Philosophia

I'm home.

I love Kansas City. I love the back roads and the barbecue shacks and the Spanish-style plaza downtown. I love how the early morning sun hits the skyline right where 23rd Street crests between Independence and downtown. I love the barely-tamed Wild West feel of the River City Market and the steep hills throughout the city blocks leading to the library, where the outside steps are painted as book spines and the soaring columns are obscured by the trees. I love the jazz music floating down 18th and Vine, where dark, shabby men carry upright basses and trombone cases to the Blue Room for an improv jam session. The bright blue Royals Stadium looked luminous from the highway, a massive half-spere in the floodlights of a twilight game. Some evenings were s'mores over the fire pit, some were nights out on the Plaza or swimming in a friend's pool, and other nights were storytelling on Skype, intent on weaving the thread of daily life into another's day. 

Those two months in Kansas City became a lifetime and a lifeline, both linking me to this new home and keeping me away from those I loved before, itself a bridge and a wall. 

So now, I am home, and another chapter of my life is about to begin. I'm glad I went, so glad I stayed out there, but it's good to rest where the homes of those I love correspond with the location of all my stuff :) 

Thank you for your thoughts and prayers, especially now that I'm back to job searching. And keep on reading--maybe one day soon you'll find that I have something interesting to say!

Cheapskate Innovation

Muen-dog Omelette
- 1 egg
- 1 slice of Muenster cheese
- 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
- 1 grilled, cold hotdog

Using a cheese grater, shred the hotdog and saute it in a small frying pan on medium for five minutes with the olive oil. Whip the egg and pour it into the pan to create an even layer of egg and shredded hot dog. When the egg mixture is ready, place the slice of cheese on one half of the pan and fold, making an omelette. Voila!

Beautiful Blueberry Breakfast
- 1 Bagel Thin
- 1/2 cup blueberries
- cream cheese

Toast the bagel, spread with cream cheese, and arrange blueberries on one half of the bagel. Place other half of bagel on top, prepare yourself for deliciousness.

Peanut Butter Fried Rice (recipe courtesy of Jennifer Jacquet)
- 1 large takeout container of white rice
- 1/3 cup peanut butter
- 3 teaspoons soy sauce
- 3 tablespoons vegetable oil

Mix peanut butter, soy sauce and oil in a frying pan to melt. Add rice and stir until all is coated. Could also add in chopped peanuts, green onions and cooked chicken!

Donne Undone

Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine and seek to mend;

That I may rise, and stand, overthrow me, and bend

Your force, to break, blow, burn and make me new.

I, like a usurpt town, to another due,

Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end,

Reason, your viceroy in me, I should defend,

But is captive, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,

But am betrothed unto your enemy:

Divorce me, untie or break that know again;

Take me to you, imprison me, for I 

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chast, except you ravish me.

- John Donne, Holy Sonnet 74. "Batter my heart" (update language mine)


Donne was a master of the extended metaphor (although English teachers would tell you they're called metaphysical conceits) and wove together seemingly unrelated topics to construct a vibrant image.

Did you catch that he compared his heart to a city under the devil's rule ("I, like a usurpt town, to another due"), and that Donne is begging God to come into his heart ("I...Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end"). Maybe you noticed that Donne sees himself as married to the devil ("...betrothed unto your enemy:") and is begging God is sever that relationship ("Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again:"). Does it surprise you that Donne begs for God to pull him into himself, to ravish, enthrall, imprison him? Are you shocked at Donne's brutal, warlike tone? Are you offended?

Why?

Some people are offended by a poem of such passion for God, such angst and rawness of heart, or misunderstand the rawness of emotion as sacrilegious towards a pure God. I envy Donne's ability to craft an image out such incongruent pieces, and I envy his openness of heart that allowed him to release that passion. I don't think God minds it at all when we burst open with love and passion for him. In the last lines, Donne is overwhelmed with his brokenness and filth and begs God to clean him up and bring him back to himself. It's a praise, a lament and a salvation story all in one.

Wouldn't it be worse if Christians were always socially appropriate and dutiful, always proper and politically correct? When did it become such an outrage to be fiery, outspoken people of such love and passion that offends rather than sits back in silence? Do you think the Apostle Paul was a wallflower, or that Peter was known as the one who always said the right thing?

Every time I think I'm doing alright, some other deficiency gapes back at me, or some rough spot rasps out to be filed down. Some days I ride too high, and once I've fallen off and see how far I've wandered, I ache for God to take back my heart, to be divorced from the power that rules the self. But it's not just God that makes this happen - I have to move, too. It's the both of us working out salvation, it's God who readies my hands for action and my heart for love.

