Walking Aimlessly and Venturing into the Unknown

I love taking walks. But to be specific, I love wandering aimlessly.

I'm not much of an adventurer. I'm not one to explore. And I am not definitely not one characterized by taking risks into the unknown; at least without some type of plan.

Which bring me to my church's Women's Retreat I attended this weekend. We were at Camp Seymour (oh, 6th grade camp memories!) this year and we had about 3 hours of free time on Saturday. I opted to take a walk. Not a hike. No plan. Just aimless wandering.

I convinced two of my friends (thanks, Erin and Jessica!) to come along with me. We wandered along a trail, enjoyed the beauty of the deep colors of the Glen Cove, and discovered the Pioneer Bowl (I really need to find those camp pictures. Go Lake Youngs Grizzlies!). However, by the time we stumbled onto the now forever known as "Hobo Hut," my tolerance level for aimless wandering came to an end. In typical Abby fashion, I wanted to double back. Erin and Jessica were convinced we were close to the end of the trail and we would be back to camp soon if we just kept going. Better heads prevailed and we forged on, hoping our skills in logic and deduction rather than our rusty orienteering and would get us back home.

Eventually, we found our way. We joked about not bringing a compass or a map and laughed at our decision making skills:

Me: Hmm...the trail splits. What do you think?

Erin: [pointing to a trail] That looks good. [pause.]

Jessica: What trail marker were we following?

Me: I think it was red. [All of us look around. No red trail marker to be found.] We've got blue and white.

Jessica: Blue?

Erin: Blue. [both look at me.]

Me: Sure. Blue it is.

It's a wonder how we got back to camp. However, within that 40 minute walk, I realized a few things about myself. I'm not an advocate for wandering through life aimlessly. We should be engaged in life. We should have purpose in the way we choose to live our lives. We can't wander aimlessly forever.

I am fearful of wandering from my routine-driven life. I'm afraid I will be lost in my adventure; that I will not find my way back home. I would opt to retreat and go back the way I came rather than keep going forward and find a way out. As much as I would like to take a risk, I often don't.

What beautiful discoveries would I have missed if I didn't wander from my routine-driven life? Is there such a thing as living life a little too safe?

I will not walk about my life aimlessly, but risking a walk into the unknown every once in awhile may be worth the adventure.

Square Buildings, Ash Wednesday, and Beauty

They shall build up the ancient ruins;

they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,
the devastations of many generations.

--Isaiah, Isaiah 61:4 (ESV)

I apologize...this is going to be a long one.

In a sudden split-second decision, I attended St. Stephen's for Ash Wednesday.

I'm not sure why I decided to attend. This wasn't like Christmas--I was not obligated to go. By grace, I was saved from the certain awkward moments of attending Christmas Mass with my family at St. Stephen's. However, since then, I couldn't shake this notion that I needed to go. I needed to see. And I needed to go alone.

I should mention that the year I left St. Stephen's, the church was voting on remodeling the church building. The building we had occupied was a gray block of concrete on a considerably large tract of land. Basically, it was just an enormous square. I'm not entirely sure of what was originally planned for that building--I had heard rumors that it was originally supposed to be a gym or a school. Whatever the case, St. Stephen's was housed in a building that was never supposed to be a church.

To accommodate for what it lacked in typical church exterior glamour, St. Stephen's had a lot of space. The carpet was blue, the pews were of dark wood, and the only natural light came through the windows we had placed in the ceiling around the early 90's.

This what I remembered: St. Stephen's was a dark place with a lot of space.

And so, in the year before I left, we had little scale models to display the various phases for the church renovation project. Back then, I couldn't quite envision what it would look like, but I knew that at the end of the project, my mom would still sit in the same pew and park her car in the same spot. If we had stayed, I'm sure I would have won that bet.

In the years since I left St. Stephen's, I never saw the building after it was remodeled. And now, on this Ash Wednesday, I saw the remodeled building for the first time.

The gray block of concrete still housed the main sanctuary, but the numerous annexes and additions hid the original exterior I had remembered from my youth. The pews were of a lighter shade of wood, the walls were white, the flooring was light. My heels (of course) clicked on the tiled floor of the narthex instead of sinking into the plush carpet from the 70's. Natural light poured in through the windows that surrounded the halls. And even though there were too many people at Mass for me to be sure, I was certain that some evil genius of architecture had made the square building seem circular.

This was beyond different--this was unrecognizable.

Some things did stay the same. The first person I ran into was a member of the church council that had forbidden me to return. She recognized me immediately and gave me a look that asked, "Are you sure you're supposed to be here?" Fortunately, she didn't say anything--at least to my knowledge. The choir was still led by the same guy, and the piano player still took off his shoes when he played the organ--which, incidentally, hadn't budged an inch.

Despite the mix of new and old, everything just seemed surreal.

