Five Minute Friday:: Together

Today I am linking up with Five Minute Friday, a writing exercise where you set a timer for five minutes and write on a specific topic until it chimes at you to lift your fingers from the keyboard. You can join in here!

This week's prompt: TOGETHER
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Alone is clean.

 

Alone is well-ordered.

Alone is never impinged-upon, infringed upon, or barged-in upon.

Alone is me, myself and I and my dreams and get out of my way because I’m the star of this show.

But alone is lonely. And God Himself said that a single person alone—even in paradise—was not a good deal.
The perfectly unified, triune community decided to replicate this one last aspect of Himself in man. He made a marriage, which made a family, which made a populace of others.

And these were not meant to be loners, these others. They must inter-marry and inter-depend and inter-weave their lives and stories. They must bow and submit to each other, honor each other, forgive each other, and a thousand other “each other” verbs that Jesus said and lived.

Broken as we are, together is hard.

Together is messy.

Together is toothpaste in the sink again and forgotten birthdays and hurt feelings and awkward Christmases and forgiveness again and again while we struggle against the urge to live as a hermit.

 

But together is what He asked for that night on His knees. And then he endured the alone to purchase community.

It was messy. It hurt. But He considered it worth it.

Stop

Global Week

Last week our church tried something new.

We have always been a “missional” church. We are dedicated to evangelism and discipleship both here in our college town and overseas. For years, we have had special partnerships with churches overseas in countries like Nigeria, Italy, and Mexico, and we send teams each year to those partners. (Shameless plug for the Italy mission trip! It will change your life!)

We usually talk about the trips in spaced-out spurts: Mexico one week, Nigeria another week.

Not this year.

This year, our leaders decided to streamline, focus, and intensify by creating Global Week: a seven day period of teachings, prayer, worship and information about Jesus' Great Commission. We had a free missions conference by The Traveling Team, a half-night of prayer, info lunches about each mission trip—the works.

To be honest, I was nervous about last week. I was afraid that all this talk of missions would rip the band-aid off the old, unmet desire to go to the ends of the earth. That it would poke the wound raw, stir up the discontent I had almost ignored.

Here is my old pattern:
1) I see a need.
2) It’s huge.
3) My heart breaks.
4) I jump to the rescue.

And just to clarify,“Rescue” usually involves prayer, tears, and an intense desire to sell my car and hop on a plane. In the end, I feel frustrated because I’m here, not there.

Like I said, this is the old pattern.

 On that Sunday as the last session by The Traveling Team ended and we folded our chairs to leave, I realized that something was missing. The heart-wrenching, hopeless, urgent feeling was gone. In its place was a quiet, growing excitement to be so stratigically placed.

I remembered with a jolt that almost every hero of the Traveling Team’s stories was a man or woman whose most meaningful work was the mobilization of students. They were willing to go themselves, but humble enough to realize that God’s glory is often more magnified through community than through a single man or woman's zeal. It made me feel honored—not displaced—to be living here among college students.

After all, what could be more strategic?

He has placed me here. Until he reassigns me, I will be faithful in this place, with these students, with these kids and the kids on our street. At this moment, I simply feel content to pray, trusting that God will tell me the next step.

If you’d like to read more, check out this post, in which I realized that staying and sending can sometimes be radical obedience.

Getting Crafty: Wreath Edition

I got crafty last weekend! Having my mom and sister here always wakes the sleeping artist in me.

I used this tutorial as my inspiration.

After thanksgiving, I may add some red berries or simply remove the camel-colored rosettes to help it transition to the Christmas season.

Ok, more realistically, I'll probably just leave it until July next year. (Those are flowers, right? They could pass for spring...right?)

Five Minute Friday :: "Laundry"

Today I am linking up with Five Minute Friday, a writing exercise where you set a timer for five minutes and write on a specific topic until it chimes at you to lift your fingers from the keyboard. No edits, no back-tracking, just writing for the fun of it. You can join in here!

Today's prompt: "Laundry".

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Hi. I’m a sock.

My friends call me Houdini.

I’m fuzzy on the edges and worn at the toe and I’m an escape artist. My mate and I aren’t really tight these days, so it’s a miracle if you find us clean in the same load.

My cousins are nubbley sweaters and your favorite t-shirts and those jeans that you bought back in college that now look outdated but you love them because nothing else is as comfortable on a Saturday.

We’re a motley crew and we haunt your closet floor, the corner in the bathroom behind the door, and the hidden pockets of your suitcases that you always forget to check after a trip.

Like I said, I’m an escape artist, so I’m the one who missed the basket.

 Again.

 STOP

Soggy

Only three weeks on the job, and already I’m part of an office-wide adventure. In my head, it’s called Operation Soggy.

 

 

If you live near us, you probably woke in the middle of the night this past weekend to torrential rain and an electric light show that shook your house. It was fantastic. When I peeked out the window, the street was a single writhing river of silver and the shadowy trees were bending double under the wind. I grabbed some earplugs, covered my eyes against the lightening, and went back to sleep.

 

 

The next day, I learned that the awesome storm had caused some not-so-awesome flooding in our basement office. 

All the rubber baseboards were removed and thrown in a pile.

They brought in an ARMY of green industrial fans.

Check out the water line outside!

  For now, several of us are temporarily working from the sixth floor of the campus library as the sheet rock is replaced, soggy documents are rescued, and the army of green fans blow round the clock.

