This is My Body Broken For You

The pastor invited us to partake. This is my body- broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me.

Snap! Crack! As the Good Friday communion matzo broke and snapped into a thousand pieces in my mouth, I suddenly had a tangible knowledge of "brokenness" wash over me.

My mind began to muse... The perfect, sinless One... broken... but His body wasn't really broken, was it? Not a bone... then what did it mean? Are we referring to His flesh being scourged and lacerated?

But more importantly (this is where my mind went next) who broke it? The Jews who called for His crucifixion? The government who condemned an innocent man? The Gentiles who nailed His feet and hands?

It always strikes me how many people were involved in Christ's crucifixion- Jews and Gentiles- and so all peoples are there- partaking in guilt. There's a John Michael Talbot song that goes something like, "Would you crucify him? Talkin' bout the sweet Lord Jesus- if he walked right here among you once again?" The answer of my heart always says "yes." Natural man hates God. If He hadn't saved me- I'd have been right there cursing and condemning. Purity and righteousness are hateful to a heart that loves sin.

Though the pastor touched on one of my favorite points in regards to the crucifixion- (that it was the spiritual alienation between Christ and His Father, the severing of the Godhead, that was the true torture of the cross)- this Easter Sunday my thoughts keep coming back to the idea of brokenness.  "But he was wounded for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his stripes we are healed" (Isaiah 53:5, ESV). I keep feeling... and hearing... the snapping and crushing of the bread under my tongue and teeth...

This is my body... broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me.

Gogyohka-Thursday [32]

you look up

I smile

you smile

now both our days

will be better

Babes

The other day I went to the mall. I don't normally do something like that, but I needed to get out of the house, and I needed to get errands done, so off I went. I bought my mother tea-cups to replace the one I'd broken that morning and I tried on clothes and shoes (which I didn't buy) and got myself lunch (comforting Mexican food).

The mall was remarkably quiet. It was a Thursday morning. I found the warmest place in the open seating area- where the sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling and had warmed the table and chairs (because I felt cold- inside and out) and positioned myself so I could see the play area around the carousel.

I watched as young mothers talked amongst themselves- and as their golden-haired toddlers romped through mini jungle gyms and hugged (or hit) the plastic, animal playmates which charmed the indoor playground.

As I watched the curly pony-tails bob and little-boy feet traipse over every obstacle- I thought in waves of emotion- turning one upon the next. They were so innocent. So small. And so beautiful. Do you remember when you were still young enough to be called a "little kid" and so you avoided "little kids" like the plague? And then you thought kids were kinda cute. And then you wanted one. And then- someday- I suppose you got one of your own.

They were laughing. They were peaking their heads into the shoe cubbyholes. They were smiling at strangers. They were jumping on cuddly looking bears and wrapping their arms around flannel trees. I wished I could take off my shoes. I wished I could shrink back into three-year-old size and go exploring in a plastic tunnel.

Where did life go? When were my worst problems whether my shoe was too tight or the spilling of my orange juice? When were fairy tales and baby dolls enough to make me happy? And when did they cease to content me? I suppose it was when I began holding real babies, playing with real food, met real princes, and fought real battles. 

I was holding baby Timmy in church- well, that is- he's nearly one and today I thought he looked less like a baby than ever and more like a little boy. He is the chunkiest, manliest, most smiley little guy I've ever seen (with wide, big blue eyes which want to see everything in the world). I've only heard him cry once (he was tired and I was putting him to bed). It delighted my heart to have him in my arms, sweet perfection.

Why don't we stay that way? Practically perfect? When I look at other people's lives I typically wind up thinking my problems are pretty small. And they are- in the grand scale of things. But the problems of choices, circumstances, the present, and the future are only the outward signs that people compare their lives by. I see children and don't just see simplicity- I also see a clean slate. Because most of my life-problems are inside of me. And the more I learn of them the more I am disgusted by how deeply the roots of my problems go. They started years ago. Even when I was playing.

And so I am filled with a longing for the fresh and the new and the clean. It is the blessedness of being a child of God that he offers us this "newness" every morning.  I want to be reborn every day.

