Sitting Ovation

I was raised in a house where you finished your homework before playing outside, picked up your room before watching TV, made your bed before eating breakfast, and cleaned your plate before getting dessert. Work, then play. Chores and then fun. Now that I am an adult (or pretending to be one at any rate) I find there is always work to be done and this confuses my work/play understanding something terrible.

How can I take a nap when there are dust bunnies under my bed? How can I enjoy after-dinner conversation when there are dirty dishes in the sink? How can I spend time blogging when there are e-mails to send and programs to plan? You would think that such a mindset makes me uber-productive, but it really just makes me resentful of people who go for walks and read for pleasure and watch movies on weeknights. And then there is the card that trumps all forms of play - people who sit. Not sit while talking to someone else. Not sit and listen to an iPod or sit and surf the Internet. Not sit and read a book, pen a letter, or write in a journal. Just sit. For hours.

At one point I developed the notion that people who sat were either old, tired, or both. Children did not sit. Children played. Parents did not sit. Parents picked up after and chased down children who play. Adults did not sit. Adults worked. They were productive. They did things. They moved. And if they did not do things, if they did work, or run, or build, or clean, then they were lazy. This mindset (much like the one that believed unemployment was the result of a poor work ethic) stuck with me for a long time. Too long. So long, in fact, that I now find myself rather incapable of sitting for more than five minutes without getting anxious. I have to move, or eat, or read, or clean, or at least get my hands on a piece of paper and a pen so that I can write down what I'm thinking, lest I be left along with my thoughts. And this, I believe, is not a good thing.

At some point in my Christian education I think I learned too much about idleness being the devil's workshop and not enough about the holy rest of Sabbath. When I read in Exodus 34:21 "Six days you shall labor, but on the seventh day you shall rest; even during the plowing season and harvest you must rest," it sort of upsets me. Even during the plowing season? Are you crazy? Do you expect the fields to take care of themselves? This is my instinctual response. If the fields were done, perhaps rest would be deserved, but in the middle of the season? I think not. I grew up with what I thought was a pretty solid Christian education. I learned the commandments. I knew that Sunday was the Sabbath. But what that really meant to me was that you shouldn't play baseball or go to soccer games or schedule yourself to work on Sunday morning because that was sin. Sunday was the day you went to church. And then after you went to church you were free to garden and do homework and send e-mails and play sports. To this extent even my Sabbath-keeping became a form of work for me.


My freshman year of college I took a class called "Introduction to Christian Ministry" or something of that nature. And in that class I read a book called "The God-bearing Life" by Kenda Creasy Dean. I found Dean's concept of Sabbath-keeping to be revolutionary. Sabbath, she points out, is made for rest, for play, for regeneration. "It dislodges [us] from the relentless onward march of linear (chronos) time and attunes us to God's unhurried time instead (chairos)." My professor put it this way, "Sabbath is a humbling recognition that the world will continue to go on without you." I like to be needed and necessary. Though it ultimately stresses me out, I like to think that without me things won't get done, or won't get done "correctly." It makes me feel important. It gives me value. But our value does not lie in how much we do or how quickly we get it done. Our value lies in who we are.

Shortly after I moved to Derby to intern at the International Community Church (ICC) I went camping with a church community in southern England. During the trip someone asked me what I would be doing during my time at ICC. I answered, "I don't really know. I'm not entirely sure why I'm here, but I really want to contribute something. To do something." Her response took me by surprise. "Maybe," she said, "the reason that you're here isn't to do anything. Maybe you're here just to be." That thought stuck with me during my next four months in the UK. It's something I still haven't learned - how to be still.


When I look through the Bible I see stories of action - of fighting battles, and marching around walls, and traveling to far-off countries. But there are also so so many stories of sitting - in the city square (Judges 19), under a bush (1 Kings 19), at the gates of the temple (Psalms), under trees (Judges 6), and in the presence of God (1 Samuel 17). And when you get to the prophets - Ezra, Nehemiah, Job, Ezekiel - they sit for days and weeks and months, seeking the ear and the heart of the Lord.

