This morning Ellerie and I listened to the radio while we waited for the school bus to come to the end of our road. In between songs, Air 1’s Scott and Kelly took a call from a Dad whose daughter is a heroin addict now serving time in a local jail.
I expected to hear the usual story about a “lost” daughter who needed Jesus; instead, a grateful father told how God used an awful, destructive addiction in one of His kids to bring about change in the life of someone else.
This man’s daughter—the heroin addict-- was a born again Christian—before heroin (and during and even now); yes, she is SAVED, but “got caught up in the ways of the world” to the point of drug abuse, theft, and incarceration. After getting clean, this man’s daughter read her Bible everyday in jail and ended up witnessing to and sharing Christ with her cellmate. When her father visited her in jail recently, she shared a letter she’d received from her former cellmate who had been transferred to a state prison. In the letter, the woman thanked this man’s daughter for reading her Bible every day and for sharing the love of Christ with her; the cellmate is now a citizen of the Kingdom of God.
We are so quick to judge, aren’t we? So quick to assume that God could never use something so hideous and awful as heroin addiction to further His purpose. Would that cellmate have come to Christ without the benefit of having that man's daughter's witness? Maybe--but probably much later. Who would have guessed when she heated up her first spoon or opened her first vein that that act would lead to a moment where the angels of heaven rejoiced? It's truly awful and truly awesome. It makes me want to jump up and joyfully scream out the word "HOPE" as if it were one of the names of God. Maybe it is.
When I hear stories like this—true stories—I hold them up against the Christian fiction that is out there; stories of such perfection in the saved; stories of messed up lives which miraculously align when Christ is added to the picture; and I wonder if the mirror of truth is cracked in the CBA arena of the publishing industry—or just blurred by layers of molasses.
Lately I’ve been a three-five chapter puker over most of the Christian titles I’ve checked out from my local library. What I mean by that is: after 3-5 chapters of the book, I take it to the “returns” slot, disgusted; no, appalled that the “church” end of the publishing empire is pandering such syrupy sludge off as relevant fiction. And these aren’t obscure titles from little-old-lady authors, either; these are new releases from bestselling Christian authors; authors writing stories which are so coated with saccharin that I need an MRI after reading them.
That being said, I have read a couple of good ones, too. See my Shelfari shelf for more info on those.
No wonder more and more Christian readers are turning to secular fiction. Fiction mirrors truth, but honestly: who wants to have to scrape molasses off a mirror when it’s this cold outside?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Praying vs. Posturing
I’ve come a long way toward “acceptable evangelical prayer posturing” since uttering that child’s prayer for salvation twenty-five years ago. I've come a long way in the same way Virginia Slims smokers were told, "You've come a long way, baby” – just a few puffs away from the Iron Lung.
Should I have set off the “sarcasm alert” siren? Oops; I forgot. My bad.
Since joining up with the traditionally acceptable “church” of American evangelicalism in my late teens, I’ve towed the line to become a champion pray-er of sub-culturally acceptable prayers. I’ve prayed from formulas and acronyms and wish lists; I’ve prayed to a tyrant, a bureaucrat, and a Santa Claus who’d traded in his flashy red suit for Gandalf’s more acceptable white robe. While holding hands in a circle, I’ve attempted to set a world record for most creative uses of the word “just”; and after phone calls I've pledged to pray for people I promptly forgot about five minutes later.
So sorry if that was you.
As a responsible Christian parent I’ve taught my children to recite meaningless rubbish at the table so our food doesn’t poison us; but quickly, so it doesn’t get cold! Like any “good Christian mom”, I’ve prayed “over them” at bedtime for their good night’s sleep. At one recent bedtime I asked my 7-year-old daughter if she would like to pray instead of me. To my shame she said, “I only know how to pray for food.”
My heart landed somewhere near my feet. Suddenly I was the world’s biggest loser mom; a huge failure as a parent. How could I have screwed up something so basic; so vital to her Christian growth? She had no idea how to proceed. And it was my fault. My fault because I’d let bedtime prayers become nothing more than a slightly-extended exaggeration of the rhyming ditty I had recited at bedtime when I was little. And I’d been so proud that I prayed with my kids every night. Shudder. It turns my stomach.
So, in a moment of utter panic for the deficit I’d implanted in my children’s spiritual walk, I fell back on my trusty acronym, the ACTS prayer I learned at a ladies’ Bible study years ago. I thought it was as good a place to start as any; and maybe it is. We all need to learn how to ADORE our Father/Savior/Friend; how to CONFESS our sin; the importance of giving THANKS.
Supplication, of course, comes easily once the word is defined in kidspeak; I mean, it’s the fun, American one, right? As my daughter interpreted my definition of that last word, she reiterated with a smile, “So... you mean it’s when you get to ask for STUFF.” Gulp.
Although I’m sure the developer of the ACTS prayer never intended for his big, scary word to be replaced with something so… um… uncomfortably accurate (most of the time), when I pray the ACTS prayer—and this is a reflection upon my heart, not the developer of the ACTS prayer or the hundreds of thousands of ACTS devotees—it always seems to be heavily weighted toward the “S” end of the scale; it’s like I’m going through the motions to get on God’s good side so I can ask Him to provide all the stuff I feel like he should be shelling out to me anyway. Just like our family’s slightly varied mealtime recitations are no more an exercise of relating to God than setting the table is, I’ve found the ACTS prayer to rarely serve as more than a vain attempt at checking prayer off on my daily to-do list and reminding God of his promises for my abundant life.
I’m not bashing the ACTS prayer… not maliciously, anyway. I think it’s a great tool for learning prayer—which is why, even after my moment of guilt-induced panic subsided, I decided to teach it to my daughters—I just think it’s a mistake to dwell on it too long. Formulaic prayer can easily become just one more legalistic ritual that we’ve painted a modern, evangelically acceptable face on. Much like our “orders of worship”, our “unwritten dress codes” our “tea taking/pie baking/nursery-working roles for women within the church”, and our “politically conservative (read that Republican) worldview”, we evangelicals have practically made an art form out of putting new spins on old-world legalisms.