Beat Box

This is a poem I wrote for school. Our assignment was to write four stanzas with each line having the same syllable count. [Note: this is a poem. Places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.]

Bouncing down the sidewalk-

Keys clank in my pocket-

Hop in my Camry, hike

that music way up high.

Bobbing to this rhythm,

beat throbbing through the car.

Palms spank the wheel, playing.

Head bops up, down, smiles wide.

Then I fall to thinking

on the lyrics running

through my dancing, blissful

head- I’m swirling around.

Swerve! Regain- thump of my

pounding heart. I am still.

The car pulses.  Beat box

brings me back to bouncing.

Gogyohka-Thursday [31]

cloud

soft cherry blossoms

if my hair was black

we would dance

my fingers would not make you wither

Remembering Reality

 

It's been an emotional week. I felt panicky all Sunday and Monday for no good reason whatsoever. My stomach was in knots, my blood was racing, and I felt a constant impulse to cry. I have my theories. I think maybe I'd been happy for too long and my body was thinking to its confused self, "We have too many unused tears stored up here. Let's make her do something crazy so she cries!" But it didn't work. So I just felt weird all week. Then on Thursday I finally had something happen worth crying over and afterwords I felt more or less (physically) better. But, then there was the reason I was crying in the first place- so I was back to square one.

This morning rolled round. I always know that Spring is finally here when the crocuses pop their cheery heads up from the sulking earth. My brothers had gone on a hike. My mother had gone shopping. My neighbors were having a party (who knows why) and I was stuck at home with myself (myself!) and a pile of homework.

It was a prime opportunity to be royally miserable. I considered putting on all my sad, moody music and making a day of it.

But before I got to work I went through my routine  habit of being unproductive for about twenty-minutes- checking all my tabs, blogs, and e-mail. I stumbled upon a fellow blogger's musings (yes, you, Natalie) about worship, joy, and glorying in God.  She said, "Joy is something that has to be fought for recklessly. Will I fight? Will you?" Yes. Yes! Where was my joy? Where was the precious joy which I so prize and treasure? I needed that post. I needed to remember reality.  I resolved: Today I will glory in God.

So I decided not to listen to my sad music. Instead I put on Sons of Korah and began listening to their wonderful rendition of Psalm 95. As the notes drifted through my room and bounced of my sun-lit window panes I felt my spirit rising- rising- lifting up to God in song. 

Come, let us sing with joy to the Lord. My fingers reached towards Heaven. Come, let us shout to the Rock of Salvation.

I felt my soul pouring out again to my God. Come before Him with thanksgiving. I remembered His Grace and Goodness in my life- and I remembered the overwhelming glory of His throne. For He is our God.

I've asked "why?" of Him a lot lately. But amidst uncertainty, pain, happiness, excitement, stress, and change, I learn yet again that the answer to every question is: God. He is strong, mighty to save- and I am His- and He is mine. And that is enough. And that is everything.

Come let us, come let us, bow down in worship.

Come let us, come let us, kneel before God our Creator.

Gogyohka-Thursday [30]

This- 

my 30th Gogyohka-Thursday

and my 100th post-

deserves celebration!

Me want cake.

And Then I Showed It To Dad

It is a curse to be a writer. Truly. A curse.

I get ideas in the middle of the night. Right before I'm supposed to sleep an idea pops into my head- a phrase, a concoction of lines, a single sentence which sparks an entire monologue. My best ideas usually come to me at night. I know better than to ignore them. What makes it all worse is that I am typically incapable of remembering an idea for more than five minutes. -So the light goes back on. I grope for a pen and scrap of paper- and write.

Sometimes the simple act of getting the idea outside of myself is enough. But even then (and certainly if I keep it within) often my brain takes the idea and runs with it and the race of my brain keeps me up forever- as I think and create things that will be lost by the time I wake up.

So about three nights ago I had such an occurrence. An idea. I grabbed the pen and paper.

