Two Months Later

I hadn't realized how much I had missed it.

Last Sunday (8/15) I had an opportunity to play piano for my church.

The last time I had played piano was on Memorial weekend. My "sabbatical" had lasted a little over two months. I didn't have an end date for my sabbatical, and technically, I am still in it. But I wanted to play.

No, I ached to play.

I still do.

After a few key conversations with some close friends of mine, I found that I may have been too hasty in my decision to leave. I was lying to myself, to others, and to God. I was holding back on a part of my heart that ached to express my love for my God. In the two short months that I had quit playing piano, my foolish rebellion in refusing to reveal my truest heart was affecting me in ways that I had not realized. I was easily angered, easily confused, easily distracted, easily saddened.

Freedom to express oneself has its merits. And I realize that expressing love is necessary.

I had been so afraid of expressing love. I am afraid if I offer my heart--even to God--that it would be rejected.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.

--John, 1 John 4:18

As I have probably mentioned many times before on this blog, I have an unusually high filter. I hold back on so much. And I stopped the one way I freely express myself.

Why would I think that quitting would be a good idea?

Despite my stupidity, I was glad to have the opportunity to play.

I still am.

So I played last Sunday. With all of my heart. And it was wonderful. It was healing. It was nothing more than a small offering of my truest heart to my God to let him know how much I love Him.

And I hope it was enough.

Rearrangement

In a slight manic episode, I rearranged my apartment.

The last time I had rearranged my apartment, I threw out my back in my foolish attempt to move my furniture on my own.

Ok, I'll admit, some things didn't change. I still moved the furniture on my own, but at least I didn't throw out my back. (But if you ask the worship team, I was very sore on Sunday morning. Blarg.)

I don't know why, but this particular change had opened my heart. I moved the couches around, made the TV less of the focus of the room, and moved my music out from the boxes and placed them on what was once my entertainment center. (Yes, I kept the TV--it's just on a less prominent place in the living room. And yes, I still am looking for a piano). I collected all my books from the numerous random piles throughout my apartment and placed them on the bookshelf where they belonged. And all that I have written is within reach.

It was freedom. And for the first time in a long time since I moved out on my own, it felt like it was my home and not just a place where I slept.

My life was no longer hidden in corners of my apartment; it was out in the open.

If my home is a metaphor of my heart, I feel like this sudden, and albeit manic, rearrangement of my apartment may be a step in the right direction in revealing who I really am.

The Soccer Ball is a Metaphor for Her Heart

Sports Camp is over.

I love this event. So much hard work is involved, and I love to see my church community come together to play sports, hang out with children, sing songs, dance crazy, and make fools of themselves all so that children can know God.

This year, my job for Sports Camp is a creative one. I am thankful for every opportunity Kristin gives me to write a skit, but the Sports Camp skits hold a special place in my heart.

Especially this one.

My life tends to fall apart when I write a skit. The writing process for this year's skit is no exception. In my last post, I shared that I identified with plot of the skit and pondered the ending. Because I am Abby, I wanted to re-write everything. It was coming down to the wire and all I wanted to do is change the final skit.

Something was missing, and I couldn't figure it out.

It didn't occur to me the missing part until Tuesday morning, two days before the final skit performance. I re-wrote the last page and snuck it into rehearsal.

I was worried on the day of the final skit. Was it going to work? Would people respond? What if I still don't like it? Did the drama team know that they were speaking for me, that they were my voice?

I couldn't be more proud of the drama team. All week they had impressed me with their comedic timing; their commitment to the characters that I had created. Most of the skit was a comedy--not my forte. Typically, my writing is serious by nature and I knew that the only reason why the jokes worked was because of the actors. But the last page was different and I worried if anyone would go along with it.

Surprisingly enough, they did. The Sports Camp kids cheered on their hero as he reclaimed the soccer ball from his nemesis, and celebrated when the main character made the pivotal decision to ask for help and join her team. And as the kids erupted with support for her final line, I knew they were on her side; they truly wanted her to win.

As I mentioned in my last post, it is strange to see your life story unfold on stage. Sure, I may have over-identified with this year's skit. Sure, the writing process may always involve a little breaking of my heart. Sure, I may never be a comedic writer. I don't know if and/or when I will be asked to write again, but if asked, I am sure that I would do it again.

Of all the things I could be sure of, I know this to be true: there are some things I couldn't create or write for myself. After months of isolating discouragement and shattering silence, at this year's Sports Camp, God gave my voice back to me.

And my heart was healed.

Identification

Every once in awhile, I write skits for my church.

I don't think I'm very good at it, but I will take any opportunity to write something. At least I'll be writing, right?

