loud hearts and The Help

I know I am a little bit late to get this one on the list, but I just finished reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett.  (Honestly, one of the Top 10 books I have ever read and you should hurry and finish whatever book you currently have opened and get this one- but that is not the point I am making).  Among the many, many thoughts this amazing piece of writing has left swirling in my head comes from a conversation early in the book between Abileen, a black woman working as a maid in Jackson, Mississippi, and Elizabeth Leefolt, her white boss.  The Leefolt’s have just built Abileen her own bathroom in the garage so that they won’t have a “colored” person using the one in their home:

“So, from now on, instead of using the guest bathroom, you can use your own right out there.  Won’t that be nice?”

“Yes Ma’am.”  I keep ironing… She keep standing there looking at me though.

“So you’ll use that one in the garage now, you understand?”

I don’t look at her.  I’m not trying to make no trouble, but she done made her point.

“Don’t you want to get some tissue and go on out there and use it?”

“Miss Leefolt, I don’t really have to go right this second.”

“Oh.”  Miss Leefolt lick her lips a few times.  “But when you do, you’ll go on back there and use that one now, I mean… only that one, right?”

I say what I know she want to hear: “I use my colored bathroom from now on.  And then I go on and Clorox the white bathroom again real good.”

“Well there’s no hurry.  Anytime today would be fine.”

But by the way she standing there fiddling with her wedding ring, she really mean for me to do it right now.

I put the iron down real slow, feel that bitter seed grow in my chest, the one that planted after Treelore died.  My face goes hot, my tongue twitchy.  I don’t know what to say to her.  All I know is, I ain’t saying it.  And I know she ain’t saying what she want to say either and it’s a strange thing happening here cause nobody saying nothing and we still managing to have us a conversation.

Now that is one beautifully written picture.  Not the blatant discrimination, and certainly not the humiliation Abileen feels to be told the white family she works for believes they will catch colored diseases if she uses a bathroom in their home.  But the tension in the conversation is so tangible and real, it puts you right there in the middle of it.  We know what each character is really feeling and thinking even though their words are not saying it.

I think about that last line, about nobody saying anything and the conversation is still happening.  Have you ever had that conversation?  Have you ever felt like there was so much being left unsaid?  Have you ever felt like someone was formulating an opinion of you on very little information?  Or, have you ever formulated an opinion of someone on very little information?  (Mmmm hmmm.)  Have you ever known that your heart was in a very different place than your words and actions?

The point is this: sometimes our hearts speak louder than anything we could say. 

There are no words that can be articulated well enough, no body language that can look perky enough, and no good-deeds done in bitterness that can look real enough— none of these things can mask our hearts quite enough to be believed as genuine.  And that seems to me to be the point.  If our hearts are not right, we know it, and others will eventually see it.

But more importantly, God knows it.  He is searching the whole world looking for the men and women whose hearts are fully committed to him.*  And we can’t hide with our words or our actions.  When our hearts are devoted to something much bigger than ourselves, and when they are truly humbled by the unmerited grace we are offered every morning, the footsteps of our day follow accordingly, and we love others well.  But the opposite is also true.  When our hearts are bitter, judgmental, anxious, overly opinionated, angry, or entitled, the footsteps of our day will still follow accordingly.

Our hearts really do speak.  And they act, and they leave impressions, and they show others who and what we value the most, too.  And that must be why, above all else, we are to guard them.  Because our words don’t mean much if our hearts can’t back it up.  So today, I want to think a little more deeply about my heart, about the places I let it go to, and about the Savior who has done, and will do, anything to win it. 

*2 Chronicles 16:9 

artwork

Sometimes when I’m smack dab in the middle of this world's radiant beauty, I picture God as an artist. Maybe as a painter, he creates with a color wheel of hues we don’t have accurate descriptions for.  Or maybe as sculptor, his hands flawlessly mold the texture of a pineapple and the delicate wings of a pelican.  With mere strokes of a paintbrush he can turn a nighttime canvas into a sunrise masterpiece, and with the mighty grooves of his hands, he can perfectly shape the ocean’s shoreline.

If you couldn’t tell by the jabber of pineapples, pelicans, and ocean tides, I was in paradise this past week. Paradise, in the form of Mexico, along the Riviera Maya. Thirty people from across the U.S. rolled in to a resort, retreated from a land with reliable cell phone service, and anticipated the night that Luke and Jess would become their own, little family. As the clouds slowly shifted inland, we shifted into a slowed pace of life. As the drinks re-filled in true, all-inclusive fashion, we refilled our emptied energy with sunrays and long naps.  And as the moonlight danced along the Gulf of Mexico waters, we danced under the stars to Etta James and Lady Gaga, toasting and celebrating the bride and groom.

