The Creative's Submission

I relate to God most as Creator. I don’t know why this is, only that I, too, like to create—to make beauty, meaning, and form from what is around me. I like to synthesize ideas, objects, and words into newness, breathing life into the old in fresh and innovative ways. I see these characteristics in God, a God who creates something out of nothing, the earth, all of creation. I see these characteristics in a God who synthesizes our lives with one another, creating story and form. I see these characteristics in a God who crafts circumstances where Kingdom moments penetrate the dullness of the day to day on earth—where a new order (an order founded on covenantal love) can be seen as the law of the land.

Ever since I began listening to the voice of the Spirit and yoking my dreams in submission to what I sense is the path of obedience, I’ve experienced an intuition of “what is to come.” I can recall concrete times where I experienced a knowing in the unknowing, and defying all logic pursued a path that appeared entirely left field. It is due to this intuitive drive that I’ve arrived where I am at today—working for a non-profit with an alignment towards knowing the Kingdom of God on earth by creating space for unlikely partnerships, living in a community house where we practice covenantal love and the “one anothers,” and offering my skillsets and time towards the advancement of movements of justice and shalom nationwide. I still remember the day where I decided I would finish my degree but no longer pursue Film Production, the letting go of that decaying dream feeling like the ultimate loss of control. But through the process, God has shown me that though I may be led to walk off cliffs (and onto a tight string held across the canyon), I am led just the same. I can trust God’s leadership—the voice of the Spirit—in my life. God has proven Godself to be consistent, and I have appreciated that.

This is why the last year of my life has been incredibly disorienting on my spiritual journey. As I thought of the future, intuition led me to doors and dreams that were bold and beautiful and I was convinced that I was being led to open them. But imagine my confusion when upon approaching these doors, I found them closed with no handle or key. I stayed in a state of denial for months, staring at the closed doors, convinced that something must have been communicated wrong. I was positive that I was Spirit-led here. But when I finally was able to tell myself the truth “That door is actually closed,” I turned to God in anger. I felt that God had betrayed our intimate trust by leading me to a closed door. I felt like I couldn’t turn to God for consistency in leadership. I began to ignore God completely because I felt so hurt.

It is hard to lead a life when you’re in an argument with the one you love, and my spirit has felt so very numb in this last year because of it. If I could not trust God to lead me, the One who is covenantal, ever-faithful, and intimately present, whom could I trust? Humans cannot compare—God is the only one I want. My thirst is deep for that intimate communion. Apart from this communion I am nothing, (and I say this not in a codependent way, although it may sound as such.) My days were spent in a haze, kneading daily bread with my eyes empty and glazed over just trying to make it by. Soon I realized that I needed to take action and work through this and stop being a stubborn ox, or my soul would soon be in decay from bitterness.

And so I went to Hawai’i. Like Jacob, God and I would wrestle this out. I was through with living in the empty haze, and through with the hurt I felt at God. And so in Hawai’i while I was staying at the monastery I opened up all the hurts turned into bitterness that I had been holding onto for a year. And I walked the stations of the cross path at the monastery in the mountains and wept and wailed for hours on end. And I yelled at God and said I was angry and sad, and that God was mean. And I allowed myself to embody the deep hurt that had no resolution but to be let go. And I begged for answers, for direction, for guidance. And when I was finally done crying there was still no resolution, no blessing from God like Jacob received, but just my whimpering spirit that asked God to never lead me to love closed doors again. And that was the end of it. The mountains stood witness to the moment, and I allowed the land around me to speak bittersweet healing into my spirit. 

That night was the lowest of lows, the night where I realized that even as I had let go of the bitterness in order to reconcile with God, that God had given no answers, no direction, and I still felt like I was floundering under lack of confirmation of direction. I was at the end. But it’s funny to me, how the end is sometimes the beginning. This is another mystical paradox that I seem to experience, over and over again. The next day I awoke and randomly attended a Young Adult Catholic Retreat where I received surprising confirmation upon confirmation, and open doors and affirming words. And as the next nine days passed by the confirmations only continued from different communities of people in Hawai’i, all who love Jesus but whom don’t know each other. There were confirmations from strangers at Starbucks, from strangers in restaurants, from the strangest of places and always catching me off guard. Without a doubt I knew that the Spirit was speaking through the Church and I laughed with the bone-deep laughter of Sarah when God told her she would bear a child at her old age. It was a laughter of acceptance, a laughter of peace. A laughter that knew that I was being Spirit-led all along, I was just looking at the wrong door.

