Vignette.1.1
or, God, in the Face of Fear

She was a small Russian child, messy haired with smooth, white, doll-like skin. Her cheeks were usually flushed, giving the impression of rouge or a slight fever, and her large eyes were always a little sleepy looking. The little clipboard by her cubby indicated that she was eight and already classified as aggressive and a level 2, which meant that it required at least two people to restrain her. She was diagnosed with PDD, which in technical terms stands for Pervasive Developmental Delay, but in layman’s terms means that no one knows exactly what’s wrong with her. She would throw herself at you every now and then with a growl that sounded much like a tiny animal, and you never knew if it were to get a huge hug or if she wanted to bite a chunk out of your inner arm (history dictated that she was very capable of the latter.) Her hair was beautiful and soft, and fell like a halo around her head. She would often grab my hand and run it through over her scalp, moving her head side to side as she enjoyed the tactile sensation. “C,” I would tell her, “What comes after ‘C’?” Because we ought not to reinforce such behavior. “If you want me to touch your hair, can you ask me?” “Hair,” she would grunt, happily basking under my palm, “Hair.” The times she would lunge at me (they were not rare), fear would grip my very soul at the thought that I would have to parry while calling “STAFF!!” and waiting while from all corners of the room, help would come to tear a small child and her teeth away from me. But I never flinched, all the while bracing for the sensation of teeth and nails and yet hoping to feel a small head burrow under my arm. In the end, it was always a hug.  

---

I've worked in an institution for the moderate-to-severely disabled children for three years, and I was never hurt. This was not due to the standard dress code of heavy jean jackets and inch-thick arm pads worn over the sleeves (jeans are good protection against teeth, apparently.) I never needed them. It was not because of my catlike reflexes and my ability to dodge flying objects. Those far more deft than I have the scars to prove that dexterity is not a factor in avoiding injury. Often I envied those rushed to the hospital, those who needed nose reconstruction, those who had dark bruises melting around their faces. I wanted a "one time, this kid..." story. The best I have is the time the Worst Student in the School had a handful of my hair in his hands (that story for another time.) I was able to get it back without escalating or exciting him. The End. I'll never know why I never got hurt. I paid my dues, and I wanted my stories. And I realize I have them. And with these stories, came an avalanche of lessons. 

I learned how to be calm in a crisis, how to keep a straight face in impossible situations, how to be an anchor for when a child's world came apart, but most importantly, I learned that in the end, they are all children. Love, the universal language, is spoken by everyone, including the ones who get left behind. The ones in the short bus. The ones who are so bad, they don't even get to go to a normal school in a short bus. 

I learned how to love in spite of fear, to give in the face of the warnings from the previous experiences of others. Perhaps these lessons were not meant to be unique to these circumstances, but I am finding it difficult to make them transcend from the classrooms in which I learned them into my life, where I need them. But I always smile to myself, knowing that although the little clipboard by my cubby is far from little, and filled with warnings and history, I am safe in the arms of Him who loves me just the same. 

It was there that I learned that the Savior is not afraid of our teeth. Grace, too, ought not shirk itself from shame and spitting (Isaiah 50:6)

"The LORD your God, who is going before you, will fight for you, as he did for you in Egypt, before your very eyes, and in the wilderness. There you saw how the LORD your God carried you, as a father carries his son, all the way you went until you reached this place.” Deuteronomy 1:30f

Yes, I've been silent lately. It's not the mic. It's me. I've been called out on it more than once this month, and I realized that my just because my readership is silent doesn't mean they don't exist. I've been neglectful, and it's been noticed. 

So in order to kick-start my writing all over again, I've decided to start posting up little bits and pieces of stories I've collected throughout my life. Some are real. Some are based on real characters (just kidding. They're all real.) All are mine. 

I'm a fan of the vignette (pronounced vin-yet.) I used them often in my personal writing, and they are not really intended to stand alone, as the word itself implies something of a "frame." I like to think of it as a painting: a small slice of time that's meant to hold an emotion. There are some aspects of Christian life--my life in general can't be separated from that anymore--that can't be expressed any better than with a story. 

The first one is dedicated to a little girl who I still think of today. There are more coming, interspersed with some regular posts about things that have been on my mind for months. 

Here we go. 