Women who have longed for intimacy with God—a good thing—have grasped onto the ACTS prayer as a way of finding it. Maybe men have too; I don’t know. I really don’t know many men who are willing to have deep discussions about their prayer lives/spiritual hunger with women. I think it makes them feel icky and might mess with that whole “roles in the church” thing—but that’s another blog post for another day. So, due to my lack of expertise on glimpsing the intricacies of the male soul/psyche, I’ll just talk about us girls.
I’ve known some Godly women who’ve had great success with using the formula of the ACTS prayer. From time to time, I’ve even identified with that success; sometimes the formula is all I’ve got going for me because I’m just not in a God-sorta-mood—but after ADORING HIM, I find that my attention may shift in his direction. Sometimes. Sometimes my heart is so gross that I can’t even imagine adoring Him until I’ve puked out all the poison within me through confession. But most of the time, it’s a shortcut; it’s spiritual time-efficiency, baby. It’s like emailing a friend one line of greeting, a terse apology for not having time to get together, and a joke to keep it light and butter them up before asking them to babysit your kid: four quick steps to getting what you want cuz you don’t have time to meet your friend for lunch.
That’s the problem between me and formulaic prayer: lack of intimacy.
Humans just don’t like structure, whatever all the other writers say we secretly yearn for. Humans appreciate structure, we even envy it sometimes when we see it in the lives of others; but deep down inside I think we humans are much more comfortable with messy. Well, American Humans, anyway. That’s why we celebrate Sydney Pollack and Liszt, Jazz Fusion, and those weird metal sculpture thingies on university campuses. It’s why we loved painting with chocolate pudding when we were preschoolers and t-p-ing the town at Homecoming. Messy, messy, messy!!!! Why would we think it should be any different with God?
I know, I know: “Because our God is a God of Order, not chaos.” (My inner voice put on a black suit and spoke with a deep timbre while thumping a big, black KJV just then.) But, I would argue (in my normal voice) that our God also ordered the giggle, the babbling brook, the tornado, and the swarm of gnats. He pruned the roses and then blew the dandelion fluff all around them. He’s totally cool that way without slipping into chaos; but even cooler—sometimes it looks chaotic to my human eyes and that is awesome, cuz I just loved painting with chocolate pudding and I can sling a roll of toilet paper like a quarterback--when nobody’s looking.
Sigh. Unfortunately, we evangelicals always seem to be concerned about “who is looking” – we say it’s because we don’t want to cause the sinner to sin more, but it might just be because we’re afraid of our church friends seeing our mess. Our evangelical desire to be godly without being legalistic has led us toward creating fresher, hipper new ways in which to be legalistic.
Hey, don’t be offended: if I’m pointing a finger, you can bet I’m standing in front of a mirror.
Most the time, formulaic prayer seems to slide around the messy relational aspect of conversing with God and more toward the tidy spreadsheet aspect we strive to escape from in all our other agenda-producing activities.
Funny, isn’t it: my most memorable “prayers” were not born from the observation of a formula or from using the “right” words or tone of voice: they were born from agony and grief and anger; from the appreciation of beauty, and art, and love. My most intimate moments with God have come when I have allowed myself to just let go of all the pretty words and the perfectly reverent bodily positioning and just gush out my guts at Him from the core of where I am so absolutely, irrevocably overwhelmed with WHO HE IS that I just can’t hold it in. And that is where He meets me—not at the bottom of some checklist.
So it’s funny I would post this after writing a glowing recommendation on a book like The PAPA Prayer—another prayer guide based on an acronym. I’m not trying to be hypocritical (honestly—I don’t have to try; I come off that way with very little effort at all!) I'm just trying to be real.
I love the PAPA Prayer and I love praying bits and pieces of it throughout my day; it has made me aware of God—and the condition of my own heart—in a new and awesome way. But I don’t believe it is the have-all-end-all of my praying education any more than the ACTS prayer was. I’m gonna keep working at learning it and, when I feel like the girls understand the elements of the ACTS prayer-- and that they don’t always have to pray all of them—and they NEVER have to pray them in the “right” order—I’m going to teach Delaney and Ellerie the fundamentals of the PAPA prayer because I want them to get comfortable talking to God—and being real with God—in as many ways as I can nudge them toward. Go ahead, call me a hypocrite. You'll only be echoing my own inner monologue.
The PAPA prayer is a self-revealer in its first three steps—and as they hear Mom PRESENTING herself to God, ATTENDING to the way she’s thinking about who He is, and PURGING herself of anything which comes between her and Him, they are going to see the joy of APPROACHING the Throne of Grace with confidence. And then it will be their turn to try it out; experiment with it; blend what is new with what is old and find their own, ever-evolving, messy way of conversing with God.
But I don't know how to apply any of this to mealtime prayers.
About a week ago I expressed dissatisfaction with the meaningless drivel we and our children mindlessly and ritually recite at the supper table (okay, I suck at diplomacy; apparently moreso at the dinner table) and now the beginnings of our meals are laced with hostility, mocking, and uncomfortableness; with Mom to blame. I'm not sure how to get past that. I'm thinking of boycotting mealtime prayer entirely; I don't want to teach my kids that talking to God is a ritual to be observed at specific times and places--I want them to ache and hunger to talk to God because they are so completely stoked at having that privilege.
I'm still a baby learning how to speak and I’m too hungry to be satisfied with a formula or a ritual. I’m completely ill-equipped for teaching anyone anything about prayer—but for some reason, God gifted me with the honor of being a Mom and I won’t take that responsibility lightly even though I know I’ll mess it up over and over and over and over…
Lately I feel like God is using the PAPA prayer to prep me for heart surgery. (Or training in familial diplomacy?) Soon, he’s probably going to crack my cynical chest open to pour more of himself into my veins. I won’t kid myself. It’s probably going to hurt. A lot.
Tonight, I’m subdued, but expectant; hurting, but trusting; lonely, but bathed in His love.
