Adventure Boots

    "April 24, '02  
     Airplane

      We just took off. We're heading to Vietnam where we will adopt a little boy named Sinh. We are really             excited. ..."
      Matthew Sinh Moody turned 14 years old this past week. Almost 10 years earlier, my 10-year old self was sitting in a plane staring into the big blue expanse of sky, kicking my feet for adventure. I was writing even then, but apparently I didn't know about contractions or the differences between "where" "wear" and "we're" so I amended all that for the first bit above. It was the beginning of a grace adventure.
     My experience of Vietnam was something that belonged in one of the books stuffed in my backpack, it seemed to me at the time. I traipsed around everywhere with my family, as brown as a walnut, shodded with Teva's and equipped with a hot pink Barbie Polaroid around my neck. According to my journal Matthew was quite taken with that camera the first time I met him. I don't remember that, but I do remember the amount of film he used on pictures of the ceiling fan. I was happy in this exotic corner of the earth, sucking down fresh-squeezed watermelon juice every chance I got and avoiding any meat-like substance after the discovery that my parents had been sneaking me squid. There were water buffalo and monkeys, puppet shows and pagodas. I remember being in awe of the sheer masses of people, watching the crowds from the balcony of a noodle shop. Having a new little brother was fun: he ate french fries with chopsticks and blue playdough and he giggled all the time. We all got to take a 'cruise' during which I have vivid memories of the cockroach that crawled over my feet at night. I chose to sleep on the deck after that.
    Coming home was 'topsy-turvy'- another one of my small self's observations. I think that's the only time of life I've ever used that phrase, but I have always associated it with the circus, so it made sense to use it- coming home felt like a circus. The thought had never crossed my mind that this little boy hadn't lived with a family before and didn't really know how they worked. It didn't cross my mind that he had his own will that maybe wouldn't always assimilate to ours. This was the other side of adventuring. No more treks overseas, just home, living, day in, day out.
    I got a text (from my mom) this summer saying love was a grace adventure. Me- being the clever daughter I am- listened to that piece of wisdom and decided to expound upon it: life is a grace adventure. Adventures appeal to my 20-year old self just as much as my 10-year old self. See, the key element to an adventure is excitement. They are never, ever boring. For clarification, I'm not sure excitement always equates with the sense of euphoria that comes from sucking helium. Take for example all the adventure books you read as a child. Ok, I didn't read many, but I read lots of fairy tales and those are mostly the same thing. Scary things happened in those stories: evil spells, enchanted forests, goblins, etc. It wouldn't be an adventure without the scary stuff, and, in the end, it was always worth it.
   Life, then, is a grace adventure. Adventure because it's full of crazy, exciting, scary, weird stuff. Grace because we've been given the perfect amount for every minute of un-expected adventure. I can't help but close with a Winnie-the Pooh quote, a pithy prod to go and find your own  boots and the accompanying adventure-
       “When you see someone putting on his Big Boots, you can be pretty sure that an Adventure is going to happen.” 
 Or, maybe, it could be said another way:
      "Therefore put on the full armor of God...with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the Gospel of peace" (Ephesians 6:13 & 15, NIV). 

   
  



 
 


   

749 Words

     I've hardly written over the past couple months. The words just weren't there. I hate not having words because I can't stand trying to push past that barrier. So I don't.

    Maybe I wasn't totally truthful: I wrote a ton. I just didn't finish 90% of it. There's a litany of drafts on my blog dashboard and a scattering of them in my journal, but they never seemed quite right. And I can't finish something if I don't know where I'm going.

    Even now, the first sentence you read? I re-typed it 10 different ways in 3 minutes. I'll probably re-type it again before I'm done. If I ever finish.

    School breaks are lovely things for sleeping and not doing much, but horrible things for thinking. With no 8' by 11' To-Do list governing my hours, I had time for lots and lots of thoughts. So many thoughts I couldn't write them all down or trace them to completion. I began to wish I was multiple persons so I could direct each one of me to compose my ideas into neat, 750 word bundles. At the moment there are several optional endings for this post in a puzzle box in my head. It's like those horrible adventure activity books at the dentists where

 If you would like our hero to go to the jungle, turn to page 53.