The Johns’ got to have their first family vacation, Jess and her dad got to go parasailing, Kyle and Alyssa got to toast their older siblings, I got to spend the weekend with my husband, and half of the guests got a post-wedding bath as they jumped one-by-one into the nearby pool- still dressed in full wedding attire (for the record, I jumped and it was well worth the soggy mess.)

This weekend was one of God’s great pieces of art. And as I sat in the Cancun terminal, waiting to board my flight back to Phoenix, I collected and pieced together my most cherished memories.

I remembered the majestic creation that I described earlier. And it struck me that some of the most beautiful pieces of art I’ve been lucky enough to witness were not in a gallery or a museum, but living, breathing, acts of God painted and sculpted for my pleasure and his glory. I remembered the vows that Luke and Jess wrote and read to each other in their new covenant of marriage, and was brought to tears as they related it to the new covenant God scripted for us through the forgiving power of his only son. I remembered the prayers for no rain, for lasting memories, and fruitful friendships and closed my eyes and thanked God for answering them all.

The divine artist began sculpting this marriage close to a decade ago. The channels and lines of Luke and Jess speak of his great faithfulness, merciful kindness, and promising love for his artwork. And though they may not always feel like pieces of art, God updated pictures of Jess and Luke in his wallet and can’t wait to show off their wedding photos in heaven. Not because he’s bragging and not because he’s an artist in need of credit, but because he’s proud and because they’re his masterpiece. 

We are his masterpiece. We are his prized possessions. The God that the birds sing about and the oceans roar about chose us to be his framed focal point. So the next time you wander down the road of I don't matter, or get lost in the desert of it can't be true, be reminded that he finds the lost and creates opportunities for the deserted to jump in the pool of his GRAND love. And believe me, it's well worth the soggy mess. 

Score Keepers

I love Scrabble.  Maybe it is because I was an English major and I love words, maybe it is because I could almost always beat my mom when we played, and maybe it is simply because of the combination of brain power and creativity it takes to win.  Or, it could very well be that I am just a nerd.  But I’ll take a round of Scrabble over any other game any day of the week.

Scrabble is a game that needs very precise score keeping.  If the designated “keeper of the score” is not paying attention, not marking down every letter accurately, well, then all of the work your mind has done to draw up every possible word for the letters E-W-E-O-R-N-H  is all for naught.  Stingy scorekeepers, that works for Scrabble and every other board game.

But there’s a place that keeping score just does not work: life.

We live in a culture that disagrees, a culture that tells you coming out on top—with the most money, the best clothes, the kids with the most accomplishments, the finest things and the nicest home—will make you matter.  Those things are supposed to fill your soul and allow you to sleep well at night.  There are supposed to get you friends, status, and security.  They don’t.

We also are told that we “deserve” the best.  We are advised that if friends don’t call us back they are not good people and not worth our time.  And (particularly if you are a female), we tend to only remember the times that we have done something nice, left a message, sent a letter, wrote on someone’s facebook wall, or was the last person to send the text.  And by standing our ground and not being the nice one anymore, we believe we have taught the person on the other end of the relationship a lesson about being a good friend, and that we will feel better about our boundaries.  We won’t.

The most debilitating seasons of my life have been heavily monitored by my internal score keeping.  A friend got engaged and I did not: one point for them.  Another friend is pregnant and I am not: two points for them.  That woman over there is tall and thin and I am not: point against Katie.  A friend from college is volunteering in an orphanage for a year: definitely a three point advantage for the extra-spiritual part.  And the woman over there, she can cook, for goodness sake!  I am way behind at this point.

And, the most bitter and prideful moments of my life also happen when I am knee deep in the “score.”  I know I left the last message, I’m not calling her again until she calls me.  I have written her notes for months, it is her turn… and on and on it goes.  (I am so incredibly guilty of this, if you only knew!)  We all keep score of something—it is our way of feeling ok about who we are, the natural justification of ourselves we all do.

And then, we look at the Cross.

That man, that perfect man who hung there, he erased the score.  He said “You cannot possibly win, you cannot possibly earn what I offer you, you cannot create on your own a meaningful life, and you cannot manufacture a soul fulfilled.”  That’s Jesus.  He has never been interested in the score.  (If he was, we would all be in trouble, because he’s totally winning).  He has only ever wanted our hearts.  We can bring him a list of all the nice things we have done for our friends, he would tell us to throw it away.  We can show him our home and the nice boat we just bought, he would remind us of the woman who gave 2 pennies and stole his heart in the process*.  We can bring our framed diplomas, our bank account statements, and we can come dressed in our finest clothes as we present it all to Him, and I think he would tell us that the man who paved the way for Jesus’ ministry was practically naked and lived in the forest* (and I can’t imagine he knew how to cook much).  Jesus wants our love and devotion, not our lists of good deeds, our resumes, or our things.

