From list-making to gift-getting: Lessons in Gratitude

The following is my latest contribution to The Voice, St. Stephen's weekly newsletter:

When I still lived with my parents (and even after I went away to college) I eagerly waited for the first weekend of December. Forget Black Friday or Cyber Monday. For my siblings and I there was but one time to shop for gifts – Christmas Friday.

I’m not sure when this habit began, but by the time I was in middle school Christmas shopping on the first weekend in December had become an annual tradition for my parents. My dad takes Friday off of work and joins my mom in an all-day excursion through the malls and parking lots of Lincoln, Nebraska. They conclude the day with dinner at Outback Steakhouse. Whatever wasn’t accomplished on Friday is dealt with on Saturday, and when the shopping is done the wrapping begins.

Gift-wrapping has become an outlet for my mother’s artistic talents. One of my favorite memories of being home in the weeks leading up to Christmas is exploring the gifts under the tree – taking them out and turning them around, looking at the ribbons and bows and bells and glitter. As my mom takes each gift and turns it into a work of art I imagine that she, the gift-giver, thinks of us, the gift-getters. She envisions the looks of satisfaction and surprise that will cross our faces as we eagerly take ownership of our new possessions. She pictures us using our coffeemakers, watching our DVDs, wearing our earrings, and playing with our cameras. All of this plays through her mind as she listens to Mannheim Steamroller, cuts paper, and curls ribbon on a December afternoon.

Shortly after Thanksgiving break I received an e-mail from my mom asking for my “Christmas List.” I thought back to the days when such a solicitation was hardly necessary. My brother, sister, and I would begin making our wish lists as soon as Christmas lights popped up on houses and candy canes appeared in the aisles of HyVee. The lists often began on the backs of restaurant napkins and eventually made their way to the refrigerator, where they remained for editing until my parents put them to use. Materialistic though it may have been, it was also exciting – making lists and dreaming of gifts and building up hopes for Christmas morning.

As I’ve approached adulthood I find that Christmas gifts and wish lists have lost much of the “magic” that they used to hold. I am not really all that eager to receive the can opener that I need, the crock pot I saw on sale, or the vacuum that I asked for. I will be truly grateful for any gifts I receive, but somehow the hope and mystery seem to have drained away from the whole process.

I reflect on what it was like to receive gifts as a child, to rip off the wrapping of each box, hoping with everything in my six-year-old heart that inside I would find Blaze, the white stuffed horse with the light-up mane or the ballerina Barbie that bends her legs and points her toes. I think of what it must have been like for my parents to give me those gifts. To see my excitement and joy. To watch me cradle my stuffed animals or my brother kiss his Hot Wheels car carrier. How excited they must have been, knowing what was inside each box even as we unwrapped them. And how crushed they must have been each time I rejected the gift given to me; each time I declared that it was the wrong color or the wrong style, not what I asked for or not what I wanted. I stole their joy, as well as my own. I robbed the moment of goodness, leaving it empty and cold. Gratitude is what leads to joy. No matter how great the gift may be, when I am ungrateful the joy is gone. And no matter how small the gift may seem, when I see it as gift, when I give thanks, joy lives and breathes and fills the room with light.

How must my Abba, my Father God feel when he sees the way I respond to the gifts that he gives me? The gifts that he painstakingly creates and specifically selects and sends into my life at just the right moment. Do I delight in the snow that flies through the air and gently adheres to my windshield? Or do I complain about scraping the windows and shoveling the drive way? Do I cherish the niece that sleeps in my bedroom and embrace the blessing of a family together? Or do I begrudge that I must share a bed with my sister and shoot bitter glances at the child who wakes me up with her crying? Do I look for the blessings, or do I pass them over and neglect to be grateful?

When I believe that I deserve a life free of pain, interruption, and inconvenience I am quick to miss the blessing; to see it as frustration, as burden instead of gift. A God who is loving and generous, a God who gives good things and whose character does not change, surely that God is daily lavishing me with love, even when I do not see it. How do I receive his gifts? Do I treat grace like a new toy? Playing with it for a short while and then tossing it aside that I might pick up discontentment or entertain myself with sarcasm? Am I really grateful for what I’ve been given?

I know the answer, and it shames me. It shames me like my memories of the Valentine’s Day when my Dad bought me a plastic head band with rainbow-colored hearts that I could never bring myself to wear, or the Christmas he picked out a black turtle-neck sweater and I exchanged it for a hot pink racerback and a pair of socks. Though all is forgiven, my heart still aches. If only I’d seen the ugliness of ungratefulness. If only I’d known that I was robbing the moment of joy. The way I rob every moment that I don’t count as blessing, as the gift that it is.

I imagine that when I am frustrated with my work and angry with my friends and bitter toward my family that it hurts God’s heart. That he turns toward me in confusion and questions, “My dear Amanda, isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what you asked for?” And when I refuse to recognize gift I look back to him and say, “No. I mean yes, I did pray for work and I did ask for friends and I’ve always wanted to be part of a family, but not like this. It doesn’t fit right. They don’t understand me. I didn’t want this one; I want the life I’ve read about in books and seen in movies and heard of from friends. And what about the gifts you didn’t give me? What about the teaching job that I asked for last Christmas and the salary to pay off my student loans?”

I am a child again; a child who refuses to see past what I don’t have. But patiently, ever so patiently, my Father listens to my discontent. His heart is broken, but not for himself, it is broken for me. He aches to see my own lack of joy, to know the empty that resides within me. He strokes my hair and wipes my tears of anger, bitterness, and frustration. He holds my empty and pours in love. He sets me an example, shows me how to give thanks, and gently begins to open my eyes. “See the blessing,” he urges. “Give thanks for the grace.” 

