First of all, I hate puns. :-D
Ok. Moving on. Musicians have egos. To make matters more difficult, they have fragile egos.
And so when a band comes together, egos clash. And on a worship team, hearts often get in the way.
For a long time now, my ego had been bruised. So much to the point where what used to define me in high school was something I hid from.
I used to play the piano really well. I used to sing. I used to be able to do both at the same time.
The thing is, I still do. I just haven't done so in front of a group of people. Let alone my church family. I stopped because someone told me that I wasn't good enough.
Sigh. Musicians and their egos.
It has been a very interesting few months. My heart that loves to express itself in a creative life is aching to come out. It never occurred to me how much my heart was aching for music until I attended a choir concert at which one of my friends was performing. I sat in the middle of the concert, missing the musically dominated life I used to have. I wanted to race to the stage and sing along with them. Since then, I found myself still wanting to sing. To play. To live. To breathe.
A few years ago, during my seven year stint of not playing piano, I ran into my high school choir director. I was visiting my grandparents, and I dropped by a local Starbucks to gear myself up for another family event. My choir director and I have had an unusually close relationship. I won't go into detail, but I thought I was only important to him because of how I helped him during my Senior year. I knew what he thought of me as a person. I didn't know what he thought of me as a musician.
Giles: How have you been? Are you still playing piano?
Me: [sheepishly.] No.
Giles: [surprised and looking disappointed.] Really? Why not?
Me: I don't have the opportunity.
Giles: [more disappointed] That makes me sad. There's always an opportunity. You don't even play at church?
Me: No.
Giles: You should try. Really. You were amazing. I know I never told you, but you are a gifted musician. And I'm sad that you're not moving forward with it.
Me: Well, I...
Giles: No excuses. Get back into it. You can't stop. I won't let you. It's a part of you. You were really good.
With that we parted ways. And I wondered how in the world he would know if I still played.
That was two years ago. I don't play piano on my worship team because of Giles, but I do play because it isn't in me to stop. In the end, I hope to remember conversations that encourage me to keep going instead of the ones that tell me that what I have to offer isn't good enough. I'm not as good as I used to be, and I hope to be better.
But I know I can't get there if I don't let the ego go.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
And So It Goes
There are times when I wonder if God watches me, laughs and says, "Abby fell down again?!? Geez, I love that girl..."
It's these experiences when I have no control over my body that give me a humbling perspective.
Of course, here's a list of such experiences since I had joked about tripping over nothing in my last post.
1. Tripped up the stairs on my way to the third floor on Monday morning. I thought I had slipped on something, but...it was nothing.
2. On Tuesday night, I stub my toe at the foot of my bed and I literally fall into bed. Too bad I still couldn't sleep.
3. Dropped my curling iron this morning. I tried to save it by grabbing the cord, but it started swinging. I was not able to avoid it, but the hot iron collided with my arm, and I burnt myself anyway. As a result, I dropped the curling iron anyway. Sidenote: This is what happens when I try to put effort in looking pretty...and now, I have a burnt arm and the curls have morphed into one mondo curl. Sigh. It's Farrah Fawcett hair once again.
4. On my way down the stairs at my apartment, I realize that I had forgotten something. I trip on my way up. I am grateful that it was over the stair. I had feared that my pants would get caught in the heel of my shoe and I would go tumbling down the stairs.
5. On my second trip down the stairs at my apartment, my heel gets caught in my left pant leg and I almost go tumbling down the stairs.
6. As I get out of the car this morning, my foot slips and I nearly fall out of my car. Thank God no one was watching.
Sigh. My chiropractor probably wonders why my back is messed up.
I wonder how I manage to survive the day!
It's these experiences when I have no control over my body that give me a humbling perspective.
Of course, here's a list of such experiences since I had joked about tripping over nothing in my last post.
1. Tripped up the stairs on my way to the third floor on Monday morning. I thought I had slipped on something, but...it was nothing.
2. On Tuesday night, I stub my toe at the foot of my bed and I literally fall into bed. Too bad I still couldn't sleep.
3. Dropped my curling iron this morning. I tried to save it by grabbing the cord, but it started swinging. I was not able to avoid it, but the hot iron collided with my arm, and I burnt myself anyway. As a result, I dropped the curling iron anyway. Sidenote: This is what happens when I try to put effort in looking pretty...and now, I have a burnt arm and the curls have morphed into one mondo curl. Sigh. It's Farrah Fawcett hair once again.
4. On my way down the stairs at my apartment, I realize that I had forgotten something. I trip on my way up. I am grateful that it was over the stair. I had feared that my pants would get caught in the heel of my shoe and I would go tumbling down the stairs.
5. On my second trip down the stairs at my apartment, my heel gets caught in my left pant leg and I almost go tumbling down the stairs.
6. As I get out of the car this morning, my foot slips and I nearly fall out of my car. Thank God no one was watching.
Sigh. My chiropractor probably wonders why my back is messed up.
I wonder how I manage to survive the day!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tripping Over Nothing
Yesterday (Sunday) my church moved into a different movie theater. (Yes, we meet at a movie theater. I love my church!)
The theater space is vastly different than the other movie theater. And so, our Levites (go Levites!) have to construct a stage. I swear that stage is taller than me. But then again, what isn't taller than me? Two year olds are taller than me.
At any rate, on our first Sunday, one of my friends said that they were "placing bets" on two things:
1. Who will fall of the stage first?
2. How long will it take before Abby falls off the stage?
The consensus is three weeks.
I wouldn't bet against them.
