Memory Lane

I was going through an old, forgotten file on my computer today and came across some pictures from my study abroad time in Argentina. A lot of them really took me back and made me smile, like this one of me playing with the children from my church's soup kitchen:

Or this one of Karin and me at Iguazu Falls:

Some of them even made me laugh out loud, like this pic of my friend Wendy, posing with the dancing empanadas:

And some pictures reminded me of the sadder, less amusing sights I saw while there:

I have to say, though, that I was most transported by the photographs of the estancia we visited in San Antonio de Areco. On a lawn encircled by stucco walled villas and fences crawling with flowering vines, tables were set up for us to eat lunch. The weather was warm, the air was sweet, and it was some of the best food of my life.

And after our almuerzo, we rode horses across endless prairie, guided by true gauchos.

The dreamer in me can't help but romanticise a place like that.

Maybe someday I'll go back. Or at least, set a story there.

Warning: This post is incredibly deep and meaningful. {Insert sarcasm here.}

So... sometimes after school Charlie and I play this game where we each draw a picture. There's only one major rule in this game - one of us contributes a subject and the other contributes a verb, and then both those things must appear in our drawings. For instance, I might say, "wind surfing", and Charlie might say, "Perry the Platypus", in which case, each of our drawings would have to include Perry the Platypus and windsurfing in some creative way.

Recently when we played this game, I contributed the subject of "Mario Bros". And, true to form, Charlie contributed the verb of "farting".

Here were the results:

First, Charlie's.

(I love how Bowser is on the right side, screaming, "Noooo!" to the SBD bomb Mario has just released.

I also love the spelling of "fart".)

Oh, little boys. Ha.

And this one was mine:

I know, not nearly as exciting.

Sit back and grab a soda-pop; I have a feeling this is gonna be a long one...

Almost exactly two weeks ago, Jake and I were arriving home from a trip to Myrtle Beach (to visit my parents after Christmas) when the "check engine" light came on in his car. Jake parked the car in front of our apartment, we unloaded our trunk-ful of new presents, and then we came back outside to examine the problem. Jake popped the hood and started digging around. I don't know the first thing about that stuff, so I stood there and looked pretty.

Almost immediately from around the corner came a man and a boy. The boy was walking a dog. (This detail bears no significance to the story; in fact, neither the boy or the dog matter at all in this story, but still, it's true - there was a boy and he was walking a dog. The man, however, does matter.) The man - who later introduced himself as Mark - noticed Jake - whose head was bent over the engine of his rav4 - and stopped to ask about the problem. Turns out, Mark was a mechanic.

Now recently, our pastor at church spoke about hearing God's voice and how God chooses to speak to us through a variety of methods, one of which is our circumstances. God sometimes speaks to us through our circumstances.

I can't exactly explain it, but when Mark came out of nowhere, announcing to us that he was an auto mechanic, Jake and I both felt a sense of God's provision. No sooner had Jake popped the hood of the rav than a mechanic appeared! And without us even asking, Mark offered to take a look at the car. This felt very providential, and we were both excited about that.

Well... to make a long, drawn-out story much shorter than it was in real time, things did not quite work out as swimmingly as Jake and I may have initially hoped. Mark diagnosed that the problem was with the oil tank - there was a crack in the seal... er, something... and he would fix it for us for X amount of dollars (which, I will say, was a very reasonable amount, given what we'd have paid in labor costs at a shop). So, Mark worked on the car for several days. I would walk past the front window on occasion and see him and his buddy, Skip, greasy and bundled up against the cold, binding and loosing parts around the engine, in reconstructive surgery on the rav. They were dedicated. It was freezing out.

Now understand, Jake's rav is by no means new, so I don't intend for this to sound sketchy, but the more Mark worked, the more problems Mark discovered with the car, and increment by increment, the more money Jake and I found leaving our hands. This continued for days, meanwhile Jake and I worked out a system of sharing my Jetta so that we could both make it to work and back. But then, finally, the rav was fixed. Hurray! Two cars again!

Eh, not so much.