The good person out of the good treasure of his heart produces good, and the evil person out of his evil treasure produces evil, for out of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaks.

--Luke 6:45 (ESV)

The latest offering is for my church's version of Vacation Bible School: Sports Camp. I know nothing about sports, I don't know anything about camp, but I am thankful that my friend Kristin still trusts me to write the skits.

Perhaps I was a little out of practice, but the writing process for this skit took a little longer than I was used to. I was way past deadline and I couldn't write past the second act. Finally, two weeks past deadline, I rushed through scenes three and four. Frustrated and dissatisfied, I ripped up the last two scenes and started over. I didn't make a good read through until I had to turn in the skit at the Sports Camp meeting.

I hadn't realized the storyline I had created until I was talking through the entire play. It isn't unusual for me to identify with one of my character's inner struggle. What was unusual was how blatantly the plot was my story.

Identify, much?

It is a surreal experience to see your story play out on stage. I'd like to think I was not so overly self-indulgent in my writing--especially when I write for church--but apparently, this story that I have ignored in my own life needed to get out on paper just to get my attention.

The skit has a little neat ending. I'm not sure if my reality will play out in the same way.

A Moment to Breathe

This 4th of July, I did my usual fare: I read the Declaration of Independence and pondered what it meant to be a citizen.

And then, the whirlwind that is the Independence Day Celebration commenced. Church, BBQ, hanging out with friends. This year, I opted to go to my friend Erin's parent's house on Fox Island and spend the 4th of July on the beach.

It was windy, cold, dreary and fantastic. I don't think I'll ever get the campfire smell out of my hair.

But my favorite moment of the entire weekend came the day after. I returned to Fox Island to have breakfast at the same beach.

It was near perfection. A sunny morning. The sound of the water upon the shore. Breakfast near the fire pit. Friends sitting around talking and enjoying each other's presence. A fantastic cup of coffee.

I think there was even a seal named Barney and his mother, Cecilia.

At one point, with a warm cup of coffee in my hands, I felt peace amid the comfortable silence in the presence of my friends.

I took a deep breath and it was beautiful.

Losing My Voice

In looking over this blog, I wonder: didn't I use to write better than this? No--scratch that--didn't I used to write more than this?

Somewhere along the way, I found that I had lost my ability to write anything that doesn't sound like one of the hundreds of e-mails that I compose on a weekly basis. I am already unable to speak on the phone in a casual manner: I can't stop myself from slipping into my professional business voice and leaving voicemail messages with my work's tagline.

I don't see myself as a writer any more than I see myself as a musician. However, I must admit that I love writing and I miss having this outlet. Sadly, like with most things as of late, writing is on the long list of things I ran away from because it got too hard.

So the questions remain: will I always run from the things I love? Will I ever have the courage to rise above the criticisms and keep enjoying the things I love to do?

Will I ever take a risk?

End of a Season

I suppose now I can finally talk about it.

Yesterday (Sunday) was my last Sunday morning as a worship leader at my church. There are many reasons that led up to this decision, and for the most part, I am peace about the end of this season of my life.

However, yesterday morning was rough. Everything was falling apart, nothing was going right, and I was an emotional wreck. I had spent most of my Saturday morning crying over this change, and I was determined not to repeat that in front of everyone on Sunday morning.

For little over a year, I was the worship leader for the 11 am service at my church. No one really knew that was what I did except for the worship team that served with me faithfully week in and week out. As such, for most people, this change in leadership won't seem different. I am stepping down from a role that people didn't know I had. So, if anyone saw me crying on Sunday morning, they wouldn't know why.

This change affects me more than I had realized. I love leading worship. I love putting set lists together. I love rehearsal. I love hanging out with my worship team and discovering how to play a song together.

I am really going to miss this.

This season has come to an end, and I eagerly anticipate to see what will come next; to see what dreams God will unfold before me; to see what desires of my heart will be fulfilled. It is exciting and sad at the same time.

But for the moment, all I can think about is how much I am going to miss this.

I would also like to say thank you to my wonderful worship team. Thank you for staying by me as I clumsily tried to figure out this leadership role. You all are gifted musicians and I am touched by your big hearts and service to God. I look forward to working with all of you again when I return from my "sabbatical."

Thank you to my friends who prayed for me over this day. A special thank you to Elena and Rana for visiting me and making this moment a celebration.

This dream of mine to lead worship is coming to an end. Even if it was for a little while, I am supremely thankful for the time I had been given to try out this dream and see if I could do it. And I hope that the end of this dream would make room for another dream to begin.

Sigh. I really am going to miss this.