I had no time to write it up yesterday because I was at school. And even today I  had a long list of school assignments, but the idea was plaguing my mind. So I gave into this disease- this plague- this madness called writing. I flipped to my notes, I grabbed some water and almonds, I let my fingers touch these keys, and instinct took over.

I wrote for a good three hours strait... and then worked on the thing for another three hours or so. Needless to say I got little school done. But I was pretty happy with the results. It was a story. An allegory of sorts- and theological at that. I'd never done something in that venue before but really, people, it was decent.

Then I showed it to Dad. He reads so fast. And when he was done he told me it was too short (for the questions I asked) and I needed to write a book on it.

A book?!!

People. I don't want to write a book. I barely have enough time to blog. But to an extent I agree with my Daddy- the story needs flushing out and fine-tuning. So stay tuned. But not too tuned. It may take a while.

Because tomorrow I go back to school... and hopefully other, easier ideas will come to me to write about- and hopefully not too late- 'cause I have exams coming up and I need my sleep.

Letters

There's nothing quite like getting a letter in the mail.

On several occasions I have hypothesized on just what it is that separates cards from letters and e-cards from e-mails. There seems to be a hierarchy of specialness which I want to understand- so I can master- so I can act not in instinct but concrete knowledge.

There is, we well know, an entire art to letter writing- the composition of the letter, the content of the letter, the voice of the letter, and the aesthetic of the letter. Does someone get right to the point? Do they ramble, rhapsodize, or hurl themselves down rabbit trails? Is the envelope plain? Do they decorate it with flowers? Romantic? Business? Classy? Cute? Feminine?

I began letter writing when I was about seven or eight. I remember how each letter would begin.

Dear Samantha,

How are you? I'm doing fine.

(After a year or so I grew tired of that.)

Dear Samantha,

Salutations!

(Getting all fancy.)

Now I say whatever I want to say- and so I think it is the truest expression of myself. Yes. Isn't it that very expression of self which compels us to read letters- blogs, books, e-mails- in the first place? Because I know that I have for years, whenever I sign onto my e-mail, network, or Facebook- I hope against hope that someone- anyone- will have thought of me- and written.

"What will NY152 say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You've got mail. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you." -You've Got Mail

I think it is the thought that counts. Because it's not about whether you compose a masterpiece. It is about the unmatchable knowledge that someone, amidst their life, stopped and crafted, communicated, a message from out of themselves to nobody but you.

I always save letters (and messages and e-mails) for special moments, free of distraction (sometimes I even make myself clean my room just so I'll have visual peace when I read them). Then I saver every word and reread every line. Your comments on my posts brighten my face. An e-mail makes my day. But letters, letters make my spirit dance.

Then what is it about a letter?

The physical existence of the letter, I think, has something to do with it. E-mails don't really exist. Numbers inside wires send little messages and light flashes on the screen- just as easily gone- just as easily annihilated all together. Existence is part of a letter's specialness.

I speculate that handwriting plays a large role as well. A person's handwriting is an extension of themselves- the very imprint that their hands have made. Personality on a page. You can not help but feel physically closer to someone when you have the work of their hands in your own.

Letter - noun 1: The concrete culmination of all the heart-to-heart communication that souls wish for... when apart.

So talk to me.

Gogyohka-Thursday [29]

I fear I'll wake

and find this happiness

a dream- but my dreams

have never been

this happy

There and Back (AGAIN!)

I learned something about myself yesterday. It took all day (or ten years, depending on how you figure) to learn it, but I think. I. finally. did.

My sister and I took Katie sight-seeing in the city. The Hudson Line took us down (courting the river for miles and miles giving us beautiful scenic views). Grand Central. I love the great expanse of the Main Concourse. I love the sea of people in black coats which swarm across its floor. We grabbed bagels at our favorite bagel place. The ladies working behind the counter barked at the mob before them, "Who's next! Who's next! Who's next!"

Weaving our way down to the subway (keeping an anxious eye on gawking Katie), we figured out which line we needed to get on and went through the turnstiles. The crowd pushed closer, "Maybe we should do more hand-holding," I joked anxiously. But then there was our awaiting subway. "Let's get in that one" said Sarah, indicating the car in front of us. 