I remember Jake kissing my sleepy forehead goodbye as he left for work last Monday, reminding me that the Jetta was once again all mine. He would be returning to his rav.

I also remember him waking me up again about 15 minutes later, flustered and sweaty. He had not even made it out of the apartment complex before the "check engine" light came on again. He had continued driving for a few yards, thinking the oil might simply need time to circulate through, but then the engine started seizing and he quickly shut off the car. Which meant pushing it all the way back to our apartment, by himself, in his work uniform, in 16 degree weather. He was not a happy camper.

Neither was I really. And not much has changed. We've exhausted all of our meager, newlywed savings. We have no more money to put into that car. So we have no choice but to continue as a one-car household while the rav sits useless in the parking lot.

Ha! You were hoping for some sort of happy, miraculous ending, weren't you! Nope, not yet. We are still smack in the middle of a not-very-fun situation. And it's still unclear to me whether or not Mark was honest with us. Maybe he was; maybe he genuinely did all he could to fix our car and maybe all the money he asked for was for legitimate expenses. I don't know. I also think there's a possibility we got scammed.

And this has caused me to do a lot of thinking. I know there are people who would chastise Jake and me for the way we went about things (ie. trusting a guy we don't know with our money, not checking his credentials or his insurance, etc, etc.), but I can't help but remember that feeling we both experienced when Mark showed up - a feeling of rightness, a feeling of peace and of providential intervention. That may sound absurd to some, but I can't discount it. I trust my hearing of the Lord's voice, especially since Jake also heard the same thing. And I still firmly believe God brought Mark to us. I still firmly believe it was God's will that Mark work on our car.

The problem, though, is that this leads me to another whole set of questions. Why would God bring Mark to us just so we could get duped? Mark's showing up was supposed to be a blessing from God, right?! Why would God bring this man into our lives and ask us to trust him if, when all was said and done, we'd end up worse off than we were at the start? It doesn't seem to make sense.

And then I remembered a scene from Les Miserables.

For those who aren't familiar with this remarkable novel/play/movie (you should change that!), I'll provide a little background: The story takes place in France and centers mainly around the character of Jean Valjean, who upon the start of the story, has just been released from prison after nineteen years. Upon being released, he is required to carry a yellow passport that marks him as a convict. No one will come near him or give him a job, and he seems fated to repeat his life of crime (How else is he to eat if he doesn't resort to stealing, once again?) However, in a stroke of providence, a God-fearing Bishop takes Jean in, feeds him, and gives him a bed to sleep in. Jean thanks the kindly old man and jokingly claims he will be "a new man" by the morning. In reality, though, Jean leaves in the middle of the night, taking with him all of the Bishop's expensive silverware.

And now comes the scene that's had me thinking. The police catch Jean with the stolen silverware and march him back to the Bishop's house, laughing as they report to the old man that the convict "claimed you gave it to him!" The Bishop looks hard into Jean Valjean's eyes. He knows that if he confirms the theft of his silverware, Jean will be sent back to prison for the remainder of his life. So, in a move of great benevolence, the Bishop tells the police that the silverware was in truth a gift, and then he goes on to chastise Jean in front of the police, "But why did you not also take the candlesticks!? They're worth at least [x amount] of francs! Please, I insist, take them too!"

And so Jean is sent on his way with more than he'd originally stolen, but not before being challenged by the Bishop to use the silver to fulfill his "promise" of becoming a new man. This event so shocks and affects the convict that he actually does decide to change, struggling to become, throughout the rest of the story, a force for good in France.

I've always entered into that scene from the perspective of Jean Valjean, and I've marveled at how blessed he was that, by the providence of God, he was led to the very door of this Bishop who would show him mercy. God was watching out for Jean Valjean.

I've never before thought about this scene from the perspective of the Bishop. He did what God required of him. He followed God's voice. A man showed up, and God asked him to care for this man, and in return for his obedience to God, the Bishop got robbed. This does not seem fair to one so faithful. It does not seem fair that the providence of God would leave the sinner blessed and the faithful suffering.