Odds are, I'm more likely to trip over a cable than fall off the stage. And then I will look back and see that I had tripped over nothing at all.
The theater space is vastly different than the other movie theater. And so, our Levites (go Levites!) have to construct a stage. I swear that stage is taller than me. But then again, what isn't taller than me? Two year olds are taller than me.
At any rate, on our first Sunday, one of my friends said that they were "placing bets" on two things:
1. Who will fall of the stage first?
2. How long will it take before Abby falls off the stage?
The consensus is three weeks.
I wouldn't bet against them.
Odds are, I'm more likely to trip over a cable than fall off the stage. And then I will look back and see that I had tripped over nothing at all.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Worth Waiting
Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.
--Paul, Galatians 6:9
Give me a sign. Let me know you're here. I won't give up if you won't give up.
--Train, Angels
I was reminded today that waiting for something good/different to happen doesn't mean I have to give up hope. I can hope in a good God that has a plan and a purpose for me. I can hope and be still and know God is God. I can hope and have joy even if my circumstances are hard and disappointing.
But in waiting and hoping, I can still be doing something great. I can still have purpose and significance and...dare I say it...fun. Life doesn't begin when everything is perfect. My worth is not based on a life that is perfect and without pain.
If we wait for the perfect conditions, we'll never get anything done.
--Writer of Ecclesiastes, Ecclesiastes 11:4 (paraphrase)
Holding on is hard. Enduring is difficult. Patience is...well, I have no good words for patience. Things take time.
Anything of true worth usually does.
Be joyful in hope. Patient in affliction. Faithful in prayer.
-Paul, Romans 12:12
This period of waiting doesn't have to include me standing outside and hoping something good will drop from the sky and make things better. I have to believe that I can make this hard and seemingly extensive season of waiting into something of worth. I would hate to think I did nothing while I was waiting.
I've already wasted too much time.
--Paul, Galatians 6:9
Give me a sign. Let me know you're here. I won't give up if you won't give up.
--Train, Angels
I was reminded today that waiting for something good/different to happen doesn't mean I have to give up hope. I can hope in a good God that has a plan and a purpose for me. I can hope and be still and know God is God. I can hope and have joy even if my circumstances are hard and disappointing.
But in waiting and hoping, I can still be doing something great. I can still have purpose and significance and...dare I say it...fun. Life doesn't begin when everything is perfect. My worth is not based on a life that is perfect and without pain.
If we wait for the perfect conditions, we'll never get anything done.
--Writer of Ecclesiastes, Ecclesiastes 11:4 (paraphrase)
Holding on is hard. Enduring is difficult. Patience is...well, I have no good words for patience. Things take time.
Anything of true worth usually does.
Be joyful in hope. Patient in affliction. Faithful in prayer.
-Paul, Romans 12:12
This period of waiting doesn't have to include me standing outside and hoping something good will drop from the sky and make things better. I have to believe that I can make this hard and seemingly extensive season of waiting into something of worth. I would hate to think I did nothing while I was waiting.
I've already wasted too much time.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Without Thinking
Yes, there are times when I don't think about anything.
These rare moments come when I am playing the piano. I'm not performing, playing with a band, or even worshiping (although I do end up worshiping God at the end of these moments). I'm playing for the sake of playing. And everything that I think, feel, worry, or celebrating comes out from the tips of my fingers and onto the keys. And somehow, the music comes out and it is beautiful.
I don't get to play piano often. Time and resources are limited; and the times when I get to play are squished into a mere few hours when I am playing on the worship team. In the ten years (!) that I have lived in Tacoma and without a piano, I realize that it isn't enough. I have a deep desire to play and it often gets pushed off to the side to make room for other things and responsibilities.
The piano that I learned how to play on is housed at my grandparents'. It may sound sad, but that piano is home to me. Playing piano on that Always-Out-of-Tune Wurlitzer upright has saved me in more ways than I can recall.
I visited my grandparents on Friday. I often opt not to play the piano while I visit, in fear that they will make it into an awkward performance. I used to hate to practice playing piano in front of them mainly because they made my practices into a performance. "Abby, can you play...?"
Grr. Argh.
But I didn't care. I needed to play.
I pulled out the piano bench and lifted the cover. The wood squeaked a bit from not being used in ages. I ran through a few scales, cringing with an odd delight that the same keys were still out of tune, if not more so. The D over the high C produced its familiar tinny sound and the A above middle C still made a grating sound as it scraped against its neighboring keys.
Ah. The sound of home.
I didn't have any music with me, so everything had to come from memory. I played a few worship songs, a handful of hymns. After I had exhausted all I had remembered, I tried to play a few classical songs.
I won't lie--it was rough. And the delight from the first hour of playing had turned into frustration. Then a voice came from the corner of the room:
"Stop thinking. Just play, Abby."
My grandfather, who can't hear very well, had been listening to me pound away at the piano.
Sheepishly, I let my fingers rest on the keys, as I tried to conjure up a song from the recesses of my mind. I took a deep breath and resolved to not think for the next few minutes. I closed my eyes and let my fingers fly over the keys. My fingers seemed to remember more than my mind did. I didn't have to look to see where my hands were--my fingers knew exactly where every key was, remembered how it felt. In fact, I made more mistakes when I opened my eyes or looked at my hands. The songs came out of nowhere, but it was still sweet.
It was better when I wasn't thinking.
It was beauty.
After I was done, I sat in awe. There is so much more to me than I let on. And I wondered what would happen if I did more things without thinking.