Shortly after receiving the ashes, I ducked out early. There was one place I had to see: the basement.

The doors were closed off; but not under lock and key. A wall stood in its place, permanently sealing off the room that housed one of my most traumatic memories. I stood there, staring at this fake wall, wondering how this wall came to be and where the current basement resided. Soon, my imagination ran wild--if I somehow found the magic, secret doorway through this wall, would I walk into a world frozen in time? Would that little girl inside of me be found screaming for help?

All dramatic wanderings aside, I came upon this basic truth:

The St. Stephen's I had remembered and feared no longer exists in reality.

In essence, it's over.

I understand that God didn't build over this cold church building just for me. But in this moment of spontaneity, He showed me in a very tangible way what I already intuitively knew: this dark place that used to St. Stephen's no longer exists. He literally built over the cold building and sealed off the dark places. What was rebuilt upon these ruins would somehow bring Him glory.

The metaphor could not be more poignant. And the way God is writing my story is is far more than what I could ever produce on my own.

The young girl I had been--the one who was fragile and alone and scared and lonely--no longer exists in this reality. God has let His light in this once cold heart of mine. The dark places are closed off and healed over.

What was rebuilt upon the ruins of my heart will bring Him glory.

And there will be beauty among these ashes.

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the poor; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to grant to those who mourn in Zion—to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he may be glorified.

--Isaiah, Isaiah 61:1-3 (ESV)

Duets

On my way home from my closing shift tonight, I was enchanted by a beautiful classical piano duet.

I know: Nerd.

This particular duet was a seamless union. They sounded like one; complimenting each other's styles, techniques, and expressions.

I suppose that is all that anyone really hopes in a duet--musical or otherwise. Each person is great on their own right, but when joined, it is beauty.

They're better when they're together.

The piece was Felix Mendelssohn's Concerto in E for Two Pianos. The duet was Hogward and Christopher, along with the Bavarian Chamber Philharmonic. I understand the details may be boring, but the piece was beautifully done. I invite you to listen. Really. You might enjoy it.

Noisy Living and Being Still

It took me all weekend, but I finally found some time to stay still.

But to be honest, the way to be still found me.

Tonight, I attended the Compline Service at St. Mark's Cathedral in Seattle. I can't even describe this delightful experience. The Compline Choir was amazing. It was beautiful. It was moving.

And for a half an hour, I was still. I was at rest. I was with my God. I just...was.

I am amazed at the beauty that can be evoked by music. The moment was so peaceful; quiet. And in that short time, I was overwhelmed by God's love. As I write this, I realize that my heart can't contain this kind of love.

These are the kind of moments that you wish would last forever.

When I left St. Mark's, I was confronted by how noisy my life has become. I couldn't even stand to have the radio on during my drive home. I didn't want the peaceful moment to end. But I knew that soon enough, my life would be filled by demanding distractions, urgent matters, constant thoughts, and compounding responsibilities.

It would be foolish to try to make this singular moment last forever. I experienced the goodness of being still, of being in the presence of His peace, of being overcome by God's love. It may take some time to learn how to push the noise of my life away on a regular basis and to find those moments to stay still before God. But after this experience of rest, I am finding that the choice to be still with God is one that is always worth making.

Be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.

--David, Psalm 46:10

The Compline Choir sings on Sunday evenings at 9:30 at St. Mark's Cathedral in Seattle. You may also hear the service live on King FM (98.1 FM).

Treasured Past

In my attempt to regain some perspective, I ended up in the music store in my Hometown.

I wasn't expecting to buy any music, but of course, I ended up with three classical pieces (Beethoven, Chopin, and Liszt). I rushed over to my grandparents's house for Family Dinner, anxiously awaiting a chance to try the pieces on the piano.

Sadly, excitement gave way to frustration. My fingers don't move in the same way. I repeatedly ran over the difficult passages through Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, only to end up with my fingers aching due to lack of use.

My cousin JJ was also at dinner, and catching my nostalgic mood, he and I went on a search for a time gone by. It started out as a search of our Nintendo NES (JJ only found the game cartridges) and I came across, of course, my old books. We also found some videotapes of movies my uncle Ned had recorded when the family used to have HBO. I also uncovered my grandfather's Olivetti typewriter. (Yes, typing on that beautiful machine is art. And as JJ can attest to, it uses finger muscles he didn't know he had!)

But the real treasure was a box of piano music that JJ found. I poured over the music, my excitement returning. I returned to the piano and tried out the pieces I used to play with perfection.

And yet, I came to find that my fingers still don't move in the same way.

I'm not sure why it upsets me so much.

Toward the end of Family Dinner, I started to enjoy playing those familiar piano pieces, mistakes included. It was a treasured time in my past; when music filled a large portion of my life. And those precious pieces that sum up my childhood now again reside in the piano bench at my grandparents's house, right where they belong; ready to be found the next time I'm up for a nostalgic visit.