I'm still a work in progress (but aren't we all?). I wish I could write as fluidly as Donne, with his vivid images and gripping style, but I'm just not there yet. I wish I could be as outspoken about my faith and convictions as Donne, but then again, God is still working all that out in me, and that part's not finished yet.

I'm not Donne yet, because I'm not done yet.

Chopsticks

I'm pretty sure God eats with chopsticks, which is to say...

one bite at a time.

No more than needed for a mouthful, enough to satisfy, no less than what is required. Spoons overflow, forks shovel , knives disintegrate, but chopsticks hold just the right size piece, filling our mouth without making us gasp for air around an over-large bite. He knows that anyone can choke on too much of a good thing.

~~~~~~

I'm pretty sure God gives us grace with chopsticks, which is to say...

one day at a time.

No more than we need for the day, enough to strengthen, sustain and grow, never less than what we require. God knows we could hoard his grace, choking on too much of a good thing, so he gives us enough for one day at a time, always reminding us he's got plenty more for tomorrow.

~~~~~~

Thank God for chopsticks.

Harry and the Potters

1.) There is a band playing in Kansas City called Harry and the Potters. It is two brothers who dress up in wizard's robes and sing their own songs, like "Voldemort Can't Stop the Rock", "Save Ginny Weasley from Dean Thomas" and "Felix Felicis (Eighth Clockwise Stir Mix)". I actually went to their concert, dying a little on the inside with every song. Thankfully, your jealously needn't go unfulfilled. They are currently on tour all over the nation this summer, stopping in Philadelphia and Boston.

You're welcome.

4.) For those of you who remember that I had NO clue what my job would entail, let me tell you now:

I edit. All the time. I rewrite awkward sentences and check scriptural references for accuracy and punctuation, and sometimes I give the axe - brutally, bloodily, with great satisfaction - to wordy, repetitive, diction-challenged sentences that just repeat themselves in a circular fashion. (You see what I just did there? Exactly.)

I have my own office/cubicle section with a huge window facing out towards the city skyline and a fantastic view of the NPH parking lot. On good days, I will tell you that I like the quiet nature of my work, sitting in a secluded corner with some fresh coffee (Starbucks in a Dunkin's mug, oh the humanity!), reading through the work of dozens of respected authors who set the spiritual tone for that publication and having the authority to edit such work as I see fit. My most recent project is editing a book by a famous author whose works are on the shelf of nearly every pastor and religion major - talk doing something worthwhile! I enjoy discussing the proper placing of an m-dash or how to reference a sermon both written and preached. On those days, I am wholly an introvert and it feels empowering to be around people who understand the importance of sentence structure and correct punctuation.

But on bad days, I dread the isolation of my cubicle, when the only other people around are other editors with their office doors shut, concentrate on their own work.   On those days, the silence is oppressive and I can't help but envy the Barefoot Ministries office down the hallway that plays round-robin pingpong off their desks. My computer screen is very old, so the screen flickers  just enough that you feel as if your eyes will shrivel up and rot. Because I mostly edit curriculum (Sunday school lessons, Bible studies, quarterly devotions and magazines - and most recently, books!), the writing tends to be somewhat repetitive.

The managers of all the departments usually talk up their interns with other departments and recommend them for jobs and projects so they will get useful experience and feedback.  I overheard someone say once that they don't envy interns in my department, because that manager keeps to himself so that no one else knows who his intern is or how they are doing. In other words, the interns in my department leave the publishing house with few connections and little feedback to bolster their experience.

Well, that's depressing. So, I had two choices: be crushed and disappointed that no one will ever see my work, or make myself known on my own terms without relying on someone else to do it for me.

If you are reading this right now, you have some sort of relationship with me, be it casual acquaintance or life partner. You already know I picked Option Two.

The good thing about my personality type is extreme optimism, sheer nerve, ability to multi-task, a can-do spirit. That, combined with the conviction that God led me here--against all odds, against my inclinations and against every argument for financial responsibility--made me feel, well....unassailable.

I can do this. Living out here, driving around the prairie, getting lost every ten minutes, working proactively, texting in the office and not getting caught....yes, they are all in my grasp!

A little gumption, a little initiative, some guts and ample prayer. I can do this!

Baby Gurl'z Nails of Glory

The city of Independence (pop. 116,830) was established in 1827 and is famous for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, the Lewis and Clark Expedition, and for being the starting point of famous westward trails (Oregon Trail, Sante Fe Trail, and the California Trail, as is evidenced by the annual Santa-Cali-Gon Festival). Harry Truman lived here, as did Albert Pujols, Ginger Roger and Paul Henning, who created such sublime American classics as Green Acres, Pettycoat Junction and The Beverly Hillbillies. It is also recognized as being part of the videogame "Oregon Trail", thereby known to millions of Facebookers as well as history buffs.

