One Headlight

A couple months ago my roomie at the time pointed out to me that my headlight was burned out, and my first thought was SWEET, I haven’t been able to see that well at night lately and now I know I’m not suffering from early onset blindness. Since I understand less about the inner workings of a car than I do about how the economy ended up the way it is right now (read: absolutely nothing), I typed “Toyota Rav4 Headlight” into Google and hit search.

Do NOT do this. Everything that comes up will cost approximately $396,532,083.74, which will probably give you a teensy, tiny heart attack.

A work lunch conversation about how simple this would be and a quick trip to the hospital to get my heart fixed later, I headed over to Wal-Mart armed with my manual (which I didn’t even know I had and certainly have never opened) and a completely false confidence.

I managed to walk out of that store with a Halogen Light bulb, my dignity (although there was mention that I was probably going to blow my hand off), and without punching the man who made me feel like an idiot because I don’t know how a carburetor works. Or exactly what it is.

I opened up my manual, opened the hood (okay, that took 10 minutes. AND I had to use my manual to find the opener-lever.), and peered inside when-

“Hey, will your car not start?”
I spun around, and there was an older man standing next me.
“Oh, no- I’m just trying to change my headlight bulb.”
“How’s it going?”
“Welllll… so far, I got the hood open.”
He chuckled, and without saying a word, took the manual and bulb out of my hands. He sent me inside to wash my hands,

(proof I tried)

and when I came out, he had not only fixed the headlight, he had cleaned off my battery and replaced a screw that had come off the front grill. I’m not kidding.

So for months and months and- okay, for life so far, this “man helping a woman because she can’t do it herself business” is exactly what I’ve been tooth and nail fighting. Because, the truth is, I probably could have done it myself. It would have taken me an hour *cough* hourssss, and I might have gotten hurt, but I could have done it. I can follow pictures.

But that’s not the point, is it?……. Is it?

And there it was- what I’ve been missing all along, maybe.

That this wasn’t about a man putting a woman in her place, or taking care of a “lil’ lady”, or any of that stuff-

it was about one human helping another human. It was about compassion, not superiority. It was about kindness, not smugness.

Oh, pride. You are indeed a sneaky little sucker.

I’m not saying that the next time I need something done to my car, I won’t try to do it myself. And it will probably end with a trip to the emergency room and irreversible damage to my car. I’m stubborn, and I don’t learn that fast.

What I’m saying is that I’d like to recognize these things a little more for what they really are, and less for what they’re not.

(I’m learning)
(Thanks, God)

Now all the heavenly splendor
breaks forth in starlight tender
from myriad worlds unknown
And we, this marvel seeing,
forget our selfish being
and know a beauty not our own.
Music: Innsbruck Heinrich Isaak (15thC)

Push

Oh, 501. I miss you dearly.

It’s been far too many minutes and days and months, now, since I’ve sat in community with you on a Thursday night, and I’ve thought of you and prayed for you often, though I find my prayers coming more frequently now that I’m looking for a new young adult program to live life with. One that’s a little more conveniently located, since I’m living less 5 minutes from Fellowship Bible Church and more in Kansas City.

If this was a movie, this is where the intense BUM BUM BUUUUUM music would crash, and probably a zombie or King Kong or Mike High in a clown wig would come popping in from stage right. Just in case you didn’t get that just from the words.

Two Tuesday nights ago, I entered a small building with large green painted letters “The Crossing” slashed across the front, located between a pet cemetery and what was either a corn field or an elaborate set for the newest Victor Halperin movie starring Bela Lugosi.

I stood for a moment with my hand resting on the doorknob, peering through the window. Inside were about 30 people my age, all chatting and laughing, and everything inside of me screamed “ruuuuuuuuuun!”

It’s hard, isn’t it? It’s hard to walk through the doors and face new people and answer hundreds of questions and not know how anything goes. To not get the inside jokes. To not have a normal table with all of your BFF’s.

I’m a pretty outgoing, friendly, extroverted gal, and it literally took everything I had inside of me that night to push open the doors and walk in.

