"If you could go back to any time and place, where would you go?"
A friend asked me this question last night. I'm not one to have immediate answers to big questions, so I had to think a bit, but my first thought was, "Only somewhere with a modern bathroom!" Priorities.
Assuming that this place was somewhere I could hop into and out of at will (so the lack of modern hygiene would not be such a deterrent), the place and time I would most like to visit would be the place and time of Jesus.
How churchy of me, right? I was almost disappointed in myself.
But for real, that's where/when I'd go. I'd like to see this man I claim to follow. And not just the man, but the community around him. Would I experience some kind of magical charisma that turned the world on its head? Or would Jesus be quiet, subtle, subversive? Would I even like him? What were his friends really like? Were they all as clueless as Mark makes them seem? What about those disciples who don't speak up in the gospels, the introverted ones? Thaddeus, for instance...who was Thaddeus? And the women...particularly the women. How did Jesus interact with them? Were they full friends, or did they have a different place in the community?
I know I can guess about some of these things from reading the gospels, but that's all it is really...a guess.
One thing I'm pretty sure of, though: If I saw Jesus in his own time and place, he would be unexpected, different-than-I-imagined.
But that doesn't stop my imagining.
Maybe it's good that I can't go back in time to see him in the flesh. Maybe the years and culture separating us would make him seem so foreign, so strange, so unintelligible, that I would only be further confused about how to follow His Way.
Or maybe he would look me in the eye and say, "Come, follow me," and the confusion would fade away.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
my failure
A few nights ago, I tried to explain to My Girl what an immigrant and a refugee are. While talking about living in a new country, I mentioned that after college I lived abroad for a couple years. My Girl did not know this. She's almost 8 years old, and she did not know that I ever lived outside of the U.S. She has not heard stories; she has not seen pictures; she had not even heard the name of the countries (Bosnia/Croatia). How could this be?
It's been 13 years since I returned from my 2 years overseas working for a missionary organization. 13 years, and I have hardly spoken of it. With anyone. And when I do break the silence, I speak of it only in general terms. Honest, but not too revealing, because I can't say what I'm supposed to say.
I can't say it was rewarding (it wasn't).
I can't share touching stories (I don't have any).
I can't talk about lives changed or wonderful work done or purpose revealed.
I'm supposed to, but I can't. I once had a women's group ask me to speak about my experience for their annual missions luncheon. I spoke about my 3-week trip to Kenya instead, because what would I say about my time in Bosnia and Croatia?
"The people were beautiful but heartbreaking; the children I taught were sweet and spunky."
"I was a complete and utter failure."
Brené Brown says we're supposed to speak our shame. Well, here's my biggest shame: I believed God was calling me overseas. I went. I was awful. I came home disillusioned, scared, lonely, feeling broken.
During my very first week in Bosnia, another 2-year-stinter spoke about how she prayed that God would give her brokenness. I remember thinking, "Why the hell would you pray that?" I didn't say this out loud, of course. I'm still not sure I understand that prayer...asking for brokenness. I think she meant that she wanted to get to the point where she was fully dependent on God, but I'd still never ask for brokenness. It seems naive and unfair to those who truly are broken, who would trade that brokenness in a heartbeat. I don't want to be broken. I want to be whole.
When I think back to that time of my life, it seems so ridiculous that I stepped into that airplane, headed for a position as a "relational evangelist." What the hell was I thinking? I'm not good at building relationships in my own culture with people who are like me. How in the world did I expect I would be good at it in another culture? Miracles, I suppose. I grew up on missionary stories of miracles. I expected a miracle.
But there was no miraculous transformation. I was still me, in a position that didn't suit. I needed a more explicit job, with more support. I needed a roommate who didn't despise me. I needed some defined purpose... more than "meet people." And so, after 6 months in Bosnia doing not very much other than teaching a few English words to some refugee children and helping a missionary mom with her youngest homeschooler, I transferred to Croatia to be a homeschool teacher for a couple of brand-new missionary kids. It was a job to do. It was a purpose.
I loved those kids with all my heart. And I was a good teacher...to one of them, but not to the other. Not because I was intentionally negligent, but because I didn't understand what she needed until it was too late. So I had a job, but still I failed. And I was so isolated. Often those kids were my only companionship, my only conversation. Maybe that would've been OK if I'd believed I was still serving a good purpose, but I failed at even my very small purpose.
Now, I know that there are small bright spots in this picture I'm painting very bleakly. I did love those children, and perhaps I was a kind, caring presence in their strange new world. I did learn about what it means to be a stranger in a strange land. I learned I could survive. I learned what a life of privilege I lead. My perspective shifted, widened, changed. But I didn't contribute very much.
