A Celebration

This post is dedicated to Marilyn, because her enthusiasm was spectacular and unrivaled!

Yesterday, the world changed forever. Yes—the world. The unbelievable happened and a forty-five-year-old dream became reality. America, a nation built on the blood and backs of African slaves, swore in an African-American as the leader of the free world and our president.

In 1963, a great civil rights leader gave the speech of a century, and far away in Hawaii an unknowing two-year-old African-American boy would later be the president of his country. Racism, of course, is not over, but we have broken the sound barrier. Martin Luther King, Jr. would be proud of us.

Here in the little town of Wilmore on the western edge of Eastern Kentucky at Asbury Theological Seminary, a few of us congregated around the new flat screen television in our student center and watched history be made. I’d been looking forward to this since the night of November 4th, but all MLK weekend my excitement mounted. Obama’s speech wasn’t to be until noon, but I was going to be up and in the student center before nine to watch all of the morning events. I went to bed late, but it didn’t matter. I set my alarm and got ready as quickly as I could.

Asbury Theological Seminary is not particularly known for its leftist politics. Democrats do not outnumber republicans by any scale. And West Coasters (especially anyone from Oregon and above)? We’re so rare it’s almost like a freak show. It doesn’t help if you’re a recycling, pacifistic vegan…who’s Quaker. Just put me up on display. But yesterday, I had my day, and even better—I had at least one person to share my enthusiasm with.

As I sat at the table, glued to the events being broadcasted from the capital, not long after arriving, Marilyn, our chaplain, suddenly appeared from around the corner. In her hands were one pan and one plateful of homemade wonder. In celebration of the inauguration of Barack Obama, Marilyn baked inter-racial cupcakes: chocolate with chocolate frosting and carrot cake with vanilla frosting. And she was excited. The six foot tall, free standing flag was retrieved from the cafeteria and placed next to the television, and the “dream” sign that usually sits high on the wall of the only cubicle space in the room was brought down to eye level and placed on a table along with a miniature flag and eventually the pan of cupcakes.

It’s fair to say, I think, that Marilyn’s excitement over this event was the only one that rivaled mine. This is not a surprise when you take into account that she considers herself a West Coaster and aligns herself with our common way of thinking (we crazy liberals). This past semester, Marilyn was a big advocate to us all for voting. It was important that our voice be heard and that we understand the responsibility and awe of being able to choose the leader of the most powerful country on Earth and not fear any retribution for disagreeing with the other side. She pushed us to do our research and read up on the facts, and while she didn’t shout it from the street or the Estes podium, you could guess what her opinion was if you were at all interested in knowing. I add this bit of information because of this. Marilyn, our chaplain, was more excited than just about any other person in that room. And she had no say in who got to be our president. Marilyn is Canadian by citizenship and heritage. And as legal as you may be, if you are not an American citizen, you have no voice in the vote.* So she pushed us to share ours.

And yesterday, we got to watch as, for the first time, America’s voice changed history not just forever, but for the good. For the first time in America’s history, an entire race of people received a paradigm shift in role models. They began to believe in themselves. Really believe. Children dreamed what their parents would not have dared and what their grandparents would not have thought possible. Beauty replaced bitterness and loss gave way to hope.

Race was not a factor in my opinion toward Obama, but as I watched from little Wilmore the same events that people all over the world were pausing to witness, I couldn’t deny the power and healing that was beautifully enmeshed in this day of celebration.

I was, admittedly, surprised at how many Asburyians gathered around the student center by the time Obama’s speech came on. Hardly a seat was open and all of us watched that television with great intent and silence. We held our breath in anticipation, waiting and listening. No one dared to exhale, because who would want to miss a word?

Here are just a few pictures of our enwrapped attention and the deliciousness of the morning.

The cupcakes

The Canadian


The crowd

*For those of you who are unaware and wondering why she doesn’t just become an American citizen, it is American law that to become a citizen, you may not be a citizen of any other country and so consequently would lose the citizenship of the home in which you were born and raised.

Transitioning Trust

Winter, it turns out, is very different in Kentucky than back home. The nakedness of it is much more exposed; the death of life far more pronounced.