And so I have begun to sit. Each morning I take my breakfast tray outside, sit on the front porch and try to be still, which is no small task for me. I shovel in my cereal, gulp down my tea, and get strong urges to check my phone and send e-mail reminders. I have since developed a strong respect for the sitters of the world - the people who are able to rest in the solitary presence of God. It isn't easy, and often it doesn't feel very rewarding for me. But it's in the little changes and sacred spaces that I believe God begins to enter our lives. If I make space He is sure to find it and fill it. And that is enough for me to keep trying.

Stuck in a Route

I started this entry back in April - early April - so nearly two months ago. It was close to publishing when I lost half of my changes and at the time I didn't have the heart to re-create my attempts at witty narration. But yesterday I skimmed the entry in which I committed to regularly updating my blog (which I have done three times in as many months) and now I feel guilty. So without further explanation...

Early April 2012

They say that variety is the spice of life. Changing things up keeps you from getting bored, lazy, apathetic. For the most part agree with that. I enjoy variation in the weather and my clothing, the type of tea I drink in the afternoon and the flavor of jelly I spread on my toast. But there's also something very good about things that are consistent, familiar, routine. (I may like to change up the kind of sandwich I have for lunch, but don't mess with my Kashi Go Lean and sliced banana breakfast - you get the idea).

I sometimes struggle to know which parts of my life can (or should) be routine, and when I need to add a little variety. The other day I was riding a stationary bike at the gym and reading an issue of Women's Day (which was the only magazine that was left, really,) when I came across an article by the well-renowned Dr. Oz. I'm not actually familiar with Dr. Oz and don't recall most of what he had to say, but I do recall that the article mentioned something about the benefit of "automizing" as many choices in your life as possible. Something about giving your brain a break from making decisions that don't really matter. Are you happy eating the same thing for breakfast every morning? (Well, yes, Dr. Oz, as a matter of fact I am). Then do so. Do you continue to benefit from your 7:30 Pilates class and 8:45 shower? Then you should stick with them.

That got me thinking back to the days when I used to have a running routine. Due to knee problems and a fluke foot injury I haven't been padding the pavement since November, and it's been a sad five months indoors. The past week or two I've begun venturing out again. Just short distances around the neighborhood, but it's an improvement over Dr. Oz and the stationary bike at the gym. This morning I thought I would push myself and head back toward the river. (Bodies of water continue to be my favorite destinations for runs, hikes, walks, and wanderings). I was pretty confident in my ability to get there and back without pulling or straining something. A "river run" for me averages anywhere from 8-14 miles round trip. Up to this point I hadn't done more than 6, but I was eager to return to my route.

The first two miles from KCK to the Lewis and Clark Viaduct went fairly well. I'm used to navigating the alleyways and side-stepping the curb-sitters of Minnesota Avenue. I crossed the Kansas (or Kaw) River on the elevated runway that hangs from below Interstate 70 (see photo). It might be my favorite part of the run, especially when there are trains crossing on the bridge just north of the one I scurry across. Over the water, under the interstate and beside the trains, but completely isolated from traffic on the Riverfront Bike trail.

I first ran this trail in the fall of 2010, not long after I moved from the suburbs and strip malls of Johnson County to the Little Mexico of Kansas City, Kansas. I googled "bike trails" and found the map pictured above. Portions of the trail were "unfunded" or "under construction," but even when points of the trail came to a halt (going straight from a clean square of pavement to a pile of dirt), I still managed to find my way to downtown Kansas City, Missouri (skylines are helpful that way).

I continued down the two miles of the Viaduct, taking in the familiarity of my old stomping grounds. I flashed back to memories of the countless podcasts of "This American Life" that I had listened to while covering this same stretch. (The weekend that Ira Glass featured the games sector of World's of Fun was a personal favorite.) As I did I kept waiting for the paved portion of the bike path to end. It should have happened about half way to Broadway Bridge, but it didn't. It just kept stretching on and on. "This," I told myself, "must be where that check I wrote to the Kansas Department of Revenue went." I made a mental note to take advantage of public services more often.