Different Relationships, Similar Issues

And then two weeks after saying "yes" to St. Stephen, I was faced with a relationship of a different kind. Once again, I wasn't really looking to get involved. I wasn't ready to commit. I had other plans, other hopes, other aspirations. I knew how entrenching and binding relationships could be. I was happy with my friends, my co-workers, and my own company. And yet, similar to the the thought process that led to my first interview with St. Stephen, I considered it and concluded I'd at least give it a try.


Chance circumstances and some small amount of networking led to my finding David and to David finding me. We met through a friend, a "sister" in Christ, to use ecclesial language. That sister was my friend, Ellen, who was part of a rather social small group Bible study made up of members from our church. Unlike Bethany, Ellen never intended to set me up with David. I think I first met him at a church potluck/game night or something of that nature. I don't really remember, though I'm sure he does. Sometime around the end of October I decided to hang out with the aforementioned small group. David seemed to need a friend. I responded. There was some initial contact and communication regarding our mutual car searches, and then I waited for a while, not really thinking that he was going to make a move and not really wanting him to either. 

But he did. The third weekend in November (the same weekend I was installed at St. Stephen), David offered to help me cook a turkey for a Thanksgiving meal we were having at my house. It was a stressful, emotional, wonderful weekend full of food, friends, and copious conversation. We talked about past relationships and college and Kansas City and a lot of other things I don't really remember. I generally liked David and even though I got really worked up about getting our meal finished on time and spent a good portion of the time he was over wearing sweatpants and spilling things, David didn't seem to mind. I felt a sense of comfort and familiarity, the way I did when I spent time with my college friends. I liked David. It would be okay if nothing ever happened, but somewhere in the back of my mind I think I was hoping that we would be friends. One week later he took that a step further and asked me to go on a date.


During the date I did my best to be myself, to give a fair representation of who I was and why I was on this date in the first place. If David didn't think we were a good match, that was fine, I just wanted him to know what he was in for. Whether or not he did I can't say, but he did ask me out again. And again. And before I realized what I had agreed to I was regularly seeing someone and wasn't quite sure what to do about it. 

Remaining distant seemed safe. There was little chance of getting overly attached. I could leave at any time and pursue my greater dreams of teaching and traveling. There were no commitments, no expectations. No one would get hurt in the process. An exclusive relationship, on the other hand, would require investing more than time. David, I believed, was looking for something long-term and committed. I wasn't. But everyone I talked to told me this might be a good idea, that maybe I needed a little stability in my life and committing to another person other than myself would be good for me. 


Not wanting to be dishonest, I expressed my concerns to him. We talked through the possibility that I might leave within a year's time, and he assured me that as long as we made progress during the time we were together it would be good, that the relationship would be worthwhile for me and for him. I decided to accept advice, and followed the small urging of my heart to enter into a relationship. One year later I am still uncertain of how long it will last or where it will go, but the fact that it is, is enough for today.

Dating St. Stephen: Entering a Relationship

There are some relationships that you believe will last forever - the best friend who more or less lived with you over the summer, the first person who gazed into your eyes and hesitantly whispered "I love you," the college roommate you thought you couldn't live with, the college roommate you thought you couldn't live without. And then there are the relationships you're surprised ever formed in the first place.

November 15, 2010 I entered into a relationship with St. Stephen Lutheran Church. Within 8-10 weeks I was relatively confident that the relationship would meet its eventual end rather swiftly. And yet a full 365 days later here I am, more deeply involved than I had planned to get.

"Youth director" was a position that I very much wanted for myself when I was sophomore or junior in college. But by the time I graduated, I was pretty sure that youth ministry wasn't my calling. My inability to survive a game of dodge ball, define "spiritual formation," or turn in my medical forms on time were just a few of the many red flags. But months of unemployment and empty job searches often leads one to reconsidering what they thought they were "meant to do in the world." By September of 2010 I was will to "have a go" at just about anything, including copy-editing for an animal-testing facility, attending a roller derby, applying to be a jewelry salesperson, and attending free yoga classes.

Chance circumstances and some small amount of networking led to my finding St. Stephen and to St. Stephen finding me. We met through a friend, a "sister" to use ecclesial lingo. That sister was Bethany Lutheran Church, the congregation at which I interned from May-August of 2010. Bethany and I both knew our relationship would be a summer fling from the start. It was really rather kind that she would think of setting me up with another congregation at all. I remember hearing about St. Stephen shortly after I started with Bethany, but I had no interest - Liberty (where St. Stephen was located) was an hour's drive from Overland Park, and I wasn't really looking for a long-distance relationship. By the end of the summer, though, I was a little desperate, and suddenly the distance didn't seem so bad. St. Stephen sent out an e-mail advertising that they were interested in starting a relationship with a youth director. I responded. There was some initial contact and then I waited for 4-6 weeks, wondering if the church was going to "make a move."

It did. And we had our first interview. The interview went well. I generally liked the people I spoke with, and even though I'd gotten lost on my way there and was hot and sweaty from a summer car ride without air conditioning, St. Stephen didn't seem to mind. I felt a sense of comfort and familiarity. I liked St. Stephen. It would be okay if things didn't work out, but in the back of my mind I think I was hoping for a second date...er, interview. Two days later I received a call, but it wasn't from St. Stephen.

It was from Xenometrics, the company I'd been interviewing with earlier in the month. I felt like a bit a of a player entertaining two job offers at the same time, but what was I to do? Xenometrics had approached me long before St. Stephen, and after 2-3 months of job-hunting I was flattered to be pursued. They offered me a cube, good base pay, and the chance to use my editing skills in a professional setting. St. Stephen wasn't ready to commit, and wouldn't even be getting back to me for another several weeks. Xenometrics had taken me home, introduced me to the family, and offered me a position.