These rare moments come when I am playing the piano. I'm not performing, playing with a band, or even worshiping (although I do end up worshiping God at the end of these moments). I'm playing for the sake of playing. And everything that I think, feel, worry, or celebrating comes out from the tips of my fingers and onto the keys. And somehow, the music comes out and it is beautiful.
I don't get to play piano often. Time and resources are limited; and the times when I get to play are squished into a mere few hours when I am playing on the worship team. In the ten years (!) that I have lived in Tacoma and without a piano, I realize that it isn't enough. I have a deep desire to play and it often gets pushed off to the side to make room for other things and responsibilities.
The piano that I learned how to play on is housed at my grandparents'. It may sound sad, but that piano is home to me. Playing piano on that Always-Out-of-Tune Wurlitzer upright has saved me in more ways than I can recall.
I visited my grandparents on Friday. I often opt not to play the piano while I visit, in fear that they will make it into an awkward performance. I used to hate to practice playing piano in front of them mainly because they made my practices into a performance. "Abby, can you play...?"
Grr. Argh.
But I didn't care. I needed to play.
I pulled out the piano bench and lifted the cover. The wood squeaked a bit from not being used in ages. I ran through a few scales, cringing with an odd delight that the same keys were still out of tune, if not more so. The D over the high C produced its familiar tinny sound and the A above middle C still made a grating sound as it scraped against its neighboring keys.
Ah. The sound of home.
I didn't have any music with me, so everything had to come from memory. I played a few worship songs, a handful of hymns. After I had exhausted all I had remembered, I tried to play a few classical songs.
I won't lie--it was rough. And the delight from the first hour of playing had turned into frustration. Then a voice came from the corner of the room:
"Stop thinking. Just play, Abby."
My grandfather, who can't hear very well, had been listening to me pound away at the piano.
Sheepishly, I let my fingers rest on the keys, as I tried to conjure up a song from the recesses of my mind. I took a deep breath and resolved to not think for the next few minutes. I closed my eyes and let my fingers fly over the keys. My fingers seemed to remember more than my mind did. I didn't have to look to see where my hands were--my fingers knew exactly where every key was, remembered how it felt. In fact, I made more mistakes when I opened my eyes or looked at my hands. The songs came out of nowhere, but it was still sweet.
It was better when I wasn't thinking.
It was beauty.
After I was done, I sat in awe. There is so much more to me than I let on. And I wondered what would happen if I did more things without thinking.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Songs in My Head
I don't know why I keep apologizing for my blogs, but here's another one. I'm sorry that this one is going to be a little quote crazy...
Truly, there are some songs that shouldn't get stuck in my head.
It's has been a rough couple of days. Sometimes it's hard to tell which way I'll go--whether I would choose life or death, joy or sorrow, peace or struggle. I want to give up and stay dark and broody. And there are times when I want to rise up and fight--the enemy can't have me.
You would think that I would be tired of the same fight. And quite honestly, I am. I hate this stupid lie that keeps trying to win a place in my heart. I feel like we've been through this time and time again only to fall flat on my face because someone crazy decided to write something stupid on a piece of paper in a blue envelope.
How could something so small threaten to ruin everything?
I'm sitting in my living room, contemplating what I am going to do next. The letter's gone--crumpled and dumped in a garbage can at World Vision. That's as far as I've gotten, but at least that's a step.
You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good. He brought me to this position so I could save the lives of many people.
--Joseph, Genesis 50:20
I'm not sure why I'm writing this, but I believe it's the only way I'll remember this moment. At this very moment, I refuse to believe this crazy lie that I have no room for in my life. What this person had written needs to fall to the floor and not take root. It needs to die at the foot of my Savior, who claims me as his. My Abba Father loves me more than this person ever can--even if this person shares the same last name and my life's blood. The Spirit dwells within me and only speaks life and joy and will not leave me to death and destruction.
I need to fight. I don't know why, but I need to. God chose me for a specific purpose and I cannot give up now. I can't give up because my family and friends need me as much as I need them. I can't give up for the family I hope to have--the future husband I hope to love and the children I hope to bring into this world. I can't give up because I have to believe that something good is going to happen. I can't give up because I love a very good God.
And the song He's singing over me promises to be sweeter than what is currently on repeat in my head.
From the stage I can see that she can't let go and she can't relax. But just before she can hang her head to cry, I sing to her a lullaby: Everything is gonna be all right.
--Shawn Mullins, Lullaby
Sometimes I hate everything--everyone and everything. Please don't tell me everything's wonderful now.
--Everclear, Wonderful
Truly, there are some songs that shouldn't get stuck in my head.
It's has been a rough couple of days. Sometimes it's hard to tell which way I'll go--whether I would choose life or death, joy or sorrow, peace or struggle. I want to give up and stay dark and broody. And there are times when I want to rise up and fight--the enemy can't have me.
You would think that I would be tired of the same fight. And quite honestly, I am. I hate this stupid lie that keeps trying to win a place in my heart. I feel like we've been through this time and time again only to fall flat on my face because someone crazy decided to write something stupid on a piece of paper in a blue envelope.
How could something so small threaten to ruin everything?
I'm sitting in my living room, contemplating what I am going to do next. The letter's gone--crumpled and dumped in a garbage can at World Vision. That's as far as I've gotten, but at least that's a step.
You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good. He brought me to this position so I could save the lives of many people.
--Joseph, Genesis 50:20
I'm not sure why I'm writing this, but I believe it's the only way I'll remember this moment. At this very moment, I refuse to believe this crazy lie that I have no room for in my life. What this person had written needs to fall to the floor and not take root. It needs to die at the foot of my Savior, who claims me as his. My Abba Father loves me more than this person ever can--even if this person shares the same last name and my life's blood. The Spirit dwells within me and only speaks life and joy and will not leave me to death and destruction.