I am in my room in Akron, spontaneously re-arranging my furniture to empty floor space so I can make a day-bed. I am in a creative fervor, not entirely conscious in the moment and yet hyper aware of all that is around me. I’m grabbing blankets, pillows, visualizing what has yet to be seen. This is the intuition of creativity, the synthesizing of things coming together. I roll the blanket up, creating a makeshift pillow, and toss my $6 fish throw pillow on top. Looking to my right, I spy my childhood quilt blanket, and sense that it will contrast well with the arrows of the comforter so I toss it on top. I straighten out the edges and know that the project is finished. Taking a step back, I marvel at the creation. The pieces were scattered throughout my room, and on their own make sense but together they make something beautiful. 

It strikes me as funny, really. I’ve been discontent with my room for months, knowing that it needed “something” but not knowing what that “something” was. I thought around it for months, but nothing was rising to the surface. Something I’ve learned is that you can’t force creativity. Whenever things fall into place, things fall into place. I feel myself smiling, looking at the day-bed. No longer is it about the day-bed, but it’s about closed doors and bitterness and impatience and the last year of my spiritual life. You can’t force doors to open. If they will open, they will open.

The script is not mine to write, the canvas not mine to paint, and the dance not mine to choreograph: “Thy will be done.” And as much as I’d stubbornly like to think I know the best story to tell, I am reminded once again that the reality is that God is the Master Storyteller who has been faithful in leading me all along (and doing it WAY longer than I have), synthesizing the different-patterned pieces together as it best makes sense—not as it’s most convenient to my impatient, “now”-oriented spirit.  

I relate to God most as Creator. I don’t know why this is, only that I, too, like to create—to make beauty, meaning, and form from what is around me.

May Your story be told. 

5.5.16

Let the tension go, like waves emanating from you. You are a speck of dust in a vast universe. 

Give little kisses to those around you. Hold them with the delicacy of the stars for tomorrow is never promised and today may be full of trauma. 

We gasp today like people just above water. But still we swim. But still we swim. 

This is the mystery of resilience, the groanings of the oppressed.

Solidarity

It has been a rough week in the neighborhood. People I love are going through some real stuff, and I’m feeling the weight of the onslaught of trauma. As a person inclined to be a “helper,” it’s difficult for me to sit back and watch things unfold without directly involving myself, and as a person with intuitive empathy, it’s difficult to not absorb other’s experiences directly into my own person.

Lately I’ve been questioning why I’ve chosen to live in an environment that can be high chaos, unpredictable, and overall intense. I’m questioning this not because I don’t see the value in living where I do, but because I don’t see how my presence changes anything or will change anything even if I stay here for decades. There will still be chaos, there will still be unpredictability, and things will still be intense in my community with or without me living there.

It sounds a bit like a “white-savior complex,” but maybe it’s more appropriate to call it a “helper-savior complex.” Although I am white, I think what I’m walking through in this has more to do with my “helper” identity, rather than the reality that I’m white (although I’m sure there’s an intersection in those two factors).

Why would one choose to immerse themselves in pain? Why would one choose to be in pain just to be in pain when one sees that helping will never alleviate it?

Deep down, I guess I think that my presence somehow will stop pain, as if I’m the Messiah. Logically I know I’m not, but my heart is so inclined to step on this helper-savior pedestal.

The Lord is still doing a work in my heart, humbling my person to its rightful place as “not-Messiah” and freeing me up to rest in the tension rather than trying to change the tension. But it is a journey. And it’s a spiritual journey I see myself being on for the rest of my life, which is simultaneously overwhelming and encouraging.

When I look at Jesus, I see One who willingly chose to enter the world—a world that in comparison to where He came was full of trauma. In this I feel a confirmation in my choice to enter living life alongside the marginalized (the powerful unseen) in my context by living in Summit Lake. Some days I don’t know why I’m living in my community, but some days I realize that there’s something in doing so that is deep beyond what I have words for quite yet.