I complied. I was tired of uncertainty and thought I ought to take a definite offer rather than waiting for what might be. A month later St. Stephen asked me to return, this time on a Sunday morning. I attended both worship services (traditional and contemporary). The first reminded me of my liturgical childhood and visits to my grandparents' church; the second of my elementary years of singing "Shout to the Lord" and "Change My Heart O God." It felt familiar and friendly. I liked St. Stephen's community. They were kind and welcoming, a family I might want to be a part of, or at least have dinner with. After the services I was taken out to lunch and interviewed on a more personal level. I did my best to be myself, to give a fair representation of who I was and why I was interested in possibly taking this position. If St. Stephen didn't think we were a good match, that was fine, I just wanted them to know what they were in for.

Two weeks later I was on my way to Shawnee Mission Park when I received a phone call from St. Stephen. I was suddenly acutely aware of the beating of my heart and my throat involuntarily began to close. "We wanted to let you know that the committee has made their decision." Silent pause. I braced myself. "And we'd like to ask you to serve as the youth director at St. Stephen." I was shocked. I don't even remember what my words were, but I'm sure I mentioned that I was flattered, and that I needed some time to think about it. St. Stephen may or many not have been surprised by this, but the fact of the matter was that I had already taken a job and I was pretty happy with it. I didn't want to leave a good thing unless I was moderately sure about it. They gave me a week.

I thought and fought and just wasn't sure what to do about it. Xenometrics seemed safe. There was little chance of getting overly attached. I could leave at any time and pursue my greater dreams of teaching and traveling. There were not commitments, no contract. No one would get hurt in the process. St. Stephen, on the other hand, would require investing more than time. Church relationships tend to happen at a heart-level. St. Stephen, I believed, was looking for something long-term and committed. I wasn't. But everyone I talked to told me this might be a good idea, that maybe I needed a little stability in my life and committing to a position that might last more than four months would be good for me.

Not wanting to be dishonest, I expressed my concerns to the pastor. We talked through the possibility that I might leave within a year's time, and he assured me that as long as we made progress between the time I started and the time I left that my work there would be good, that the relationship would be worthwhile for me and for the congregation. I decided to accept advice, and followed the small urging of my heart to enter into a relationship with St. Stephen. Three days later Xenometrics broke up with me, never really explaining why, merely stating that "it's not you, it's me....I'm going in a different direction. You're too good for me." I cried, made some Indian food, bought a bottle of wine and a pint of ice cream, rented a movie and got over it. Within less than a month I printed business cards that read "Amanda Kuehn, Youth Director, St. Stephen Lutheran Church, Liberty, MO."

The Office

This poster was on the wall when I moved in.
It now lives on the door that separates my office
from the church office. Typically that door is
open and the timeline of the Reformation disappears.
Each time I shut the door to reveal the poster I
feel a little like I should be in school again.

I moved into my office at St. Stephen sometime around November. Early in January I was told that my walls needed to be repainted and that I could pick any color of paint my little heart desired. For someone who is notoriously terrible at making decisions I quickly, but thoughtfully, settled on Three Olive Martini Green (yes, I am a sucker for creative names). Shortly after my room was finished I rearranged the furniture and "officially" moved myself in. At the time I was very excited about my new space. I was also much better about blogging. I took pictures from every angle with the best of intentions to include them in a witty blog post detailing the odd and interesting atmosphere in which I work.
Almost a year later, I'm just now getting around to posting them. Aside from a few piles of paperwork, 8 photo collages of my kids and a new collection of confirmation files and folders my office hasn't changed a whole lot. So here's a peak into the four walls that surround me four days out of the week.

This is my "working" face. Behind me is my bookshelf.
My favorite shelf is the one that houses the Nooma DVDs
that I bought as soon as I learned I had a budget to spend.

I spend a LOT of time on my laptop. When I started I had a desktop, with a pretty nice screen and a good set of speakers. Then Pastor Joe got a new laptop and I got his old one. Initially I really liked my hand-me-down technology. I also liked being able to take work home with me. I've since changed my mind. I've also upgraded my own personal laptop. Consequently, I try to leave the work laptop at the church as often as possible.
I confess that I, a poor, miserable sinner, had mixed feelings about working in an LCMS congregation. Having spent my childhood and teenage years in Lutheran schools and churches I consider myself to have a pretty good understanding of the history and beliefs of the synod. I'm pretty sure that factored rather heavily into the hiring committee's decision to offer me the job in the first place. However, in the years following high school graduation, I didn't exactly embrace my Lutheran heritage. At the time that I interviewed with St. Stephen I was attending an church that was born out of the emerging church movement less than a decade ago. We use words like "posture" and "co-journey" and advocate for social justice and the blessing of sharing presence in community. I worshipped alongside vegans and artists and hipsters and charity workers who live in community houses (I still do, actually, I just keep that on the DL when I'm with the Lutherans). Anyway, in the time that I've been back, I think I've adjusted well. It turns out that reading the catechism is a lot like riding a bike or returning to a foreign language - it all comes back to you.

My personal catechism (which I may or may not
still own) is blue. The "new" addition is burgundy.
I can still rattle off the explanation to almost all of
the 6 chief parts. My grandparents would be so proud.

I keep my Christmas lights up all year round.
I found them at a thrift store down the street.
Best purchase ever.

The chair that was in my office when I moved in was treacherous. Each time I sat down I feared falling backward, never to make it back up. I commented on this and the next morning I found the chair pictured below. It is excellent, and probably nicer than any chair that I will own any time soon. In conjunction with the fleece blankets I found at Big Lots, it's no wonder I spend so much of my day sitting. When I had my office painted I also acquired a new desk and two blue sitting chairs. The furniture came from an congregation member whose office was relocating or redecorating and getting rid of their old furniture. My old desk was pale teal and made of metal. I favor this one. We put it next to the window so that I could watch the woodpecker who lives outside the youth trailer. Once a saw three of the eight deer that live in the woods just beside us.