 

written 01.16.2011

I don't know what it is about the grace of God, but whenever I come across it in its pure state, it leaves me a wreck, and I am not ashamed to say it. Any other time, you will hear me say emphatically that "tears are weakness." Days like today, however, will find me weeping through the story of the slave-ship-owner-turned-clergyman-hymnwriter John Newton, who wrote the words of the ageless song, Amazing Grace. 

Incidentally, I don't really believe my own statement, but it helps me not to look like a baby in chapel when watching youtube videos of that Ironman guy who carried his disabled kid through a 2.5 mile swim, a 112 mile cycling course, and a full length marathon. Because he asked. Or of that guy who was favored to win the gold in the Olympics and ended up tearing his hamstring partway through. He was writhing on the ground. His father ran out from the stands to help him. Instead of giving up, he finished the race, limping in pain the whole way.  Josh Groban was singing "You Lift Me Up" in the background. I'm pretty sure there were subliminal pictures of puppies drowning in a lake. Tears. Are. Weakness. 

It's difficult for me to articulate what it is about Newton's story that strikes me. It may be that this hymn, the song that is recognized by millions, the song that has united battling foes for a precious 5 minutes, the song that is hummed over both the cradle and the grave, was written by a man who had the blood of thousands on his conscience. 

He called himself a wretch. In today's society, that's not such a glamorous thought. In the Western, Postmodern, humanistic, egotistical world, we scoff at such denigrations.

But I understand. I see who I am. I see who I could have been. I see how God has altered the course of my life from one destined to collision to one of hope and love and peace and joy. I see that even though I may not have sold and trafficked the lives of other human beings, that I am made of the same stuff as he. That I too am a liar and a thief, taking from God what was not mine and claiming to be His while taking back my allegiance again and again and again. 

This is the grace that brought a wretch to glory. That elevated a man who might have died alone, remembering his demons, to one whose song of praise echoed for hundreds of years from thousands of lips and will be written about countless more times and will be remembered forever. The grace that was his is mine, and the grace that pours down like rain are the tears that will fall from those who see the Long Expected coming down from glory to bring us back up to it.  

Sometimes I look back and try to consider who I would be were it not for God's intervention in my life, or had it been that I rejected his call.  Sometimes I consider my future if I were to deny Him.  

That vision is not definable as a gone-in-the-blink-of-a-thunderclap kind of thing.  It's not God's wrath that I see, although for some, that's what it is.  For me, it's the pain of nothingness.  The horror of a ship without an anchor...  knowing that while it might be ok for now, someday, that anchor would come in handy, had I still possessed it.  The reality is, that I'm learning that no one has the answers.  Science, for all its claims to certainty, has no great evidence to substantiate the claim that empiricism is the right road, or even the ability to fully understand the mechanics of quanta, which is what all visible (and invisible) things are supposed to be made of.  

Quantum particles aside, empiricism aside, and faith aside, who would I be?  The words of Jesus ring in my ears: "...without Me, you can do nothing." 

I'm redefining some words in my life.  Realigning it with what I am learning about...  things.  

Nothing: everything, in a sense, that is apart from God.  Without Him, I could do a lot of things.  I've lived and breathed without Him (not technically, of course, but at least it was as the perception that He was not there.)  But in the end, all that "everything" amounted to nothing.  A gasp of warm breath in the cold air.  Vapor.  Shadows and dust.  Shadows, because they are mere projections of what really is, and dust, because the compared value to the pearl of great price renders it so.  Not just because everything returns to dust...

Fool: I used to think that word meant what the word means now: knowledge-aphobe.  A brute.  An idiot.  Someone who you can stand on a pedestal and get a consensus of laughter at the expense of.  Biblically, that word has a bigger clout.  It's the term for someone bound for hell.  In the Beatitudes, depending on the version you read, Jesus says something along the lines of calling your fellow man a fool.  It's tough stuff.  Riling enough to get oneself killed.  What would you do if someone told you that telling your brother to "go to hell," or saying "damning" someone would put you in danger of hellfire yourself?  

The world outside of Christ is foolishness.  It's not only nonsensical...  it's lethal. 

That is not my life.  That is not my life.  That is not my life.  

I hope that is not my life. 

Because in truth, Jesus' elevation of the law put its principles so far above attainment, that it's ridiculous to go at it alone.  I can maybe do the not killing thing, and the not saying the "f" word or the "s" word, or telling someone they should go someplace much, much warmer (not Florida), but angry with my fellow man without a cause?  Can I nitpick on what this "cause" is?  And what is anger?  Does it always accompany a rise in blood pressure?  Or does it include prejudice and favoritism and resentment?  Can I stop doing that?  All the time?