Independence is not, however, particularly famous for its high level of culture and class. My 30 minute commute to work at the publishing house in Kansas City guides me through miles and miles of pot-holed roads lined with "Tobacco Paradise", "Bud and Nan's Beer Hole", "Sal's Sexy Western Wear" and "Baby Gurl'z Nails of Glory". I want to meet this Baby Gurl and shake her gloried, manicured hand.

There are remnants of past glory and of lost hope all over the place. I drive past a strip mall with a church in a converted storefront...but the church is shuttered closed with metal doors and bars are over the windows. A green, rusted out, mid-80's Buick roared through a red light last night, and the passenger threw two beer bottles out the window, smashing them on the battered tarmac below.

I compulsively check the locks on my door. It feels like a twitch - left hand flying to the lock lever on the door, right hand flung out to check the passenger door. I realized today, while driving past a padlocked park (the ghost of a tennis court peering from behind a skeleton fence), that I'm afraid of it all. I'm afraid of the gang of boys standing on the street corner, yelling at cars whizzing by. I grip the steering wheel a little harder than usual whenever people walk close to my car.

They are so close, after all. Close enough for me to see that the man walking across the four-lane highway is barefoot, with faded tattoos creeping up his neck. The jeering boys on the street corner can't be more than 16 or 17, but their faces are lined and baggy clothes can't hide that they are malnourished, starving, skinny ankles sprouting from too-big shoes like flamingo legs.

There's a song (by Brandon Heath) that goes something like this:
Give me your eyes for just one second,
Give me your eyes so I can see
Everything that I keep missing
Give me your love for humanity
Give me your arms for the broken-hearted
Ones that are far beyond my reach
Give me your heart for the one forgotten
Give me your eyes so I can see.


It came on the car radio right as I drove by the abandoned park, the one closed off with a rusted gate and empty tennis courts. And the same song came on again as I drove by the street corner with the boys. And again, as the drunk man crossed the street, barefoot, half-dressed, swaying with beer bottle in hand. Why did it take so much for me to remember that these people were not "poor", "homeless", "delinquent", but  heartbroken, dreamless, hopeless? Once you see the look of absolute hopelessness in someone's face, you can never forget the emptiness in their eyes, and that's the expression I see every time I drive to and from work.

If I were God, my heart would be utterly crushed to see what humans have done to each other. I'd be nauseous with heartsickness and longing for my loved ones to come back. The loneliness and homesickness that I feel now is incomparable to someone who has completely lost any sense of home and any hope that such an environment still exists for them. I'm not writing to tell you my Five Evangelistic Points that I will share with such lost ones, only that I wanted it out on paper (per se) that I'm beginning to see what people must really look like to God.

I usually pray for strength, clarity of thought, wisdom....but really, they are merely my own heightened senses that I've masqueraded as God working in me. Truthfully, those are all things I could achieve on my own.

But without love, all those virtue are ash and mud. Without love, strength is brutal, clarity of thought is a critical spirit, and wisdom is superior enlightenment. All those I have exhibited, all those I have achieved on my own. But I can't do love on my own. I can't do mercy, I can't do graciousness, I can't forgive on my own, and I certainly cannot see people with God's eyes on my own, either.

Allowing God to show your the world through his eyes is terrifying. The vision burns like fire, searing the conscience and scalding a toughened heart, burning off the layers of judgment and presumption like so much dross. The result is a heart raw with God's pain and throbbing with his love, pulsing harder at every injustice, beating with pride for those who are faithful.

This week has already left my heart raw, so I suppose we're off to a good start if seeing people through God's eyes includes a tender spirit. Pray with me - and please, for me - as this summer at the publishing house is officially underway as of last Thursday and as I learn how to do this whole life-ministry thing.

Oh, and if you ever find Baby Gurl'z, go ahead in and get your nails did.

Go West, Young Man...Um, Woman.

Five days until I leave for Kansas City.

Only five days to pack up my room, to plan a driving route, to budget money for gas, food, hotels, to say goodbye to newly-made friends, to spend time with my family, to snatch just one more hour with Trevor, just a little more time at the only house that's ever felt like home.

Forgive me for my nostalgia, but the preparations of leaving for my internship at the publishing house are cementing the existence of my new reality, the one where I'm responsible for things like, you know, real life.

For so many years, I've planned for and saved for college, thought about and talked about nothing but college, so much so that I never visualized life without a syllabus outlining the exact requirements.
And now I'm done, and it's a good thing, but it feels a little like falling out of love, like you moved on and didn't realize until later that your beloved never came with you. You walk away, but leave more than a little of yourself behind, trusting in the One who's promised to give you a new direction and a new love.

So, in five days, trekking out into the unknown, with naught but a tank of gas and a heart full of God's promise to never leave me, I begin anew.

Only this time, the syllabus is mine to write.