Tonight, I just want to grab hold of God and melt into the searing heat of who He is and however He may choose to reveal himself to me moment by moment, day by day, and word by word until I am so absorbed in His presence that mine becomes the nonessential in the equation; the invisible, silent variable when the perfection of chaotic beauty explodes within a relational Deity who calls me “His.”
Should I have set off the “sarcasm alert” siren? Oops; I forgot. My bad.
Since joining up with the traditionally acceptable “church” of American evangelicalism in my late teens, I’ve towed the line to become a champion pray-er of sub-culturally acceptable prayers. I’ve prayed from formulas and acronyms and wish lists; I’ve prayed to a tyrant, a bureaucrat, and a Santa Claus who’d traded in his flashy red suit for Gandalf’s more acceptable white robe. While holding hands in a circle, I’ve attempted to set a world record for most creative uses of the word “just”; and after phone calls I've pledged to pray for people I promptly forgot about five minutes later.
So sorry if that was you.
As a responsible Christian parent I’ve taught my children to recite meaningless rubbish at the table so our food doesn’t poison us; but quickly, so it doesn’t get cold! Like any “good Christian mom”, I’ve prayed “over them” at bedtime for their good night’s sleep. At one recent bedtime I asked my 7-year-old daughter if she would like to pray instead of me. To my shame she said, “I only know how to pray for food.”
My heart landed somewhere near my feet. Suddenly I was the world’s biggest loser mom; a huge failure as a parent. How could I have screwed up something so basic; so vital to her Christian growth? She had no idea how to proceed. And it was my fault. My fault because I’d let bedtime prayers become nothing more than a slightly-extended exaggeration of the rhyming ditty I had recited at bedtime when I was little. And I’d been so proud that I prayed with my kids every night. Shudder. It turns my stomach.
So, in a moment of utter panic for the deficit I’d implanted in my children’s spiritual walk, I fell back on my trusty acronym, the ACTS prayer I learned at a ladies’ Bible study years ago. I thought it was as good a place to start as any; and maybe it is. We all need to learn how to ADORE our Father/Savior/Friend; how to CONFESS our sin; the importance of giving THANKS.
Supplication, of course, comes easily once the word is defined in kidspeak; I mean, it’s the fun, American one, right? As my daughter interpreted my definition of that last word, she reiterated with a smile, “So... you mean it’s when you get to ask for STUFF.” Gulp.
Although I’m sure the developer of the ACTS prayer never intended for his big, scary word to be replaced with something so… um… uncomfortably accurate (most of the time), when I pray the ACTS prayer—and this is a reflection upon my heart, not the developer of the ACTS prayer or the hundreds of thousands of ACTS devotees—it always seems to be heavily weighted toward the “S” end of the scale; it’s like I’m going through the motions to get on God’s good side so I can ask Him to provide all the stuff I feel like he should be shelling out to me anyway. Just like our family’s slightly varied mealtime recitations are no more an exercise of relating to God than setting the table is, I’ve found the ACTS prayer to rarely serve as more than a vain attempt at checking prayer off on my daily to-do list and reminding God of his promises for my abundant life.
I’m not bashing the ACTS prayer… not maliciously, anyway. I think it’s a great tool for learning prayer—which is why, even after my moment of guilt-induced panic subsided, I decided to teach it to my daughters—I just think it’s a mistake to dwell on it too long. Formulaic prayer can easily become just one more legalistic ritual that we’ve painted a modern, evangelically acceptable face on. Much like our “orders of worship”, our “unwritten dress codes” our “tea taking/pie baking/nursery-working roles for women within the church”, and our “politically conservative (read that Republican) worldview”, we evangelicals have practically made an art form out of putting new spins on old-world legalisms.
Women who have longed for intimacy with God—a good thing—have grasped onto the ACTS prayer as a way of finding it. Maybe men have too; I don’t know. I really don’t know many men who are willing to have deep discussions about their prayer lives/spiritual hunger with women. I think it makes them feel icky and might mess with that whole “roles in the church” thing—but that’s another blog post for another day. So, due to my lack of expertise on glimpsing the intricacies of the male soul/psyche, I’ll just talk about us girls.
I’ve known some Godly women who’ve had great success with using the formula of the ACTS prayer. From time to time, I’ve even identified with that success; sometimes the formula is all I’ve got going for me because I’m just not in a God-sorta-mood—but after ADORING HIM, I find that my attention may shift in his direction. Sometimes. Sometimes my heart is so gross that I can’t even imagine adoring Him until I’ve puked out all the poison within me through confession. But most of the time, it’s a shortcut; it’s spiritual time-efficiency, baby. It’s like emailing a friend one line of greeting, a terse apology for not having time to get together, and a joke to keep it light and butter them up before asking them to babysit your kid: four quick steps to getting what you want cuz you don’t have time to meet your friend for lunch.
That’s the problem between me and formulaic prayer: lack of intimacy.
Humans just don’t like structure, whatever all the other writers say we secretly yearn for. Humans appreciate structure, we even envy it sometimes when we see it in the lives of others; but deep down inside I think we humans are much more comfortable with messy. Well, American Humans, anyway. That’s why we celebrate Sydney Pollack and Liszt, Jazz Fusion, and those weird metal sculpture thingies on university campuses. It’s why we loved painting with chocolate pudding when we were preschoolers and t-p-ing the town at Homecoming. Messy, messy, messy!!!! Why would we think it should be any different with God?
I know, I know: “Because our God is a God of Order, not chaos.” (My inner voice put on a black suit and spoke with a deep timbre while thumping a big, black KJV just then.) But, I would argue (in my normal voice) that our God also ordered the giggle, the babbling brook, the tornado, and the swarm of gnats. He pruned the roses and then blew the dandelion fluff all around them. He’s totally cool that way without slipping into chaos; but even cooler—sometimes it looks chaotic to my human eyes and that is awesome, cuz I just loved painting with chocolate pudding and I can sling a roll of toilet paper like a quarterback--when nobody’s looking.