I need to fight. I don't know why, but I need to. God chose me for a specific purpose and I cannot give up now. I can't give up because my family and friends need me as much as I need them. I can't give up for the family I hope to have--the future husband I hope to love and the children I hope to bring into this world. I can't give up because I have to believe that something good is going to happen. I can't give up because I love a very good God.
And the song He's singing over me promises to be sweeter than what is currently on repeat in my head.
The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.
--Zephaniah, Zephaniah 3:17
There's a song that's inside of my soul. It's one I've tried to sing over and over again...so I lay my head back down and I lift my hands and pray to be only yours. I pray to be only yours. I know now you're my only hope.
--Switchfoot, Only Hope
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Wishing for Something Good
A little disclaimer: I understand that wishing for things to change doesn't actually change things. But following is a rant. Logic doesn't apply here. Be warned. :-D
This week has been filled with both the glorious and the challenging. Categorically speaking (sigh...) my week has been rather good. Enjoyable, even.
But for the moment, my thoughts linger on the challenges. Maybe this is what happens when I spend too much time with my family.
I went home last night from a family function with the same feelings and thoughts that have accompanied me the past several family dinners these few months. I marvel at how different and set apart I am from them. We are biologically connected, but we hardly relate. And it largely has to do with the fact that they don't know me.
This breaks me more than I let on.
Usually I can handle these things, but it's been getting harder. It is only by the grace and strength of God am I even able to continue.
Of all the awkward craziness I had to deal with this week, there is one particular incident that nearly broke me. Right now there's an envelope in my living room that I don't know what to do with. Inside that blue envelope is a letter, the contents of which I have no earthly idea how to process. My inclination is to ignore it--there are other things that need my attention. We don't have time for me to be dark and broody.
I also want to rebel...tear up the letter and burn it from existence and memory.
But for the most part, I want to break down and cry. This is too much for me.
I don't know what to do. I just keep wanting things to be different. I want my life to be more than this. But I have no idea how to walk away. I want God to rescue me because I am far to tired to keep fighting the same stupid battles that I can't possibly win.
I wish for something good to happen. Soon.
However, since I know that God is always working, something good is already happening.
So let me modify my last statement: I wish that someone could just hold me and let me know that everything is going to be all right. And maybe, I'll believe them.
Ok. Rant over.
This week has been filled with both the glorious and the challenging. Categorically speaking (sigh...) my week has been rather good. Enjoyable, even.
But for the moment, my thoughts linger on the challenges. Maybe this is what happens when I spend too much time with my family.
I went home last night from a family function with the same feelings and thoughts that have accompanied me the past several family dinners these few months. I marvel at how different and set apart I am from them. We are biologically connected, but we hardly relate. And it largely has to do with the fact that they don't know me.
This breaks me more than I let on.
Usually I can handle these things, but it's been getting harder. It is only by the grace and strength of God am I even able to continue.
Of all the awkward craziness I had to deal with this week, there is one particular incident that nearly broke me. Right now there's an envelope in my living room that I don't know what to do with. Inside that blue envelope is a letter, the contents of which I have no earthly idea how to process. My inclination is to ignore it--there are other things that need my attention. We don't have time for me to be dark and broody.
I also want to rebel...tear up the letter and burn it from existence and memory.
But for the most part, I want to break down and cry. This is too much for me.
I don't know what to do. I just keep wanting things to be different. I want my life to be more than this. But I have no idea how to walk away. I want God to rescue me because I am far to tired to keep fighting the same stupid battles that I can't possibly win.
I wish for something good to happen. Soon.
However, since I know that God is always working, something good is already happening.
So let me modify my last statement: I wish that someone could just hold me and let me know that everything is going to be all right. And maybe, I'll believe them.
Ok. Rant over.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Challenge
There was a challenge made at worship team practice last night.
Funny thing is, the challenge came after practice was over for the night and a couple of us were just chatting about how we got into music. (Ok. I was chatting, and people were answering my incessant questions.)
At one point, one of the guitar players brought up one of the first recordings we had done together. I had recently joined the worship team at that time--before all the critiques, orchestrations, and pad sounds started coming into my brain. He said he had been really impressed with how I played back then and wanted to know why I hold back now.
Stupid two notes.
I couldn't give him a straight answer. But what came out revealed my vulnerability and my large insecurity.
I don't think I play very well.
What resulted was a very informal jam session, which exhilarated and frightened me. In the end, the guitar player said he was glad we had this talk. Apparently, it had been brewing underneath for some time.
I was glad, too. It's good to be challenged once in awhile. Even if you fail.
Funny thing is, the challenge came after practice was over for the night and a couple of us were just chatting about how we got into music. (Ok. I was chatting, and people were answering my incessant questions.)
At one point, one of the guitar players brought up one of the first recordings we had done together. I had recently joined the worship team at that time--before all the critiques, orchestrations, and pad sounds started coming into my brain. He said he had been really impressed with how I played back then and wanted to know why I hold back now.
Stupid two notes.
I couldn't give him a straight answer. But what came out revealed my vulnerability and my large insecurity.
I don't think I play very well.
What resulted was a very informal jam session, which exhilarated and frightened me. In the end, the guitar player said he was glad we had this talk. Apparently, it had been brewing underneath for some time.