...Unless God had a higher purpose for that moment in time (which I'm inclined to believe was the case.) True, from a financial point of view, the Bishop got the raw end of the deal. But what happens when we change our perspective? If we move our focus from a monetary view of riches, the whole thing changes. The Bishop was blessed. God allowed him to be the catalyst for the redemption of a man's very soul! God allowed the Bishop to be the agent of change, the one who made a difference in the life of a man who would go on to make a difference in the lives of many more...

It's all about where your treasure is.

Is my treasure in my bank account, or is it in the hearts of fellow human beings?

You've probably caught on to the connection I'm making between this and the "Mark story". I wouldn't say they're completely comparable - we certainly didn't rescue Mark from life imprisonment or forever alter the course of his life. Not that I know of, anyway. But we were kind to him. We did show him Christ's love.

Mark is not the type of guy who you look at and immediately feel comfortable around. He's got an edge to him, a roughness. He doesn't have all of his teeth.

Nevertheless, Jake made friends with the guy. He'd stand out by the car while Mark and Skip worked and talk with them, find out about their lives. Sometimes I would see them all laughing together. And they must have liked Jake, too - they invited him to come out partying with them on New Year's Eve.

I didn't hang out with Mark like Jake did, but I brought him coffee when it got really cold. Skip would laugh and tease, "Did you give him lots of sugar? Mark loves sugar..." I laughed and pretended to be oblivious to what they were hinting at (something I learned to do well while waiting tables). No big deal. I can handle a little flirting. The point is, I tried to be good to them.

We tried to be good to them.

And now all we can do is pray that it made a difference. Our rav is down for the count without much hope of sudden healing (although, as my friend Emily pointed out, God is in the resurrection business; why not our rav4? Ha.) Things are going to be difficult with only one car between Jake and I for the indefinite future. Which sucks. Which really sucks. And it also sucks that all my Christmas money went into that useless car. But if we managed to do Mark some good, if we managed to show him a taste of the grace of God during the time that our paths crossed with his, then I think I'm okay with the state of our car and of our finances. I think I'd even say it was worth it.

Wow. I'm hearing what I'm saying. I hope I'm not crazy. :)

"The path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, which shines brighter and brighter until the full day."

-Proverbs 3:18

There are so many things I want to do for Christ in my life. I want to be a woman of light and influence. I want to fight for the kingdom of light - the coming kingdom - to exist more and more on this earth the way it exists in heaven. I want to hear God when he speaks the way Moses heard God, "face to face, as a man speaks to his friend." (Exod. 33:11), to live in His presence in uninterrupted fellowship so that I hear His voice and respond with immediate obedience. I want to become one of those women who spends so much time in prayer that her words carry the weight of spiritual authority. I want my faith to not rest on men's wisdom, but on God's power. (1 Cor. 2:4-5) I want to be generous to others, and gracious, as God has been to me. I want to fear God and live with integrity, above reproach. I want to use my spiritual gifts and natural talents to serve others in a way that shares the heart of Christ for them. And in doing all this, I want to never lose the zeal of my first love.

And that's just off the top of my head. But basically, I want to be a power player. So it's frustrating sometimes to see how far I am from actually being one.

But the good thing is, God seems to be in much less of a hurry than I'm in. Which is why the above verse from Proverbs is so comforting to me. Think about it. At first, the light at dawn is barely a glimmer, but as the sun rises and time goes by, the light becomes brighter and brighter until it illuminates everything in sight. What a beautiful analogy for our walking in righteousness. We don't have to immediately be blindingly upright and holy. It's a process. Just as light gradually fills the sky at dawn, so the righteousness of the Lord transforms us, and with every step we take towards Christ, we shine just a little bit brighter.

(So keep at it. Even the small steps count!)

When the credits roll...

Sorry I haven't written in a while. For one thing, I've been enveloped in celebrating Christmas/New Year's, so I think you should cut me a little slack, but also, I've written two short screenplays in the last 4 days, and I'm playing around with a third now, so I've been busy...

I did, however, want to at least post something, if for no other reason than to rid myself of the weird guilt I feel for letting down whoever actually reads this thing.