The story of the seasons goes a bit like this. In ancient Greece was a goddess by the name of Demeter. Demeter was a goddess of fertility—the “nourisher of the youth and the green earth, the health-giving cycle of life and death,” and is sometimes known as “the bringer of the seasons.” It was because of Demeter that the Earth was lush and alive with the life of food and beauty and glorious flowers and blooming trees and life-giving waters. Now, Demeter had a daughter named Persephone, fathered by Zeus (weren’t they all? He was a horny bastard of a god, really), but unlike many of the children of the gods, Demeter chose to keep her daughter away from the jealous, murderous, backstabbing life of the Olympian gods and hid her from any of her suitors. One day, Persephone was out frolicking around in a field picking flowers and having a grand time when suddenly the ground opened up and Hades, god of the Underworld, reached up, grabbed Persephone, and dragged her back to the Underworld with him to be his wife. When Persephone never returned to Demeter, Demeter was frantic. She neglected to care for the Earth as she became absorbed in the task of finding her daughter. As the weeks passed, the land became more and more desolate. Death slowly began to take over and in a fit of desperation over this desolation, Zeus agreed to help, finally asking Helios, the sun, what he had seen, for the sun saw everything. When Zeus finally learned the truth, he sent Hermes, the messenger to the gods, to retrieve her. But Hades would only permanently release Persephone if only she had not eaten any food in the Underworld. Either unaware of the deal or tricked, Persephone ate some seeds of a pomegranate and sealed her fate. A deal was struck and for six months of the year, Persephone spends the time above ground with her mother. During these months the land flourishes with fertility and life. For the other six months, Persephone is Queen of the Underworld, separated from her mother. Distraught during these months, Demeter neglects her power and allows the Earth to fall into a state of hibernation and disrepair. And thus, year after year, we have our cycle of seasons—the beautiful seasons of life and the forlorn seasons of death.

This, of course, is not a story of scientific fact, but one of Greek mythology, a story nearly as ancient as Greece itself.

Here in Kentucky, I find this story of mythology is much more believable. Death is so evident, and the lack of the evergreen trees I’m so used to remarkably exposes the stark nakedness of the deciduous trees that grace the land of Kentucky in abundance.

I am fascinated and a little surprised by the differences here. I expected differences, certainly, but to discover what they are is always a bit startling. The seasons, of course, are not the only elements of change that have caught me off guard.

Recently, I shared a conversation with a floormate about the philosophy around the theory that one perhaps can not truly exist—cannot truly understand who he or she is—without community. Community is necessary for growth and self-understanding and awareness. And it is also vital for understanding safety. Not the kind of safety that teaches us to look both ways before crossing the road, but the safety that teaches us how to be vulnerable.

In these last few days and weeks I have been undergoing the transition process that was put somewhat on hold during the Fall semester of classes. I am getting to know people better and I’m loosening up on the idea of picking back up the difficult but impressively rewarding work of learning who I am.

Having a community around of people we’ve come to love and trust is integral to this process. And yet? And yet. There’s always an “and yet.” And yet, there is a stark awareness that comes, I’m learning, when we leave our community. I was curious as to what would come with me to Kentucky. What were the things I’d really gained from my community at home and what would I have to offer to this new and strange place I was moving to?

Turns out I bring a long of insecurity with me and not a lot of faith. Damn. This is disappointing to realize. And yet, this might, in fact, not be all that true and simply how I feel at the moment. But leaving one’s community is an eye-opening affair. It is a step that takes great courage and faith (so maybe I have more faith than I realize), and sometimes we stumble all over ourselves, like I did this week, allowing myself to listen to the lies I’ve been taught that, to my surprise, my chaplain, yesterday, taught me were not true. I’m tempted to believe her and just might.

My world is a life of paradoxes. Most people’s are, in truth. Life is just that way. I don’t mind paradoxes and sometimes even find them to be a fun challenge, but in my life, I find there is one paradox which tends to overwhelm me at times. Past experience has taught me to be very wary of believing in people. And yet, an inherent aspect of my personality is to believe the best in people and to give them the benefit of the doubt and trust what they say.