I was glad, too. It's good to be challenged once in awhile. Even if you fail.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Awkward
My sister uncovered our elementary school year book (Yeah! Lake Youngs Grizzlies!) on Monday night.
Last night was the first time I went through the pictures.
Scary, scary stuff.
But at least we were all awkward at the same time. It almost makes up for the bad hair.
Some things were meant to stay hidden.
Last night was the first time I went through the pictures.
Scary, scary stuff.
But at least we were all awkward at the same time. It almost makes up for the bad hair.
Some things were meant to stay hidden.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Improvement
Wahoo! Dance of joy!
I made it through 4 whole hours of uninterrupted sleep!
Sure, it's only 4 hours, but I'd take that over 30 minute intervals.
It isn't much, but at least it's an improvement. And apparently, I'll do the dance of joy for pretty much anything now.
Next goal: 4 hours and 30 minutes. Gotta work with what you got.
I made it through 4 whole hours of uninterrupted sleep!
Sure, it's only 4 hours, but I'd take that over 30 minute intervals.
It isn't much, but at least it's an improvement. And apparently, I'll do the dance of joy for pretty much anything now.
Next goal: 4 hours and 30 minutes. Gotta work with what you got.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Heart Broken
There are heroes in this world.
But the ones close to my heart work for the International Justice Mission (IJM). I didn't know such an organization existed until I worked at DCSResearch. This is their mission statement from their Web site at http://www.ijm.org/
Their job is hard. And it's not just the pressures of what they do and the subject matter with which they deal. Whether they fail or have fleeting moments of victory...they still have to do it every single day. And I believe they can only do so by the gracious strength of God.
I graduated from college with a degree in Sociology of Crime and Deviance. My Senior Capstone had to deal with sexual victimization. My heart was broken and beaten by the numerou accounts I had read. I poured with hatred for the perpetrators and the cultures that protect them. I didn't continue because I didn't believe that people could know what I know and actually do something good with it.
As weird as it may sound, I wish I had stumbled across the International Justice Mission during my college career. If I had known about IJM before then, I believe I would have been able to continue my studies on sexual deviants and not be defeated by them.
Or at least not give up so easily.
My heart breaks for the victims they rescue all over the world. My heart breaks for the people (in this group and elsewhere) that work to make a better world for those who have been ignored, oppressed and exploited. My heart breaks those who are still enslaved and for those who struggle to hold onto hope.
My heart breaks.
But it also rejoices that God has not given up on these innocent people, and has chosen this group of people to help His children. I may not be able to work for IJM, but I know that I can pray for them. In midst of the ugliest places of humanity, they still can bring hope.
There are heroes everywhere. But these heroes have a special place in my heart.
But the ones close to my heart work for the International Justice Mission (IJM). I didn't know such an organization existed until I worked at DCSResearch. This is their mission statement from their Web site at http://www.ijm.org/
International Justice Mission is a human rights agency that secures justice for victims of slavery, sexual exploitation and other forms of violent oppression. IJM lawyers, investigators and aftercare professionals work with local officials to ensure immediate victim rescue and aftercare, to prosecute perpetrators and to promote functioning public justice systems.
Their job is hard. And it's not just the pressures of what they do and the subject matter with which they deal. Whether they fail or have fleeting moments of victory...they still have to do it every single day. And I believe they can only do so by the gracious strength of God.
I graduated from college with a degree in Sociology of Crime and Deviance. My Senior Capstone had to deal with sexual victimization. My heart was broken and beaten by the numerou accounts I had read. I poured with hatred for the perpetrators and the cultures that protect them. I didn't continue because I didn't believe that people could know what I know and actually do something good with it.
As weird as it may sound, I wish I had stumbled across the International Justice Mission during my college career. If I had known about IJM before then, I believe I would have been able to continue my studies on sexual deviants and not be defeated by them.
Or at least not give up so easily.
My heart breaks for the victims they rescue all over the world. My heart breaks for the people (in this group and elsewhere) that work to make a better world for those who have been ignored, oppressed and exploited. My heart breaks those who are still enslaved and for those who struggle to hold onto hope.
My heart breaks.
But it also rejoices that God has not given up on these innocent people, and has chosen this group of people to help His children. I may not be able to work for IJM, but I know that I can pray for them. In midst of the ugliest places of humanity, they still can bring hope.
There are heroes everywhere. But these heroes have a special place in my heart.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Pandora's Box
Grr. Argh.
I once again have too many thoughts in my head. And I'm afraid if more information (secrets, lies or otherwise) tries to make its way through my brain, it will just implode.
I have never been more thankful that God comforts me.
And He could take care of all this if I just let it go and left things alone.
It's going to be quite a day. But I have hope that everything will be all right in the end.
I once again have too many thoughts in my head. And I'm afraid if more information (secrets, lies or otherwise) tries to make its way through my brain, it will just implode.
I have never been more thankful that God comforts me.
And He could take care of all this if I just let it go and left things alone.
It's going to be quite a day. But I have hope that everything will be all right in the end.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Sending a Scotsman
Secret keepers need to laugh every once in awhile, too.
Every once in awhile, I can't stand music on the radio. To be exact, I can't stand popular songs on the radio. This happens when I my brain is full or when I had a long day. Usually in these moments where I feel like my brain is going to implode, I opt for classical music, particularly piano, strings, or both.
Beethoven was the original Emo-kid.
Tonight, on my way home from a very interesting time at my sister's, I was on a frantic search for something to ease my mind. As it was late, I couldn't have the radio off in fear that I would fall asleep. Lyrical music was not helping, and the soft-spoken DJs of the classical stations were trying to kill me with lullabies.