Sigh. Unfortunately, we evangelicals always seem to be concerned about “who is looking” – we say it’s because we don’t want to cause the sinner to sin more, but it might just be because we’re afraid of our church friends seeing our mess. Our evangelical desire to be godly without being legalistic has led us toward creating fresher, hipper new ways in which to be legalistic.
Hey, don’t be offended: if I’m pointing a finger, you can bet I’m standing in front of a mirror.
Most the time, formulaic prayer seems to slide around the messy relational aspect of conversing with God and more toward the tidy spreadsheet aspect we strive to escape from in all our other agenda-producing activities.
Funny, isn’t it: my most memorable “prayers” were not born from the observation of a formula or from using the “right” words or tone of voice: they were born from agony and grief and anger; from the appreciation of beauty, and art, and love. My most intimate moments with God have come when I have allowed myself to just let go of all the pretty words and the perfectly reverent bodily positioning and just gush out my guts at Him from the core of where I am so absolutely, irrevocably overwhelmed with WHO HE IS that I just can’t hold it in. And that is where He meets me—not at the bottom of some checklist.
So it’s funny I would post this after writing a glowing recommendation on a book like The PAPA Prayer—another prayer guide based on an acronym. I’m not trying to be hypocritical (honestly—I don’t have to try; I come off that way with very little effort at all!) I'm just trying to be real.
I love the PAPA Prayer and I love praying bits and pieces of it throughout my day; it has made me aware of God—and the condition of my own heart—in a new and awesome way. But I don’t believe it is the have-all-end-all of my praying education any more than the ACTS prayer was. I’m gonna keep working at learning it and, when I feel like the girls understand the elements of the ACTS prayer-- and that they don’t always have to pray all of them—and they NEVER have to pray them in the “right” order—I’m going to teach Delaney and Ellerie the fundamentals of the PAPA prayer because I want them to get comfortable talking to God—and being real with God—in as many ways as I can nudge them toward. Go ahead, call me a hypocrite. You'll only be echoing my own inner monologue.
The PAPA prayer is a self-revealer in its first three steps—and as they hear Mom PRESENTING herself to God, ATTENDING to the way she’s thinking about who He is, and PURGING herself of anything which comes between her and Him, they are going to see the joy of APPROACHING the Throne of Grace with confidence. And then it will be their turn to try it out; experiment with it; blend what is new with what is old and find their own, ever-evolving, messy way of conversing with God.
But I don't know how to apply any of this to mealtime prayers.
About a week ago I expressed dissatisfaction with the meaningless drivel we and our children mindlessly and ritually recite at the supper table (okay, I suck at diplomacy; apparently moreso at the dinner table) and now the beginnings of our meals are laced with hostility, mocking, and uncomfortableness; with Mom to blame. I'm not sure how to get past that. I'm thinking of boycotting mealtime prayer entirely; I don't want to teach my kids that talking to God is a ritual to be observed at specific times and places--I want them to ache and hunger to talk to God because they are so completely stoked at having that privilege.
I'm still a baby learning how to speak and I’m too hungry to be satisfied with a formula or a ritual. I’m completely ill-equipped for teaching anyone anything about prayer—but for some reason, God gifted me with the honor of being a Mom and I won’t take that responsibility lightly even though I know I’ll mess it up over and over and over and over…
Lately I feel like God is using the PAPA prayer to prep me for heart surgery. (Or training in familial diplomacy?) Soon, he’s probably going to crack my cynical chest open to pour more of himself into my veins. I won’t kid myself. It’s probably going to hurt. A lot.
Tonight, I’m subdued, but expectant; hurting, but trusting; lonely, but bathed in His love.
Tonight, I just want to grab hold of God and melt into the searing heat of who He is and however He may choose to reveal himself to me moment by moment, day by day, and word by word until I am so absorbed in His presence that mine becomes the nonessential in the equation; the invisible, silent variable when the perfection of chaotic beauty explodes within a relational Deity who calls me “His.”
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Speared by the Lightning Eyes!
I’m usually a book-a-day reader; always have been. But I’ve been digesting a book over the past month or so called The PAPA Prayer by Larry Crabb (yes! a nonfiction book! A rarity for me and odd to appear on a blog called "fiction mirrors truth"--) The PAPA Prayer is definitely NOT a one-day read… in fact, it is revolutionizing the way I pray and the way I see myself.
P.A.P.A is the acronym Crabb uses to illustrate his 4-step process to relational prayer. (yes, an acronym. I know.)
The first step of Crabb’s prayer is to “Present yourself to God.” This is the no-holds-barred “Hey, man… this is how I’m feeling about me and about you right now” place where I whine a while before I realize I’m whining. (LOL) The next step is to “Attend to how you’re thinking about God.” Crabb suggests picturing the Revelation Christ—the scary Holy warrior with lightning-fire eyes and a sword coming out of his mouth.
“But that isn’t very comforting!” you’re thinking, "I like Jesus with the children and stuff!"
Yep. Exactly.
So today, I pictured that particular, slightly frightening view of God while I read Psalm 139; a highlighted Psalm which, in the past, has always been a sweet sort-of passage of comforting Abba-Daddy time for me. Well, Psalm 139 comes off a little differently when you’re faced with the Lightening-fire Eyes and Sword mouth of the Revelation Christ.
“O LORD, you have searched me and you know me. (uh-oh.) You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. (Oh, crap.) You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. (um-hm. right. Darn.) Before a word is on my tongue (stop, stop, already!) you know it completely, O LORD. (sigh) You hem me in—behind and before; (could someone show me the exit, please?) you have laid your hand upon me." (Like it wasn’t hot enough with those eyes staring me down!)
(taken from NIV, parenthetical interjections mine)
That reminds me of a time when my Papa Eric was having a dementia moment about a year ago and, as was his habit, gave his usual Lutheran blessing to me. “May the Lord bless you and keep you,” he began as always; but then, he decided to crank it up a notch and change the meaning a bit. His tone darkened, his eyes piercing me as he continued, “Make his face stare right at you...”