Yes, this is my library. Some of these books I swore I would
never look at, much less use, again. Some of them are there
for show (or because no one wanted them on ebay). Others
(like Henri Nouwen) I actually value. I've used something like
three in the year that I've been there. Lack of priorities I think.

I drink tea, lots of tea, at work. One of the first things I acquired
for myself in terms of "office supplies" was a hot pot, a tea mug,
and a sampler of Twinings teas. I thought I would have people
frequently in my office sharing cups of tea or hot chocolate with
me, but as it turns out I just end up drinking alone, all the time.

The door in my office is cold and white and made of something that is definitely not wood. When I moved in I had these great hopes of decorating in a nature-inspired sort of hipster-trendy fashion. Like this. But what I ended up with, after a great many hours of work, is what you see on the left. I found a picture of some vines online. I copy-pasted it into a word document and printed it off, along with my name in whatever font that happens to be. Then I traced it onto a transparency and projected it onto a large sheet of green butcher paper (which I borrowed from the preschool supply closet). In the middle of my project the light burned out on the overhead (yes, overhead) projector. So we got a new one, and I finished tracing. Then I went over everything with a Sharpe. Then I cut it just enough to fit through the laminator (bottom right-hand corner of the photo). After laminating I cut it out again, each and every curve of it. It is now taped to my door, where it will stay until I leave St. Stephen. I will probably take it with me.

Just outside the door of my office is a bulletin board. A week after I started someone asked me if I would mind "taking charge" of the board. The teacher and amateur crafter within me were delighted. A few days later I tore down the sad looking construction paper pumpkins and laminated paper-bag hay bails in order to create the "Meet Amanda" board. What I intended to be a way to make myself more accessible and familiar to the congregation turned into a shrine to myself. It stayed up for a good two months before I decided to put up the January calendar.

There was also a "Meet You" section that invited the kids or congregation members to share a little about themselves. Mostly I learned how many dogs and cats they had, but it was a start to getting to know my kids. In the past year that has probably been my favorite part of this position. People make a lot of things worthwhile that you otherwise wouldn't dream of doing - like color-coding and sorting quizzes on the third article of the Apostles Creed or reading through five different children's programs in an attempt to find one that you can actually pull off.

It's a start

Today I opened a blogger.com window on my Chrome browser. I looked at the three blogs I regularly follow and saw that I was caught up on two of them and so far behind on the third that it didn't warrant my current attention.

Then I looked at my sad little blog that hasn't been updated since June and that I haven't really written original content for since many months back. I thought of this great conversation I had with my friend Eric back in February or March and the way that I was going to blog about a new revelation I had. Then I got sad and made some tea.
(Pause for tea)

And then I thought about my running habits and the fact that I've worked my way back up to running 3-4 times a week and going to the gym on top of it. (Pats self on back). Sometimes I do make good choices. I actually like exercising, the way I actually like writing or blogging. I like the progress I make and the sense of accomplishment and satisfaction I feel when I'm done. In both cases, though, it's easy slip out of habit, and once you do it can be difficult to slip back in. Slipping in is what happens when you've lost 10 pounds and your high school jeans magically fit again. The opposite of that isn't really a slipping at all. Getting back into the habit of exercise is more like arduously attempting to zip up a pair of shrunken skinny jeans - painful to the point of seeming pointless.

So it is with returning to this blog.

And so today, I took my first step: I opened a "new post" and started writing. And like most writers who don't know what to say or suffer from writer's block, I began writing about the difficulty I have writing. But fear not, I will return with actual substantial content in the future. And with that I will leave you, my imaginary audience. Maybe tomorrow I'll have the courage to continue.

Snapshot

I went to a wedding last weekend. I didn’t actually receive an invitation or know the couple well, but other friends did so I tagged along. Aspects of the service were tailored to the preferences of the bride and groom (e.g., the hipster music, handmade programs, etc.), but it was still a wedding, and as such followed the general patterns that all weddings do. There were candles and flowers, words of welcome, vows, and some sort of homily. At the reception there was cake and coffee; mingling, eating, chatting, and dancing.

Nate and Amanda’s first dance as a married couple was haphazardly choreographed, but lovely nonetheless. There was something truly beautiful in watching them attempt to synchronize their movements and work together. Following the first dance was the father-daughter/mother-son number. As the bride and groom embraced with their respective parent a slideshow was projected in the back of the room.

It was one of those slideshows you see at graduations, anniversaries, and other celebrations of life. The ones that start with a baby photo taken in a hospital and conclude with the most recent semi-professional photograph of the person being celebrated, honored, or remembered. In the middle are snapshots of holidays and family vacations, a toddler in a bath tub or Superman underpants; girl with a princess crown on her head and chocolate cake all over her face. Though onlookers don’t remember the trip to the Grand Canyon or know the significance of the pink-spotted rhino, we stay and we watch; and even if we’ve only met the subject of all those photos just a few weeks ago, we’re somehow sad when the screen goes black. It’s not that we’re saddened by the end of the show, so much as the gravity of an individual life. Each of those photos, each of those memories captures a person, a place, a story.

I was going through Facebook albums the other day and was struck by some of the faces looking back at me: my friends as children, my college professors as students, my mentors and advisors as young parents with bad haircuts. I see them and I wonder, Is that middle school football player the man who moved across the country to attend medical school? Is that decked out prom queen the woman who bakes pastries for our small group on Saturday mornings? I viewed albums from trips I never took, schools I never attended, holidays I didn’t celebrate. Later on I met one of those friends for coffee and wondered – Is this Eric the one that competed to be Mr. North Kansas City, or the one who is going to seminary in Atlanta? Flipping the question back on myself, am I the 9-year-old girl who wanted to be an author or the recent graduate who wanted to teach overseas?