At some point, I came across a familiar accent.
I'm shameless, I know.
So, I listened to the preacher featured on Dr. Dobson's Focus on the Family radio program. And what was this Scotsman speaking on? Searching for a Godly Spouse.
I nearly died laughing. You've got to love Valentine's Week. Everything is about love, marriage, and the trials of singlehood.
At some point, Rev. Alistair Begg shared how he had wooed and finally won his wife. He had shared this personal story to illustrate that sometimes external physical beauty can't compete with a beautiful character.
It was a funny story, yet very beautiful. I love stories that a funny and beautiful. Most of the time, I find that the most beautiful stories are the funny ones.
And yes, I loved it more because of the Scots accent.
When I finally pulled into my apartment parking lot, tears were coming out of my eyes, I was laughing so hard. There were 10 minutes left of the lecture, so I stayed in my car and finished listening to the featured lecture.
I was glad I listened to the whole thing.
I don't know why I found the situation so funny, or maybe God knew that I just needed a laugh. But I'd like to think that God was trying to tell me something, and he knew that one way to get me to pay attention was to send someone with a Scots accent.
Every once in awhile, I can't stand music on the radio. To be exact, I can't stand popular songs on the radio. This happens when I my brain is full or when I had a long day. Usually in these moments where I feel like my brain is going to implode, I opt for classical music, particularly piano, strings, or both.
Beethoven was the original Emo-kid.
Tonight, on my way home from a very interesting time at my sister's, I was on a frantic search for something to ease my mind. As it was late, I couldn't have the radio off in fear that I would fall asleep. Lyrical music was not helping, and the soft-spoken DJs of the classical stations were trying to kill me with lullabies.
At some point, I came across a familiar accent.
I'm shameless, I know.
So, I listened to the preacher featured on Dr. Dobson's Focus on the Family radio program. And what was this Scotsman speaking on? Searching for a Godly Spouse.
I nearly died laughing. You've got to love Valentine's Week. Everything is about love, marriage, and the trials of singlehood.
At some point, Rev. Alistair Begg shared how he had wooed and finally won his wife. He had shared this personal story to illustrate that sometimes external physical beauty can't compete with a beautiful character.
It was a funny story, yet very beautiful. I love stories that a funny and beautiful. Most of the time, I find that the most beautiful stories are the funny ones.
And yes, I loved it more because of the Scots accent.
When I finally pulled into my apartment parking lot, tears were coming out of my eyes, I was laughing so hard. There were 10 minutes left of the lecture, so I stayed in my car and finished listening to the featured lecture.
I was glad I listened to the whole thing.
...never underestimate the power of the pen. And all those American Water-skiers bowed to the Scotman's pen...
...so girls, your beauty shouldn't come from time spent in front of the mirror, but rather time spent in front of the mirror of the Word of God. And men, the biggest thing you can bring to the possibilities of marriage is the character of integrity and a life of spiritual maturity.
--Rev. Alistair Begg, Search for a Godly Spouse
I don't know why I found the situation so funny, or maybe God knew that I just needed a laugh. But I'd like to think that God was trying to tell me something, and he knew that one way to get me to pay attention was to send someone with a Scots accent.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Superficial Moment of the Morning
They say that if you pull out a gray hair, three more pop up in its place.
Several weeks ago, I pulled out a gray hair. This morning, when I was drying my hair, I pulled out another one. Upon closer inspection, I realized that I had pulled out three, all of which were sprouting from a single root.
Grr. Argh.
I know that I am not old, but that's why this is a superficial moment and not a contemplative one (for once!).
But since I am me, I couldn't stop thinking. Among the many strands of thought that plague my mind on a daily basis, one that has come up lately has to do with my Catholic background.
I have been in Tacoma for ten years. When I first moved out here for college, I vowed never to speak of what had happened at St. Stephen's. My story had not been well received the first time, why would the retelling produce different results? Since then, I have told bits and pieces to multiple people, in fear that the whole story would be ill-received.
I guess I am always looking for validation that I had made the right decision.
This thought started bothering me when Pastor Jon had stated that the most powerful tool is a story. And the most powerful story I can share is my own.
What happened at St. Stephen's doesn't define me, but it plays a large part of who I am, who I became, who I will become. How could I deny one of the biggest influences in how I came to know and love God?
I hope someday I can tell this story without reliving it. I'm working on it, not because I need to "get over it" but because God's glory is revealed in how he had moved in that part of my life. And my hiding of it is not exactly what God had intended.
I used to be Catholic and now I'm not. That's what I've got so far.
At least that's a start.
Several weeks ago, I pulled out a gray hair. This morning, when I was drying my hair, I pulled out another one. Upon closer inspection, I realized that I had pulled out three, all of which were sprouting from a single root.
Grr. Argh.
I know that I am not old, but that's why this is a superficial moment and not a contemplative one (for once!).
But since I am me, I couldn't stop thinking. Among the many strands of thought that plague my mind on a daily basis, one that has come up lately has to do with my Catholic background.
I have been in Tacoma for ten years. When I first moved out here for college, I vowed never to speak of what had happened at St. Stephen's. My story had not been well received the first time, why would the retelling produce different results? Since then, I have told bits and pieces to multiple people, in fear that the whole story would be ill-received.
I guess I am always looking for validation that I had made the right decision.
This thought started bothering me when Pastor Jon had stated that the most powerful tool is a story. And the most powerful story I can share is my own.
What happened at St. Stephen's doesn't define me, but it plays a large part of who I am, who I became, who I will become. How could I deny one of the biggest influences in how I came to know and love God?