It's the Eve of something new.  And I'm not talking Christmas Eve or New Year's Eve.  I'm talking the Eve of the day the Morning Star dawns in our lives.  When will it be?  When Christ was born (we remember this day tonight and tomorrow), not a soul noticed, but the angels were bursting with praise.  When God dawned in my life, I wasn't looking around to see who was paying attention.  

What I long for most is that I will love God with all my heart, soul, and mind.  That the Eve of "Something New" will result in a new self day after day, and that that self will keep pressing forward, forgetting what was before, and pressing on to what is ahead, until with all the earthly choir, we'll see a bona fide new day, new earth, and a new world.  

Tonight, and for all those tomorrows, may all your eves be like this.  

 

When my sister and I were little, we would entertain our brother whenever he was bored, and we were done playing with the knick knacks lying around the house (high-end toys were for sissies, according to our parents), by telling him stories. Usually reserved for pre-nap sessions, they were mainly made-up stories about two alter-egos named "Strong Boy Jon"* and what can only be directly translated as "Leprotic Jon."* Strong Boy Jon was the hero, while Leprotic Jon was a cowardly bum who shirked every duty and consistently lost in arm wrestles and war games to his counterpart. Sprinkled with and within these stories (they were the most oft requested) were bits and pieces of every fairy tale, Aesop's fable, and stories of tigers my mother used to tell us. Jigsawed and mangled with our memory's use and misuse of these parables, these stories ended with the same phrase: "And Strong Boy Jon lived happily ever after. The End."

Inevitably, my brother would chime in with this Korean phrase, eager to partake of the story: "And then?" 

The first few times, that threw us for a loop. What do you mean, and then? That's it, buddy. But then we started to not only add tiny addendums to the story per request, but also anticipate it: "So Leprotic Jon wanted to beat Strong Boy Jon up. The End."  And then? "And then Strong Boy Jon just decided to go home. The End." And then? "And then Strong Boy Jon came out with huge boxing gloves that his mom made for him and beat up Leprotic Jon. And he lived happily ever after. The End." And then?  "Um... and then Leprotic Jon rolled down the hill and drowned in the lake." And then? "Uh... and then he became a zombie and ran after Strong Boy Jon and Strong Boy Jon beat him up again." And then? "And then nothing!" And then?! "And then Strong Boy Jon got sick and died!  The End the End!" And then...? "No more 'and then''s! Go to sleep!"

But what about the "and then"s of life? Does our story ever end? This past week, I studied the passage on the widow of Nain in Luke 7:11-17. It certainly seemed like the end of the story to the widow's son. We don't even know who he was. We don't know if he was good steward, or a bad son, or if he was much help in his living moments to his mother, much less if he had hairy legs and bad breath. I suppose Jesus knew. But in all aspects of the story, death is the end of life. This is one of the big non-negotiables about humanity: death (and taxes, right?) The buck stops there. Even the forerunners of cryonics have dealt with it (click on the link for a prev post on that.)  

Moreover, we don't know much about the woman. It sure seemed like her story was ending as well...  the happy alternative, anyway: her future, her support, and her livelihood had died with this young man. And we don't know her name either. But what we do know that Jesus knew her story and had compassion on her. Unlike other people Jesus encounters, she did not plead for his help or appeal to Him with a display of faith. He just felt sorry for her. This no-name woman in the middle of nowhere, in some Podunk town that most likely had only one good point of entry, had the very first resurrection performed on her, not because she saw Jesus, but because He saw her.  

I don't know why I've been thinking about death so much lately, but it seems that it's a little difficult to avoid. A few days ago I was at a shower for a girl whom they believe will not see another Christmas. And I suppose the worst thing about death is not that the story ends for the deceased, but that the story keeps going for the ones who have known and loved them.  

It's comforting to know that Jesus notices and has compassion. I'm not sure why there was not a tremendous amount of additional resurrections that took place during Christ's life on earth. Maybe there was. I don't know if people brought their dead to Him. I would have. The way Jesus is, perhaps His Father put a restriction on Him so that the death rate of the Fertile Crescent didn't nosedive and result in some sort of population boom. In the same way, there's a reason why Jesus must stand aside when the time comes for His children to pass away. I wonder how much grief He experiences. Our grief is mingled with helplessness, but His is mingled with empathy and restraint. As most parents like to say, "This hurts me more than it hurts you." (For some reason, I don't recall my parents saying this. Sometimes I am tempted to think that it definitely hurt me more.)