So why am I writing this, right? Why does it matter that I had to will my fingers to open out of an unintentional fist and lay flat to push?

It matters. It matters because I have a feeling that it might not just be me. It could be that there are others among you, other people who desperately want to find people to live life alongside of, but just walking into that candle-lit room is taking everything they have to give.

My dear friends, are you the body of Christ? Do you believe that we are meant to live together- to live in genuine fellowship? Then you must find these people. Show them what you found when you first came.

Show them Christ.

If you’re new to 501, I just want to tell you- I know where you are right now. I know how hard it is to look for something real and how frustrating it is to not find it. You can relax. You’re home.

I’m not home yet. But I’m not giving up, either.

After I pushed through the doors that Tuesday, I faced 30 young people who were there more for the free cheesecake then to really know each other. And that’s fine. I mean, who doesn’t love cheesecake?

But after you’ve had a taste of people-who-really-love-Jesus-and-each-other, it’s kind of hard to settle for cheesecake.

Thanks, 501. For making it impossible to be satisfied with anything less than heartfelt community.

Love each other with genuine affections, and take delight in honoring each other. Never be lazy, but work hard and serve the Lord enthusiastically. Romans 12:10-11.

To Fly

I hate to fly…………………………………….
There’s something so upsetting about being the person picked for the “special search” or as they call it in the hood, “pat fo’ gat”. And from here on out, you can go ahead and assume I have no idea what I’m talking about whenever I use anything like “in the hood”. Fo’ sho’.

It’s not just the vulnerability of standing spread eagle while a woman with a beard whose nametag just says “Killer” pats you down. For me, the toughest part is the steady parade of the other smug UNchosen plane passengers whispering “guilty” in low voices as they walk by.
I end up getting so upset that I start shouting out things like “Wow, I wonder if they serve soup in prison. I’m saying wonder because I’ve never been there! Even to visit! In fact, I’ve never even jaywalked! Cut in line! Said anything mean to anybody! I’m so innocent of all wrong doing!” and then I just break into an awkwardly loud laugh. By the time Killer releases me from her lair, I’m drenched in sweat and can’t remember where I’m supposed to be flying, so I just go home.
Or, that doesn’t happen. But if you see Killer, tell her I said hey.

There is nothing quite as crushingly lonely as the moment after you hug your beloved family goodbye, slide through the tiny opening in the roundabout doors, and enter a warehouse full of busy whirling chaotic people. Busy Whirling Chaotic Strangers.

And you.

I usually end up standing at the gate with my back pressed against a wall (one hand on my luggage, mind you) watching the Mom’s who are Imeanit, thisisthelasttimeI’masking, and stayrighthere; watching the groups of girlfriends squeal and giggle as they sip diet cokes remind each other of that one time in high school; watching the older couples who hardly speak as they pass back and forth between them coffee-newspapers-phones, in the kind of steady rhythm that can only develop slowly, and over time.
As tears burn the back of my throat and then slide down, down, down I think about how I’m always flying home, how I’m always flying away from my family and realfriends, and I turn inwards and ask how can a flight take you home if it’s also taking you away?
And I put on my sunglasses to hide the puffyness and so people will think I’m someone famous, and I dig deep down into my soul and sit at the feet of my Creator and find myself wanting to ask a question but not finding the right words.
Not finding any words. And like a gift-
a little girl tugs on my jeans, and asks to try on my sunglasses, and as I slide them over her nose, I catch just a glimpse of her eyes and in them I see her generation, and in her generation I see my future.
And what was it that I taught a group of lil ones just a few months ago? Oh, there it is, buried under worry and stress:
I might feel alone. But I am not alone.
I grab her hand and we both shriek as we turn circles in the airport, a dance that is pure sweet real-
praise.