The answer is yes. I am and he is and we are all of those people we have been, all of those experiences and stages that we’ve gone through all wrapped up into who we are today. Sometimes I forget that everyone comes with past experiences and selves - even me. I forget that Ellen did not always speak Spanish and Carolyn did not used to live in Kansas City. When we look at slideshows, when we flip through photo albums we’re given a chance to see someone as they were five years ago, five months ago, and five days ago and now, all at the same time.

This, I believe, is closer to the way I think God must see me. He does not look at me today and take me for what I am, but also for what I have been and what I will be. He sees a four-year-old girl dressed in a crown and pajamas, an eight-year-old fighting with her little sister, a fifteen-year-old learning to drive a car, and a college student packing her bags for England. He sees all of me – all I have done and felt and experienced – and knows all of me, even parts I don’t know. And even when he doesn’t like what he sees (like the time I lied on a job application), he loves who he sees.

Rushing through Paris

Having completed a three-and-a-half hour walking tour of the entire city, followed by a quick jaunt to opera house, the recovery of a lost beret, a brief stop for cheese and wine, and then three-and-a-half more hours in the Louvre, I was surprisingly awake as I rode the metro Tuesday morning. I reached my stop, scurried along the platform, down the street and off toward my next stop, eating breakfast as I did. It was my last day in Paris, and I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to cram everything I could into it.

I ran through my mental checklist: Eiffel Tower – check, Arc de Triumph – check, Notre Dame – check, Sainte Chapelle – check, Sacre Couer – check, river cruise – check, the colonnade of the Palais Royale – check, eat crepes – check, consume baguette – check, devour croissant – check,. And then I heard the train – my train – the train headed for Versaille - approaching from the other side of the platform. I was off toward the stairs, my feet picking up pace until they were moving as quickly as the thoughts in my head. Just as I was trying to decide whether I should spend the evening admiring the names on the graves in the Pantheon or touring the grounds of the Luxembourg Gardens my foot missed a step. And then another step. And then a whole flight of steps. For a brief moment I was airborne before landing on the smooth gray pavement of the metro.

I didn’t get up. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t pick up my thoughts or the loose change that had dislodged during my trip down the steps. I just sat there, rather dumbfounded by what had just happened. The train took off without me.

A few moments later I picked myself up, checked for bruises, and headed in the direction of the platform. Another train would be by in less than ten minutes. As I waited for it to arrive I reflected on what I was doing in Paris. It was a dream really. A dream that started forming around the age of ten, the first time I saw Audrey Hepburn in the movie Sabrina. That dream was fueled by other movies, and by books and photos and stories. I wanted Paris, and I wanted all of it. But in my attempt to fill every minute of my day with every inch of the city I lost sight of what it takes to really enjoy something. I forgot how to stop.

That afternoon as I ate my lunch in the gardens of Versaille I reflected on the fact that I had become so fixated on doing and seeing Paris, that I wasn’t really experiencing the city. I can come up with plausible reasons for having a “busy week,” or a “busy month,” or a “busy schedule;” but a busy vacation? A busy time in which my schedule is mine to scrap or keep or don whatever I want with? Yes. It sounds ridiculous, but I do this. All the time. I fill my life with as much as possible in my attempts to have the kind of “full and abundant life” that I believe I will get if I have enough "life experiences".

But if you really want a life that is full with the things I wish my life were full of (peace, space, contentment), you can’t create a schedule, spreadsheet or list of objectives that will allow you to go about attaining it. It requires space and time. It requires scheduling absolutely nothing and leaving that space open. I have come to believe that really experiencing people, places, and life in general requires making time to sit and admire a tree in the same way you would watch the ocean or stare at a camp fire. Summer affords many of us more unstructured space than we typically have. The challenge for me is to keep myself from filling it.

Bittersweet

From the St. Stephen Archives

Last week, Holy Week, I celebrated the Passover with a small group of friends. Wednesday evening we gathered together to drink, eat, sing, and tell the story of how God liberated the Hebrew people, his chosen people, from slavery to Pharaoh, the ruler of Egypt. We took part in a Christian seder, a symbolic meal that retells the story of the exodus and recognizes the great deliverance that God has brought, still brings, and promises to complete in each of our lives.

I love the seder (a Hebrew word meaning “order”). I love the sequence and structure of the meal, the preservation of ancient rituals, and the sacredness of the celebration. I love reciting prayers that have been spoken in Jewish homes for 4000 years. I love retelling a story that has formed the identity of an entire people, a people who have become my people because of Jesus. I love seeing the connections between the exodus and the crucifiction, the point at which God delivered us from our slavery to sin. And I love the meaning behind each item on the seder plate.

This past year I was particularly struck by the pairing of the karpas with the salt water, and the maror with the charoset. The karpas (a green vegetable, usually parsley) represents spring and new life. It is fresh and vibrant and crisp and green. Its place in the meal is accompanied by a reading from Song of Songs, which reminds us of the joy and fullness of life that is given and sustained by God. But before we eat the karpas, we dip it in salt water, which represents the tears of the slaves and reminds us that life itself is not always sweet. This combination of newness and bitterness reminds us that though God has created life to be good, it is often mixed with tears of pain and hardship and sorrow.

The eating of the maror and charoset are similarly symbolic of the positive and negative emotions and experiences that make up our lives. The maror, or bitter herb, is traditionally a horseradish root. If you’ve ever had horseradish in its rawest form you know that it is potent stuff. It burns the sinuses and often brings tears to the eye. Maror reminds us of the bitterness of living in slavery, the hardship of the Hebrews before liberation, and the bitterness of our own lives when we are slaves to sin. Following the eating of the maror we add the charoset, a chutney that is a combination of apples, nuts, kosher wine and spices. The charoset resembles the mixture of clay and straw that the Israelites used to make bricks. When added to the maror it reminds us of the mixture of joy and sorrow that makes up our lives. The charoset also serves as a sign of hope, hope that the bitterness will pass and that deliverance and redemption will come as God has promised.