 If you would like to see what happens at the volcano, turn to page 20.

I hated those because some part of me thought it was necessary to find each and every story, along with the inevitable ending, in those books. And it took forever.

   The same part of me that needed every part of the story wants just the right combination of words for everything. As funny and possibly cliche as it sounds, I would like to be a writer. I would like CS Lewis and Truman Capote to inhabit my pen (or keyboard) and change the world with my words. But I am the writer who doesn't write.

   The ever-relevant A.A. Milne said: “Pay attention to where you are going because without meaning you might get nowhere.” Going nowhere is not a biblical idea. We are commanded to run the race, fight the good fight. Neither of those are accomplished by merely sitting.

    A nobleman went into a far country to receive for himself a kingdom and then return. He left his servants with the instructions, "Engage in business until I come." Each was given a certain amount of money proportionate to his capabilities. The nobleman returned, calling each servant to him in turn and inspecting their profit. The last servant came to him, timidly, a small amount of cash crumpled up in a dirty handkerchief.  "Lord, here is your mina, which I kept laid away in a handkerchief; for I was afraid of you."  (Paraphrase of Luke 19: 11-21). 

   I have been given my own 'minas' in a sense, to invest in the kingdom. I can't bury them for fear of doing wrong or of not being good enough. There's another parable in Luke about a dishonest manager. Facing the loss of his job and the inevitable poverty that would follow, he lowered the debts of certain of his boss's clients in the hopes that when he was down and out they would return the favor. Luke says his master "commended" him- not for his dishonesty, but for his shrewdness.The manager took what he had and used it well. Granted, it was to his own advantage and not his master's. Still, the general principle applies: we aren't given certain gifts/talents to just bury. We are called to be shrewd as serpents. It takes some creative thinking and probably a fair share of risk. 

   What it doesn't take is fear of exploring whatever may be around the next corner. "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind" (1 Tim. 1:7 NKJV). Finishing this post is a bit of commitment for me. It means I actually have to follow through on the call of action that every good persuasive essay ends with. This is my own  750 -word package. A persuasive letter to stop being afraid of things and just do them. An almost-empty 2 day stretch lays ahead, a rare thing in days lost under homework and classes. Time like this is a gift: for thinking and sitting still and figuring out where to go.

Reading, Writing, Coffee, & Surrender

         I'm a fan of online classes. They're more flexible than Gumby and make it possible to take more units. They also make it possible for me to study on my couch in the presence of  central heating, instead of in classrooms where central heating belongs in the same category as the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause. Anyways, those classes require students to type up self-introductions, answering prompts such as: "My hobby is..." My answer usually goes something like this:

     Mostly for fun I read and I write and I drink lots of black coffee. This also happens to be what I do for school- I'm a Communications major- so reading and writing and drinking coffee is probably what you'd find me doing at any given point during the day.

This semester is no exception to my reading/writing/coffee lifestyle. There  hasn't been a ton of time to just blog for fun. Over the past couple weeks, though,  I had an assignment to read through the book of Matthew and put together several informal responses for a discussion forum- I thought I would share one. The idea of surrender has been on my mind quite a bit lately, and these were some of my thoughts. ...

     In reading these chapters, the concept of dying to self kept sticking out to me. Maybe a better way to term it would be surrender, or the idea of poor in spirit. I’m thinking they all mean more or less the same thing, but I haven’t thought through it all yet.

                It starts with Jesus having compassion on the hungry- the 5,000+ hungry people following Him merely for the physical benefits. John had just died and Jesus had retreated to somewhere ‘desolate’. His cousin and dear friend had just been beheaded. Yet all these people still followed Him, and He had compassion.