When Jesus entered the pain of the people, I notice that many times He was simply there. His presence was enough. His listening and standing witness to the pain was enough. As I continue to live life alongside my neighbors, live life alongside movements towards justice and just-ness, I ache to get to a place where I can rest in my presence being enough, even as the pain may/will continue.

The Messiness of Healing

I wasn't prepared.

I found myself all at once in a sanctuary full of Christians singing "Let it Rise" and I didn't know what to do with myself. It's not that I haven't been among Christians in months, I have, but I have struggled in entering the structured worship service setting for a long time now. What I thought was going to be a round table meeting turned out to be nothing of the like, and I found myself saying "I wasn't prepared."

I felt my anxiety mounting in the space, and I wanted to run. I wanted to run from whatever it was that was causing distress inside of me. The people gathered were a majority white, smiling crowd--a crowd I also have been avoiding for months now. The two threads--a majority white, smiling crowd and a structured worship service were crossing in an anxiety inducing panic. And to top it all off, we were singing "Let it Rise" which I associate with my childhood and listening to its notes lull me to sleep on the radio.

There are a few things I've learned about anxiety. One is that you don't really see it coming. Another is that it's usually linked to something deeper. A third is that the way towards peace is naming your truth, letting go, and envisioning a new reality. I wasn't prepared to do any of these things. 

But I was prepared to run. I looked over at my friend, panicked. "I didn't know what I was coming to." She looked at me, and spoke wisdom. "I want to challenge you to sit in the discomfort. It's easier for you to run to other cultures--like when we went to the Mon community festival earlier today--then to remain in the complexities and paradoxes of your own." Her words hit me as once as Truth, and I knew that whatever this anxiety was that I had to wade it out once and for all. 

And so the band began "Let it Rise" and all at once all I felt rising within me was a torrential downpour of tears. Immediately I experienced resistance--I did not want to cry in this space. I didn't want to deal with it. The only place I've felt comfortable crying for months has been by myself, because I'm the only one who gets what I'm going through. This is my perception, at least.

But here I was, clearly about to have a breakthrough emotive experience in front of all of these strangers. I had two choices--let it out, or stuff my emotions. I tried stuffing my emotions for about three seconds until it became clear that this wasn't going to happen in this space. I was going to have to submit and allow healing to run it's course. 

And so I did. Eyes closed, the first tears spilled over, and then more, and then more. "Let the glory of the Lord rise among us." Oh Lord. Here it was. More tears, and more tears, and the band continued. "Ohhhhh let it rise." I began taking deep breaths, opening myself up to the music that I associated with childhood.

Before I opened myself up to the pain of the world. Before Jesus ruined my life in the best of ways. Before I was uncomfortable. 

And there was something in this, something in the leaning into that which I associated with the comfort of childhood, that all at once I named as healing. The notes filled my ears and entered my heart, and from my heart were pulsed into all parts of my body. And I opened myself up to the music that once brought comfort and allowed it to sink into my bones. I allowed myself to name that God was in this song, too. 

I allowed myself to name that God was in this song, too, just as God was in the cracks and crevices in the sidewalk in front of my house in Summit Lake. I allowed myself to name that God was in this song, too, just as God was in the black church who loved me lavishly on the streets of Philadelphia. I allowed myself to name that God was in this song, too, just as God was in the psych ward and the flatlands of Bowling Green, and the pigeons of the city, and the land that sifts between my hands. 

God was in this song, too--a song I associated with my childhood and whiteness. And in somehow naming that God was in this song, too, I was naming that God was in my childhood experience of faith, a faith culture I have dismissed as I've dove full-fledged into movements of justice and reconciliation.

But in the midst of all of this, and in the midst of my deep disappointment in the Church and how the Church perpetuates injustice in varying contexts, I find that deep down I have a love for the Church that I cannot shake. And I keep trying to shake it, but as much as I try to hide or run away or not care, I find that I care with a depth that is too much and so therefore it is easier to resign myself to the fact that things will never change rather than think about how to strategically be a part of the change. 