Take a moment to consider the bittersweetness of life – your own life and the lives of those around you. We need only turn on the radio or open the newspaper to stories of tsunamis, earthquakes, and civil war to see evidence that life is bitter. And we need only look outside at the spring sun that shines through the branches of the trees or the green buds that blossom into flower to see evidence that life is good. Hope for new life illuminates even the darkness of death.

It is in our darkest and bitterest moments that we most rely on the unchanging nature of the Hebrew God. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is the God of you and me. He is a God who delivers us from darkness and sets us free from all that enslaves us. He is a God who redeems our lives and restores what is broken. May he give you the strength to endure hardship and hope to trust in the promised restoration.

Lessons from Johanna

Last week I spent three days in St. Louis visiting my brother, his wife, and their nine-month-old daughter, Johanna.

I do not consider myself to be a “kid person.” I don’t dream of someday living in a little house filled with baby bottles, rocking horses, and copies of Goodnight Moon. I don’t ooh and ahh and coo over infants or make a fuss over the cute little socks or precious tiny dresses when I walk past the baby section of Target. Truth be told, when a baby enters the room I’m more likely to become uncomfortable than to reach for it with eager arms.

I think I lack maternal instincts.

I was a little worried about this when I first visited my niece a month or so after she was born. I feared that my unease around her (and babies in general) would offend my brother’s wife or hinder a future relationship with Johanna Ruth Kuehn; the realtionship that might exist after she had developed the capability for rational thought (thereby making her “safe” for me to interact with). Fortunately my mom and sister were visiting as well, and between the two of them there is enough motherly affection to satisfy a nursery full of children.

The “grandmother factor” was present on Thanksgiving and Christmas as well, meaning I could continue to admire my niece from a distance. There was a safe place to pass her off or return her when she started crying, drooling, or otherwise fussing. This past week, however, Aunt Amanda was on her own with little Jo Ru.

Similar to our first encounter, my niece and I spent a good portion of time staring at each other, wondering who (and perhaps even what) was starting back. I was surprised by her helplessness - her inability to wipe her nose, transport herself, or procure her own food. I was surprised by her ignorance - her inability to understand where we were going or why she needed to be strapped into her stroller. And I was surprised by her defiance – her refusal to behave during church, finish her breakfast or go down for a nap. But most of all, I was surprised by my affection for this squawking, chirping, cooing, crying little creature.

I do not love Johanna because she is gentle or beautiful or kind. I do not love her because of what she provides for me or the way that she impacts my life. I love her simply because she exists, and because – to some extent - she is mine. I reflect on this and realize that this is love the way that God loves us, the way that he loves me. He is not surprised by my helplessness, my ignorance, or my defiance. He has likely become accustomed to such things from me. And despite them all he is overcome with affection for me – the grumbling, complaining, rejoicing, confusing creature that I am. He does not love me because of what I can do for him, which is really nothing at all. He loves me simply because I exist, because I am his.

Even at nine months old, I suppose my niece has something to teach me. 

Artificial Update

So I realized today that I haven't properly blogged for a good many months. Sad (at least for me), but true. Though I doubt there are really any readers of this blog at this point, it's good exercise for me as an "aspiring author" to have a place I feel I ought to be writing. Also, when we write (or even when we retell stories over and over again) it cements memories that would otherwise vanish with the passing of time.

The following was not written for this blog. It was written for "The Voice," our church newsletter. The next few blog posts are articles I wrote for The Voice. No one really reads the church newsletter, which leads me to think I ought to try something a bit racy next week. For now, there's this:

Friday, March 25, I stuffed my backpack with books, snacks, medical forms and a sweatshirt; grabbed my water bottle, and boarded a First Student school bus. Waiting for me were over three dozen middle school students, hyped-up with energy (and caffeine) and ready for the three-hour trip to Roach, MO.

“This is great. You’re excited. You’re going to have an excellent weekend. No one will get hurt. No one will hate you. The kids will have fun. You will bring them home safely.” I repeatedly chanted these phrases to myself loudly enough to drown out the songs from Messiah’s spring musical, but quietly enough to avoid drawing too much attention. Either the mantra sank in pretty deeply or God chose to surprise me (I think the latter). The weekend really was quite excellent. None of the 20 kids that came along from St. Stephen expressed deep feelings of resentment toward me and all of them came back safe and healthy, albeit a little sleep-deprived. I daresay they may even have learned something in the 48 hours we spent together. I know I did.

I’ve taken part in my fair share of retreats, camps and weekends away in the past ten years: volleyball camps, dance camp, Christian teen retreats, National Youth Gathering, campus ministries retreats, church camp, and long road trips with good friends. There are reasons we leave. Reasons we need to “get away” physically in order to “get away” spiritually. And there are reasons we do this together, as a community. Something about three-hour bus trips, fast food frenzies, team building exercises and shared sleeping arrangements is bonding. In a single weekend we are often able to meet, know, and connect with one another and with our heavenly Father more deeply and memorably than we do over nine months of weekly Sunday school classes. That is not to negate Sunday school or the benefit of regular rhythms, patterns and practices - all of which I believe to be vital – only to say that retreats also have their place and purpose.

This past weekend 20 middle school students, four adult chaperones and I joined over 600 other middle school student from over 40 different LCMS churches in learning more about what it means to pray. Together we pondered what it means that a holy God has invited us to call him Abba (“Daddy”), together we trekked through the wind and snow to get to the chicken tenders in cafeteria (well, some of us may have driven), together we worshipped with Parrallax View, and together we debriefed in our cabins, put on our pajamas and didn’t go to sleep as soon as we should have.