I guess the underlying theme of all of this is one of hope. Jesus is the "and then" of the dark days of life. While He was on earth, and even after His resurrection, people would bring their sick for the chance that they would be healed. With Christ, and consequently, with Christians, came hope. This is the power of the gospel. It's the fire of the continual answer to all the "and then"'s and "now what"'s of life...  

And considering the realms of Heaven, I suppose the question of "and then?" is not a silly one. Because there will always be an answer. There will always be an "and then." There will always be a tomorrow, as eternity rolls. Someone once told me that as much as we humans say we can't comprehend "eternity," it is ingrained in us. Death teaches us to think, "I guess I thought they'd be with us forever..." I'd venture to say that an "end" is much more difficult to understand than a world without an end. We were built for eternity. Let's pursue it together, you and I, and fill in all those "and then"'s.

 “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the ending,” says the Lord God, “who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.”  Revelation 1:8

 

 

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*Jon is not my brother's name, but every other Korean boy's name is some variation of John, or starts with a "J" so it'll do. The stories were in English, except the name "Leprotic Jon" which was said in Korean. "Konglish" was the language of choice for us native first-and-a-half and second-generation Korean American New Yorkers. That is one mouthful.  

If you look at the state inspection sticker on my car, you would see a tag that looks similar to this:

OK, without the ghost in the middle.  Because that would be cool (depending on who you ask.)  A rejected inspection sticker, on the other hand, is not.  I actually get a chuckle every time I see it though.  Poor Beannie has been with me through thick and thin.  It'll take more than an arbitrary sticker to lessen my regard for this particular coupe.  If you must know, however, my headlamp is out and there's some talk about leaky exhausts.  

Today, however, I was reminded of another rejection, and how it was handled.  It's a story about a kid named Wally. 

Wally, according to this story that has now become somewhat legendary, was a too-old kid in grade school who had been left behind too many times.  As a special education teacher, I'm familiar with this demographic.  And let me tell you one thing I've learned: underneath it all, they are all just kids.  Wally too, was just a kid.  Granted, too old for his grade, too tall for his grade, too big for his grade.  But he had the gentle manner of a kid who has had to learn humility not by choice, but by circumstance.  

When it was time to put on the Christmas Play, Wally's teacher gently redirected Wally's request to be one of the Wise Men and had him be the big, bad, brusque innkeeper whose meager lines were just rephrasings of, "There's no room!"  Wally was probably the best choice: he was the one that looked most like the bouncer of the group.  

And so the practices ensued until the day of the production, and as all participants of a large event know, there's something special about "game night."  You can practice in your band room for months, but once you're behind those velvet curtains with the crowd murmuring behind, there's magic in the air.  And so it was that night.  The tinsel was brighter, the voices were squeakier, the mistakes more forgivable, and the atmosphere electric.  Even for a second grade play. 

But no one is more captivated than Wally.  Watching from the wings, he looks as one entranced.  7-year old angels may as well have been Gabriel himself.  And when it was time for his cue, the teachers make sure he knew his lines. 

What do you want? Wally's voice is as brusque as it had been in practice. 

Sir, we seek lodging.  Please, do you have room?  The voice is higher pitched than perhaps Joseph's had been. 

Go somewhere else!  I've been bothered enough.  Wally looks straight ahead.  We've had no room since the afternoon. 

Sir, we've searched everywhere.  Please, my wife is pregnant. Mary pats her pillow-stuffed abdomen while holding a donkey head-on-a-peg. 

Wally pauses sufficient enough for a voice in the wings to whisper his cue.  Wally repeats: There is no room, I say! 

And instead of going behind the curtains back into the inn as the script reads, Wally stands where he is, silently watching the couple leave.  Joseph has his arm around Mary, and she has his head on his shoulder.  And as they limp away towards the stables, Wally suddenly abandons script and runs out towards them. 

Wait! He cried, hope and joy gleaming in his eyes. Come back!  There IS room...  you can have MINE!

I can imagine the ox and the donkey looking up in surprise, the angels giggling behind the curtains, teachers scrambling to guide Wally back to the inn.  