                And then He walks on water. (This is related, promise!). I love this account because it is very true, yet also makes for a timely metaphor of the veritable storms of life. Jesus is there during my trials- He was there as the disciples cried out in fear in the midst of the thunder and waves-  and He reprimands, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?” (14:31). Why do I doubt Him? Why did the disciples? For all doubt should be blotted out by the voice that proclaims: “Take heart, it is I. Do not be afraid” (14:27). I- protector, come to save, the one who controls the storm with a word and holds the molecules of the ocean together- it is He; do not be afraid. Commanding a storm with your voice is definitely a supernatural ability. Jesus was doing more than stopping the storm, He was revealing Himself as Messiah to the disciples. He was doing all this because it was His Father’s will and brought His Father glory. Nothing in His ministry was for His own glory- He had emptied Himself and surrendered His will to the Father.

                Jesus says to deny myself. To serve as He gave Himself to the 5,000 when I would have kept myself to one. The command to take up my cross is really one to surrender, to die to self. Because dying is living, giving of myself.

                Take the example of the Rich Young Ruler. He had done almost everything right. He was even double- checking, “What good deed must I do to have eternal life?” (19:16). But there was one significant factor that kept him from the Heavenly gates: he wouldn’t surrender.

                On the surface, he was just asked to give up his wealth. Of course this is an enormous request and undertaking. Typically I read this as an encounter designed to teach believers about the dangers of wealth. This is true, but there is more to it than that. It’s about the unwillingness to surrender everything- especially the idea that we can do the right combination of “good” and earn eternal life. Jesus even says it, “Why do you ask me about what is good? There is only one who is good.” (19:17).

                Who  is good. Not a thing or a deed, but a Who. That ‘Who’ is Jesus Christ, who lived out “so the last will be first and the first last” (Matthew 20:16) and “whoever would be great among you must be a servant” (Matthew 20: 26).  Jesus was a servant, absolutely everything He did was under the guidance of His Father. He is the picture of surrender. 

Chicken & Dumplings: A Slice of Life

I love Chicken & Dumplings. I have fond memories from my childhood of poking around the fat, gooey dumpling until it became many small gooey dumplings, equally distributed among bites of carrot I didn't really want to eat. Tuesday, I decided, via my loving mother drafting me as head cook for that night's meal, to make Dumplings.
I will begin with a disclaimer: my first experience with chicken was not so good. When I was 16, mom enrolled me in a serious cooking crash-course. Read: The You- can't live- on- sweets- and -rice- for- the- rest -of- your- life course. My first project, with her instructing, was to roast a chicken. The day of this endeavor was a toasty 100 degrees. All fine and good and HOT until I dropped the chicken on the floor. Yes, you read that right: I dropped the entire chicken on the floor. Let's just say my family have strong immune systems.
On to Thursday's chicken endeavor! I stared down into the sink with a whole chicken in the colander below me. I hate whole chickens. Foster Farms boneless and skinless are my forte, and, in my mind, the only sort of chicken they should produce. Here's why: whole chickens entail things such as chicken hearts, chicken livers, chicken guts. Disembowling a chicken is not my idea of a pleasant morning-time activity. It's not as if Foster Farm's is lazy and doesn't take the time to remove the unwanted detritus. No, they take the guts out and then put them back in. I am still mystified as to why exactly they do this. At the very least, they could have the chickens with hearts in tact for those who want them, and the gut-less ones for squeamish people like me.
Enough with that. I gutted the chicken and stuck it in the pot, happy to know the worst was over. Right. Time comes to remove the chicken from the pot and shred it. No big deal. As soon as I manage to lift the ungainly thing out, it splits. Lying their in the sink it looks like something of the cover of "Chicken Undead: Editor's cut, Unrated." Or maybe some sort of rotting zombie head. I shredded the thing and pondered how familiar I was becoming with chicken anatomy.
The rest was easy as pie, and I got my dumplings. I even made new fond memories in my adulthood of cooking the undead chicken and then enjoying it during a Once Upon A Time marathon with my corny-tv-watching-Partner-in-Crime. Here's to happy memories and slices of life and Christmas break!

{This is my family, and I like them a lot. My best friend took the picture. I like her a lot, too}

It's one o' clock in the morning and freezing. 3-blankets-and-tea-freezing. At least in my room, anyway.