I hope someday I can tell this story without reliving it. I'm working on it, not because I need to "get over it" but because God's glory is revealed in how he had moved in that part of my life. And my hiding of it is not exactly what God had intended.
I used to be Catholic and now I'm not. That's what I've got so far.
At least that's a start.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Where's My Latte?
Every random Saturday, I play Scrabble with my friends, Matty and Mags.
I don't quite remember when we had started this routine, but it had happened shortly after Matty left 6th and Pine and I had transferred to Westgate. Actually, he is the reason why I started going to the Coffee Shop. I ran into him and Mags, and found out that they had met there on occasion to play Scrabble.
They let me join them for a game and a bond was formed. After I started working at World Vision, I would join these two former co-workers from Starbucks every Wednesday night for a game of Scrabble.
Yes, I realize it makes us sound like some old people during Game Night at a elderly home, but I love it. I hope that when the three of us are old and gray that we would end up playing Scrabble at Game Night, arguing over fake words and how many "Gs" are in the word "grog." Matty--there are only 2 "Gs." Look it up. I dare you.
This Saturday, Matty asked me if I had missed working at Starbucks. It was a funny coincidence that he had asked me that question, as I had recently contemplated my time at Starbucks while I was sick this week. I told him that I didn't miss it, only to renege that statement with a very genuine, "Well, there are some people I miss, but it is not enough to come back."
We spent the next five hours (I kid you not) reminiscing about our time at Starbucks. We laughed over shared memories over our former co-workers, regular customers and the silly inside jokes that never will grow old for us. We also moaned over the shared frustrations over work ethics, managers who never stood up for the baristas, and weak pay. We exchanged stories until there were tears coming out of our eyes. However, the verdict was the same: we would never go back.
A couple years ago there was this commercial that made fun of the "Gimme-Now-or-Suffer-the-Consequences" culture we had created. A woman comes up to a coffee bar that was obviously a "Starbucks" and she orders a "Double Tall NonFat Latte." She pauses long enough to blink an eye before she says, "Where's my latte?"
I love it.
At Starbucks, we had cultivated and catered to this kind of consumerism. It was sickening. Yes, customer service is important. And the level of customer service everywhere is appalling. You may hate your job, but you still need to serve people will excellence. But the role as a customer is just as important, if not more so. These are human beings who are serving you, not robots.
During my time at Starbucks, I witnessed daily displays of human indecency that, to this day, makes me sick to my stomach. It was hard not to become jaded. And I admit that towards the end of my time working at Starbucks, I became as bitter as the coffee we had served. (Sorry, I had to take the obvious metaphor.) It was the grace of God (and my job at World Vision) that I still have compassion for people.
No, I could never go back. For those who currently work there, I hope your experience is better than mine. And for both sides of the counter, it is important to remember that just because something isn't exactly perfect, we do not have the license to be rude.
A little grace can go a long way.
I don't quite remember when we had started this routine, but it had happened shortly after Matty left 6th and Pine and I had transferred to Westgate. Actually, he is the reason why I started going to the Coffee Shop. I ran into him and Mags, and found out that they had met there on occasion to play Scrabble.
They let me join them for a game and a bond was formed. After I started working at World Vision, I would join these two former co-workers from Starbucks every Wednesday night for a game of Scrabble.
Yes, I realize it makes us sound like some old people during Game Night at a elderly home, but I love it. I hope that when the three of us are old and gray that we would end up playing Scrabble at Game Night, arguing over fake words and how many "Gs" are in the word "grog." Matty--there are only 2 "Gs." Look it up. I dare you.
This Saturday, Matty asked me if I had missed working at Starbucks. It was a funny coincidence that he had asked me that question, as I had recently contemplated my time at Starbucks while I was sick this week. I told him that I didn't miss it, only to renege that statement with a very genuine, "Well, there are some people I miss, but it is not enough to come back."
We spent the next five hours (I kid you not) reminiscing about our time at Starbucks. We laughed over shared memories over our former co-workers, regular customers and the silly inside jokes that never will grow old for us. We also moaned over the shared frustrations over work ethics, managers who never stood up for the baristas, and weak pay. We exchanged stories until there were tears coming out of our eyes. However, the verdict was the same: we would never go back.
A couple years ago there was this commercial that made fun of the "Gimme-Now-or-Suffer-the-Consequences" culture we had created. A woman comes up to a coffee bar that was obviously a "Starbucks" and she orders a "Double Tall NonFat Latte." She pauses long enough to blink an eye before she says, "Where's my latte?"
I love it.
At Starbucks, we had cultivated and catered to this kind of consumerism. It was sickening. Yes, customer service is important. And the level of customer service everywhere is appalling. You may hate your job, but you still need to serve people will excellence. But the role as a customer is just as important, if not more so. These are human beings who are serving you, not robots.
During my time at Starbucks, I witnessed daily displays of human indecency that, to this day, makes me sick to my stomach. It was hard not to become jaded. And I admit that towards the end of my time working at Starbucks, I became as bitter as the coffee we had served. (Sorry, I had to take the obvious metaphor.) It was the grace of God (and my job at World Vision) that I still have compassion for people.
No, I could never go back. For those who currently work there, I hope your experience is better than mine. And for both sides of the counter, it is important to remember that just because something isn't exactly perfect, we do not have the license to be rude.
A little grace can go a long way.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Things I Learned While I was Sick
Finally surrendering to the fact that I was sick, I spent the past two days at home. In between the glorious HOURS (and not a scant 30 minute intervals) of sleep, I realized a couple of things.