I ran the length of the trail, hopped on Woodswether Road, and made my way up the winding incline of the Broadway Bridge, coming out on 3rd Street, just a few blocks from the River Market - another personal favorite when it comes to running destinations. As I edged toward Main Street I thought of the numerous times that I've run this stretch of ground in the past 18 months. There's something almost sacred about revisiting a stretch of pavement. I thought of the summer that I moved to Kansas City, of the excitement and disappointment and frustration that I felt my first few months in the area. I thought of the months that I spent learning my new neighborhood by foot when I wasn't scouring the internet for job opportunities. And then training for the KC half-marathon while working as a document specialist at an animal testing facility and a part-time server in Westport. I recalled agonizing over my decision to leave that job and have a go at being a youth director at a small church in Liberty, Missouri.

I reached the edge of the Town of Kansas Bridge (which begins at 3rd and Main and juts out over the Missouri River) and I paused. Usually I would continue down two flights of stairs and onto the trail that passes the Town of Kansas wharf and leads to the two-mile stretch of the Berkeley Riverfront Park esplanade. But for now, just reaching the river was enough. I looked out across the water below and watched the murky current steadily flow. How many times had I come to this spot and spilled out the thoughts that were sloshing in my mind? Questions about my job, my purpose, my relationships, my life. Questions that the river could not answer, but also questions that it did not judge.

I continued watching the water flow by, and felt that the river and I had something in common. Always moving, always changing, filled with a life-giving flow of energy, and yet still the same from week to week and month to month and year to year. Rivers can change their course over time, but the Missouri River will remain the Missouri regardless of how high the water level is or whether or not one of its tributaries dries up. I thought of how I had changed in the past year, even the past six months. Happily settled in Kansas City, moving forward with a job that has wound its way into my heart much like the boyfriend who recently moved to San Francisco. I am no longer worried about being alone, and yet still very much afraid of missing out on what I was made to do (whatever that may be). Some of my circumstances have changed. My thoughts have changed. My feelings have changed. But I am still me. Full of emotion, full of feeling, full of uncertainty - all of which course through my being like the waters of the river.

I stood a moment longer before trudging back up the bridge and heading for home. I still had four miles of ground to cover and my legs were growing tired, though my heart felt somewhat lighter. I embraced the familiarity of the situation. Going home, to the place I have called home for 18 months now. The place that will be home for a time longer. Until change comes again. Rerouting my course, but not changing me. 

Of music and words

I don't how it always happens, but no matter where I am or what my title, I always end up spending too much time and energy working. I take extra shifts, work extra hours, schedule more meetings, send too many e-mails. Even when I hate my job I overwork myself.

Monday was supposed to be a day off for me. I didn't drive into Liberty or schedule any meetings, but that didn't stop me from spending 2.5 hours on my laptop and phone following up with camp counselors and reminding people of upcoming events. By 2 pm I realized what I was doing and knew I needed to get myself out of the house. I packed my journal and a book on writing and headed to Loose Park for the rest of the afternoon. I made a loop around the rose garden and set off to find a bench when I heard what sounded like the faint sound of a violin. Walls and hedges kept me from a direct route to my destination, but I followed my ears and eventually ended up in the center of the garden.

On a weathered gray bench a small man in black glasses sat playing the violin. He had nothing with him - no sheet music, messenger bag, or water bottle - just the black cloth case that sat closed beneath the bench. I wandered about the inner circle of the garden, avoiding the shirtless man with the long blond hair, beach towel, and radio; searching for a sunless spot to open my book on writing. I picked a patch of shade just a few feet from the musician, and with my head on my tote bag I lied down to listen. Sheltered from the sun, I felt the music wash over. Time passed and the tall green crab grass began itching my legs, urging me to get up. Tiredness won out, and I stayed a while longer, wrapped in my sundress, eyes clamped shut.

An hour later I moved to a bench and opened the book I'd been meaning to read. The gift of the music maker unlocked my desire to write, and so I did, for pages and pages.