My conversation yesterday with my chaplain was one of trust. She knows my story now, and I sort of had a moment of panic after realizing I’d just told it to someone I don’t really know. It may seem a bit of an over-reaction, but if you’d watched my story unfold as it happened, perhaps, actually, it was not so out of the ordinary and may even be expected. But I’m beginning to believe there is something about Marilyn that I can trust in in a way I’ve never seen before—in that deep-rooted, absolutely sure of who she is sort of way. In that way that I hope people can trust in me someday. She assures with a certainty that surprises me that she is very safe to trust in. And, actually, I think I believe her.

Here in Kentucky and at Asbury, I am finding a lot of people who are just as unsure of themselves as people all over the world, but then I am surprised to meet a few people, like Peg and Marilyn, who I am learning are more rock solid than anyone I’ve ever met. Community is an interesting thing. We learn incredible things from our community, and we learn vital things when we leave it and are forced to build a new one.

Transitions are like the seasons. Often we start in the summer, excited for the change and wondering what this new life will bring, and then the honeymoon is over and the reality of a new life in an unknown place with unfamiliar people kicks in. It is winter, now, here in Kentucky. The trees are mere skeletons, the wind gusts wildly at any moment of the day, and temperatures are regularly lower than I’ve ever experienced. Demeter is mourning the absence of her only daughter still yet for a few more months. But I am eager to see what will happen when Persephone makes her way out of the Underworld and back to her mother and Spring in Kentucky has arrived.

Text in the picture: Struggle, yes, but toward love and healing - deep healing and restoration - allow yourself to grieve - mystery and unlearning deepen - our winter - nothing to do but wait and sleep - weep - entrust - all that waits within you - still here. From artist Melanie Weidner, listenforjoy.com.

Winds of Change

Around my neck, I wear a labyrinth. It was a gift from my friend Sarah—a little piece of pewter molded into an eleven circuit Chartres pathway. It was not intended for a necklace, but not knowing what else to do with it, I nailed a couple holes in it (in the metal around it; not the labyrinth itself) and strung it on a chain. Made out of a soft metal, the bottom edge of the labyrinth has been worn smooth by the cross that hangs over it, and a slightly indented curve has emerged from one side to the other where the arms of the cross rub as it swings.

Symbolic of the spiritual life, I wear this around my neck as a reminder that I am on a continuous journey. Though labyrinths can be dated back to ancient Greece, if not before, the Chartres labyrinth was inlaid into the floor of the Chartres Cathedral in 1200 AD, some claim as a symbolic substitute for the pilgrimage to Jerusalem when the actual journey was too dangerous; though, really, no one knows for sure its original purpose.

When she gave me the labyrinth, Sarah described to me its significance. Labyrinths are, she told me, a symbol of the spiritual journey and are used today as prayer walks. Unlike a maze, the Chartres labyrinth is not a puzzle to be solved. There is one way in and one way out (the same way in) and no other options. What is significant about the labyrinth in relationship to the spiritual journey is the way the path moves. The center represents God, and as you walk the path you slowly move closer and closer to the middle, but then it takes an odd turn on you, and just as you get as close to the center as you can without actually entering, the path moves you away from it all the way back to the outside path. But as soon as you reach the very outer edge, it turns and leads you almost directly down to the center, with only one slight curve. It is representative of the spiritual journey in this way, Sarah said to me, that in the moments when we believe we are closest to God, we may actually be the furthest, and in the moments we feel so distant, we may, in fact, be as close as we can be.

I wear this labyrinth every day as a symbol of hope. It is the hope that comes when I realize being wrong might be the better option and when I feel God is far away, perhaps there’s nothing in that but a lie.

The spiritual journey is not an easy one. It is a journey of incredible joys and incredible heartache. But the joys, far from being a manic high, hold within them a mystical power that refuses to let go in the darkest moments and give us—even if just a small twinkling—a hope that can not be described with human words, but can be profoundly felt with our heart.