I know that one of the biggest hills I am climbing in my walk with the Lord is this very thing—this tendency to keep the score.  But when I think about the only perfect man who ever lived, the only man who ever had the right to keep score, and I remember that he didn’t, I am brought to my knees in humility.  God gives us great things to take care of: homes, cars, children, friendships… but they are His things, on loan to us and in our care until the time He chooses to take them back.  We are not to compare them, judge them, make them our identity or be prideful because of them.  We have no ground to stand on when we keep score.

All we can say is “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.”*

Score keeping is for golf, soccer, football, volleyball, and Scrabble.  It is not for life.  It does not bring us closer to the heart of God, it get us N-O-W-H-E-R-E.  Let’s drop the score, and count only the love spilling out of our hearts because of the fact that the cross gave us all the points we will ever need. 

*Mark 12:41-44
*Matthew 3:3-5
*Job 1:21

being human

In the past few weeks I have been witness to a move, an engagement, a graduation, a homecoming, a baby dedication, a wedding, a lease, and a funeral. Emotions ran wild as I joined others I love in the celebration of new life, new marriages, and new directions. Oppositely, I grieved old houses, old life, and old memories. Julie married Robert and vowed to be his forever, Kendra wore a big robe and waved goodbye to high school, Aubrie said yes to Lance on the beaches of Santa Barbara, and movers hauled our familiar furniture up multiple flights of stairs and into a new residing space just before the rain started to fall in Wheaton. Human interaction after human interaction left me feeling grateful to have a heart that beats in my chest and breath that gives life to my lungs. What a miracle it is to be human.

Human. Something I’m finding that is as debilitating as it is freeing. Something astonishingly easy, yet terribly difficult. Something so natural in parts, and yet so foreign in others. Something we all are, but tirelessly run from.  The past few weeks have proved and prevailed the 100% human nature inside of me.

I believe that one of life’s truest and purest gifts comes when we have the courage to be human. Exposing the most vulnerable, innermost parts of our rusty, robotic selves often births the most meaningful revelations and trusted friendships.

I don’t ‘lose it’ with just anyone. There are only a select few that get to experience Kristin in all her blubbering glory. Some, by total accident (wrong place at the wrong time- apologies extended here) and some because they’ve earned it. They’ve earned the trust, the time, the right to see what I previously insisted on keeping hidden. Austin happens to be one of those people. And this past week in Chicago, my human nature was exposed deeply to him. But here’s the thing about being human… I am. And so are you.

We are lost, and broken. Weak and wounded.  Fallen and burdened, hopeless in our humanness. And at the height of my own breakdown, I got this overwhelming sense that Christ LONGS for us to be human. Because it gives us a need for a savior and a reason to be saved.  Believe me, I’ve fully embraced the bionic life of over-booked calendars, tip-toed relationships, plan b’s to the preferred plan a’s, and forced smiles that bury unresolved hurt. That life only goes so far. Jesus became human with one item on his to do list, jumped head first into meaningful relationships, would not settle for less than God’s plan A, and died to redeem this world from any hurt it would ever feel.  He lived to expose the human in us and resurrected to banish the human out of him. So today, remove yourself from the most under-qualified job you’ll ever apply for (God) and run with me in the only race we’re qualified to run. The human race. 

the spiritual side of plowing

There are about 937 times a day that a writing topic pops into my head. I’ll read a short devotion and think it is the perfect subject matter to reflect more on. I’ll hear a quote and want to take it apart with my thoughts. I’ll do, see, or experience something that I just have to share. Often times, I ponder people and relationships, current events, and really, the world I live in, solely through the lens of how I would write about those things.

Because when you love to write, your mind just works like that.

One good part about having a “need-to-write-about-this” brain is that for someone like me (type-A, high-energy, finish one task and right on to the next, has an opinion about most things in the world- some more merited than others) is that putting words to something forces me to think about it… quite a bit, actually.

And today, I’m thinking about dirt. (But please, keep reading).

Hosea 10:12 talks to us as if we are the gardeners of our lives. We are to sow righteousness and harvest the fruit of unfailing love; we are to break up the unplowed ground of our lives, and do so as we wait for the Lord to come shower his righteousness on us. And so, I am thinking about dirt.