I am grateful for what I learned, and for any small brightness I might have added in someone's life, but if I could go back and speak to that girl in her tiny Bosnian room, sobbing with fear and shame and loneliness, I would tell her, "Go home. Sometimes it's OK to quit. Don't worry about disappointing your organization (that organization is going to change their rules and repudiate you in a year anyway). Don't worry about disappointing the family and friends who supported you, or the God who called you. They will welcome you with open arms. Don't worry about disappointing yourself. You will find new life. Go home."
I wonder, now, why I did it. Why I went, why I stayed. From the age of 14, I believed God was calling me to a life overseas. I think it was because I wanted to count for something; I wanted to make a difference. I believed sharing Jesus was the most important difference.
I still believe sharing Jesus is the most important difference, though I believe it in a different sort of way. And despite my added years of wisdom (or foolishness), much of that inner desire to count for something still pulls at me. I want to make a difference. I want to share Jesus.
Only these days, I don't expect miracles. I expect to fail.
No, that's too dramatic. I don't expect to fail at everything. I expect that I will complete school and hope that I will be a good occupational therapist. I expect that I will love my family to pieces and hope that I will be a good mom/wife/daughter. I expect that I will look for ways to be compassionate and kind, and hope that I will take first steps, even when they're scary. I don't expect to fail at everything, but I do expect to fail sometimes, maybe even a lot of the time.
I wonder what my 50-year-old self would say to me now. I imagine that somewhere in the speech would be, "Don't worry so much. Failing at a task doesn't mean that you are a failure. Keep trying; give yourself a break; don't miss the joy that is to come. And may your fear of failure always be overcome by your hope for brightness."
It's been 13 years since I returned from my 2 years overseas working for a missionary organization. 13 years, and I have hardly spoken of it. With anyone. And when I do break the silence, I speak of it only in general terms. Honest, but not too revealing, because I can't say what I'm supposed to say.
I can't say it was rewarding (it wasn't).
I can't share touching stories (I don't have any).
I can't talk about lives changed or wonderful work done or purpose revealed.
I'm supposed to, but I can't. I once had a women's group ask me to speak about my experience for their annual missions luncheon. I spoke about my 3-week trip to Kenya instead, because what would I say about my time in Bosnia and Croatia?
"The people were beautiful but heartbreaking; the children I taught were sweet and spunky."
"I was a complete and utter failure."
Brené Brown says we're supposed to speak our shame. Well, here's my biggest shame: I believed God was calling me overseas. I went. I was awful. I came home disillusioned, scared, lonely, feeling broken.
During my very first week in Bosnia, another 2-year-stinter spoke about how she prayed that God would give her brokenness. I remember thinking, "Why the hell would you pray that?" I didn't say this out loud, of course. I'm still not sure I understand that prayer...asking for brokenness. I think she meant that she wanted to get to the point where she was fully dependent on God, but I'd still never ask for brokenness. It seems naive and unfair to those who truly are broken, who would trade that brokenness in a heartbeat. I don't want to be broken. I want to be whole.
When I think back to that time of my life, it seems so ridiculous that I stepped into that airplane, headed for a position as a "relational evangelist." What the hell was I thinking? I'm not good at building relationships in my own culture with people who are like me. How in the world did I expect I would be good at it in another culture? Miracles, I suppose. I grew up on missionary stories of miracles. I expected a miracle.
But there was no miraculous transformation. I was still me, in a position that didn't suit. I needed a more explicit job, with more support. I needed a roommate who didn't despise me. I needed some defined purpose... more than "meet people." And so, after 6 months in Bosnia doing not very much other than teaching a few English words to some refugee children and helping a missionary mom with her youngest homeschooler, I transferred to Croatia to be a homeschool teacher for a couple of brand-new missionary kids. It was a job to do. It was a purpose.
I loved those kids with all my heart. And I was a good teacher...to one of them, but not to the other. Not because I was intentionally negligent, but because I didn't understand what she needed until it was too late. So I had a job, but still I failed. And I was so isolated. Often those kids were my only companionship, my only conversation. Maybe that would've been OK if I'd believed I was still serving a good purpose, but I failed at even my very small purpose.
Now, I know that there are small bright spots in this picture I'm painting very bleakly. I did love those children, and perhaps I was a kind, caring presence in their strange new world. I did learn about what it means to be a stranger in a strange land. I learned I could survive. I learned what a life of privilege I lead. My perspective shifted, widened, changed. But I didn't contribute very much.
I am grateful for what I learned, and for any small brightness I might have added in someone's life, but if I could go back and speak to that girl in her tiny Bosnian room, sobbing with fear and shame and loneliness, I would tell her, "Go home. Sometimes it's OK to quit. Don't worry about disappointing your organization (that organization is going to change their rules and repudiate you in a year anyway). Don't worry about disappointing the family and friends who supported you, or the God who called you. They will welcome you with open arms. Don't worry about disappointing yourself. You will find new life. Go home."
