Kicking & Screaming

I often encounter Christians, of various denominations, who seem to have been infected with what I call "the happy-clappies." They are overjoyed to be in the flock. They seem to be trouble-free, according to the smiles on their faces and their gushing testimonies of how their lives have changed since they came to faith. Or at least- their troubles don't seem to vex them. And they don't seem to have any trouble living a Christian life. [I suppose in Orthodox circles, this could be called Smells & Bells Syndrome.]

I am deeply suspicious of these people.

When I meet one, I immediately think a) "What are you trying to prove?" or b) "What are you smoking?"

This is because I have not found life as a Christian to be all rainbows and kittens. In fact, I've found it to be quite the opposite- extremely difficult. You put in a lot of effort, but seem to make little progress. Or, if you're like me, you put in a little effort, and get frustrated because you don't see immediate results. [Hey, I am American after all- I want instant gratification.]

At the end of the Orthodox baptismal service, we read Psalm 32, which at one point says: "Be not like a horse or a mule, without understanding, which must be curbed with bit and bridle, else it will not keep with you."

I always smile at that- because that's exactly how I feel- like a horse being tamed. "I'd rather not wear that saddle, thank you very much!" I think. "WHAT?!? You want me to change, God?"

Maybe some people can keep to the Master better, or are less stubborn, but me- I rather incline towards spectatorship. I will happily learn dogmas and facts, warble away at the pretty church music and light my candles, but I'm not too happy with actually having to apply things in real life.

In other words, I need the bit and bridle. If I really want to draw closer to God, I have to continually be going through the process of self-examination and (ick) trying to change my ways. I often feel like one of those kids you see in the supermarket throwing an absolute tantrum- kicking and screaming at God because He [gasp] actually expects me to mind Him.

Why do I bother? Well, because things are better when I follow Him. Not "happy" in the glossy, high-fructose corn syrup way the world means. But better- meaning more real, more honest, healthier.

So, if you are waxing poetic about the goodness of God- please don't be offended if I look at you like you're crazy. It just means that I'm feeling horsey today.

Paying attention has a price!

I have a horrible time paying attention in church. Or more specifically, I rarely can pay attention to sermons and scripture readings. Liturgy will end, and I will have no memory of the epistle reading or what the priest said.

But from time to time, certain things will jump out, like this reading from Presanctified yesterday:

And he said, "I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life. For the famine has been in the land these two years; and there are yet five years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvest. And God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. So it was not you who sent me here, but God..." Genesis 45:4-8

Now- I know the story of Joseph really well, but I swear, I never heard this part before, and it changes everything.

What struck me is that after all of the hardships Joseph endured [how would I react if my sisters sold me into slavery?], he could discern that his suffering had purpose. He was betrayed by his family, given over to strangers, falsely accused and imprisoned- all for this moment- when he could preserve the lives of his family- the same that betrayed him. In this he foreshadows Christ- who voluntarily suffered betrayal, false accusation, and death, all in order to save those who betrayed him.

Okay- I get that. Now comes the hard part- realizing how it applies to me.

I've been told often enough, by friends and spiritual advisors, to just "hang in there", with regards to certain struggles in my life. We none of us can know why certain burdens are given us to bear, but they are the crucible in which God does great things, so I'm told. I think of Paul's letter to the Romans, in which he says that suffering produces endurance, which produces character, which produces hope, which does not disappoint us. [Romans 5- I guess being a Bible Bowl coach is good for something.]

But what is really hard to stomach is the idea that my struggles may have actually very little to do with me. Joseph realized his suffering's purpose was to save his people from starvation.

In other words- it was all well and good when I thought my suffering was "good for me," but I don't think I care to suffer because it might be good for somebody else, selfish thing that I am. I guess I was ignoring the whole denying myself part of Christ's instructions to take up my cross and follow him.

Grr. I don't like spiritual reflection!!! I blame Lent.

LHM x 40

So I stepped out of my door this morning, and went to put something in my car, which was parked, as usual, on the street.

As I unlocked the door, I noticed my little red prayer book sitting on the seat, and thought, "Huh. When did I move that?" [This prayer book typically spends its time in the little cubbyhole under the stereo, and is taken out far less than it should be.] And then I noticed a few little green things in the cup holder. And then my eye took in that there was in fact glass all over the passenger seat.

Yes- someone had busted in my window overnight. They didn't find anything to steal- I guess vandals aren't that into prayer books, travel mugs with tea leaves in the bottom, or Orthodox liturgical texts.

Sigh. $200 down the drain.

I inevitably ask the question: why me? Don't they know that I work for a church, and therefore am on a tight budget? Don't they realize that hel-LO!!! I live in a working-class part of Minneapolis, and therefore am not likely to have any bright shiny objects in my dirty beige honda that's missing a hubcap? Or that I'm working two jobs to put gas in this same honda; the only thing I own outright in world, and that only because my dad helped me with the last two payments? And don't they know that the only ones in my household eating non-generic food are the cats?

But of course "they" don't know that. They don't know that I'm pinching pennies, that it's the busiest time of the year for me, or that [ouch] I'm grieving for my friend.

But God knows. He knows all about it. And to be honest, I'm pretty annoyed with Him over this. As in, can't I get a break?

Now comes the part where I'm supposed to calm down, think rationally about it, remember all the ways God has richly blessed me, blah, blah, blah.

Sorry, but I'm just not in that place at present. If I could post the sound of me stamping my foot, I would.

All I've got in that direction is "Lord, have mercy," times 40. Or about a thousand.