New York City always brings out the fiercely independent streak in me. I stepped onto that car with confidence. I had already woven two good steps though the crowd towards a seat when I heard my name being called. I turned around. The doors had closed. And Sarah and Katie were on the other side.

It should have been in a movie. Separated by glass. Train taking me away.  The roar of the engines. The frantic gestures, "Wait for me!" The look of shock, the pounding heart, then the stunned silence.

Eventually I looked around, a young woman caught my eye. "Don't worry, it happens all the time." I exchanged pleasantries, but silence brought thoughts pounding into my head. Another woman spoke to me, her Indian accent thick, "How will  you meet up with your friends?" I told her I would wait at the next stop. She seemed to approve.

I got off. The platform grew quiet. Union Square. I suddenly had a panicy thought. I had our shared metro card, what if they couldn't ride the train? No, it wasn't a train, it was a subway- we'd already paid.... but what if they got an Express line and they didn't stop at my stop? I would check the next train's cars very carefully.

It was a good thing I did- because Sarah and Katie had had no intention of getting off at my station- they were going to wait at our destination, the Bowling Green. But we saw each other and reunited. Laughing. Amused. Relieved. My stomach a little shaken.

After the Staten Island Ferry we walked down to Ground Zero, which was gated and thick with construction. We approached one worker to ask where we might be able to get the best view and he replied, with a swinging Italian accent, "Wella, you're not'a going to see too mucha." An Irish man intervened. "Take ah right, go 'round tha block, take tha overpass to tha building, and yah'll be able tu see it froom tha bridge." Thank you.

We walked through the World Financial Center- with its marbled floors and countless young men in ties and suits (chatting, presumably, about desperately important things like interests and loans and the stock market).

While we were riding the subway up to 86th street two men boarded with drums. They greeted all of the New Yorkers with their blank faces and ear-buds in. "HI!!!" I replied. They were struck. The man addressed the car: "That's what we LIKE! Hey, ya'know if more people show respect like THAT then the world be a better place, ya'know?!" They played, their inner beat flowing to their mouth and the palms of their hands. Just before they left one turned to me, "Where you from?" he demands. "New York." "Are you sure?!" and he's gone. "California" probably would have satisfied him more.

We walked thirty blocks down Madison Avenue window-shopping. We gushed over flounced baby-girl clothes and strapping little-man clothes, laughed at frilly purses displayed on ostriches, and compared decorating styles. (While Katie and I related to the modern, sheik style, we agreed that we would always pick warm and woody over glass and steel). We shared a sourdough baguette, and bought ourselves treats from La Maison du Chocolat. [The man behind the counter claimed he remembered me from past years (I think he didn't) and  he began speaking in French as we left.] I always look at that tiny piece of chocolate (smaller- maybe half the size of a  Girl-Scout Cookie)  in my hand and wonder why I pay so much money for something so small. We all wonder. But then you bite off the corner and the tender delicacy of that long-brewed chocolate potion completely and in every way overwhelms you. Perfection in a bite. THAT is chocolate. THAT is why it is worth it.

We had a splendid time in Tiffany's ring department comparing cuts and styles and marveling at the fiery brilliance of the sedentary gems. The salespersons were surprisingly accommodating. We were, after all, three young women. For all they knew we had some of the before-mentioned snazzy-looking business men interested in us. (We laughed because all three of us girls couldn't imagine anyone spending so much on a ring when an equally pretty one could be found that wouldn't burn your fiance's pockets and leave you with guilty feelings for the rest of your life.)

After Tiffany's we saw St. Patrick's Cathedral. On a whim I asked one of the caretakers to see the crypt (we're family of Bishop Sheen) and who of all people should be available but Father Joe, (whom our family had met at the Bishop Sheen memorial party two years ago). He recognized me- even remembered where we lived, and started talking about his findings to a theological question we'd been arguing about. He told us some great juicy stories about each of the men buried under the alter and afterwords we said the Our Father together.