I love to fly…………………………………………….
I’ve never understood how planes work. Well, maybe I haven’t tried so hard, because there’s something magical to me about how a bunch of people can get onto a huge metal blob and somehow it lifts into the air, stays there, and then lands somewhere really far away. And I like thinking about it as magic, so I put it safely into the category that holds things like “computers” and “phones” and “mermaids”.
Sometimes, the day of flying is full of smoke streaming over your feet (the flight attendant claimed it was condensation; please) and a drunken brawl in the seat behind you and meeting the plainclothes Marshall and getting asked out on a date by an accountant and saying yes when you should have said no.
It’s an adventure. Life, I mean. (what up, Peter Pan).
And sometimes it’s sitting in a waiting room across from a middle aged man who starts talking, and before you know it he’s telling you about how he designs missiles and the day he met his wife. And your plane is delayed, and you’re both sipping coffee as you tell him about how this summer has made you feel simultaneously broken and more whole then you’ve ever been. And there’s a second delay, and then he’s reflecting a broken heart into your eyes as he talks about his college son who just can’t find his way. And 20 minutes later, you sit on the hard, stale airport chair, your hand resting over his as you ask your Creator to be faithful (to be Himself) and then the man just whispers “please” and it’s so much more than what you could have prayed with your fancy words.
Then you get on the plane and remember that the church is more than stone walls and planning meetings and shiny crosses hanging on the wall. It’s not something you can hold between your hands, but it’s no less tangible.
I’m so thankful, friends, that our faith isn’t regulated to a place or time. That morning-
it looked to hundreds of strangers like a ratty airport gate, but to me, it looked like church.
(thanks, God.)

Every blessing You pour out I’ll turn back to praise.
When the darkness closes in Lord still I will say-
Blessed be the name of the Lord.

My Crossover Time Machine

I love driving my car.

This is sort of surprising for me, since I’m really a terrible driver (I blame it on not being able to focus, or my positive spin, “multitasker”), most other people are terrible drivers (don’t believe me? Join all 12,678,934.4324234 billion of us across the world that drive during the hours of 7 AM and 10 AM), and I get lost pretty much every time I get in the car. Literally, almost. every. single. time.

The thing is, my car clock broke about 8 months ago, and I haven’t gotten it fixed. So for eight whole months, when I get into my car, I have no idea what time it is. In the outside world, or at home, or at work, I’m constantly checking the time, watching it rush towards a meeting or time to wake up or time to go to rehearsal or time to get the laundry or time to go to work or time to go home or….

But. But in my car…
in my car, time is suspended. There is no hurried march towards 9 AM, just a blank spot on my day from the time I shut the door at my home till the time I open it up in some new place.

I never realized how much that the movement of time effects the way I choose to live until I stepped into that clockless car.

In my car, I think about life, and love, and beauty. I think about my precious, incredible friends and family and I let my heart and soul and spirit stand still and pray for them. I sing too loud and laugh about how much fun I’m having. I think about how intentionally I’m living (or not living) life. I talk to the humans that let me live life with them on the phone. I make decisions. I weep thinking about the character of my God… I lay down deep into how blessed I am.

And then I step out of the car, pick up the pace, and immediately forget everything that just happened.

The truth is, if I really had one month to live (thank you, past church sermon series), I think I’d get rid of all the clocks in my life (so yeah, if that happens, it’s going to be pretty hard to schedule anything with me. This is your warning), and instead, just be right in the moment, with you, and You, right now.

Learning how to live, right?
Learning how to live right. (Please, God.)

Lewis

Confession: I’m an early riser. That’s the nice way for me to say “Why body, WHY must you wake up at 7 am even if bedtime is 6:45 am??? WHHHHYYY?” and the nice way for everybody else to say “Why must you be so (insert expletive here) cheery in the morning? Our friendship is over”.

This summer, when life twisted and turned around and became something new, my morning work arrival time became 10 am. As in roughly a trillion, brazillion hours after I get up. For the first week or so, I would rush through my morning routine (up, walk, shower, dressed, eat, bible, journal, go) and be ready to leave around 8:30, leaving me plenty of time to stand in the middle of the kitchen staring with an intense awkwardness at the clock as it tick tick ticked at a maddeningly slow pace toward 9:45 until I ran out of the door at 8:35, knocking over potted plants and small children, shouting “I’LL JUST GET THERE EARLY.”