"In front of a dead fountain still cloaked in its winter protection
he pours forth music, song after song.
Not for profit or practice, but the sheer pleasure of playing -
of producing a song and sending it out.
A slight cool breeze brought it to me, waking my senses from deep hibernation.
His melody mingles with that of the birds, as he joins in their sweet ceaseless song.
He brings us together - the runners, dog-walkers, soccer moms, and baby-sitters;
The students, senior citizens, and fortunate few who can lounge in a park on a Monday afternoon.
Song after song is stored in his head, danced out out by his fingers, bow upon strings.
He plays away the bright hot sun, and into the cool of late afternoon.
I lie on my back waiting for sleep, wondering what summer dreams may come."

"I, with all of my words, lack the courage to spill them out and offer and them freely as the song of this man. I, the educated writer with my books and tools and methods and thoughts cannot put pen to paper the way he puts bow to string. I am afraid of the noise I will make, or worse yet, that my words make no noise at all. That I have nothing to offer, no song to play. The musician has courage and I hesitation. If I get up the nerve, write a piece, scrawl a poem, will the dog-walkers, soccer moms, and students stop for me? The senior citizens, nannies, lovers, and friends? Will they take in my song? Breathe in my words? Or do I play only for myself?"

A place to write - and vent

I am remiss to confess that I have neglected, abandoned, and forgotten this blog like one-too-many New Year's resolutions. In fact, I probably had a New Year's resolution to blog more often. Then again, I also thought I'd give up alcohol at the beginning of the year. Based on the fact that my sister and I shared a bottle of wine on January 3rd, the future of this blog looked grim from the start. But now I return, like a dog to its vomit (2nd Peter 2:22) or a squirrel to a forgotten stash of acorns, hoping to reactivate a blog that has for so long laid dormant.

This is my excuse:

Not long after starting work at St. Stephen Lutheran Church, I was introduced to The Voice, a weekly newsletter in which I was allowed to make announcements, solicit volunteers, advertise events, and (most importantly) write articles. The promise of a regular (though small and somewhat eccentric) weekly audience was enticing and empowering. In the 72 weeks that I have worked at St. Stephen I have probably written over 60 articles on topics ranging from the preschool Christmas program to my relationship with the late Cody Kuehn (our beloved family shelty) to my most recent series on the ground-breaking and new sanctuary. Most of these articles were written in two hours on a Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning (noon on Wednesday is the weekly deadline), and for some reason I thought that was adequate for my weekly writing praxis. Please accept my apologies for such a terrible judgement call. 

In the beginning I posted sundry Voice articles to this blog, which I told myself was beneficial and resourceful, but was actually just a lazy cop out for writing. All of that is about to change, however. And under circumstances that are just a little less than ideal. 

Let me explain:

Prior to about a week ago I was given free reign to choose the themes and topics of my weekly Voice articles. On weeks when youth ministry lacked its usual luster, my Voice articles became the one part of my job I knew I did well (or thought I did well at any rate). By the estimations of most of the members of the small Lutheran congregation, I'm a pretty good writer, and at times that has been the most validating part of my weekly work. I didn't often plan on my topics ahead of time. I just looked for themes, ideas, or things that struck me as interesting, moving, or peculiar. I began to consider my Voice articles as sort of like blog posts in print. That was a mistake. 

Following an annual review at which the director of the youth board tersely and unexpectedly shared with me some of the many areas in which I needed to improve, I was looking for a way to establish better rapport with the congregation. I reflected on the fact that not many of them knew me very well and had little idea of how I ended up in the youth position at St. Stephen. That tale, as you know if you have read this blog in the past, is no short story. But I decided to share it through a series of articles, sandwiched between one on the power of claiming our own stories and another on the importance of sharing them. 

I was more satisfied with these articles than most, and tickled by the number of people who e-mailed, facebooked, or approached me to say how much they had enjoyed reading them. Seldom have I been more pleased with a response to my writing. And seldom have I been more disappointed or hurt than when I received an e-mail from the youth board director asking why I felt it was necessary to spend three weeks focusing on myself and filling my pages with stories that were "Amanda-centered" rather than "Christ-centered." I sort of wanted to cry, but mostly I was just angry. I probably should have waited to e-mail her back and spared myself from needing to make yet another apology. 