And maybe this is just a part of the healing process. Maybe one day I'll be able to enter back in. But for now I'm in a deep season of lament. Lament on how the Church has not recognized the image of God in others and has perpetuated injustice. Lament on the Church's apathy towards creating more just societies and social structures. Lament that the pain of the world is ignored, and instead covered with a Band-aid "Jesus is Risen!" as if three words (when not fully understood) can wipe away a lifetime of ache. Lament.

But as I sat and listened to the church planters cast a vision, I felt myself have a little spark of hope.

I dunno. Maybe all healing is is just the appearance of a little bit of hope. Or maybe healing is the recognition of beauty and the letting go of bitterness. I dunno, maybe healing is more than both of these. 

All I know is that thirty minutes after arriving back at my home, I found myself in my room pulling out my guitar for the first time in over a year. And my fingers felt the strings that they haven't caressed in months. And my mouth fumbled over the dusty words that my heart hasn't been able to speak. And tears streamed from my eyes as art was the conduit of healing. 

And for the first time in a year, I sang.
And for the first time in a year, I sang. 
And for the first time in a year--I sang.

"Let these bones that You have broken rejoice.
Let these bones that You have broken rejoice.
For You are Good, and Your love is everlasting
In the day to day passing You reign."

When the Grass is Greener on the Other Side

In October of 2016 I sat down to vision cast the next year of my life. I was a few months removed from Mission Year, was starting a new job, living in a new city, and living in an intentional community. The exercise I was using asked you to think of where you'd like to be in 3 months, one year, three years, and your lifetime. As I brainstormed options for each, I found myself listing radical changes when I thought of changes for the next three months. I wanted to completely switch my role at work, dump this and change that--the goals for three months were drastic and reflected my discontent heart in the middle of many transitions.

As I wrote goals to be completed by 2017, I found myself pausing. Intuitively, I knew that there was only one goal I wanted to work towards this year--settling in Akron and being fully present there. Tears streamed down my face, and I knew that this would be the spiritual work of the next year. What does it mean to practice contentment when your heart longs for "elsewhere?"

I recently read a Japanese folk tale called "The Stonecutter." The story speaks of a lowly stonecutter who wishes he was a wealthy merchant so he is transformed into a wealthy merchant. Soon he becomes discontent as a wealthy merchant so he wishes to be something he perceives as more powerful--a prince. Soon he finds himself as discontent and wishing to be something more powerful--the sun. At the end of the folk tale he finds himself as a rock, that which he has perceived as the most powerful. But he soon discovers that a stonecutter has more power than a rock, and finds himself once more where he began.
 
The Lord has been teaching me a lot in the last eight months, and in many ways I've been the Stonecutter--envious, possessive, and discontent. I've been sitting in front of the plot of land I've been gifted and I've been saying to the Gifter "This isn't the land I wanted." I've been staring longingly at another plot of land across the way, convinced that the land across the way will produce "better" fruit. My spirit has been restless and grasping for that which I do not have.

But as the months have passed a slow shift has begun to take place as my spirit has shifted from denial, to anger, to bargaining, and now acceptance. I find myself sitting in front of my plot of Gifted land, my spirit exhausted and weary and raw, but accepting of my reality.

The grass is never greener on the other side, and grief is not a process to be entered lightly. When we chose to enter the pain, transformation is inevitable. But it is always Good.

Intuition tells me that joy will be found in recognizing the gift of the plot in front of me. Intuition tells me that peace will be found in allowing my hands to sink deep within the land and learning its temperature, form, and function. Intuition tells me to lean into the pain of grief and allow my hands to sink deep into earth, for in choosing to say "yes" to one, I say "no" to many, and this is a natural process.

And so I continue to lean into learning how to practice contentment in my here and now in Akron, Ohio. I give myself permission to allow my raw, tear-stained body to rock back and forth in front of the plot of land I've been gifted, hands kneading deeper and deeper into the earth with the practice of faithfulness and contentment.

Through this labor of obedience, my tears will water the land.

And blossoms will rise. 

The Turning Point

A bitter heart is a grieving heart, and my heart has been in the depths of grieving. 

And I find myself now looking back, seeing how difficult it has been for others to sit with my bitter heart for months on end.

And now I find my spirit softening, opening up once more to fall in love again, to move and breathe and allow myself to connect with all that is around me.