Oh, how times have changed.

Over the last few months I’ve come to love the slower, more relaxed feel of a morning that isn’t hurriedly marching towards an 8 AM call time at work. I feel more settled, more ready for the day- more grounded.

Now, I get up around 7, walk, run or bike for a little while (and by “or bike”, I mean I tried that 3 times and almost died. ARE YOU KIDDING ME, LANCE ARMSTRONG? Tour de France, Schmour de France. Try the Arkansas mountains. ), and on my more relaxed, longer explorations of our housing complex, I met Lewis.

Lewis is an older man who lives at the very edge of my neighborhood in a towering mansion- just him and his little poofy white dog named Lacey. We passed each other for several mornings just nodding “hi” before little Lacey decided I was less “friendly young jogger” and more “dangerous weapon carrying criminal” and decided chase me down the street while I ran faster than I ever have and shouted over my shoulder in a high pitched voice“help me! Help me!”

I’m not ashamed. Being chased by a small dog is terrifying, people. TERRIFYING.

Since that day, we’re become an oddly matched pair of acquaintance-friends, exchanging light information about our lives. You know, a little “how’s your morning going” that was followed by a little “how’s your summer going” and eventually turned into a little “how’s your life going”? As our friendship developed, I noticed that every morning after our quick chat, Lewis packed up a huge cooler, struggled to lift it up over his 70 year old shoulders and into the back of his truck, lifted Lacey into the passenger seat and pulled out in the road, out on the main street, out to his life.

After coming up with various fake backstories for Lewis (my personal favorite was that he was high up in NASA and in the cooler was some sort of top secret experiment he was working on. Oh, and that Lacey was actually a robot), I finally asked him about the mystery cooler this week while we stopped to have our morning talk. He hesitated, and then in his gruff old man voice said “I visit my wife”.

“Your wife?”

“Yes. *pause* She isn’t… okay. She isn’t well.”

“I’m so sorry, Lewis.” I reached out for his hand.

“Me too.”

And whatever had been holding him in crumbled and the words poured out as I watched tears slide down well worn paths in his cracked wrinkled (beautiful) skin and he told me the story (his story) of how he packs up his wife’s makeup everyday, puts it into a cooler, and drives over to the nursing home where he carefully applies lipstick and eyeliner with a shaking hand and I can imagine that each stroke of blush spells out “I love you” across her face. Then he sits and talks to her, as much as she is able, and reminds of her of years of joys and blessings and life and on good days, he prays with her. And he swiped roughly at his cheeks and I heard the words “scared” and “tired” and “alone” fall from his mouth, intertwined, and I asked him, “could I pray with you?” and saw his head nod, slightly, and just once. And then we bowed, on that sidewalk, and I thought how do you pray for someone who lives out everyday the kind of love that is the (smallest, tiniest, but no less real) taste of the way Our Creator loves us?

I’ve thought of him often the past few days, his amazing testament to a life of faith and love and… a life well lived. And friends, in my rushed morning life, I would have missed it.

These humans with their stories? They live everywhere we live. They live in the mansion at the end of the block, but they also live in the grocery store lines and at our workplaces and we have to find them.

Are we the church? Then we have to find them. Because their stories, their lives MATTER.

They matter. To Christ. And they should matter to us.

I want to do better at this. Too many days are too busy of must-get-heres and must-go-theres and I miss the opportunities to stop and take moments to get to know the people God has placed here and now. To let them get to know me.

Lewis, thanks for letting me share your story, friend. Thanks for reminding me that living like Jesus means living intentionally even during a morning walk.

I’m not there. But I’m learning. (praise God). (praise, God).

Dear friends, I am not writing a new commandment for you; rather it is an old one you have had from the very beginning. This old commandment—to love one another—is the same message you heard before. Yet it is also new. Jesus lived the truth of this commandment, and you also are living it. For the darkness is disappearing, and the true light is already shining. I John 2:7-8.