Life is turning for me as this spiritual journey continues and a familiar smell meets me on the path. A new season of healing is moving in, and this time I find the aroma welcoming. Healing is a profound thing. When you first experience it, it will take you by surprise and knock you off your feet, and yet after a while, when it comes again, you find yourself welcoming it, like an old friend and yet a new one all in one. It comes with a sweet scent of new life that startles you at first but beckons you again and again.

I often reach up and finger my necklace, running my fingers along the side of the metal in that same habitual way eyeglass wearers so often adjust their glasses on their face that they reach up to adjust them even when the glasses aren’t there. But this time, as I touch it, I am aware of its significance. I am thinking about the change in the wind and wondering what it will teach me. The pathways of the labyrinth wind in and out from left to right over the eleven lines of movement carrying the pilgrim from outside to in to out again. My journey will never end. For as long as I breathe, I will always be moving on it, lingering longer in some moments than in others, but ultimately never stopping. Change, for me, is coming. It is, of course, already here, really, but there is something bigger in the air. I am tempted to brace myself, remembering the amazing surprise healing has been for me in the past. But I feel that this time, I am not to grip the railing and hold on for dear life, but, instead, allow the freedom to move where it takes me.

That this time, now, I must learn to let go and be willing to simply go where it leads.

Once the Story’s Been Told

What am I afraid of? Today, I’m writing down my fears. There are, I’ve realized, only a few things I have to write down—a much smaller list than just a couple years ago. But though the list is much shorter than I’d anticipated, what is still there is big. Really big.

Why, you might be wondering, am I writing this down? Why would I put any kind of focus on this? But writing this down is an interesting exercise, because how we handle our deepest, darkest, most shameful fears has a lot to say about how we handle the world and our interaction with people. Fears are an interesting thing. When it comes to our darkest ones, we are far more apt to bury and try to ignore them than to look them in the face. We are afraid of what we will really see, or more truthfully, what our fears will say to us and make us believe about ourselves. In this, we fail to realize that our fears speak most clearly when we believe we’re not listening. And unknowingly, we begin to respond to the world out of this—out of our wounded selves, as I’ve heard it described.

I have a little brother who is seven. My little brother is a sensitive kid and fairly shy, and in his even younger days he had a strange habit. In public, be it at church or just hanging out with family, if he became embarrassed by something or really shy around a stranger, he would put his hands over his face. To Nicolas, this made all the world disappear. It solved his problem, making it all go away. There’s a flaw in this logic, though. A flaw that any of us can see. Putting his hands over his face made the world disappear to Nicolas, but in truth nothing actually disappeared even if Nicolas believed it did, and not only did it not disappear, but it made his embarrassment all the more noticeable (and humorous) to the rest of us. Fear is not so unlike this. The more we realize fear is there but try to ignore it and pretend it’s not, the more others around us will notice it. And yet, so many of us play that same silly game like my brother. We still try to act as if it’s not there, and then it begins to become the way through which we see the world.

Even more remarkable, though, is how many of us play the game. Our fear is noticeable to all, but it is interesting who realizes what it is and who doesn’t. Fear not only blinds us to ourselves, but it also blinds us to how we accurately understand those around us. If I put my hands over my face to hide my embarrassment, I don’t see anyone or anything else. But what else I don’t see is how many other people have their hands in front of their faces, too. We believe, however, that we can see. We stumble around in the darkness of our own chosen ignorance and for a while we manage to get to where we think we’re going. But there are those who can see it for what it is, those who have once lived with their hands over their faces but have gained the freedom to remove them.

A number of weeks ago I wrote about the worry of telling my story, specifically as part of a give and take in my newly building friendship with the campus chaplain where I attend school. Recently, she got to learn my story. I was afraid for her to know it, but in the end, I believed I could trust her. And in the end, of course, I was right. But now what? My story, I’m sad to say, is embarrassing for me. It is not the story of alcoholism or a wild and crazy life that was radically changed in my darkest moments—all those stories that our American (Christian) culture has unfortunately labeled as Romantically (as in the 18th century movement) tragic and something we would frame and put up on the wall if it were artwork. Don’t believe me? Just think about it—one responds very differently to someone who struggles with alcoholism than, say, someone who struggles with a pornography addiction.