I wonder, now, why I did it. Why I went, why I stayed. From the age of 14, I believed God was calling me to a life overseas. I think it was because I wanted to count for something; I wanted to make a difference. I believed sharing Jesus was the most important difference.
I still believe sharing Jesus is the most important difference, though I believe it in a different sort of way. And despite my added years of wisdom (or foolishness), much of that inner desire to count for something still pulls at me. I want to make a difference. I want to share Jesus.
Only these days, I don't expect miracles. I expect to fail.
No, that's too dramatic. I don't expect to fail at everything. I expect that I will complete school and hope that I will be a good occupational therapist. I expect that I will love my family to pieces and hope that I will be a good mom/wife/daughter. I expect that I will look for ways to be compassionate and kind, and hope that I will take first steps, even when they're scary. I don't expect to fail at everything, but I do expect to fail sometimes, maybe even a lot of the time.
I wonder what my 50-year-old self would say to me now. I imagine that somewhere in the speech would be, "Don't worry so much. Failing at a task doesn't mean that you are a failure. Keep trying; give yourself a break; don't miss the joy that is to come. And may your fear of failure always be overcome by your hope for brightness."
Monday, July 16, 2012
monday musings
Vacation is exhausting, but good friends are good for the soul. It was nice to feel un-lonely for a few days, and wonderful to see the kiddoes deliriously happy with their friends. Going to Busch Gardens on one of the hottest days of the year may have been a silly choice, but hey, the lines were short!
I had a yearly physical today and discovered that I've lost 9 pounds in the last year without really trying. I hope this is a sign that I'm doing something right in the diet/activity category and not a sign that I have diabetes.
Reading Real/Whole Food blogs makes me feel a little crazy. But I still do it. And then worry that we're all gonna die young from cancer. On a related note, I'm still trying to find a good whole-grain homemade sandwich bread recipe. One that slices and holds together well, and that the kids/man will actually eat as sandwiches. We've eaten lots of good bread this year, but none that are great for sandwiches. I'm thinking I need to try better quality flour. Maybe. I don't really know. I'm not daunted by bread anymore, but it's still such a mystery.
I love reading good fluff books, but it seriously impedes my ability to get stuff done and spend time with my family. One...more...chapter....
On a related note, I have TWO WEEKS to finish everything for my summer classes! ARGH!!!
I'm afraid My Girl is going to forget everything she learned in her very expensive swim lessons because we don't have/belong-to a pool. And The Boy hasn't even started swim lessons. I haven't signed him up for anything, ever, other than childcare. And I think they've both watched 50 episodes of Finneas & Ferb this summer (in addition to other things). I'm falling short as a suburban mom.
But we're in the midst of watching Season 2 of Dowton Abbey, so I'm (very slowly) catching up on cool TV cred.
Twice this summer, when The Man was gone, I've done worship-at-home with the kiddoes (instead of worship-at-church, not in addition to). Those were the best Sundays.
There is enough time. Apparently, that's what St. Benedict said. I hope he's right. I need to believe that he's right, instead of fearing the passage of time a little more each day.
I had a yearly physical today and discovered that I've lost 9 pounds in the last year without really trying. I hope this is a sign that I'm doing something right in the diet/activity category and not a sign that I have diabetes.
Reading Real/Whole Food blogs makes me feel a little crazy. But I still do it. And then worry that we're all gonna die young from cancer. On a related note, I'm still trying to find a good whole-grain homemade sandwich bread recipe. One that slices and holds together well, and that the kids/man will actually eat as sandwiches. We've eaten lots of good bread this year, but none that are great for sandwiches. I'm thinking I need to try better quality flour. Maybe. I don't really know. I'm not daunted by bread anymore, but it's still such a mystery.
I love reading good fluff books, but it seriously impedes my ability to get stuff done and spend time with my family. One...more...chapter....
On a related note, I have TWO WEEKS to finish everything for my summer classes! ARGH!!!
I'm afraid My Girl is going to forget everything she learned in her very expensive swim lessons because we don't have/belong-to a pool. And The Boy hasn't even started swim lessons. I haven't signed him up for anything, ever, other than childcare. And I think they've both watched 50 episodes of Finneas & Ferb this summer (in addition to other things). I'm falling short as a suburban mom.
But we're in the midst of watching Season 2 of Dowton Abbey, so I'm (very slowly) catching up on cool TV cred.
Twice this summer, when The Man was gone, I've done worship-at-home with the kiddoes (instead of worship-at-church, not in addition to). Those were the best Sundays.
There is enough time. Apparently, that's what St. Benedict said. I hope he's right. I need to believe that he's right, instead of fearing the passage of time a little more each day.
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