As yesterday-or the day before yesterday, since technically it's Saturday- was Thanksgiving, I've been thinking quite a bit about thankfulness.

People are broken. Broken and torn up by sin, battling constantly-most the times on the verge of being just plain worn out. No amount of super glue, duct tape, or glossy varnish can hold us together or pretty up decay. Even if duct tape is a miracle-worker. Holiday's are funny things because they are generally harbingers of joy and delight and all manner of colored lights and yet, simultaneously, the harshest backdrop to the brokenness around us. I've never really understood why.

Thanksgiving then: a holiday set aside specifically for the purpose of gratitude. This is easy when presented with turkey and cranberry sauce and sweet potato casserole. Also, Christmas (since as soon as Thanksgiving/s done I break out The Carpenter's Christmas, I might as well blog about it too): a holiday for remembering and celebrating the birth of Christ. Somewhat harder to do when surrounded by mounds of glitter-y wrapping, unless you remember the outlasting glitter of eternal glory with Christ. Two holidays: an entire month to be lost in enough sugar to rival a snow storm, in ribbons and tinsel and pine needles, in jingle bells and Christmas carols over-played in Macy's. Time spent forgetting instead of remembering.

Maybe this is only my experience, but sin always seems more apparent around the holidays. Maybe it's lack of sleep and lack of space on the calendar, or maybe it's because black is easier seen against the glow of the most wonderful time of year. Either way, I see it. This is how I remember.

I cannot be held together by glooey bits of tape or triple shots of espresso, as much as I wish and think I can during finals. I cannot be thankful only in the presence of a turkey. I cannot celebrate Jesus' birth only in the light of a Christmas tree.

I'm held together by grace. I need to be thankful in the gritty moments. I need to remember Jesus' birth because I sin. Because of all the brokenness in and around me, I have cause to celebrate. True cause, because I am free from it.

I told you I was thinking about thankfulness. I am thankful for remembering and God who reminds.

{Some other things I'm thankful for: friends and Crixia Cakes and Berkeley and Coldplay and my brother who is better with directions than I am}

Follow the Leader

{My brother and I, goofing off in the food prep room and studying intelligent things involving lots of numbers}

"We have slipped into an adventure of our own unmaking. We play the game of our lives, indeed, the game of life. And it is meant to be played by exuberant, daring, and fun-loving amateurs."

~Terry Lindvall

This is one of my favorite quotes right now. An adventure of my own unmaking- life, this month, this weekend, today- is an adventure. One that I could not create.

Conference. Cupcakes. Coffee. Need I say more? These three words sum up the last two days, though I suppose you could throw in a heavy dose of Pascal and his lovely triangle and call it good.

I don't really know where to lead smoothly into my idea, so I'm just going to jump right in. Call it a sugar rush, if you like. (Or possibly a crash).

Have you ever played follow the leader?

Let's call that transition a crash...

It's the game every kid plays to make dull walks exciting and every teacher plays to get their students to do what they want. Me? I hadn't played in years, but I wasn't facing another ten minute walk back to the dorms in awkward silence, so I turned around to my girls and said, "Ok, we're going to play Follow the Leader!"

The stares I got were incredible:

"What. "

"I've never played follow the leader...."

"In front of the cafeteria?- In front of all these people??"

"Um, yes. It'll be fun!" I'm not sure my enthusiasm for the game carried over. Regardless, the ten minute walk became more of a 15-minute hop-skip-twirl-fly-like-a-plane jaunt. I'm sure it made quite a funny picture: 13 girls weaving and winding through 100 other people, the movements of the leader slowly disintegrating into bent-over giggles by person 9. No one in the back could really tell what the leader was doing, so we just sort of made it up and stumbled along.

Now making it up and stumbling along in game of Follow the Leader is all fine and good, but what about in real life? Really, if you think about it, life is a game of Follow the Leader. As a follower of Christ, I am supposed to imitate Him perfectly. Just as if I was in a line and the leader was pretending to fly, I would pretend to fly. As I end up 1 person back, 2, 3, 4, 5, I start to lose sight. Movement is slower and sloppier and, towards the end, isn't much like imitation at all.