There is no "perhaps" in the question of whether or not this happened in the real story of the Nativity, but the real question is whether or not this season, we can't change a "no vacancy" sign on our hearts to one that reads "lots of room."  How often do we reject the Christ in our lives because we have too little personal time, too little money, too little space, too little room in our hearts...?  

It's December, and I've consented to the idea that it's finally ok to start having Christmas decorations and music and singing in the atmosphere.  But really, I don't want to forget the details.  Regardless of when the "real" day of birth was for Christ, His birth was indeed real, and the need for room in our hearts is real.  And the larger reality is that Christ is coming again.  And He will need to come in our hearts before we see Him come in the clouds.  

There were many in Christ's day who told the King of Heaven that there was no more room in their hearts and minds for a Savior that came not to save them from the Romans, but to save them from their sins.  The message has not changed.  I pray that this season, we will find room in our hearts for God and the message He has for us.  And that may mean giving of ourselves, and telling God, or a friend, or a stranger, or even a foe: "There is room/ time/ money/ resources... take mine."

And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Matthew 25:40

BIG!

...with spots.  

This past week, I had the opportunity--privilege, really--to spend time with some friends up in what's called "God's Country."  I'm not sure why it's called God's country; when I think of Heaven, I don't think of 3 feet of snow, or too many icicles, or Canada.  Or in this case, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in November.  Maybe it's because His name is called upon often.  ("Dear God, please get me out of this snow bank."  "Dear God, please help the moosen to stay out of my rootabagas.") 

The week was exactly how I'd like a break to be: full of a lot of rest, talks, and laughter.  Towards the end however, there was a lot of bad news.  People getting sick.  Car accidents.  Broken bodies.  Broken spirits.  Death. 

Whenever an elderly person passes away, I am reminded of my grandmother. Ever since I was a child, during what seemed to me like random events, my grandmother would tell me that she wanted to die. The Korean equivalent of, "I can't wait until Jesus comes and swings down that sweet chariot and lets me rest in peace," is something I remember hearing as early as when I was six years old.

If life had a big reset button or a switch that could be flipped, I'm sure my grandmother would've been leaning on it. I suppose God didn't make life like that. I'm a little glad He didn't, because I probably would have never made it past my pubescent years. Those days were not gentle on me.

Today, when speaking of my grandmother's death, I can't help but to (silently) insert the word "finally" in the sentence. Even while I grieved the loss of the only grandparent I’d ever known, I was happy for her. By the time she passed away, nearly a decade had passed since the first time I remembered hearing her say those words. During those years, she had deteriorated so much that when she came to live with us for some time, I barely recognized her. My final memories of her are fraught with guilt at not treating her as well as I should've and resenting her growing dementia.

Still more than her death, it is her frustration at life that lingers in my memory. My clearest memory of her is one where she is pounding her fists on her chests in sorrow and frustration, lamenting an issue she was helpless to change.

My mind turns to Lazarus, who unlike the elderly, was at his prime. He was probably vibrant and strong, energetic, and full of life and promise. When Jesus delays His visit to the point where Lazarus lays dead for three days, Mary tells Him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."

This is true. Death cowers in the face of the Prince of Life. Jesus reminds her of this. "Your brother will rise again."

Mary's faith is true. She responds, and I imagine this to be one of those "right answer" responses versus the response of the heart: "I know He will rise again in the resurrection at the last day."

And here's the crazy part. Because up until now, the scene is normal. The grief is familiar. The homily is the same. At every Christian funeral, the theme has not changed. We look forward to seeing each other again. Later. But not now. But Jesus' response pierces through sameness.  

"I am the resurrection and the life." Did you get that? He is. The author of Life was present to save, not later, not soon, but now. Mary stood in the presence of God and said, later. The fullness of power was accessible to her, and she thought, soon. And I mean, really, do I do that a lot in my life. My lack of ability to see the future is actually a huge blessing, but at the same time, I am still crippled because I think I know what it is. And I start thinking: I can't do this for the rest of my life. Dramatic, I know.

Hope, by necessity, is something that is available immediately.  Hope does not postpone. When God is near, His promises are now. And by faith, we can grasp them. Death, sorrow, pain, and doubt are but a moment in the experience of eternity. Life does not have a reset button, but grace gives us much more hope. It’s the hope that today, God has given strength sufficient for any trial, and further, the peace and joy that experiences Him in it.

excerpts from an entry written the day I was stuck in Chicago, O'Hare

Stuck in Chicago O’Hare.  As usual.  I don’t understand why I’m here.  First, I negligently forgot that I had a slew of appointments today when I normally am pretty on top of things like those.  Next, I forgot that I hate Chicago.  I hate flying in, I hate flying out.  I even hate driving in.  Of all my trips there (5+) only one was positive.  