AAAHHHHHHG! He must’ve been thinking about the Revelation Christ, too.
In step three, you “Purge yourself of anything that blocks your relationship with God” – which is a lot easier to see after you've been run-through with that sword a couple of times. Anyway, Crabb spends a lot of time focusing on relational sin with our human counterparts because how we behave/think within those relationships shows us who we really are and what is truly blocking us from enjoying the fullness of God. I thought looking at the Revelation Christ was uncomfortable—looking at my own heart was downright, well… disheartening!
As it turns out, I’m completely self-obsessed. Sure, I knew this before I read the book, but now, knowing what I’ve learned from reading it, I have to see that ugliness for what it is each time I approach the throne of God. Ouch.
So after all this nastiness is attended to, you get to move to step four, which I’ve paraphrased: “Approach God with confidence as the first thing in your life and stand before God as a loved child.” Now this, this is where another couple of Papas helped me out. The character of “Papa” in William P. Young’s book, The Shack (see post further down) and my own Papa Eric have made the second part of that step a breeze for me because I know what it feels like to approach an authority figure completely confident in that person’s love for you. It’s the first part I stumble on. So many things vie for that first place; my family, my writing, especially; not to mention all those nasty other areas of self-obsession which mutate and renew themselves each day as I experience Step 3 of the PAPA prayer.
But it’s a process, isn’t it? I’m just a 36 year old kid out here trying to figure it out.
P.A.P.A is the acronym Crabb uses to illustrate his 4-step process to relational prayer. (yes, an acronym. I know.)
The first step of Crabb’s prayer is to “Present yourself to God.” This is the no-holds-barred “Hey, man… this is how I’m feeling about me and about you right now” place where I whine a while before I realize I’m whining. (LOL) The next step is to “Attend to how you’re thinking about God.” Crabb suggests picturing the Revelation Christ—the scary Holy warrior with lightning-fire eyes and a sword coming out of his mouth.
“But that isn’t very comforting!” you’re thinking, "I like Jesus with the children and stuff!"
Yep. Exactly.
So today, I pictured that particular, slightly frightening view of God while I read Psalm 139; a highlighted Psalm which, in the past, has always been a sweet sort-of passage of comforting Abba-Daddy time for me. Well, Psalm 139 comes off a little differently when you’re faced with the Lightening-fire Eyes and Sword mouth of the Revelation Christ.
“O LORD, you have searched me and you know me. (uh-oh.) You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. (Oh, crap.) You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. (um-hm. right. Darn.) Before a word is on my tongue (stop, stop, already!) you know it completely, O LORD. (sigh) You hem me in—behind and before; (could someone show me the exit, please?) you have laid your hand upon me." (Like it wasn’t hot enough with those eyes staring me down!)
(taken from NIV, parenthetical interjections mine)
That reminds me of a time when my Papa Eric was having a dementia moment about a year ago and, as was his habit, gave his usual Lutheran blessing to me. “May the Lord bless you and keep you,” he began as always; but then, he decided to crank it up a notch and change the meaning a bit. His tone darkened, his eyes piercing me as he continued, “Make his face stare right at you...”
AAAHHHHHHG! He must’ve been thinking about the Revelation Christ, too.
In step three, you “Purge yourself of anything that blocks your relationship with God” – which is a lot easier to see after you've been run-through with that sword a couple of times. Anyway, Crabb spends a lot of time focusing on relational sin with our human counterparts because how we behave/think within those relationships shows us who we really are and what is truly blocking us from enjoying the fullness of God. I thought looking at the Revelation Christ was uncomfortable—looking at my own heart was downright, well… disheartening!
As it turns out, I’m completely self-obsessed. Sure, I knew this before I read the book, but now, knowing what I’ve learned from reading it, I have to see that ugliness for what it is each time I approach the throne of God. Ouch.
So after all this nastiness is attended to, you get to move to step four, which I’ve paraphrased: “Approach God with confidence as the first thing in your life and stand before God as a loved child.” Now this, this is where another couple of Papas helped me out. The character of “Papa” in William P. Young’s book, The Shack (see post further down) and my own Papa Eric have made the second part of that step a breeze for me because I know what it feels like to approach an authority figure completely confident in that person’s love for you. It’s the first part I stumble on. So many things vie for that first place; my family, my writing, especially; not to mention all those nasty other areas of self-obsession which mutate and renew themselves each day as I experience Step 3 of the PAPA prayer.
But it’s a process, isn’t it? I’m just a 36 year old kid out here trying to figure it out.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Condolence Stupidity
"He looks good."
How many times did I have to hear that over the course of Papa Eric's visitation Thursday night?
Luckily, I still contain a modicum of self-control, so the sailor's vocabulary of my inner voice did not give in to outward expression, because, seriously, it was in full-on, make-your-mama-blush mode.
Honestly, "He looks good." ?!?
Give me a freaking break!
No, he doesn't look good.
He looks dead, yes; he looks nothing like the man I remember, yes. but he doesn't look "good." He barely looks human.
I sat near the back of the funeral home with Dana most of the night, because I think my control could have very easily snapped if one more person walked through the line, past that empty shell of flesh and bone and mortuary make-up told me "He looks good" --
How do you tactfully respond to such an inane comment? I bit my tongue and nodded, digging my fingernails into my palms to keep from causing a scene. But inside, I was screaming like a banshee, "If you want me to pull your tongue out and wrap it around your neck, say that one more time. I dare you. "
Okay, so now I sound like a Sopranos episode. I'm a little defensive when it comes to my Papa. Sue me. Or leave a comment below telling me how wrong I am to feel this way, I don't care. This is my blog; deal.
