Stars and Satellites

This morning, I came downstairs at 4:55a.m. The lasagna that we made last night was still on the counter, and after quickly storing it into the fridge and crossing my fingers that we wouldn't die by food poisoning (and changing my plans to drop that off with Sunny and Calvin and their baby), I went outside to breathe in the crisp morning air.

The crescent moon and an array of stars greeted me. 

Soon, satellites streaming across the sky captured my attention as well. One after another, the bright lights paraded methodically, in a silent march from one end of the sky to the other, always moving in the same direction. Not five minutes can pass without one of these speedy lights hurtling through the morning sky. 

Meanwhile, the moon and the twinkling stars held their gaze, unwavering in their resolve to remind me of the constancy of certain things.

This week begins a new season: for the first time in five years, no readings, essays, or final projects. I wish that I could define with more clarity what Fuller has been about, but unlike my previous schooling experiences, this process has felt less focused, more expansive, exhausting, and a bit like checking off a box, which I don't typically enjoy doing. Working at SFLC, taking a huge step back from church ministry, while also keeping a pulse on academic work have led to a confusing re-shifting of my center of gravity. 

Perhaps that's why stars and satellites captured my attention this morning. In the midst of change, what will remain constant? How has God been faithful through it all? How have I been faithful (or not)? Where does God intend to lead me/us?

Seanachie

Seanachie, a Gaelic word meaning "storycatcher." In traditional Irish towns, a storycatcher's role was to unearth, gather, and share stories to strengthen and bind people to one another. 

I used to live my life in bullet points: daily journaling, careful check lists, religious documentation of each detail, thought, and task. Governed by lines, notes, and rhythms scripted out by composers living and dead, their imagination dictated how my piano fingers would move. In high school geometry class, I loved the satisfaction of solving proofs, of seeing things line up neatly, just right, just so. I thought this was just how things were supposed to be.

Then came the summer of Shakespeare, of seeing poetry and the human heart (both physical and metaphorical), through the eyes of Dr. John Stone, who starts each day with musical listening. The walls of his house, lined with thousands of records, cassette tapes, and CDs, breathed stories, lyrics, and tales of longing, beauty, tragedy. Music, to me at the time, was a vehicle for self-expression and if I were being honest, of proving my worth to the world.  I may not have been the world's premier pianist, but in my little corner, this skill allowed me to glitter and shine. Dr. Stone, however, saw through all of that. I had planned to stop by his house, just for a short visit, and pick up the recommendation letter he wrote on my behalf for graduate school.  Yet he made sure that my visit was not just another task to complete in my seemingly never-ending check list.   

"Which piece of music would you like to listen to?" 

He asked with such gentleness and curiosity, I could not say 'no' to sparing a few minutes to sit in quietness.  We listened together to Samuel Barber.  I realized just how beautiful, intimate, and centering it felt to be given the gift of presence.  I also noticed how rare it is to experience this pause, this human-to-human connection where nothing was demanded, only offered as a gift.

My journey of becoming a spiritual director is mysterious, explained only by the lyrical call of music that wafts in from behind a door that is slightly ajar, light beaming in from the other side. I often laugh at God's sense of humor - taking a type A personality like mine and gifting her with a desire to become still on behalf of others. It's hard work to rest for someone like me.  And yet, these glimpses of God's peace that surpasses all understanding continue to invite me into spaces of wonder, much like Dr. Stone's playful invitation to listen, enjoy, and appreciate the beauty that's all around us.   

Seanachie - "storycatcher." I love this new word, now twirling around in my consciousness as a posture, a vocation, an aspiration, a living into of my true self, a response to who God is and who He is shaping me to become.  

        

A letter to my daughter

Dear Zoe,

On Thursday, March 25th, you will go back to school for the first time after a full year of being at home due to the pandemic.  You will don your Pokemon backpack - the one we found at Target last week, the one that made your eyes light up, the one that you were quick to give up out of love for your brother when we saw the last bag on sale.  You had said without missing a beat, "We should give that to J.  He will like it."  Even at such a young age, you instinctively understood the importance of self-sacrifice.  I don't know if we taught that to you, or whether it was already in your nature, but there was something beautiful about this action that came so naturally and easily for you.    

God was gracious to you, knowing that your little heart would be proud of owning this bag and showing it off to your teachers and your kindergarten classmates.  It would be your way of showing the world that you belonged to this Pokemon cult, and perhaps, even show that you belonged, period.  And so, after rummaging around for a few minutes, when I saw an identical one hiding behind a nondescript backpack, I just had to satisfy the desires of your heart.