Here I find myself stuck in a major airport, planes lifting off and touching down to and from areas all around the world…  scores of them, not unlike birds, migrating to and from their base, flight attendants cheerily wishing passengers a “Happy Thanksgiving,” or in some cases, “welcome home,” but in my case, “your flight has been canceled."  And all I can do about it is wonder how I'm going to keep from going nuts.   

For your viewing pleasure: Some of the many things I learned during my layover in ORD: (That's the airport code for Chicago, O'Hare, for those lucky few who don't know.)

1. There are a lot of Asians.  They all wear orange.  If you look Asian, someone will look at you and say, "Nee how," and expect you to be happy, even though you're not Chinese. 

2. In real life, sometimes McDonald’s fries don’t taste so awful after just 15 minutes.  In Chicago O’Hare, you have to scarf them down before they turn into lumber.  

3. 8 hours is a long time to kill.  

4. Wireless internet is an invention that'll be hard to top, not unlike sliced bread.  

5. People can be happy to be at their destination, even if it took 8 hours longer than normal, and it's 30 degrees colder.  Celcius.

6. Sometimes you should do things, not because you think God has made it so that you're supposed to do it, but because it's what you do and who you are in any normal, unusual, or extraordinary circumstance.  Translation: when you're stuck at an airport, don't freak out about divine appointments.  God is always on time, and so are the people He wants you to meet.  Sometimes the appointment is not with others, but with Him. 

There are some things that happen in life that--not matter how small-- is traumatic enough to make a dent.  I like to think that we can just move on from these incidences, but I also believe that since you've suffered through it, you might as well garner a spiritual application from it.  The previous post was an example of this.  Seriously, in my mind, that bug on my shoulder weighs 10 pounds.  Thunk.  (Shudder.)  Turning it into something otherworldly chips away at its traumatic value.

With that in mind, the major trauma of this week was the loss of my teddy bear. 

OK, no, I am not joking.  

I did not cry. 

But if I was the crying type, I might've.  Not when I lost it, but when I got it back. 

It's significant to add that I've had this bear for the better part of my life.  20+ years, to be unexact.  He was pure white when I got him and is now some varying shades of what some might call "dingy gray" but he's going strong.  He and his buddy (older and even more dingy) have been my bedside companions through four states and at least six different houses.  I'm pretty sure that along with all that dinge, he's got some tears that might've soaked into the very marrow of this cotton-stuffed body.  

I thought I threw him away by accident.  He (yes, I am going use the person pronoun) routinely falls into the trash can next to my bed, and I figured that I'd thrown some tissues on top and not seen him when I went to throw out the trash.  There was no other explanation.  I had looked everywhere that made sense.  

And really, I didn't expect myself to get upset about it.  I mean, things happen.  Mistakes happen.  Stuff is just stuff.

Right?

So I got over it.  Even pulled out a replacement.  Not quite the same, but it was alright.  

And then one day, I was pulling out a comforter for my friend who was staying over, and as I spread it out for her, out tumbles my bear.  I had to explain to her my odd response (I won't tell you what it was, and hopefully neither will she), but only after a few moments of stunned silence. I guess I had wrapped it up in there without knowing it (it's a fluffy comforter) while changing it out.  I will tell you that the closest description of the emotion I experienced when I saw that bear was this:

I was overjoyed. 

It took me a bit to process this.  Beyond the fact that a bear could make me feel this way, I've felt this way before.  And here comes the spiritual application.

When I threw God out of my life, it wasn't quite a mistake.  But it wasn't quite intentional either.  And I'll admit (now) that there was times in my apostasy that I missed Him.  There were times when I wondered where He was (there were times when I wondered what land fill my poor bear was rolling around in.)  When I tried to replace Him with other stuff.  (Some things are irreplaceable.)  

And when I was reunited with God, I was overjoyed.  So much so that that joy still strikes me now.  He was here all along! The "Hide and Seek" poem (it's in the sidebar) was written specifically about that.  It's a horrible poem, but I think that's mainly because it's been rewritten so many times.  And it's so darn personal.  And because of that, I still like it.  Because I feel it.  