SCW: Aware of Cellulite and Grace

She was standing there, young, athletic and ridiculously beautiful, the mascara wand forgotten in her hand as she appraised me. She turned back to our shared mirror.

"It seems like there sure are a lot of married people in this group. Lots of y'all are older."

It was such a tiny comment, dropped like an afterthought into a whole conversation, but it stung.

I think I responded with a laugh and a fumbled something about people who choose to stay and help other lives change after they have been impacted themslelves and yadda yadda. (Which, by the way, I totally believe!) Suddenly, I was very aware of my cellulite and the new little lines around my eyes. I hoped she didn't think I was creepy or weird or that she had stumbled into a group of old people.

If this sounds like a familiar refrain, you're probably remembering an earlier post about my mid-twenties crisis. Yeah. That.

But there is a reason that this post's title isn't "Crisis #2"--because it wasn't. It stung in the moment, but I was able to take a deep breath and keep talking, keep listening, keep loving.

I think this means healing.

One of the best parts that weekend was the sweet camaraderie between us four.

We sat together in the dark on the cooling ground, watching constellations turn imperceptibly overhead. We slept with our heads close together on air mattresses. We talked over cocoa and coffee.

There was silliness.

There were ant bites.

There were marshmallow smears on my jeans from fireside s’more making.

There were heartfelt prayers for students by students at the back of the worship hall.

And even though my insecurities are still there, there is healing happening in my heart and I feel so glad for the chance to be an auxiliary part of this thing we call college ministry.

Five Minute Friday: "Write"

I follow a blog by a mommy from South Africa. She writes real and deep and often, and I get courage from her going into the mothering world ahead of me.

Every Friday, she hosts a kind of free-write flash mob on her blog. This is how she explains it:

 

"On Fridays around these parts we like to write.

Not for comments or traffic or anyone else’s agenda. But for fun, for practice, for joy at the sound of syllables, sentences and paragraphs all strung together by the voice of the speaker. We love to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. For five minutes flat. All on the same topic. Not sure how to participate – the step-by-step directions are over here: Here’s how we do it:

1. Write for 5 minutes flat with no editing, tweaking or self critiquing.

2. Link back here and invite others to join in .

3. Go and tell the person who linked up before you what their words meant to you. Every writer longs to feel heard. OK, are you ready? Give us your best five minutes for the prompt: - See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/2013/07/five-minute-friday-beautiful/#sthash.ub47n92a.dpuf"

 

 

SO...here is my unedited, five-minute contribution to the fun! The prompt: "WRITE"

 

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A word spoken is a magical thing. Released into the space between speaker and hearer, it has the power either to create or destroy. Its meaning can be lost in tone or word choice, misconstrued by insecurities or word choice, forgotten or remembered for years. But it can never be unsaid.

 

All this power for a spoken word, that lasts only a moment in the vibrating air.

 

But a written word—or a string of them? Well, that has power with permanence.

 

Last night I began reading “1985”. Somehow I managed to skip reading this high school literature staple. I’m only three chapters in, and already I feel sick on behalf of Winston. He is caught in a world without tragedy or love, where truth is lie and he is not even sure of the date.

 

Knowing he commits the ultimate crime, he begins a journal. He writes. It is a physical extension of the few cubic inches between his ears that, until now, has been his only private domain. He writes in fear, but with reckless courage, because words on a page have the power of permenance to condemn him and make his thoughts real. He writes for a future that may never acknowledge or know him.

 

I feel thankful for a world without Big Brother, without a telescreen watching my every move. I can think without crime, write without fear.

 

But Winston has reminded me of my power.

 

A few taps, and words exist in a cyberspace that never forgets. A few careless keystrokes can have the power to build up or destroy in a far more permanent way than simply talking.

Back on campus

Somewhere above me, the sun is warm. The desk curves spacious to my left and a new sticky pad perches next to my complicated phone. It rings. I catch myself because the old greeting no longer fits.

"Office of Graduate and Professional Studies, how can I help you?"

There. I said it without stuttering. 

If you haven't heard the news yet, here it is: I GOT A NEW JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

After thirteen months in banking, I am back on our beautiful, bustling, homey campus. A shiny new parking pass swings from my rearview mirror like an old friend and I work in the basement heart of a dorm lounge, which is a strange place to process paperwork, but renovations will be beautiful she says. Her glance swings over the boxes and cramped filing cabinets that line the walls of our underground office, and I'm thankful I wasn't hired yet when they moved here.

Two weeks ago I was greeting customers; now I greet students. They come with varying degrees of anxiety of their faces, handing in wrinkled papers that have passed through five different hands as they collected signatures. Even though I have very few answers to offer, my favorite moments have come when kindness, costing me nothing, earns me a look of sheer relief and gratitude.

I feel a lot of gratitude these days!

For work at eight, instead of seven.
For the chocolate cupcakes that my boss brought to my last day at the bank.
For the eight luxurious days I'll have off at Christmas--stuff bankers can only dream of.
For jeans on Fridays and free coffee.
For access to thousands of books and online journals through the University library.
And best of all, I'm on campus.

Ever since graduation, I have missed the easy accessibility to the student world that made conversations with them between classes over coffee or luches a more-often thing. I was working only two miles away, but it may as well have been fifty. Now I am literally working fifteen feet below some of my friends' dorm rooms!

Let the lunches commence!

"He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me." (Ps. 18:19)