Like Thin Ice

I keep trying to find the right words for how hard this week as been, but they won't come.

A friend of mine died tragically this week, by his own hands. And since I heard the news, I've been in a fog- I keep forgetting basic things, like how to pitch Tone 8 and what time Vespers is.

I'm struggling with so many emotions: sadness over Eric's death; anger at a certain person who added to his suffering; disappointment in a few people who figured quite importantly in my life, but whose treatment of my friend have tarnished that shine I had for them. It makes me feel like a patch of thinnest ice- I'm spread so thin that if one more thing goes wrong, I'll break altogether.

So, all I can ask is that you pray for the soul of my friend Eric Iliff. He was kind, gentle, and a tender-hearted person. I knew him to be one who loved the Church- who truly sought God. His burdens were heavy, and he endured things no one should. Please ask God to grant him rest, and to give comfort to his family.

Eric in Central Park (thanks to my friend over at I AM HOPE for this picture).

Comments

Thanks to Sis and Boo for letting me know that my posts wouldn't allow comments... I've changed the settings, so comments are allowed (but FYI: I have to approve all comments first, to help keep the internet creepies out there from posting comments).

Oh, and I'd like to clarify that "Boo" is not "my boo" (significant other in slang). It's just my nickname for her. She's Boo and I'm Roo. I gave her that nickname before I was aware it could imply things about one's relationship. Sigh. Slang Stinks! Fo-shizzle.

For E.B.

Have you ever read a book that you swear is about you? I chanced- I mean completely unexpectedly- came across a book this week that in a scant few pages managed to rip me wide open. It's the author's memoir, and even though her childhood was radically different from mine, everything about the writer could have come from my own lips- the way she thinks, the thoughts she writes, the feelings. "How does she know?" I kept thinking.

The result is that I've been staggering around since Tuesday, trying to sort through all of the suppressed emotions and memories of my youth that have bubbled up.

I woke this morning thinking of 5th grade. I had started a new school- some of the students were from my K-4 school, but many were new to me. It basically meant that my circle of friends underwent a major shift that year. I ended up with kind of an odd cluster of friends- and I don't think my parents were excited with my choice of friends, but I wasn't able to explain to them then what I can understand now: I was friends with them because they were the ones who were willing to be friends with me. Their principle virtue was that they were nice to me- they didn't tease me like other kids, they didn't pick me last for their kickball teams, they let me sit with them at lunchtime.

I remember one girl in particular (the E.B. of the title)- she was a strange, awkward, skinny girl. Her imagination was wilder than mine (if that's possible), she had eccentric taste in music and clothes, was terrifyingly smart, with a big guffawing laugh. She also had a physically and verbally absuive stepfather, so I figured the least I could do was listen to her zany ideas.

She and I got in the habit of sitting on a particular concrete step during recess, when we weren't playing on the swings or walking around the school yard. This step served as a stoop for a back door of sorts for the school administrative offices, but it was rarely used.

It was wide enough that the two of us could sit comfortably- sometimes we'd read in companionable silence, or we'd play cards, look at one another's magazines, or playing other games.

One particular day, not long after we'd become friends, we were sitting on this step, playing chess. Out of nowhere, I peed my pants. I mean- I had no warning- no urge to go, nothing. I just all of sudden became aware that I was wetting myself. I panicked- this was a situation with maximum potential for social disaster. I was sitting with a girl I barely knew, and the closest bathroom meant a walk across the playground through all the other kids.

So, I did the only thing I could- I breathlessly told my new friend what had happened, hoping I could trust her. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than she said, "Stay here," and walked off. She didn't run, she didn't even walk fast. She almost strolled, with such a convincingly casual air that I thought she'd misunderstood what I'd said. She made her way over to the teacher on duty and I saw them disappear into the building.

I froze on the spot, hoping none of the other kids would come close enough to see the wet spot that had bloomed around me on the concrete. Where had she gone?

Then with a soft woosh, the door behind the step opened and I turned to see my friend and the teacher saying, "Come on!" They whisked me into the building- the principal's office no less- and from there into the girl's bathroom where I waited until a family friend (my mom was at work) could bring me a change of clothes. No one else saw.

I eventually returned to the classroom, but spent the rest of the day in fret, worrying that my chess partner would rat me out. That she'd tell one of our other little friends, and that it would eventually get out to the rest of the class, certain members of which would I'm sure have taken advantage of such an embarrassing thing. She wouldn't have been the first friend to "tell" on me.

But she didn't. She never said a word to anyone else or to me about it. The next day at recess, we sat again on the same stoop, as though nothing had happened.

So, it didn't matter if my mom and dad didn't entirely approve of this girl, or any number of other friends I had growing up. It didn't matter if other kids thought they were weird or ugly or messed up. It didn't matter if they did things I didn't agree with, use language that would've got me grounded, or come from families so fractured that I hated to visit their houses. When you've been picked on and marginalized by other kids, anyone who will watch your back will have your heart forever.

I wish I could say that E.B. and I are still friends, but I can't. We weren't ever really close, although we were friends all through high school; always at the same birthday parties, in the same plays and clubs, etc., but I haven't seen or heard from her since graduation. We went off to separate colleges and both live in other states now. But I have high hopes that our paths will cross, because I'd like to be her friend again. I'd like to hear about how she's been since I saw her last, where's she's gone, what she's seen and done.

But mostly, I'd like to say thanks for that day so long ago, when she was so kind to a girl she barely new. That day showed me more about your character than all the others combined. Miss you- and hope you're well.