Now, I’m left with the afterward. It is funny that in movies, the climax is the final point of the explosion of the story. The resolution is that moment afterward when we are reassured that it will be all right and then the movie ends, but in reality, life keeps going and what do we do once the story’s been told? How we answer this question is what really matters. And so my fears begin to build. My past is seeping into the present and all the while I’m fighting a battle that initially just wants me to put my hands over my eyes, but that in the end is asking me to actually look my fear in the face.

Ultimately, fear is a lie. It’s a powerful lie that grips us in our weakest places and whispers sweet shame in our ears. And the weirdest part about it is when we realize it’s a lie but can’t quite figure out how to stop believing it. And this is where it is integral to know that while fear is not necessarily an addiction, the dismembering of it is not a whole lot different. When someone is addicted to eating, it is not, at the core, the food that is the problem, and to simply take away the food will solve nothing. In taking away the food, we are exposing a hole it is filling, and something must take its place, because we are inherently taught (or perhaps designed) to fill the holes in our lives, and we will find any means to do it. When we realize our fear is not telling us the truth, and in fact is feeding us bitter deceit, knowing that is not the end of the road. We must be given the truth to fill the emptiness where the lie was.

In the end, fear is not something to be dwelt upon. It is a wound to be healed and a lie (or lies) to be exposed and deflated and replaced with truth, real Truth. We look at our fears not to feed them, but to see them for what they really are, to see that the shame they cause us is the biggest lie of them all and to begin the journey that exposes the truth that Jesus Christ loves us at all moments of our lives, and that our fears do not make us who we are, and they never did.

When Panic Becomes Opportunity

Today, I had a freak-out moment. Big time. If you read this blog, by now you probably know (if you didn't know already) that I love photography. Last night, I did not put my camera away like I usually do. This morning, I had too much stuff in my arms and leaned over to get something, forgetting the old tea in the mug in my arms and the tea went all over the camera on the table. It was traumatic. The camera wouldn't turn back on. I was given the advice to put it in rice to get the liquid out. While hoping that would work, I wandered over to the student center to chat with Bekah and have someone share my woes with me. While there, Marilyn, our chaplain came out of her office and said to me in her ever so nurturing manner that she would not give me sympathy and I needed to put things in perspective. It's not like I lost my eye sight. Then she told me if my camera wasn't working I should draw instead. Marilyn's advice reminded me of this:

About a year ago, my mother accidentally threw away her phone and didn't realize it until too late. My little brother, Nicolas, was about six at the time. My mother was mad and frustrated and short tempered about her negligence and what it was going to cost her when my brother put it all in perspective by saying this, "At least your family didn't die."

Needless to say, my camera is working again. Here's the drawing I did today anyway. It is of Marilyn and a student, Jeremiah, talking over lunch in the student center. I always forget how good it feels to draw. Really good.

If you click on the picture, you can see it in it's full size.

Luck Happens

On the way to the coast from Portland (depending on the route you take) is Spirit Mountain Casino. We hear about it so often that it may as well be a bank or a library for all we care.

Oregon, if you are unaware, has a bit of a rivalry with...well, maybe just a plain dislike of California. And by Oregon, I mean at the state-wide level (many Washingtonians are included in this as well). Many, many Californians move to Oregon, bringing their bad driving with them and taking all our jobs. It is often noted that even a former governor once said, "Welcome to Oregon--visit, but don't stay." If this happened, it was before I could remember, so I can't back this up with proof.

Needless to say, a few years back Spirit Mountain Casino did an ad campaign called "Luck Happens," wherein they would give lucky scenarios and leave it at that. On my way back from the beach one time, I saw this on a billboard--the one ad I actually remember. Because I still think it's brilliant. :)

I will note that this native Northwesterner does have many friends from California. In fact, she has enough.

bumming around home (KY)

This week has been a quiet one, so I wandered around the campuses here and took some pictures. Enjoy. And on that note, Happy New Year. It is officially 2009.