By this time we were exhausted, so Katie texted her fiance and he gave us directions to the nearest Starbucks where we got hot drinks, put up our feet, and delighted in girl-talk for an hour or two. Rejuvenated, it was off to Time Square (where  we bugged a policemen about directions to a movie theater and took lots of pictures) and then we wrapped up with pizza, gyros, and Indian food at Grand Central.

We were on the train. We were done visiting. We were going home. Rivers. Trees. Quiet. You know I've always liked the city.  I really do. How can you not love history and beauty and people? But I've always known I could never live there. And that night as we journeyed home I realized something more. Maybe it was being in the city twice in five days. Maybe it was our conversations about work and life and how hideous certain dresses, offensive certain adds, expensive certain baby-clothes, and extravagant certain rings were. Maybe it has been being  at my college and getting closer to drugs and alcohol and the image-consciousness of our culture, but I think my materialistic streak (which I spoke of in my first New York post) has been somehow severely subdued.

I have learned, or discovered, or maybe just decided: I am a country mouse.

Narcotics Anonymous

When my teacher told us that one of the semester’s assignments was to visit an open NA meeting I sighed, rolled my eyes, and inwardly quipped about state-run education.

Tonight I got it over with- I went to a nearby meeting at the church of a friend’s. It was wildly different than I expected.

Narcotics Anonymous is not a government program. It is comprised entirely of addicts, and specifically of individuals who have come to a place where they realize they are addicts, they realize they have an addiction, and are making steps to overcome that addiction.

There is, of course, not much I can tell you- I respect the spirit of that closely-knit fellowship: what happens in that meeting stays in that meeting.

But I can tell you that as I listened to each individual share their thoughts (on randomly drawn popsicles sticks with principles of the program written on them)- as I heard each of them honestly face the problem of that week, that day, even that very hour- my heart went out to them. I heard them face themselves, talk about guilt and shame, their own selfishness, and recognize the multitude of people they had hurt (including themselves). They had broken families. Broken relationships. Broken careers. Broken hearts. Broken lives. And as each spoke my heart broke- again, and again, and again. I wanted to weep- but I could not add to their pain.

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference."

One particularly interesting saying one person drew went something like, “I can’t. He can. Let him.” They wrestled with “surrendering” to God and his will (and God’s will becoming theirs), even while taking responsibility for their actions.

There they were. Many were still users- maybe only clean for twenty-four hours. A slender few had been clean for years- and still struggled, day by day by day.  I rejoiced over their heart-felt support of one another and their earnest desire to conquer their addiction- to be “at peace and free.” I rejoiced that they recognized that they had to rely on and desperately needed God- knowing that every bit of truth is a means of grace in their lives, and cried that though they be able to will themselves out of addiction- they would remain slaves to sin without Christ.

And there I was- different. But why? I felt lavishly blessed- insurmountably undeserving. Why was I never  tempted, never offered a pill, a single fix? Why did my parents never abandon me? Why was I not there, burning and breaking like they were? 

I had never touched any sort of substance- never even seen any (by God’s grace). I had parents who loved each other, a family crazy about one another (by God’s grace). I had a precious, safe-guarded childhood (by God’s grace). And, true, God rescued me from myself, washed me clean in his blood (by God’s grace) and I am who, what, and where I am today by God’s grace.

             My heart is heavy.

I have been given a perfect life. I have never struggled. I have not been tested to the point of shedding blood.

Gogyohka-Thursday [28]

A God-thing:

In whispering to my brother

I missed the first offering-plate.

The whole of my tithe

went to Japan.

Oh, Spontaneity!

The plan for Sunday was very simple: church and then a surprise outing to one of our favorite local restaurants, McKinney & Doyle. But after the service our parents engaged in a rather important (and lengthy) conversation with a fellow church member. Eventually my dad turned to me, handed me the keys to the Camry, and told me to take a bunch of us home. I grabbed my two sisters, Sarah's friend from college (Katie), and Peter, and off we went.

It was a truly spring day (before the snow hit yesterday). The ground was bare- daffodils blinked shyly, and the sky was blue. We rolled down the windows a bit and my iPod went on. One of the first songs up set the mood, "I love you more... than the spring in its blooming against the sky." (Ought To Be, Audrey Assad).