I look into her eyes, hesitant to speak what I need to say. "I am so sorry." Tears fall down my face. "I see know how difficult it has been to companion me these last seven months, and I just want to thank you for sticking it out with me."

Tears fill her eyes as I continue on. "I don't really know what's been going on, but I just want you to know that I really do like it here, and I'm thankful. But it has been so, so hard." My head is bowed and I feel vulnerable in my truth.

When I look up all I see is grace. "It has been hard," she says with tear-filled eyes. "But I could see that you would make it through. And I can see that you are making it through."

And we cry and we cry and we cry and in that there's an unspoken acknowledgement that this is both the beauty and the pain of our lives--that in the mountains and in the valleys we show up fully alongside one another.

Because there Love is.

Because there God is. 

Tango

I look up and you're gesturing to me from the front of the dance hall, standing next to all of the rest of the single men. I have coyly covered my blue wristband denoting my single status at this familial style Valentine's Day dance, but it didn't slip your eye. You gesture with a tilt of your head and I stare into your eyes with an inquisitive gaze and a bashful laugh. This is a time for the singles to dance together, and it is clear that I am being invited to the dance floor. I slyly stare at you from the table and take a steady breath, unsure if I want to step into the mystery ahead of me. 

You see, Man, I've grown a lot in the past few years. I've learned that my Womanness is a gift, and that my Womanness is to be treated with honor, dignity, and respect. And I've experienced so many times where you, Man, have crossed those lines and chiseled me down to an object for your pleasure and power rather than an autonomous being with giftings and dreams and passions. So, Man, I am skeptical to dance with you, because I do not believe you to be capable to hold my giftings and Beauty with the Strength that is needed (to use gender socialized terms). 

But I'm also learning, Man, that I don't need your approval, time, or doting to know that I am worthy of honor, dignity, and respect. I'm learning, Man, that my giftings, dreams, and passions need to be known by me, not bestowed on me from you. I'm learning, Man, that my Womanness can exist apart from you, in comparison to all that I've been taught by fairy tales, romance novels, and society at large. I'm learning, Man, that I idolized you and gave you too much of a stake in my heart. 

And so as I stare at you, all this is running through my mind. You can't see any of it, only the sly smile on my face as I look at you from over my hand resting on my chin. You can't see my soul shivering, knowing that if I choose to dance with you that it is symbolic to me of a larger soul change. But I feel that it's time, and so I stand, allowing my Womanness to be fully present in the space. I am at peace with myself as I walk towards the front of the dance hall, burgundy lace dress and leather boots, smiling and shaking my head at you. 

Standing in front of you I have a minor laughing fit because there are only two couples on the floor and one of them are you and I. But I pull myself together in time to first hear your name and then to introduce myself as we shake hands. 

As the music begins I throw my arms around your tall neck and you link yours gently around my waist, and I allow myself to be in the dance. 

We talk about the song (it's not in English and I don't know it), and you share about more events that this community puts on. You invite me to Chinese New Year and other events, and I share a bit about what brought me there that night. It's nice to be physically close to another human. It's nice to small talk into your ear and to accidentally graze cheeks, and to allow myself to trust you enough to hold me. My Womanness is still present, confident, sure. 

As the song progresses, I find myself surprised at how this is going. There's mutual respect, dignity, and honor here, even as there is attraction. I find myself thankful for this moment. The song ends and I look into your eyes, take your hands in mine, squeeze them and gift a surprised and sincere "Thank you." 

You ask if you can buy me a drink, and I laugh but decline. I see your gesture as an initiation, and I don't want to lead you on. You inquire once again, but again I decline, more firmly this time (even as my eyes are kind) and you ask, "You don't drink?" and I say "No, I don't." And I see in your eyes that you respect that, and you respect my Womanness and my "no" (even as I think you wanted to hear a "yes.") 

Healing happens in relationship, and all at once I felt a space of healing within me. My "no" being respected, validated, cherished. Myself and my Womanness being respected, validated, cherished by Man and not chiseled down to an object for pleasure and power. 

I walk back to my seat, smiling and shaking my head, feeling proven so incredibly wrong about my assumptions on how you would treat me.

Sweet man, thank you for that Valentine's Day dance.

Until next time.

-A