And so I submit to you for your consideration, some random thoughts I had the other night while watching the news. It was actually Fox News Edge, which comes on after the "real" news, and consists of two anchors sitting at a desk and basically doing a miniature version of "The View" about hot current topics/events, etc. Like discussions on the worst celebrity scandals of '09 and does airport security really work and should a law be passed to lower the volume of tv commercials. (Yes, I actually watched this.)

So, on this particular night when I was watching Fox News Edge, the anchors were discussing, among other things, Brittany Murphy's untimely death. And I was amazed at how flippant they were about it. They basically said, "You may not know who she was because she wasn't crazy like the other Britney, but she died and Hollywood is sad. But at least she got a few good films in before she croaked!"

It wasn't quite that bad. But it was definitely void of sympathy. And I couldn't help but wonder how I'd have felt if I'd been a member of Brittany Murphy's family, watching that newscast. I wonder what it's like, to hear a loved one's life summed up like that.

"Well, at least she did a few good movies before she passed on!"

Is that really what I'd want people to remember about someone I loved? I don't think so. And it's certainly not what I'd want people to say about me. Even if I never act in any big budget, Hollywood movie with Glen Close (my favorite! she's awesome!) or Julie Andrews, I'd like to think that after my funeral, people would be genuinely grieved. I don't mean to say that I hope people are miserable and walk around in black sackcloth for the next year, but I suppose I'm saying, I hope people are affected by my death. I guess it seems to me that people who are making a difference with their lives always seem to have died too soon - even if they were 93 and incredibly ill - there's a sense that a light has gone out, that an emptiness has come into the world with their passing. Whereas, people who kind of meander through life with no real ambition or purpose or generosity of spirit, well.. they just seem to die and that's that.

A few night's ago, I was spending some time with a group of friends, and we got to talking about how, generally speaking, Americans suck at dealing with pain. We self-medicate for everything. It's why there's such a huge epidemic of prescription drug addiction sweeping our nation. The moment we face adversity, the moment things get difficult or painful, we run to get numbed. We end up living like zombies, not feeling much of anything, but hey, at least we're not sad.

It's funny, though, because pain is actually designed to be a good thing. It's what keys us in to the fact that there's a problem.

But unfortunately, most of us would rather live less than exciting lives than square our shoulders and face a problem head on. We trade what's challenging and risky and deep and full for what's easy and comfortable and monotonous.

Now hear me, I don't mean to say in any way that this was the case with Brittany Murphy. I didn't know her (although I did meet her once...see picture below), and so I can't presume to know what sort of effect she had on the circle of people who did know her. She may not have had much of a lasting impact on a national or global scale, but I don't believe one has to affect the whole world in order to have lived an impactful, meaningful life.

(me, my little sister, and Brittany Murphy in NYC, 2004)

Recently, I was reading in Don Miller's latest book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, and he was talking about a friend's funeral he'd attended, and how after the service and the graveside goodbyes, the family of the woman who'd died (Janice was her name), and about a hundred or more friends of theirs (Don being one), went back to the family's large, mountain-side home to be together and eat casseroles and sit around the back deck fire pit and reminisce. And Don recounts how moved he was by the countless stories people had to tell about this one little lady's life - some inspirational, some sad, some deeply hilarious.

Donald Miller concludes that chapter of his book with the following words:

"Later, at around two in the morning, when there were only a few dozen people at their house, I looked across the deck at Steve and Ben sitting and talking to Jim [the woman's husband], and as they laughed and drank their wine, I wondered how much it costs to be rich in friends and how many years and stories and scenes it takes to make a rich life happen. You can't build an end scene as beautiful as this by sitting on a couch, I thought to myself. And I also knew that while this group had experienced a devastating loss, the ones who remained were richer still because of her passing, as though Janice left an emotional inheritance of stories that would continue to be told, stories that would be passed down to her children.

I looked across the deck at Steve sitting and talking to Jim, and as they laughed and drank their wine, I wondered about the story we were writing and wanted even more to write a better story for myself, something that leaves a beautiful feeling even as the credits roll."