Did you know that plowing the soil before planting anything in it does more than loosen the dirt so it is easier to work with? Plowing brings oxygen and minerals to the soil, giving the seeds planted a better chance at thriving. Plowing also breaks up the dried soil clods so that surface area contact between seeds and soil is greater. Break the hard surface... stir up what’s below... allow life back in... produce more life. That’s what plowing does.

How many areas of our lives are “unplowed ground?” Personally, I can name two big ones (and a whole list more, but I do want this to be a manageably-readable blog)

Habits. Those nasty little parts of my routine that I have let myself believe are healthy and normal when they are, in fact, far from either of those things. Take for example my laundry habit. I make the worst San Francisco-native-environment-loving-pro-green-girl when it comes to laundry. Sometimes I leave a load in the wash one (or two, don’t tell anyone!) day(s) too long and thus, have to waste water re-washing it. I don’t iron, because ten minutes in the dryer does almost as efficient of a job loosening up those wrinkles. And I have never air-dried clothes in my life, because I am already short and, unlike my tall friends, don’t have a problem with clothes shrinking on me—that, and I buy most clothes a little big to feel thinner (it’s true).

But I have habits that are a lot more damaging, and as I get closer and closer to married life the yuckiness comes much more clearly into view. Being single is wonderful and bursting with opportunities and growth, but if you’re not careful, singleness can cultivate selfishness. When you don’t have someone you love to answer to, you can be in a bad mood— actually linger in that bad mood— and no one will challenge you. You can make your plans with no regard for the schedule, desires, dreams, abilities and plans of someone else. You can spend your money exactly how you want to, and not on something you will never touch but you know means the world to your love. You have much less accountability when you’re single. And after 25 years of doing my own thing, I have developed one too-many super selfish habits, and these traits and default modes are simply, well… harmful.

Relationships. At this moment, I can think of a handful of relationships right off the top of my head that have not been cared for in entirely too long. I’ve thought about calling and haven’t. I’ve been meaning to slip a note in the mail but put it off (and that was around Easter… last year). And on the other end of the spectrum, there are other relationships that need mending, a good heart to heart, maybe even closure.

I believe there is a very natural life cycle to the relationships in our lives, some end after a season, some last a few of them, and a select few are forever. But each one, according to the season it is in, needs the appropriate amount of care. If it is early and we want it to grow, it takes a little more attention, a bit more detail-work, and a bit more tender touch. After a season it might die, and that is ok, it is part of God’s plan for the body of Christ to come together and then walk away. But it might, after a season, find its rhythm, and taking care of it is easier the more time goes by because you learn—and can supply— exactly what that relationship needs to grow. I would guess that we all have people in our lives that fall on both ends of the spectrum, and everywhere in between.

Where I live in the Northwest, I think we are in spring—although some days feel like summer and others winter—but for the sake of my metaphor, I will go with what the calendar says and say it is spring. And that means it is the perfect time of year for gardening. And really, I don’t think it is an accident that I am so caught up in the “plowing” thing, in fact I think my life is over-due for some plowing. Time to break the hard surface of habits and attitudes that have been allowed to sit and solidify so many months and years. Time to stir up the routine of “me-first” thinking and truly serve others first. Time to allow life back in to the places and relationships that have sat neglected. Time to let the newness that comes with the discipline of plowing give life to what is so near me, even in me, and not fully living.

It’s plowing season.

empty

This past Saturday was moving day. May 21^st, 2011: instead of the world coming to an end, my own little world was sorted through, packed up and shipped to Wheaton, Illinois. I was also very sick this weekend. I felt as though I had been emptied of almost everything previously swallowed up the week prior. It’s funny when life parallels itself like that. Funny, and in this case, terribly inconvenient. I would gather strength to stand up, pack a couple boxes, and lie down again drowning myself in Gatorade and saltine crackers. Even though this soon turned into a grueling process, it meant so much to me to pack up the things that made 3958 E. Cat Balue Drive home. Packing with my own hands, listening only to the quiet murmur of my thoughts; remembering, going overboard with sentimental imagery, and continually thanking God in soft prayers for the ways he molded us in that house. As boxes piled up, the walls grew bare, I began to feel as hollow as the house. Feeling, noticing, and running on empty.

If you’re a fan of Meg Ryan in RomCom movies, chances are we’d be good friends. There is a scene in You’ve Got Mail towards the end where her character, Kathleen Kelly, gently glides her fingers along the shelves of her emptied bookstore. As she narrates, the scene fades into her apartment. With a bowl of cereal in hand, she walks through her sunny bedroom- furnished beautifully with a cozy bed and several nice-looking chairs and chooses a seat on the floor in the corner. What I always thought was a silly, unimportant scene suddenly resurrected itself in my mind in a nourishing, relatable way. I feel like sitting in the corner to think a little bit deeper and a little bit longer about the past eighteen months. Why? Because they were good. These months have shaped, stretched and even scolded me more than any other in my twenty-five years.