When He Speaks…

I pushed open the doors, threw my purse to the side, and walked up to the stage, settling cross-legged on the floor. I’d been coming to the Chapel to pray for several weeks, finally finding a quiet, peaceful place to be alone. If I came at the right time of day, it was the perfect place to hide away from the world. Sometimes I would sing, sometimes I would pray, sometimes I would just sit still.

I’m 99.999% sure it makes me a little bit of a Pharisee to reveal this part of my life, so much for praying in a secret place, right? Ah, well.

And it was here, last January, on the floor, it hit me I was going to move for sure and had no idea what was coming next. From the looks of my boss’s job, I wasn’t going any farther in this field. And after throwing around a bunch of different ideas about what I would be doing next (Teacher? Opera? Deep Sea Scuba Diving Expert?), I was pretty confused.

No one tells you that at 25, you still might not know what you want to do. They don’t tell you that even though you might be in a job you love, you might realize that it’s not the job you want to do forever (and ever amen). They don’t tell you that your priorities might change, and all of a sudden people might become more important then a paycheck. Or that you might suddenly want a family, instead of a power suit and a downtown loft.

No one tells you any of that.

Sitting on the hard floor in the Chapel, I realized I was a little lost. Or a lot lost.

And I asked God to speak to me, preferably in a loud voice that enunciated clearly so I could understand exactly which direction I was headed in.

And then He said, “Ann, before you officially move to Kansas City, please spend the summer in Little Rock and take an internship with your BFF Jenny so you can learn about Children’s Ministry. Okay, thanks.”

That didn’t happen. What actually happened?

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

And I grew frustrated, not realizing that He was speaking. That He had already spoken. I just couldn’t hear yet.

Because later, once I really listened, there He was, in the moving to Louisville. And again, in the wonderful job where a boss encouraged me to do what I loved, which turned out to be working with kids. There was His voice- in the joining a church that was healthy, and joyful, and where people loved God and truly loved each other. And in the voices of my little fifth graders talking to me about their weeks.

And there it was again, months later, when I realized the next step might be… children’s ministry?

Really, Lord? Really? You want me to work for a church? Remember how I don’t really think churches have anything that good to contribute in our world?

(Oh, wait. I don’t think that anymore)

Okay, well what about how I’ve always thought that people that go into ministry are just using that as a copout because they couldn’t make something else, a “real job” if you will, work for them.

(Oh. I don’t think that anymore either.)

And really? Another woman going into Children’s Ministry? I mean, what’s next, doing Bible arts and crafts projects that involve lots of glitter? Using puppets? Singing and dancing with little kids?

(Actually, those all sound kind of awesome.)

Well, what about-

What about-

(Oh.)

And months before any of that I sat in the Chapel, wondering what would next, evaluating things like “how did You make me, Lord?” and “what makes me feel fulfilled?” when I finally, finally, spread my fingers, laid my hands face up on the ground, and asked:
“Take it all?”
And then, not a question this time:
“Take it all.”
And that became my mantra for many months, through quitting and packing and leaving and not knowing what was coming next. Literally, not knowing what was coming from one day to the next.
 Take it all.

He hasn’t, in case you’re wondering, but He did take a lot. Goodbye job in a bad economy. Goodbye awesome friends. Goodbye financial security. Goodbye certainty.

And I wouldn’t want it any other way. The past few months have been an adventure, and let’s be honest- we’re built for adventure, aren’t we?

I’ve always said I believed it, but I didn’t know for sure until the past few months:

When God calls your name -

you go.

You go to someplace different than you thought you’d go.
You go faster (or slower) than when you thought you would.
You go when some people tell you you shouldn’t. That it doesn’t make sense.

I’ll be honest, it was not awesome when I was moving towards the future wearing a blindfold. But friends, the other day time stopped and my heart raced as I looked into the face of a third grade girl worshiping  (and breathing correctly, mind you) and thought “This, this, this is what I was created to do. This is what God had in mind when He put me together.”

Do you know what that feels like?

Then keep looking.

In the dimly lit Chapel, tears rolled down my face as I opened up my hands- my heart- my spirit-

and leapt.

Hallelujah. Your love makes me sing.