When we got home, I made sure that your brother understood what you were willing to do, because he, being the first born, is accustomed to having a place of privilege, of being the first in everything.  He may not understand this wisdom yet, but I do hope that he will one day embody the privilege of being first: those who want to lead must always be mindful of looking around, looking behind, and looking to make sure that those who come after are honored.  The first shall be last and the last shall be first.  This is the way of Jesus.  

The other day, we went to Trum Field to play.  You tried to fly a styrofoam airplane while your brother kicked his soccer ball.  Your plane never got too far off the ground, but you didn't care.  You were laughing, basking in the sunshine, and enjoying the simple act of trying to do something fun.  I pray that you will hold onto that innocence and joy for as long as you live.  

When you go off to school on Thursday, I will say goodbye from outside the classroom door, feeling both relieved that you will once again be in the company of kind teachers and rambunctious classmates and sad that we will have less time to spend together.  We sure had fun reading together under your favorite fluffy blanket, making cardboard houses for your Pokemon figures, and crashing Joshua's Zoom classes, didn't we?  I am grateful, however, that I will be there to pick up after school and hear all about your day.  Of course, there will be spring and summer vacations, where we'll be stuck together like glue until school starts up again in the fall.  There is a season for all things, my dear.  Today is a new day, where you will get to explore new adventures, meet new friends in person, and learn new things that I hope you will bring back to share with us over dinner.  

May God continue to surprise you with joy and may He be close to you as you walk through this new day. 

This is me at 40

 

I am not afraid anymore 

to let my hair down

to play, yell, smile, smolder, wonder

without thinking too much 

whether I should or shouldn't.

I kicked down a new decade, a new door --

broke two boards without knowing whether I could

but I did, not once but twice

on my first time trying

and I'll try again 

'til I can jump and kick all at once

without fear of landing flat on my face

and even if I did, I will rise

again

again

again.

Being inspired

Lately, I've been reading The Hole in the Gospel by Rich Stearns, president of World Vision. The book gives one much food for thought. He speaks from the perspective of one who is well-acquainted with wealth and its lures and traps, yet at the same time, he challenges us to step out of our current paradigms and see the role of the church in bringing healing and redemption to the world's ailing issues. I marvel at his dreams -- they are big dreams -- eradicating world poverty, getting Christians (and non-Christians alike) to donate billions of dollars to help people across the world, finding ways to curb the AIDS epidemic, just to name a few.

I'm inspired, yet at the same time at a loss. I'm inspired that he dares to dream so big and is undaunted in the face of such huge challenges. If Rich Stearns can be so motivated, surely, I can too. God has given me many resources, riches, connections -- if I don't utilize these blessings for the good of others, I would have wasted them.

Yet I am also at a loss because I don't know where to begin. How can I, a school teacher, begin to unravel what it means to reach out to the world's poor? Do I begin in my classroom? with my own wallet? volunteer at a soup kitchen? do I organize trips to impoverished countries or be a part of fundraising campaigns here in the States? What has God placed on our hearts to do?

Sometimes, you just gotta do it

It's been welling up inside of me these past couple of days -- this murky, nondescript substance called listlessness. It caught me by surprise this time, for all else had been going well -- I loved my new routine, my students, my job -- and then bam. The sickness could have been it, or maybe the change in weather. I'd like to blame it on the flu, but I know better. There's a deeper reason for these gray clouds sinking in the horizon. The only trouble is, I don't know what the reasons are.

Is this what becoming old feels like? One settles, becomes complacent, begins to care less about what could be and should be and is concerned with simply what is. How does one's soul grow old and why does mine feel twenty years older than it should? How does one keep her spirit alive, her soul continuously fresh and revived despite disappointments and delays, day in, day out?

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it fester like a raisin in the sun or fester like a sore then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

There was a time when I used to dream. I used to dream big. Now I don't dream anymore -- it's safer not to.

I defy you. You, who have grown old. You, who have stopped dreaming. You, who taunt my yesterdays with nightmares about tomorrow. Who are you? You are nobody. You exist only to pull me down, and I defy all that you stand for -- apathy, listlessness, complacency. You have no place in my life.

You, who still dream, love, write, make poetry -- you I want. You, who see beauty in even small things -- you I want. You, who take time to revel in God's creation -- you I want.

Take this old self and make it new.

Rape

She is swallowed

bite by bite

her tongue tied by invisible cords

taut against her chest

afraid to expose once more

and feel naked

-- forced --

without being asked.

 

I probe

like a dentist against cavity walls

scraping, scratching a surface hardened...

Words fail me.