Reformation Day

When I was young, I knew everything.

--The Verve Pipe, "The Freshmen"

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.

--Paul, Romans 12:2 (ESV)

I'm not quite sure what happened this week, but somewhere, I snapped.

Do you ever take a look at your life and wonder, "This isn't working. Something's got to change"?

And then, for all of your thinking, you realize that the thing that had to change was you?

I needed a fresh perspective, to look at things differently instead of the way that it always...well, was. And I feared that if I didn't see things differently, I will remain stuck, spinning my tires in the muck and mire, going nowhere fast.

In my last entry, I said that I had shared my story about my limp. For some reason, the story still bothered me--but not in the way that I had expected. The story hadn't changed, but somewhere in the telling of it, I realized that I was the one who had changed. I am not that broken little girl or that scared young teenager any longer. So, if I am different, shouldn't the story change, too?

I pondered on this notion for a few days and a sudden revelation hit me. I had been trying for so long to make those in my story less like the villains and monsters I had feared, but rather, people. Like you. Like me. All in need of grace. Forgiveness. Hope.

Love.

The problem was, I didn't know how. I had to change my mind about them, about who they are as human beings and not mere characters in the story of my life.

We, including those who hurt us, are far more interesting than we give them credit for. Their story goes on, and mine should, too. And holding onto my fearful perspective of them will not lead to the freedom I so desperately seek.

Because your story is not over. The last word has not been spoken. And there may be way more going on here than any of us realize. So may you be released from always having to understand why everything happens the way that it does. May this freedom open you up to all sorts of new perspective. And may you have the wisdom to say, 'I spoke once, but now I will say no more.'

--Rob Bell, "Whirlwind"

My mind and heart is a mess of emotions because my perspective on the two specific people changed. I wanted to mete out judgment and punishment, but now, with a renewed heart and mind, I see them with the grace that only God can provide.

And that, I'm finding, is making all the difference.

Happy Reformation Day, everyone.

Walking Joyfully With a Limp

We should walk joyfully with a limp.

--Jon Fredricks

I really wish I had made up this phrase. Excellent job, Pastor Jon.

Today's offering was based on the story in Genesis of Jacob wrestling with God. He demanded a blessing, and instead received a limp and a new name.

I will not be able to give today's sermon justice, and there are so many great lessons that they all couldn't possibly fit into one blog. However, one of the lessons that stayed with me was about Jacob's limp. Jacob/Israel's limp was a reminder that beauty can come from ashes. Weakness doesn't have to mean defeat. We can struggle with God and overcome. We can prevail even if we walk away joyfully with a limp.

A year has passed since I shared my story of my "limp," so to speak. Despite the freedom and blessing I found after sharing the whole truth, I never spoke of it again. I often elude to it in conversation. I keep the story vague, but never get into details.

Yes, I'm hiding.

And so I offered the story. It was still difficult, but it's getting easier. I'm not dancing on rooftops over what I had gone through and what I hope to become--that joy is still yet to be found.

But at least the limp isn't as painful as it used to be.

Legacy

One of the most inspiring people in my life is my high school choir director.

Giles (er, Tony--I'm sorry, Giles, it's going to take me awhile to get used to calling you Tony) played a huge part of my life, specifically in my junior and senior years of high school. He saved my life more than once and he shared with me how I was instrumental in his. While he and I reminisced and reconnected during the KR Choir Reunion this past weekend, I realized that if asked to do my senior year over again in the same manner, I would.

But maybe that time around, I would remember to sleep every once in awhile.

During our day of rehearsal for the following concert that night, I was struck with joyful memories of choir rehearsals in high school. Giles is still a bundle of energy, always teaching and seeking to connect with his students--or in this case, his colleagues--through music. Although a decade (or more, for some) had passed since we were in his classroom, it did not take long for us to respond to his direction and teaching.

We were, in essence, well-trained.

As I watched him conduct and teach, I couldn't help but laugh to myself at the numerous mannerisms I had adopted from him. I direct in the same way. I tilt my head when the notes are a little flat. I break into little teaching speeches of the importance of music, the composer or arranger, the history of the piece, and the musical (technical and artistic) elements at play. I am found frantically running around to address the last minute details right before a performance. I double-book myself and am busy with numerous obligations (I'm sorry, Giles, I ended up doing the very thing you warned me not to do. I'll try to do better). I also arrange a set list in the same way.

However, this isn't just my story. Everyone in that room that day had been affected by Giles or another former director, Don Barrows. Giles had been influenced by Mr. Barrows, and so essentially, everyone in the room was part of Mr. Barrows's legacy. All of us were touched by their passion for music and that passion continues with us.

As Giles often said during our reunion, it wasn't the music that brought us back. We came back because of the connections we had made while creating beautiful music together.