Future Voice articles will not be published without the approval of the youth board director, which means that I need to find another place where I can freely share my thoughts and speak what I believe to be truth as I come realize it. More than any sense of duty or obligation to my readers, that is the reason why I am returning to this blog. That, and the fact that I just wrote a really bitter poem about censorship that I'm compelled to send into cyberspace. 

I might wait until I've left my job before making such a move. In the meantime, look for updates to come.

Controlled by an 8-year-old

Every once in a while (and by that I mean an embarrassingly high number of times that I don't care to admit) I step back from the day-to-day tasks of preparing food, driving to work, grocery shopping, paying bills, attending to families, and doing my laundry; and I reflect on what I'm doing with my life. This activity is usually sobering, often terrifying, occasionally satisfying, and potentially paralyzing. It isn't that my life is unhappy, difficult, or empty. I have a job that I generally enjoy. I'm perfectly capable of paying my bills and living within my means. I like the city, area, and home in which I live. I have plenty of space and easy roommates. I have kind friends and a community who care for me. My occupation and location allow me to get in my car and regularly visit my parents, my sister, and sundry college friends. I'm in a relationship with someone who adores me even when I'm difficult (and the more I think on that the more impressive it is). 


My problem isn't that I don't want what I have. My problem is that I want more. 


It isn't that I want more stuff. (That's the last thing I need right now, especially after Christmas). At times, though, I want more life. I want more out of life. I want to go back to school. I want to get a Masters and maybe a Ph.D. I want to travel through Europe. I want to fluently speak another language. I want to live abroad. I want to have an adventure. I want to teach. I want to publish a book. I want to do something completely unexpected. And I want to do all of it now. 


Or maybe I don't. Maybe I don't really want to realize every dream I've ever had before I turn 28. And yet I feel a compulsion to do so. I feel that at 25-years-old I should have more to show for my life than a BA, a part-time job, a used car, and my meager bank account. 


I used to blame this compulsion on the media, the world, and society in general.* All of those "other people," those voices that are continually telling me I need to be more beautiful, successful, healthy, wealthy, creative, knowledgable, networked, and industrious. Those voices and the messages they send regarding what we should and shouldn't do or be or want to be are loud and irritating and sometimes condemning. But the voices I find influence me most are my own.


Somewhere inside my 25-year-old self are all of the Amandas that have passed, and whether or not I realize it, each of them also has something to say about what I'm doing with my life. 9-year-old Amanda is confused that she is not sharing an apartment with her neighborhood friend, Sarah. 10-year-old Amanda is shocked that she isn't working at Hallmark. 12-year-old Amanda wonders why she has not yet published a book. 13-year-old Amanda is wondering why she isn't married to someone with blue eyes and wavy brown hair. 16-year-old Amanda is still looking for a perfect mate. 18-year-old Amanda wants to be teaching college courses. 20-year-old Amanda is wondering why she isn't an editor living in a big city like Chicago or New York.  21-year-old Amanda is disappointed that she isn't in grad school and 23-year-old Amanda is frustrated to know that two years later she still isn't living overseas. Only 17-year-old Amanda is satisfied to hear that she is a youth director, but even she is skeptical of why she is in ministry alone.

It may seem foolish that I am currently trying to live up to the expectations of an 8-year-old girl who has little idea of what it takes to be an independent person and to eek out a living, and yet I fear disappointing her just as much as I fear disappointing all of the Amandas that follow her. I am the one who has set the expectations for what I should be doing and when I should be doing it. There is no one to refute me and so I carry on, following the path that I am on all the while wondering if I should have taken the other fork in the road and regretting it with each passing step. I become so worried about what I'm not becoming, that it is difficult for me to see and enjoy what I am. 

I have no immediate solution for this problem, and since it is my problem I don't really feel compelled to attempt to offer one for anyone who may stumble upon this post - a post that is not really what I intended it to be when I started to blog - which is an activity that 24- and 25-year-old Amanda are super sad she hasn't been doing.

*I've decided that this is my equivalent of "the devil, the world, and my sinful nature," but maybe I've been spending too much time in the catechism.

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.