The body in that box is NOT my Papa. Except for my pictures and my memories, Papa is gone. And that unmistakable fact made it easy to walk by that box. I never saw that expression on his face in life; not even when he was in pain and close to death. No, that was not the Eric Gustav Gustafson I knew; not the man born in Ulrika, Sweden in 1915; the little boy who watched from the ship as his grandfather soaked his shirt with tears on the dock as he watched his son's family sail away; the same little Swedish boy who later saw a shipmate buried at sea, the body devoured by sharks, before finally reaching Ellis Island. No, that lifeless form in the box is not the boy who struggled to learn English as a child, the young man who met a girl behind the candy counter at the Capitol Theatre and told his buddy, "That's the girl I'm going to marry." And married her three years later; not the man who raised two daughters and unreservedly loved three grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren. The man who sang "Jesus Loves Me" and "Peace in the Valley" and "Yes sir, that's my baby" when he saw his wife of 68 years. That wasn't the almost-94 year-old man with the nearly flawless complexion and beautiful, wavy white hair who said "Tack sa myket" (thank you very much in Swedish) to everyone. No; the shell in that box was not my Papa. Not remotely.
How could anyone walk past the bulletin board of scenes from his full, generous life; see the sparkling, often ornery smile within the snapshots and portraits; view the lovingly, painstakingly hand-crafted wooden items his scarred carpenter's hands had fashioned; then proceed to the frowning shell in the coffin and say, "He looks good." Puh-leeeeze.
Visitations are uncomfortable events. I appreciate that. I know people don't know what to say at a time of loss, but, honestly; "He looks good" ?? that is the dumbest thing ever. and not in the least bit comforting. How about, "Those are great pictures." or "You obviously loved him very much." or "Wow, this really sucks."
That, I could appreciate. Maybe. Later. When the yawning hole in my chest doesn't seem quite so raw; when the swelling has gone down around my eyes, and that scene from my dream the morning he died doesn't make my heart ache quite so much.
I miss him so much.
How many times did I have to hear that over the course of Papa Eric's visitation Thursday night?
Luckily, I still contain a modicum of self-control, so the sailor's vocabulary of my inner voice did not give in to outward expression, because, seriously, it was in full-on, make-your-mama-blush mode.
Honestly, "He looks good." ?!?
Give me a freaking break!
No, he doesn't look good.
He looks dead, yes; he looks nothing like the man I remember, yes. but he doesn't look "good." He barely looks human.
I sat near the back of the funeral home with Dana most of the night, because I think my control could have very easily snapped if one more person walked through the line, past that empty shell of flesh and bone and mortuary make-up told me "He looks good" --
How do you tactfully respond to such an inane comment? I bit my tongue and nodded, digging my fingernails into my palms to keep from causing a scene. But inside, I was screaming like a banshee, "If you want me to pull your tongue out and wrap it around your neck, say that one more time. I dare you. "
Okay, so now I sound like a Sopranos episode. I'm a little defensive when it comes to my Papa. Sue me. Or leave a comment below telling me how wrong I am to feel this way, I don't care. This is my blog; deal.
The body in that box is NOT my Papa. Except for my pictures and my memories, Papa is gone. And that unmistakable fact made it easy to walk by that box. I never saw that expression on his face in life; not even when he was in pain and close to death. No, that was not the Eric Gustav Gustafson I knew; not the man born in Ulrika, Sweden in 1915; the little boy who watched from the ship as his grandfather soaked his shirt with tears on the dock as he watched his son's family sail away; the same little Swedish boy who later saw a shipmate buried at sea, the body devoured by sharks, before finally reaching Ellis Island. No, that lifeless form in the box is not the boy who struggled to learn English as a child, the young man who met a girl behind the candy counter at the Capitol Theatre and told his buddy, "That's the girl I'm going to marry." And married her three years later; not the man who raised two daughters and unreservedly loved three grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren. The man who sang "Jesus Loves Me" and "Peace in the Valley" and "Yes sir, that's my baby" when he saw his wife of 68 years. That wasn't the almost-94 year-old man with the nearly flawless complexion and beautiful, wavy white hair who said "Tack sa myket" (thank you very much in Swedish) to everyone. No; the shell in that box was not my Papa. Not remotely.
How could anyone walk past the bulletin board of scenes from his full, generous life; see the sparkling, often ornery smile within the snapshots and portraits; view the lovingly, painstakingly hand-crafted wooden items his scarred carpenter's hands had fashioned; then proceed to the frowning shell in the coffin and say, "He looks good." Puh-leeeeze.
Visitations are uncomfortable events. I appreciate that. I know people don't know what to say at a time of loss, but, honestly; "He looks good" ?? that is the dumbest thing ever. and not in the least bit comforting. How about, "Those are great pictures." or "You obviously loved him very much." or "Wow, this really sucks."
That, I could appreciate. Maybe. Later. When the yawning hole in my chest doesn't seem quite so raw; when the swelling has gone down around my eyes, and that scene from my dream the morning he died doesn't make my heart ache quite so much.
I miss him so much.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Mocha Madness (and other coping mechanisms)
Dana and I are sitting at Motos, trying to Mocha our way through the numb void of losing the last remaining tie to our childhood. The coffee is (hopefully) counteracting the bottle of wine we shared from 11pm-1am as we waited for the call.
As it was with Grandma in October, we decided Papa should leave with only his daughters by his side. he didn't wait long. After warming up from the cold with the wine, the call came and we shivered; some sort of primeval form of shock, I guess. We had to face the fact that we have to grow up now. We're both 36; she grew up on the east coast, I grew up in Iowa, but she's more my sister than my cousin and our loss is keen... and dulled by disbelief that a chapter in our existence is closed.
We reminisced. We cried. We laughed. We mourned something that cannot be put into words because its bigger than words; bigger than death; bigger than a person. We never had to prove ourselves to Papa and Grandma; there was acceptance that never had to be earned and it never wavered. No matter what we did, we were "good kids" and loved unconditionally; accepted without restraint or strings attached; no behavioral modification necessary.
Early this morning, after I got the kids off to school; when sleep finally came for a brief 45 minutes, I dreamed that I looked out my window and saw a blanket-fort. Under the hanging sheets, was an outdoor glider rocker holding 2 people. In my dream I ran to the door and I rushed outside and they asked, "What do you need, honey?" And I sat down at their feet and I looked up at them and said, "I just need to see your faces one more time."