At least for me, I wanted to thank Giles for everything he did for me in my musical and personal life. He was one of the few that stood up for me during my junior year, and he was the one who challenged me to find my way back to music after a seven year absence. It was a joy to sing with him in school and it is a huge honor to have a chance to sing with him as an adult.

I know he was touched by this first of hopefully many reunion concerts. I couldn't imagine what it was like for him to see those he had taught throughout the years come back and sing with him, but I do know that he was overwhelmed to see his legacy and passion for music continue. In our conversation at the Homecoming game, he said he felt blessed to have so many of us to come back and still enjoy each other and the music.

In reality, Tony, we were the blessed ones.

Script Change

I've been praying for something specific for a few weeks now.

In the past few days, a few questions have crept into my mind, altering my static perspective. I can't possibly articulate the numerous questions that plague my mind as of late, but this particular question has surfaced:

Have I become too comfortable with my life that if asked to change it all, would I obey?

I hadn't realized that things I have been praying for would result in dramatic changes in my life. As much as I look forward to see how God will answer my prayers, I wonder if the time came, would I leave the comfort of the status quo of my life and step into the unknown?

I'm not good when the script changes and the scene I had expected to come next is no longer there or has been completely rewritten. But then again, our lives are not scripted. They are dynamic. They are fluid. They can change.

We can change.

I suppose that's the beauty and strain of having faith in a God who is both good and sovereign. To trust God is to trust Him with his good plans and that he is sovereign over the details.

Especially when the script changes.

And in my experience, what he creates is better than what I could ever imagine.

We must be willing to be rid of the life we had planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

--Joseph Campbell

The Last Time I Sang in a Choir

This weekend, I will be attending my high school choir reunion.

Contrary to popular belief, I am quite excited about this venture. I am looking forward to singing in a choir again, learning new choral pieces, reading new music. I'm excited to meet alumni from other years than my own. And yes, I will also have to hold myself back from running to the piano to plunk out parts and take the lead. (I was always the bossy one...that shouldn't surprise anyone...)

And when I see my former choir director, I won't be ashamed that I had dropped out of music. I will have a better story to share with him.

In true Abby-fashion, it didn't occur to to me to tell anyone--friends, family, or circle of influence--about the free concert at the end of the reunion. I never put two-and-two together until I received an e-mail from the reunion committee to encourage the attendees to invite their family and friends to our free concert. I didn't feel guilty about my silence until today when my mother asked me what I was doing this weekend.

When I was talking with my mother, I remembered that sometime during my high school career, I had stopped inviting my family and friends to my choir concerts. I always figured that they were

1. Not interested in attending.

2. Not expecting anything different from my other numerous concerts.

Then again, I have always been known for keeping things close to the chest.

Which brings me to the last time I sang in a choir. It was my senior concert; the last high school concert of the year. Not only was it the last choir concert, it was also supposed to be the last musical performance of which I would take part. For these reasons, my mother and sister chose to attend the end of my musical performing career.

I will never forget their faces when Giles handed me my award for the night. When he had finished, they stared at me in shock and disbelief as the audience around them rose to their feet for a truly shocking and unexpected standing ovation. In that strange mix of humility and delight, messy tears and smiles, I felt guilty that the only two people who didn't understand why I was being honored were the two people in the audience I was related to.

It was a strange sense of betrayal. While people congratulated me after the concert, my mother and sister had to endure pretending to know what was happening while they awkwardly accepted the accolades that were extended to them.

Like I mentioned before, I'm a private person, especially with things that mean a lot to me.

Apparently, some things haven't changed in the ten years since I last sang in a choir. However, I am confident that things can change. I want to learn how to share the things that are important to me with those I love.

I may still keep things close to the chest, but what I take joy in shouldn't be one of them.

Two Rocks and Something Warm To Drink

Friend: [jokingly] So Abby, tell me your life story.

Me: [without skipping a beat] I was born on a rainy night.

Friend: [laughing] Really?

Me: Probably. It could have been raining.

And so the sharing of life stories began. To avoid having to play soccer, my friend Erin and I agreed to follow our friends to watch them play soccer under the following conditions:

1. There was a place for us to sit.

2. We had something to keep us warm.

So Erin and I sat on two large rocks at the edge of the soccer field, drinking our coffee and hot chocolate (I had the hot chocolate!) and telling each other a brief synopsis of our life stories.

And you know how I love process stories.

I like hearing people's life stories; where they lived, how they got to where they are now, where they would like to be. I like discovering who they admire, what they're afraid of, what they struggle with. I like listening to the questions and issues that plague them most, and the answers and opinions they'd like to contribute. I like figuring out what makes them laugh, what they enjoy most.