I can’t tell you the impact that three days away had on any of the individuals that went to Windermere, but I can tell you that it had an impact, that those three days someone seemed to be a week in length, that they allowed for the fostering of conversation and forming of relationships. And I can tell you that when we cut ties to our work, our electronic devices, our do-lists and our agendas, it allows us to make receptive space in our hearts. It is when we are away, when we are in need, when we are without our entertainments, comforts, familiarities and friends that God can most effectively work.

You may not be able to sacrifice three days, and you probably do not need to go to Camp Windermere, but I challenge you to “get away,” to go someplace where you will be in need, and out of your need to learn what it means for your Abba to fill you, to meet with you as he met with Moses on the mountain and in the desert. Leave what you know, that you might discover what you do not.

Foreigner

This week I will go about traveling in a foreign place - a place where I do not understand the cultural norms, speak the native language, know how to ask for help, or have any friends or connections. I don’t have an agenda. I don’t have a tour guide. I’m uncertain of where I will stay and have given little thought to just how I will spend my time. I am excited by this prospect and all of the potential adventures that will unfold before me. I look forward to meeting new people, developing great stories, exploring new places, and gaining all sorts of new insights and perspectives.

But I am also terrified.

I’m afraid of not knowing how to ask for directions, of getting lost and being taken advantage of. I’m afraid of standing out and being awkward; of lacking the communication skills necessary for purchasing food, finding a bed for the night, and procuring a train ticket. Perhaps most of all, I’m afraid of being left to solve all of these problems by myself, with only my smartphone and phrase book to guide me.

I acknowledge my fears and I’m reminded of my ESL students, Bhutanese refugees who have been uprooted from their homeland, relocated to refugee camps, and transported half-way across the world to Kansas City, Kansas. They too find themselves both excited and terrified. They too look forward to meeting new people, exploring new places, and gaining opportunities. They too are afraid of getting lost and being taken advantage of. They stand out. They are awkward. They lack the communication skills necessary to purchase food and find housing. They don’t know how to use what disjointed public transportation there is, and they are unable to drive their own cars. But unlike me, the Bhutanese did not choose to leave their homes and come to the United States. And unlike the Bhutanese, I get to return to my familiar bed, reliable job, community of friends, and native land when two weeks is up.

I think of the commands that God gives to the Hebrews in the Old Testament, “Do not oppress a foreigner; you yourselves know how it feels to be foreigners, because you were foreigners in Egypt.” (Exodus 23:9). In the times that I have traveled and moved and relocated I have quickly and acutely been reminded of what it is like to be the foreigner - to be unfamiliar and uncertain; to not know people or places or have “inside” guidance. And in the times that I have stayed and settled, I have easily fallen into community and familiarity. How quickly we forget what it is like to be in need when we find ourselves having plenty. How soon we forget what it is like to be new once we have comfortably settled in a loving community.

Though this may seem most evident where ethnic or cultural barrier are present, it’s true everyday in our church family as well. We forget what it is like to be outside of the church. There are some of us who do not even know such an existence. We don’t remember the awkward feeling of keeping to yourself at the beginning of the service while everyone else is passing the peace and greeting their neighbors. We forget what it is like to gawk during communion or nearly drop the offering plate as it passes down the aisle. We don’t recall the day when we were uncertain of where to send our children for Sunday school or whether or not the donuts cost money.

“The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself…I am the LORD your God. (Leviticus 19:34). Love them as yourself. Look out for them as you would your own children. Visitors, foreigners, exchange students, refugees, the homeless, the needy - God calls us to love them. We are to treat them as our own, as members of our tribe, our people, our church. When is the last time that you left your comfort zone in order to accommodate for the needs of someone else? When is the last time you asked a stranger to join you for dinner or stopped to help someone who needed guidance or direction? It can be uncomfortable, inconvenient, even risky. But that’s grace.

Over the course of the next ten days I do not doubt that I will see the grace of God manifest in the hands, feet, hearts and faces of his people. I long to open myself to such opportunities, to admit my ignorance and accept the assistance I won’t be able to do without. I will welcome unexpected friendships and lavish gratitude on those who offer their hospitality. “The LORD protects the foreigners among us. He cares for the orphans and widows…” (Psalm 146:9) May you come alongside someone who is hurting, searching, seeking this week. May you be to them the grace of Jesus. And may you learn the blessing of addressing and attending to the foreigner.

A Spectrum of Saints

The third Thursday of every month a group of roughly three dozen senior citizens gets together to share a meal. We clear a space on the right side of the sanctuary and set up tables to accommodate the crowd. The white-haired women decorate the tables with sparkling garland, seasonal candies, and cellophane centerpieces. The buffet table is laden with fried chicken, hot dishes and a wide array of jello salads and desserts, most of which incorporate whipped cream, marshmallow fluff, or both. They call themselves the Silver Saints, and each month they gather to share food and discuss their families, musings, and memories. Their meals usually have a theme and often times they bring in a guest speaker (who usually has nothing to do with the theme of the meal). This past month they celebrated St. Patrick's Day and heard from a local fire fighter, who taught them about fire prevention.

Meanwhile, just down the hall is a group of roughly three dozen 3-4 year-olds who get together to share snacks, learn their numbers and letters, and create a wide array of crafts. We call them the Small Saints. They meet at various times during the week, some in the morning and some in the afternoon. Their monthly activities, snacks, and crafts usually have a theme, and often times they bring in a guest speaker (who usually has nothing to do with the monthly theme). This past month they celebrated Dr. Seuss by making green eggs and ham, pasting candles onto a paper birthday cakes and creating "cat-in-the-hat" snacks (a marshmallow stuck to a vanilla wafer and striped with strips of fruit roll up – it was delicious). They also participated in St. Patrick’s Day with a leprechaun search and the cutting of shamrocks. Their most recent visitor was a mail carrier who taught them about the way that the mail gets to your house.