Then came Lucky (Jason Mraz) and all the girls (the seven year old mostly smiled) began to sing... "Lucky I'm in love with my best friend / lucky to have been what I have been..."

Then came the Newsboys- and the car began to bop. We sang our hearts out in unified consent, "I'm not ashamed to speak the name of Jesus Christ!" We were enjoying ourselves immensely. I looked sidelong at my sister, "Take the long way home?" Yes. We wove in and out around brimming reservoirs and the iPod hit a run on Beach Boys...

Well she got her daddy's car
And she cruised through the hamburger stand now
Seems she forgot all about the library
Like she told her old man now
And with the radio blasting
Goes cruising just as fast as she can now
And she'll have fun, fun, fun
'Til her daddy takes the T-Bird away

Surfer Girl. Catch a Wave. The sun was bright, our smiles were brighter. We cruised into the driveway. When I reached the door I heard the phone ringing- I rushed in and caught the phone off the receiver on the umpteenth ring- it was Dad. He'd sent me with the Suburban keys- he, Mom, and the boys were stranded at church. So back off I went, this time by myself.

I skipped to my favorite songs. As I drove (a little faster this time) I suddenly had the odd sensation of seeing myself- as I couldn't have imagined just twelve months- let alone twelve years- ago. 

There I was. Living in New York (of all places). Driving down back roads to pick up my parents (of all things). Listening to country love songs (of all music). On a spring Sunday in 2011 (of all times).

By the time we all united at home it was about three o'clock. We all piled into the Suburban and were just about to leave when we called the restaurant and discovered they were closed. Nobody felt like going inside to have PB&J. We were hungry.

In fact, we were so hungry I think we were a bit crazed. We wanted food. REAL food. Dad made a suggestion, the members of the car erupted in loudly voiced opinions in true Democratic form- parents used their executive rights to overrule the few dissenters and the next thing we knew the nine of us were making the hour+ trip down to NYC to go to Flor De Mayo. 

We grabbed some chips to tide us over. We were scarcely twenty minutes down the road when, to our dismay, it was discovered in our spontaneity no one had grabbed a camera. Katie, my sister's friend, was particularly disappointed since this was her first time going into the city. (Thus I am writing this post, to immortalize the occasion.)

At Flor De Mayo (Peruvian-Chinese cuisine) we ordered the timeless favorites: two whole rotisserie chickens, four large orders of black beans and yellow rice, and several plates of maduros and avocado. On such occasions, manners are temporarily disbanded. There is much grabbing and yumming and clashing of forks and general silence as the meal is consumed. As Katie attested, it was well worth the wait.

We drove down Broadway to show Katie Time Square. There was much traffic- we gazed up at show signs and advertisements and read the newsflashes on the economy and wars and talks and treaties scrolling in large neon letters around a building.

Just as we passed the Apple store (giant glass conservatory of technology), Dad pulled the truck over and said he had to go see something (presumably something in the Apple store) and Mom should take the car around the block to pick him up. Then he was gone. Mom looked amused, climbed over into the driver's seat, and began driving around. Crazy. Jammed. Loud. Broadway. We had only gotten half way around the block when we suddenly saw Dad running up (already done) and he hopped back in the car. Mom whirled around and said to Katie, "All the stories you heard about us were true."

We drove through Central Park (past the petting zoo and barred doors leading into the hillside, under overpasses, betwixt stone-walls). At some point during the evening we sang the George Washington Bridge song.

Then we were driving home... back upstate. The tall buildings turned to tall trees, parks turned to lakes, noise into the single melody of a Rascal Flatts song on a country station.

Sometimes I can hear this old earth shouting (...)

That's when I climb up here on this mountain
To look through God's window

Now I can't fly, but I've got two feet
To get me high up here
Above the noise and city streets
My worries disappear

Gogyohka-Thursday [27]

sun bathing

my too-long cold limbs

while the dog

chases cats and butterflies

and bounds, grinning, head-first into me