I have been humbled by a job that doesn’t always have a black or white solution to problems. I have been shocked by several of my own issues that would have only been brave enough to surface if secured by the covenant of marriage. I have prayed for people and have had people pray over me. I have learned from teenagers, taught adults, and studied people in a way that leaves me convinced God not only made us, but he loves us enough to make us different. I have been poured into time, and time, and time again. I am filled up to my brim. And that is precisely why I feel empty.

My life is ‘pinch-me’ good. It rocks. Not gonna lie. And though I am on the edge of my seat awaiting this next chapter, I feel so honored, so grateful, so moved that God allowed me multiple years in this place. Desert often gets a bad rep. But the tapestry of my life in Arizona is living proof that time spent well in the desert soaks up more fruit-bearing, river-flowing life than perhaps anywhere else.

So if you know me from Arizona, and you know who you are: thanks for the sweetest bites of life I have ever tasted. Even though there will never be an end, the time seems right to say thank you from the bottom of my full and hallowed heart.

time for a career change

This is an entry I have been trying to write for months. Maybe longer. I have attempted the words, crafted the sentences, re-read the statements and arrived again and again at the same conclusion: this is not good writing and I am not a good person. I typically got no more than a paragraph into the subject before deciding to stop and change it, and then came the familiar “tap, tap, tap” of that Godsend of a key in the upper right corner: delete, delete, delete. Even now, as I sit determined to get this out, there is a lot of staring, a lot of delaying, and still, a lot of deleting...

Subject: disingenuousness. Object: me. By the way, sorry for using the word “disingenuousness.” I am not trying to be stuffy, it just is the only vocabulary that really fits here.

The problem with me, my writing, the subject, and the culmination of all three of those things is that I have been writing for you, for an audience. I have been writing so that you like it. And what has happened as a result is that I haven’t at all been able to write truthfully about my shortcomings. I have been writing so that you will think I’m honest but still an ok person, safe enough to babysit your kids and maybe even cool enough to have coffee with.

And then, I stumbled upon the profoundly simple words of the always reliable Henri Nouwen—and my reflection on these words is changing something in my heart…

“For as long as you can remember, you have been a pleaser, depending on others to give you an identity. You need not look at that only in a negative way. You wanted to give your heart to others, and you did so quickly and easily. But now you are being asked to let go of all these self-made props and trust that God is enough for you. You must stop being a pleaser and reclaim your identity as a free self…”

And all God’s people said, “Amen.”

Or not, but I definitely did.

My life’s complex discontent is captured in what Nouwen said: “You are being asked to let go of your self-made props and trust that God is enough for you.” What a fitting word-picture “props” gives, because the Katie Theater has been stockpiling the back stage of my life for twenty-six years with props. There are the collections of masks I put on for different people, categorized most typically by who that person is and who I want them to think I am. There is the scenery I put out when I want everyone to see how beautifully put together my life is, furniture and décor placed accordingly. And then, perhaps the most often used prop of all: the seasonal backdrop. I could be in the middle of a long, cold, wintry season of darkness, but in an instant I can bring down the sunny background and make everyone watching my life think it is the middle of summer: happy, bright, full of adventure. I am ashamed to admit how helpful my props have been at helping me act my way through so much of my life. I am ashamed that I am far more concerned about my performance than the true and real state of my heart.

And after months of living with this palpable sense of discontent, after deeply feeling the highs and lows that naturally come when your goal is the of the approval of others, I am ready to abandon the acting career.

I do not want to live feeling any less than fully genuine. I do not want to spend my time caring, worrying, stressing about the things that very often consume the better part of my day: Am I pretty? Am I fit enough? Are my clothes ok? Am I a good writer? Do you like me? I just want Jesus to be enough for me. And truly, I want the opinions of others to matter only so much as they point me to the Cross, to Grace, and to stillness before Him.

_________________________

So, after many attempts at articulating some things about myself that I have been afraid to say, to put permanently on paper, and to share, I am still not completely pleased with the production. But I’m not hopping on this treadmill anymore. Anne Lamott says, “I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.” Thank you, Anne, I needed that.

Here’s to a life fully genuine, fully committed to the people you love, fully savoring the beauty in people and places, fully laughing at the messiness we can create, fully devoted to fixing what is broken, and fully honoring to the Creator and Sustainer of it all. He is the only audience in our theater, anyway.