I am continually amused by the similarities between these two polarized portions of the congregation. They both refer to me as “Miss Amanda.” Both move slowly and require special attention in the hallways. Both like to sport brightly colored clothing that reflects a newfound “sense of self” (and of style). Both enjoy naptime. Both take pleasure in simple things. Both offer uncalculated physical affection. And both offer me a perspective on life that I would otherwise miss completely.

Sometimes the two groups interact, and at such times I am content to sit, to watch and to wonder at what they all must be thinking. The Small Saints sang Christmas carols for the Silver Saints prior to their December luncheon, an event I made sure to mark on my calendar. It was short, simple, and imperfect – 30-odd preschoolers on the carpeted steps of the sanctuary, eyes everywhere but on their teachers – but something about it was also beautiful. The Silver Saints watched with hope and contentment. During lunch they discussed their children and grandchildren, whether or not they would travel over the holidays, and who would be fortunate enough to receive visitors and do the holiday baking.

All of this, I confess, struck me. As a 20-something single person still unsure of what I want to do with my life, I spend most of my time thinking about myself, and if not of myself then of other people my age. I give little thought to preschoolers and even less to senior citizens. I don’t consider that my actions, my decisions, my life might actually have an effect on theirs. When I go home for holidays I still think about me – How much work do I want to miss? When do I want to get back to my friends? Who can I visit while staying with my parents? I am quick to forget that a relational job requires considering both sides of the relationship.

Stuck in the middle of preschool and post-retirement, I find I have a lot to learn.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

I'm currently working as the youth director and programmer of a mid-sized LCMS church in Liberty, Missouri and living in a 95-year-old house in Kansas City, Kansas. On Tuesday nights I teach ESL to a group of Bhutanese refugees, many of whom have only been in the US for a matter of months. Most weeks I pick up a shift as a server at Californos, a restaurant and reception venue in Westport. My social life involves hanging out with a motley crew of friends whose common bond is Jacob's Well, an emerging church in midtown Kansas City. Once in a while I still do some freelance copy editing for a National Science Foundation evaluator. Aside from periodically stalking people on facebook and attempting to start or finish a few books, that is my life.

And it's not a bad life. What little consistency there is between three relatively unstructured jobs, is good for me. Aside from moving to an upstairs bedroom in February, I've been living in the same place for over six months for the first time since high school. I've gotten used to Kansas City. I can navigate the streets and entertain my friends and family when they come to visit. I daresay I've become comfortable.

At least up until a month ago when an e-mail from Vimperk reminded me of what I wanted to do (or at least what I said I was going to do) when I graduated from college. A "writing and rhetoric" graduate who just couldn't pick a grad school program, I decided to earn a TEFL certificate and teach English as a foreign language for a few years before pursuing a Master's or PhD. I did get the certificate. I did spend 4 months working with immigrants and refugees in England. I did send resumes to numerous schools in Spain, Italy, and the Czech Republic. And then I went back to Nebraska to visit my family for Christmas and never left.

My strongest lead was from a gymnasium/grammar school in Vimperk, a Czech town surrounded by Sumava National Park. There was the potential of starting in February of 2010, which was dashed when one of their current instructors decided to stay an additional semester. I didn't hear from Vimperk again until early in May, less than two weeks after I'd committed to my summer internship in Overland Park. The school needed to know by June 1 (five days before my move date) whether or not I'd like to come in August and begin teaching in Czech on September 1, 2010. I was uncertain of what would happen over the summer. What if I became part of a community? What if I began developing close relationships? What if I found another job? I'd already discussed moving in with my best friend in the fall and spending the next year "experiencing life" in KC. I passed on the offer.

Three months later I was not attached. I did not have close friends. I did not love Kansas City. I had not found a job. And my "future roommate" had decided to live with her parents for the next year. I would have happily left the country to teach in Czech September 1. I contacted them to see how many native teachers they had lined up for the fall. Unfortunately, they didn't need me. At least not that year.

February 8, I received an e-mail informing me that my golden opportunity to teach overseas had come. I could begin paperwork as soon as March to start teaching September 1, 2011. After spending a summer as a superfluous intern in Johnson County and a couple of months copy-editing lab documents in Stillwell, I was further convinced that I wanted to teach English, as far away from white-collar America as possible. Yet, I was torn by the offer I would have jumped at in August. The difference being what had transpired in those few months between summer and winter. I moved into a house. I started a job, two jobs actually. I began developing close relationships with my housemates, co-workers, and friends. I started falling in love with Kansas City. Essentially, I became attached. It was something I hadn't planned on - Kansas City as a whole was something I hadn't planned on - when I graduated from college.

Though the "logical" next step in meeting my life goals appeared to be teaching in Vimperk, I chose to remain in Kansas City for another year. A piece of me wonders how long that "year" will end up being. My greatest fear in saying "no" for now, is that I am also saying "no" for later, that I'll never make it overseas, that my plans won't be realized, my goals won't be met. It's the same piece of me that used to fear falling in love with someone who wanted to be a farmer and then spending the rest of my life in small-town Nebraska; the piece of me that wants to follow a plan, even though diverging from that plan is most often how the richest parts of life happen. I don't think I'll actually stay in Kansas City for the rest of my life. My friends will grow and change and get married and take other jobs and move away. The youth program will develop as much as it can under my influence, and the church will be ready for someone with other gifts and qualifications. I'll itch to be back in school or back overseas or both. But for now, I'm content to stay. Perhaps this time next year my answer will change.