1. A diet of Cranberry juice and Emergen-C isn't as bad as it sounds.
2. Long fits of coughing can be a great ab workout. Just don't forget to breathe.
3. Hanging out with my best friend, Natalie, on Tuesday nights still save my life.
4. My blog stories were funnier when I was working at Starbucks. Perhaps I had been hiding too much.
5. "Lost" is easily one of my favorite TV shows, ever. I blame Kristin for converting me...only because she admitted that she has been playing Ben Linus the entire time.
6. Tulips are still my favorite flower. Again, it's the little things that count.
7. I'm not quitting playing piano on the worship team. No matter how frustrated I get, I can't give up something I love.
8. I feel like I keep messing things up. I am very socially awkward, and I wish I knew how to connect with people. I often believe that people freak out once they get to know me.
9. I don't like letting things go. I hate breaking people's hearts and I hate breaking my own. Sometimes we have to break our own hearts in order to save them.
10. I have to believe that something good has to happen soon. It's the only hope I have left.
11. We are always one poor decision away from ruin.
12. After all this time, I'm still Oblivious Girl.
13. The Lost Recap in 8:15 on the Season 4 DVD set cracks me up. "Jack and Kate kiss. Kate freaks out. Kate leaves. Jack is confused." See Spot run.
14. I like doing my dance of joy, but I wonder why I have to keep dancing by myself.
Sigh. Back to work.
1. A diet of Cranberry juice and Emergen-C isn't as bad as it sounds.
2. Long fits of coughing can be a great ab workout. Just don't forget to breathe.
3. Hanging out with my best friend, Natalie, on Tuesday nights still save my life.
4. My blog stories were funnier when I was working at Starbucks. Perhaps I had been hiding too much.
5. "Lost" is easily one of my favorite TV shows, ever. I blame Kristin for converting me...only because she admitted that she has been playing Ben Linus the entire time.
6. Tulips are still my favorite flower. Again, it's the little things that count.
7. I'm not quitting playing piano on the worship team. No matter how frustrated I get, I can't give up something I love.
8. I feel like I keep messing things up. I am very socially awkward, and I wish I knew how to connect with people. I often believe that people freak out once they get to know me.
9. I don't like letting things go. I hate breaking people's hearts and I hate breaking my own. Sometimes we have to break our own hearts in order to save them.
10. I have to believe that something good has to happen soon. It's the only hope I have left.
11. We are always one poor decision away from ruin.
12. After all this time, I'm still Oblivious Girl.
13. The Lost Recap in 8:15 on the Season 4 DVD set cracks me up. "Jack and Kate kiss. Kate freaks out. Kate leaves. Jack is confused." See Spot run.
14. I like doing my dance of joy, but I wonder why I have to keep dancing by myself.
Sigh. Back to work.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Sanctuary
It's no secret that when I need to hide or think the first place I go is the Coffee Shop.
But there are times when it isn't enough.
I grew up at my grandparents' house. It is the closest thing I have to a home. We didn't always have a great relationship, and we don't always understand each other. But I love them. In their special way, they take care of me.
There have been three separate occasions when all I wanted to do was go to their house to hide, regroup, think, rest. Because we don't interact, they usually leave me to my own devices. My grandmother loves to cook for her visitors--always the willing hostess. And so, she'd make me dinner, and order me to go to my room and get some rest.
She says I always look tired.
Maybe because I usually am when I am there.
And because I love my grandpa, I crave any sign of affection from him. He's been battling with his own mortality lately, which worries me to a large degree. The other side of that coin is that he has become very affectionate. He is now prone to giving hugs and actually responding when I say, "I love you." And because I love my grandpa, whenever he hugs me, it is like balm for my soul.
Today was one of those days when all I wanted was to go home. And like the three other times when I sought sanctuary, the routine was the same. My grandmother made me dinner, and sent me upstairs to get some sleep. She walked into the bedroom unannounced and asked me to come down to dinner. The three of us ate, making small talk because there really isn't much for us to say to each other. And when I finally left, my grandpa hugged me and told me that he loved me.
It isn't much, and it probably means nothing to them, but the way they love me is more than enough to get me through...whatever it is I need to get through.
A little love can go a long way.
But there are times when it isn't enough.
I grew up at my grandparents' house. It is the closest thing I have to a home. We didn't always have a great relationship, and we don't always understand each other. But I love them. In their special way, they take care of me.
There have been three separate occasions when all I wanted to do was go to their house to hide, regroup, think, rest. Because we don't interact, they usually leave me to my own devices. My grandmother loves to cook for her visitors--always the willing hostess. And so, she'd make me dinner, and order me to go to my room and get some rest.
She says I always look tired.
Maybe because I usually am when I am there.
And because I love my grandpa, I crave any sign of affection from him. He's been battling with his own mortality lately, which worries me to a large degree. The other side of that coin is that he has become very affectionate. He is now prone to giving hugs and actually responding when I say, "I love you." And because I love my grandpa, whenever he hugs me, it is like balm for my soul.
Today was one of those days when all I wanted was to go home. And like the three other times when I sought sanctuary, the routine was the same. My grandmother made me dinner, and sent me upstairs to get some sleep. She walked into the bedroom unannounced and asked me to come down to dinner. The three of us ate, making small talk because there really isn't much for us to say to each other. And when I finally left, my grandpa hugged me and told me that he loved me.
It isn't much, and it probably means nothing to them, but the way they love me is more than enough to get me through...whatever it is I need to get through.
A little love can go a long way.
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