send you today?

On the Road to Find Out

Souvenir from the Philly Museum of Art.

I've been fortunate to have big, blinking neon signs when it's time to move on in my life. This is good because I'm about as dense as my great-grandmother's Southern pound cake.
As you know, I resigned as Global Outreach assistant, and I'm moving on to to a senior fundraising writer role. It's a switch, but I'm looking forward to the adventure. The new gig seems to combine all the best parts of GO and my previous journalism nerderity, so we'll see how it goes.

In the midst of this transition, my dear global friend Ruth passed away. I personally became acquainted with her when I started as GO assistant (because AW YISSSS, SPAIN), and we enjoyed a snail mail correspondence over the nearly four years. Her passing at 87 actually coincided with my resignation date, so there's an odd sense of closure. One of my favorite memories of her is her utter indignation at the Catalonian (separatist) flags during their independence day celebration. For that native madrileña, this was something one could not abide. In terms of faith, I hope I'm a quarter as fervent as she was in Kingdom work.

Recently I've been listening to an inordinate amount of Cat Stevens. Given that I once, in my green teenage years, compared his vocals to the sound of a feline vomiting (and now own a sometimes bilious cat), perhaps this is my penance. But on a walk up 17th Street, these lyrics engraved themselves on my brain. So on we go, each one on their marked path.

In Time

I was the kid who always cried on her birthday because I liked being whatever age that was passing away. I distinctly remember turning seven and my mother trying to restrain her laughter as I wailed, "but I liiiiike being six!"
Standing on the edge of a milestone year, it's neat to be looking forward to whatever's next.

But I'm sad to watch the fear that's gotten a chokehold on the American church. The list goes on: the election (and whatever side you're on). Loss of a way of life. Perceived loss of acceptance of the culture. Fear of people not like us arriving in our country. (Gasp.) Wars and rumors of wars. I had to stifle a laugh at a recent meeting where the minister giving the devotional hand-wringingly referenced "the last gasp of American evangelicalism."

Good riddance.

I'm, for the first time, extremely excited. I wear my cynicism like a jaunty beret, so  this is saying something. The "Christian" cultural veneer has finally been stripped away and we can finally begin living like we actually believe it. Loving our neighbors as ourselves. Trusting God for the outcome, whatever it is. Not being scared of certain people or ideologies. Not freaking out over the future, because the day's trouble is sufficient and God is sovereign. At least that's what we say in our Sunday services, right?

Let's get on with the work of the Kingdom: loving people and pointing to Jesus. The future is so (ultimately) bright, I gotta wear shades. Hopefully they color coordinate with the beret.

Don't Ask These Questions

It's easy to move straight to outrage. Between your slightly-unhinged Aunt Edna's Facebook posts and 24 news-cycle idiocy, a good solution might be a "Break Glass For Xanax" canister near every laptop.
Hence why I decided not write this post last week.

I recently attended an important meeting for a partnering organization. I was the only woman there, but since I work in a male-centered and dominated environment, I'm pretty used to that. I'm also used to being the one asking difficult questions. I attribute this mostly to my journalism roots and an even longer-running distaste for bullcrap.
But I was in the middle of the meeting, waiting at my seat for the next discussion to start. A few folks milled around, sipping iced tea. One of the other representatives came over, put his hand on my shoulder, and smilingly asked, "where's your husband?"
Let me be clear. This was a business meeting. You would not ask a man the whereabouts of his wife in the middle of a business meeting, but especially in the context of the church, it's perfectly acceptable to ask professional women their relationship status.
I thought fast, and stammered out "He's been inevitably detained by the time-space continuum." I'm a nerd.

The second question I got from at least three other representatives (I lost count) was, after introducing myself by my job title, "Do you have a degree?" The first time I was asked this, I didn't hear the question behind the question, namely, "Who are you? Why are you here? Are you your boss' envoy?" No one else was asked this question, despite the fact that at least one other representative didn't hold a degree (and he was a dude, folks!)

What makes me furious is that my status in the church is not determined by the quality of the work I do, or by the character with which I conduct myself. It's by my relationship to men, and my perceived assistance to them. What also frustrates me is that some who read this will take this as the rantings of a bitter, single woman who, God forbid, probably edges too liberal and is just kicking up a fuss for funsies. Add that to the fact that I even have to explain myself in the first place.

Stop it. I'm just as much a contributing member of the Kingdom as a single, in possession of a bachelor's degree person as I am a married, non-degree holding, and whipping up biscuits in the kitchen housewife.
Stop perpetuating caste systems in the Body of Christ.

Concrete Grace

I don't like to admit it, but I am the kind of person who will pray for a parking space. (Hey, if you lived where I do, you'd do the same!) But it's in the small, silly things that God teaches me about grace.

On Saturday I bricked my phone. I unwittingly tossed it in the washing machine with a load of sheets, started another chore, then realized I hadn't heard any alerts in a while. It was with a great sinking feeling that I fished my soggy laundry out, reached into the murky water and drew out the phone, only a week old, but just as zombified as my previous one. In vain I tried to resurrect it.

Just like that, I was cut off (well, sort of), from civilization. I'm used to the insta-response world, especially for work.
I was furious. I hate even the threat of being ineffective; inefficient. Combine that with my deep resistance to spending money, and you've got my approximate attitude as I sat and seethed in church. C'mon, God! You know how hard I work! I don't deserve all this crap! I've been so prudent!
And once again, the ugly truth is that I made it all about me and my actions. Gross.

So by Sunday night I was resigned to buying a replacement, thinking it would either be a lesson or redeemed somehow.
The next morning I found out that I may be able to return the damaged phone for a refund. Start over. Grace. Redemption. I don't deserve it.

I see the concrete example of grace in the example of the waterlogged phone. I'm irreparably messed up, but God reached down and plucked me out of deep waters. He's tearing out the junked programming and rewriting my code. It's painful sometimes. I'm resistant to change my heart. But he's patient and won't stop until I'm mended and rebuilt better than before.