I woke up sobbing; and there was no blanket fort outside my bedroom window.
Now I have to grow up. This mocha is good.
As it was with Grandma in October, we decided Papa should leave with only his daughters by his side. he didn't wait long. After warming up from the cold with the wine, the call came and we shivered; some sort of primeval form of shock, I guess. We had to face the fact that we have to grow up now. We're both 36; she grew up on the east coast, I grew up in Iowa, but she's more my sister than my cousin and our loss is keen... and dulled by disbelief that a chapter in our existence is closed.
We reminisced. We cried. We laughed. We mourned something that cannot be put into words because its bigger than words; bigger than death; bigger than a person. We never had to prove ourselves to Papa and Grandma; there was acceptance that never had to be earned and it never wavered. No matter what we did, we were "good kids" and loved unconditionally; accepted without restraint or strings attached; no behavioral modification necessary.
Early this morning, after I got the kids off to school; when sleep finally came for a brief 45 minutes, I dreamed that I looked out my window and saw a blanket-fort. Under the hanging sheets, was an outdoor glider rocker holding 2 people. In my dream I ran to the door and I rushed outside and they asked, "What do you need, honey?" And I sat down at their feet and I looked up at them and said, "I just need to see your faces one more time."
I woke up sobbing; and there was no blanket fort outside my bedroom window.
Now I have to grow up. This mocha is good.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Life is Messy (and so is this post)
It’s about a quarter to midnight, but I’m not sleepy. I’m sitting by my Papa Eric Gustafson’s bedside at the Great River Hospice House. He’s nearly ninety-four years old, so it seems silly to say “he’s terminal.” I mean, really; he’s ninety-four.
But still…
This is my second experience with Hospice care in just over two months. In late October, Papa’s wife of 68 years, my Grandma Betty Gustafson, went to be with Jesus after a short battle with lymphoma. She was “with it” until nearly the end, surrounded by her family and the music she loved and she barely felt any pain.
Not so with Papa.
We’ve been “losing him” for several years to progressive dementia, although until recently he was physically healthy (for someone in his 90s!) The moments he’s understood who I am and how I’m related to him have been few and far between, but he knows my face and my voice are familiar and I think my presence gives him comfort.
A few short evenings ago, my cousin was here and we helped Papa eat a meal of pancakes and coffee, which he enjoyed. We received the usual blessing, “May the Lord bless you and keep you, make his face shine at you… I forget the rest” without knowing that Papa had just had his last cup of coffee; or that his last sparkling word would be, “Coffee?” In that tone that could have just as easily said, “Manna?” or “A Million Dollars?”
This, as a last word, may not be monumental for your average American, but for our Papa Eric, still a citizen of his native Sweden, coffee was more a part of his life than that the combined residents of Seattle could even dream. He has since tried to speak, but his throat is dry, words don’t work. The hand that helped bring those syrupy bites to his mouth is too weak to even make the trip from his side to his chest.
Papa’s condition has progressively worsened; instead of black coffee, morphine is now an ever-half-hourly requirement, as well as some other periodic pain med which I can’t remember its name. He tries to communicate with his eyebrows and his smile muscles-- the words don’t work and the smile never quite appears. His eyes have dimmed and only one seems to really open, and it a sliver. But I wonder…
They say that some of our senses, especially hearing, sharpen near the end; and the skin can become so sensitive that all but the lightest of touches is excruciating. I wonder if God has given Papa the gift of knowing who I am again for these few hours, to get the comfort which comes from the company of a much-loved family member. I hope so, but I’ll never know till heaven. He can’t tell me now. But he squeezes my hand, he uses his eyebrows… he opens that one eye just a slit when I tell him I love him.
I spent the night with him. Just he and I and the morphine drip. I told him about the two books I’ve written; I’d never mentioned them before… and for good reason. By time I started writing in earnest, Papa rarely knew who I was; but all of a sudden, it seemed as if he did. That could have been God’s gift to him… or maybe God’s gift from me. or both. Either way, God is good. When I told Papa my dream of seeing my books on a bookstore shelf someday, the look that crossed his face in that moment will stay in my mind forever. With only his eyebrows and his chin, he gave me affirmation; it was almost as if he was saying, “And won’t that be something!”
It is not easy to see him in pain… and it’s getting worse.
I haven’t written a lot of personal stuff in this blog before today; it’s a safety issue. Not that I’m all that worried about cyber-stalkers (let’s face it: this blog doesn’t get that many hits!) But so few people know me well enough to “roll with it” that I just hesitate before vomiting my personal life out into the world because life stuff gets messy and ugly and painful; because I can’t cut and paste my personal pain in succinct little edits or flowing literary prose. Case in point: the former sentence: a complete run-on; an English teacher’s nightmare. But that’s life; it’s either so messy that it’s breaking all the rules, and quite possibly ripping your heart out, or so boring that nobody even cares.
Right now, it’s breaking all the rules of order. It’s a run-on sentence with too many ellipses. (The dot, dot, dot which leaves a thought hanging); at this moment, as death approaches a loving fixture in my life, my mind is littered with poor punctuation, randomness, and inconsistent time-jumping through a fog of memory vs. “the now.”
So, unlike other posts, which I’ve been careful to edit and spell-check and de-clutter, I’m leaving this one as-is: in all its vomitous glory. Because, most of the time, the mirror of fiction is kind to its more imperfect reflector. Truth can get pretty messy and you can't even get a window between yourself and it's ugliness; let alone a detached reflective surface…
This whole losing-a-generation-of-your-family-in-the-space-of-two-months stuff really sucks. The end.
But still…
This is my second experience with Hospice care in just over two months. In late October, Papa’s wife of 68 years, my Grandma Betty Gustafson, went to be with Jesus after a short battle with lymphoma. She was “with it” until nearly the end, surrounded by her family and the music she loved and she barely felt any pain.
Not so with Papa.