I suppose that is why I prefer hanging out with people on a one-on-one basis: people are interesting and their stories are fascinating. I am always deeply honored when someone decides to share their story with me. It is never disappointing when people share stories.

This isn't to say that I don't like large groups. I do enjoy large social settings, but only for a short period of time. I am naturally shy and I often find myself uncomfortable quickly when I'm in a large group for too long. I feel more at ease with intimate conversations shared between two-three people; and I always find myself wishing the time together could last longer. However, since intense conversations are also draining, I believe it is a good thing to be able to balance both social settings. But if given the choice, I'd always opt for connecting with people by sharing stories.

Just give me two rocks and something warm to drink.

Microphones and Moving Targets

Due to external circumstances, I ended up singing the entire set list for the 11 AM service.

Singing isn't my strength, but I still enjoy it. I'm better behind the piano. I love playing the piano--it's one of the few things I like about myself. I get nervous every time I play in front of other people, but it's easier for me to cover my fear behind the piano. You can't hide your fear when there's a microphone in front of your face magnifying your nervousness.

And as usual, I started thinking: I hide a lot.

For instance, I've been told that I walk fast.

Here's the basic truth: I'm a short girl. Short legs, small feet. And I have tall friends. To keep up with their normal pace, it takes takes me three steps to match one of their strides. I'm also told that it's funnier when I wear my high heels. Apparently, the clicking of my heels upon the pavement provides a wonderfully amusing soundtrack.

I developed my rushed manner of walking because I'm hiding. You can't hit a moving target. If I keep moving, preoccupying myself with things to do and worry about, I won't have to face whatever I need to face. I don't have to be real--I'm too busy for that. I don't have to face my fears--I just need to push through them to get things accomplished. I don't have to slow down or stand still--something else needs my attention.

I'm a pretty private person by nature, but sometimes I'm just hiding.

What I learned from my experience today is that it is sometimes worth it to stop hiding. I wasn't perfect in singing or playing piano, but at least I tried. I learned more about myself and other people in risking foolishness instead of hiding behind playing it safe.

Sometimes taking that risk can allow God to do something great. And at times, it is better than we could have ever planned.

Then the time came when the risk it took to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
-Anais Nin

...they held so tightly to what they had that they could not open their hands to receive what was to come.
--Erwin McManus, "Chasing Daylight"

And we must be willing to be rid of the life we had planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
--Joseph Campbell

Advocacy

I was supposed to go to law school.

For three years, I studied sociology of crime and deviance with every intent of going to law school. I wanted to be an advocate for those who could not speak.

I'm not a policymaker or advocate, nor did I venture into the hallowed halls of higher education for that elusive law degree. I got something better out of the deal; I work for an organization that speaks for the poor, especially children.

I love where I work.

Today was the first day of our fiscal year. And every year, we dedicate October 1 as our worldwide Day of Prayer.

I love where I work.

Of the many thoughts that ran through my head today, I pondered on my somewhat fascination with being an advocate. I studied crime and deviance because I wanted to help bring justice to those who could not fight for it themselves. I love where I work, because I believe in a better world for a children and no demographic should stop that dream from becoming a reality.

Sadly, that's where the fascination ends and an unhealthy obsession begins. Yes, I have a martyr complex. Yes, I have great intentions to help people. But sometimes it comes across that I want to save people. To be perfectly honest, I don't wake up every morning wanting to save people. I don't think people need to be fixed. I never want to be the savior, I just want to help.

Maybe I want to help too much.

It's not much of a secret that I was formerly Catholic. Not only that, I was the Model Catholic girl. And without warning, I left, knowing that by doing so, I could never come back. There are many reasons why I left. One of the reasons why I left was because I had no one to speak for me. No one spoke for me. I had no one to turn to, no one could help me. And I walked away, voiceless and broken.

I guess that is what has been bothering me as of late. I want to help people in hopes that I could make up for the ways that I could not help myself. And I often find myself frustrated because I'm not much of an advocate for those I yearn to help.

There are many voiceless people in this world. There are many people that need us to speak for them. There are many people who need our help. We don't need to save them or become their savior, we already have Someone who does that. But we can (and should) still do something.

I suppose that's why this year's Day of Prayer moved me--I was reminded of why I love where I work. I'm not an advocate, but I believe that in some small way I am still doing something.

And coming from someone who searched for help and found none to speak for her, a little something that can speak volumes is better than the nothing that echoes in the silence.

For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent, and for Jerusalem’s sake I will not be quiet, until her righteousness goes forth as brightness, and her salvation as a burning torch...

--Isaiah, Isaiah, 62:1-2 (ESV)

And the Lord said to Paul one night in a vision, "Do not be afraid, but go on speaking and do not be silent..."

--Luke, Acts 18:9 (ESV)