Furthermore, if there is joy in a house in New Market because of a bear that was lost and found again, how much more is there joy in Heaven for a soul that has returned to the rightful place?  I mean, that joy shocked me.  It's stupid, really, and I feel just as much confessing it, but it was undeniable joy.  A hopeless situation turning out rainbows.  

I suppose though, that the joy I felt is as equivalent to the joy a stuffed bear would feel when compared to the vastness and intensity of God's joy.  

I just want to bask in it.  It makes me squirmy and teary and completely speechless at times.  

Some people say that there is a God-shaped hole in every person's heart, and it is humanity's struggle to fill it.  

It's not just a God-shaped hole.  It's a God-sized hole.  But He is more than enough.  He'll bust through the seams and not only fill the void but overflow into every other aspect of life.  While the angel choir sings about it. 

"For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”  Luke 19:10

So I'm sitting at my desk, trying to sort out my thoughts for a Bible Study I thought I was about to have, and I hear this sound. 

It's the sound of a thick bug hurling its body against my window.  On the inside.  I'm sure by now, most of you are familiar with that sound.  And because of my super-trained ear (there was a MINOR infestation) I could tell it was one of those hexagonal stink bugs.  The thought going through my mind was, Hey, he's not hurting me, so I'll just let him be.  He'll probably just die by himself anyway, and hopefully by the time I find him, his body will be sufficiently decomposed that I could just suck him up with a vacuum without a second thought. 

(Yes, that is a picture of a bona-fide stinkbug.)  Appeased by this idea, I continued reading.  

And then I heard a buzzing.  You know, as of something beastly flying.  Flying around my chamber doors.  (Thanks, Poe.)

The bug was clearly migrating.  I heard it, its wings clacking more than buzzing, almost metallic in its inefficiency.  And then, just as the buzzing was loudest against my ear, I heard this:

Dead silence. 

Although I could swear I heard landing gears go up and close with a clack before this happened, only one thing was not debatable: I was 99.9% sure that the thing was on me. 

I mean, bugs don't really freak me out.  I've escorted at least a handful (that's a gross thought) of them out the door in plastic cups of various sizes throughout the past few weeks.  Not all at once.  But there's a difference between a bug in a cup and a bug at some undisclosed location on your body.  

Do you get me?

So I calmly walk into the kitchen, trying to pat down my hair (nightmare story about a cicada flying into my mane when I was in high school.  I think we both had a heart attack.)  I flapped my shirt against my back, hoping to encourage flight.  If you note the above picture, you'll know that if these guys want to hang on, they can hang on.  

I turn my head over behind my right shoulder (as best I could) in attempt to see if it's on my back. 

And there, right on my shoulder, the creepo sat, about 3 inches from my nose, glaring at me.  I could almost hear it say, You trying to kill me, lady?! 

I won't say exactly what transpired over the next few seconds, but the story ends with the creepo doing circles around the inside of my toilet bowl as I mercilessly flushed him down the toilet.  I normally let these guys fly off outside, and after I calmed down, I felt bad.  My arbitrary (to him) execution of justice might've seemed so...  cruel.  If Creepo had more than a pin-sized brain, that is.  

For some reason, imagining the brain of a stinkbug creeps me out even more.  A squished brain even more.  I'm stopping now, I promise. 

So what did I learn from this? 

I decided not to feel guilty at my act of extermination.  I mean, the dude didn't belong in my house.  What was I thinking, that we could peacefully cohabitate?  That I could be friends with that which I despise?  When his friends were out in the open, I got rid of them.  But this one...  this one I thought I could let stick around.  And then he got me. 

This is going to sound really contrived and a little clichéd now, but I'm going to do it anyway.

Sometime we let certain aspects of our lives be.  Just because it's not bothering anyone.  Because it's hidden.  Because there is a slight potential for co-habitation.  Because it's trouble to find it and eradicate it.  

But don't be fooled.  It will find you.  It will land on you.  It will make you scream like those people you make fun of on those viral videos.  

Get rid of it.  It does not belong with you. 

 

"But in keeping with his promise we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, where righteousness dwells. So then, dear friends, since you are looking forward to this, make every effort to be found spotless, blameless and at peace with him."  2 Peter 3:13f

"...What fellowship can light have with darkness?" 2 Corinthians 6:14b