We’ve been “losing him” for several years to progressive dementia, although until recently he was physically healthy (for someone in his 90s!) The moments he’s understood who I am and how I’m related to him have been few and far between, but he knows my face and my voice are familiar and I think my presence gives him comfort.
A few short evenings ago, my cousin was here and we helped Papa eat a meal of pancakes and coffee, which he enjoyed. We received the usual blessing, “May the Lord bless you and keep you, make his face shine at you… I forget the rest” without knowing that Papa had just had his last cup of coffee; or that his last sparkling word would be, “Coffee?” In that tone that could have just as easily said, “Manna?” or “A Million Dollars?”
This, as a last word, may not be monumental for your average American, but for our Papa Eric, still a citizen of his native Sweden, coffee was more a part of his life than that the combined residents of Seattle could even dream. He has since tried to speak, but his throat is dry, words don’t work. The hand that helped bring those syrupy bites to his mouth is too weak to even make the trip from his side to his chest.
Papa’s condition has progressively worsened; instead of black coffee, morphine is now an ever-half-hourly requirement, as well as some other periodic pain med which I can’t remember its name. He tries to communicate with his eyebrows and his smile muscles-- the words don’t work and the smile never quite appears. His eyes have dimmed and only one seems to really open, and it a sliver. But I wonder…
They say that some of our senses, especially hearing, sharpen near the end; and the skin can become so sensitive that all but the lightest of touches is excruciating. I wonder if God has given Papa the gift of knowing who I am again for these few hours, to get the comfort which comes from the company of a much-loved family member. I hope so, but I’ll never know till heaven. He can’t tell me now. But he squeezes my hand, he uses his eyebrows… he opens that one eye just a slit when I tell him I love him.
I spent the night with him. Just he and I and the morphine drip. I told him about the two books I’ve written; I’d never mentioned them before… and for good reason. By time I started writing in earnest, Papa rarely knew who I was; but all of a sudden, it seemed as if he did. That could have been God’s gift to him… or maybe God’s gift from me. or both. Either way, God is good. When I told Papa my dream of seeing my books on a bookstore shelf someday, the look that crossed his face in that moment will stay in my mind forever. With only his eyebrows and his chin, he gave me affirmation; it was almost as if he was saying, “And won’t that be something!”
It is not easy to see him in pain… and it’s getting worse.
I haven’t written a lot of personal stuff in this blog before today; it’s a safety issue. Not that I’m all that worried about cyber-stalkers (let’s face it: this blog doesn’t get that many hits!) But so few people know me well enough to “roll with it” that I just hesitate before vomiting my personal life out into the world because life stuff gets messy and ugly and painful; because I can’t cut and paste my personal pain in succinct little edits or flowing literary prose. Case in point: the former sentence: a complete run-on; an English teacher’s nightmare. But that’s life; it’s either so messy that it’s breaking all the rules, and quite possibly ripping your heart out, or so boring that nobody even cares.
Right now, it’s breaking all the rules of order. It’s a run-on sentence with too many ellipses. (The dot, dot, dot which leaves a thought hanging); at this moment, as death approaches a loving fixture in my life, my mind is littered with poor punctuation, randomness, and inconsistent time-jumping through a fog of memory vs. “the now.”
So, unlike other posts, which I’ve been careful to edit and spell-check and de-clutter, I’m leaving this one as-is: in all its vomitous glory. Because, most of the time, the mirror of fiction is kind to its more imperfect reflector. Truth can get pretty messy and you can't even get a window between yourself and it's ugliness; let alone a detached reflective surface…
This whole losing-a-generation-of-your-family-in-the-space-of-two-months stuff really sucks. The end.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
I've been substitute teaching 9th and 10th grade literature this past week. The classroom I use is liberally papered with posters and postcards bearing photographs and painted portraits of famous authors and poets. As I was gazing upon the faces of these masters (such as Dickens, Austen, Hardy, Hemingway, Angelou, etc) I discovered something.
Within the eyes of some of the world's greatest writers, there seems to be a sort of tortured but expectant vacancy. This vacancy is not a lack of intelligence or even attention, but rather the expression of a mind which has been utterly splintered by imagination; a view within a source of living creative energy which is so prismatic in its make-up that it cannot be still in even the most mundane circumstance, as I would imagine sitting for a portrait would be.
The creative giant is ever listening to the mythological Muse; she can never be completely content in the moment because a stream of imaginary moments are constantly flirting with each other in the background. Scenes and scenery, action and reaction; particular voices, which reside within the writers' minds may be yelling or whispering, but they are consistent in their chomping at the bit; their anxiety in waiting for this writer to finish whatever current business is occupying her and let them out to BREATHE.
So I need to learn from the masters. Inhale, exhale... and let them out at the appropriate time (those sweet uninterrupted hours I spend alone with my keyboard and screen.) I need to allow for the vacancy without letting it damage my ability to be in the "now"; I need to be ever watchful for when the real and the imagined collide in epiphany ... because Fiction Mirrors Truth.
Within the eyes of some of the world's greatest writers, there seems to be a sort of tortured but expectant vacancy. This vacancy is not a lack of intelligence or even attention, but rather the expression of a mind which has been utterly splintered by imagination; a view within a source of living creative energy which is so prismatic in its make-up that it cannot be still in even the most mundane circumstance, as I would imagine sitting for a portrait would be.
The creative giant is ever listening to the mythological Muse; she can never be completely content in the moment because a stream of imaginary moments are constantly flirting with each other in the background. Scenes and scenery, action and reaction; particular voices, which reside within the writers' minds may be yelling or whispering, but they are consistent in their chomping at the bit; their anxiety in waiting for this writer to finish whatever current business is occupying her and let them out to BREATHE.
So I need to learn from the masters. Inhale, exhale... and let them out at the appropriate time (those sweet uninterrupted hours I spend alone with my keyboard and screen.) I need to allow for the vacancy without letting it damage my ability to be in the "now"; I need to be ever watchful for when the real and the imagined collide in epiphany ... because Fiction Mirrors Truth.
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