I heard one conference session this weekend, but the illustration of us as believers Following the Leader- Following Christ- stuck with me. So I come back to my quote: life is an adventure. My life is an adventure of Christ's making.

Exuberant.

Daring.

Fun-loving.

Amateur.

I love these words! They're full of life and color and wonder and grace. We can dare to follow Christ, knowing He provides the grace for us to do so. And as His children, we are commanded to be like Him. It takes exuberance, because sometimes imitation is on the very bottom of our to-do list. Exuberance is defined as abounding in vigor, and following is vigorous work. Fun- loving? Yes, because there are too many surprising twists and turns along the way that I am convinced would sometimes shatter the soul if it were not for the gift of laughter. And because life abundant is a gift of grace to rejoice in! Finally, amateur. This is my favorite. This is grace. We were not chosen for our excellent skills of mimicry. For if it were so, we might as well just do it on our own thank-you-very-much. We were chosen because we were bad followers. Horrible, actually, because we weren't even following- we were running the other way!

Here I am then, full of hope and amateurishly living life and loving it in in a way I hope can point only to Christ. I've tried not following. Not aggressively turning around and running the other way of course, but passively. Slipping behind one person and another until I lose sight. Following doesn't come easy. It doesn't come in a happy cup of feel-good tea alongside a cupcake and sunshine and roses. Sometimes it does. A lot of times, though, it comes with vigor.

It comes with a hard days work where you purposed to wake up on time to get things done.

It comes with setting aside time to learn how to follow.

It comes with an investing attitude- choosing to invest time wisely, choosing to invest in people.

It comes with exuberance and crazy-fun and sleepy-happy and one humongous dose of amateur.

{Hooray for conference, coffee, and cupcakes!!}

Confetti from the Sky

I'm in denial that it's already October. I'm in denial that my mind is currently living in November, and that an entire month became booked in the space of a weekend. There it is though, disintegrating planner and all.

Funny thing though- as full-speed-ahead as life is right now-, I'm oddly detached from it. Not detached from it in a negative sense at all, but a sort of transcendence beyond the chaos. The sort of feeling that comes from the realization that being caught up in all the 'to-do's would just about drown you, and so you just live in the grace for the moment. Not in the grace for tomorrow's 6 am to 11 pm schedule (you don't have that yet), not in the grace for the homework project tonight (because it's only 2 pm), not in grace for anything 4 years down the road (especially since you don't even know where you'll be!)- no, just grace for today. For right now.

It's scrawled on my wrist, 'grace for today,' to fight the constant desire to know- to know more or less how my entire life will work out.

That's ridiculous.

It was phrased once that God doesn't burden us with knowing His exact path in life for us. He has one, for sure, and He's told all I need to know: His will is for me to know Him. To know and love and glorify. So there it is, the grey ink reminding me to not fret about tomorrow. Reminding me to enjoy this moment for all the wonder it holds.

The other night we were reading Jonathon Edwards after dinner. He was talking about time, about our lives, and how, when we stand before God and look back at all we've done, what will we tell Him?

Time. It goes too fast. Here though, I'm going to take that back. Because time goes exactly the speed God wants it to. Isn't it my own flurry of activity and rush letting time slip through tired hands? My own sin filling it with things better left undone? My own in-attention causing me to wonder where it went?

Confetti came from the sky today. Multitudes of clouds un-furled sheets of iridescent, symphonic rain. Earthy, spicy-I could almost taste the clean in the air. A new season was ushered in as stacatto downpours peppered students mad-cap dashing for their classes. There was an awe and wonder in it all. The newness of the rain that caused a few to set aside textbooks and lean against the doorframe, forgetting the dates and names of history tests to revel in the rain. Grace came in the rain.

Those are my 10-to-11 musings. My hopes to stand before God and not have tell Him I missed my life because it went too fast. My prayer to seek grace in the right-now and not always be tripping and falling my way into tomorrow, scrambling for what I can't have yet.

" ...if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? - - Carpe - - hear it? - - Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary." John Keating Dead Poets Society