Compassion in a Keychain

Being at home causes me to usually be unneccesarily reminiscent. I didn’t grow up in this house, any house in particular, which probably emphasizes why I save scraps and shards of notes, doodles, irrelevant paraphernalia that any decent person would have thrown out several moving boxes ago. I don’t have any secret hidaways or name carvings in the banister here, because my parents moved when I was a senior in high school, and even then, I still didn’t live here; so, I keep things. Lots of little things that add up to a big box of things that I store in scattered drawers and corners of my room.

I don’t go through the drawers every time I’m home; sometimes I read old journals, intending to throw some of them away (because they usually only have a couple entries, a few if I was really persistent for a week or so), but I can’t ever bring myself to do that.It is so hard for me to throw away something I’ve written , maybe because of my fascination with words, I don’t know, but trinkets I am more apt to chunk. Tonight, I was going through a desk drawer of mine, and I found a keychain, made of plastic pink and white beads, strung on a few strips of black cord, linked together by a silver heart that looks like a bolo tie ornament. To anyone else, it would appear at best to be an old childhood artifact that probably came from agitatingly begging for quarters to feed an arcade machine.

I was a senior in high school, and because of the perks given to us as the eldest, my friends and I were headed off-campus for lunch. At one of the stop lights by the freeway, there was a man selling keychains, and maybe something else, but that’s all I remember. I kept staring at him from the passenger seat, my friends never noticed him, and I couldn’t work up the nerve to hand my friends a couple of dollars so they could roll down their windows and buy me a keychain and some peace of mind. I admired him for the attempt to work instead of ask for a handout, and I wanted him to know that someone recognized it. But I never said a word, and we kept on driving. We went to lunch, then back to school, and it was all I could think about. When my sister and I left school, I told her we had to do something; it was crazy, but we had to—we had to find him. We drove the loop around the freeway, and when i spotted him, he began to move. It took several lights before we finally caught up with him, and my joy was hard to contain when I rolled down my window and held out the few dollars. I did my best to throw in a “thank you!” before he walked down the road, hardly recognizing my elation and certainly not understanding the previous 2 hours that I had spent thinking about him.

The day went on, my conscious was calmed, and life continued. I haven’t thought about that man, or that keychain, in years. It has been tucked away in a drawer with all the other Things I don’t think about: old wallets, empty photo albums, faded receipts. Why is it that I cared so much for one day about this, and then let that compassion slip into a drawer of unused items? I pile up compassion and let it substitute for action. I don’t want that to be true, but moreover, I can’t let that be true. I struggle with what I want to do when I graduate, what kind of job I want to have, what kind of life I want to lead. Success is emphasized as a pre-requisite for employment after Vanderbilt—but what does success look like for me? Memories like this remind me I have stored up compassion for the people of the world (who really cries over a man peddling keychains off of MoPac in Austin?), and that compassion must be what drives my action. My heart breaks so easily, and while sometimes it is what creates the exacerbated pain I feel when I get hurt, it is also something I am learning is a gift the Lord has given me, an ability to see others sufferings and want to share in them. I want to pursue something that helps me to share in the pain of others, but also be able to bring about change. Maybe that’s why I am so interested in government, because I see a lot of people who want to bring about good to a world that has so much bad.

I promised long-winded, and delivered. Not to mention, probably confusing. But it flows in my head.

Ponderings

“Why?”

That’s all I could write in my journal Sunday. I was flying from school home for Thanksgiving, drowsy from a late-night room rearrangement with two of my roommates, frustrated with emotions that had ceased to well up within me. This semester has been one of the most blessed times in my life, and so any serious conflicts with that joy seem to be more exacerbated than normal.

“Why?”

Back to a feeling I know to intimately, a return to a place that I have averted for the past few months. God’s plan had become murky again, while for a moment of life I had thought I had seen a glimpse of it, however dimly.

Sometimes, “why?” is the only thing to say. Sometimes “why?” is all that is available to say. Many times, I think the Lord is waiting on me to ask, “why?” so that He can reveal His glory to me— the awe of His presence that I so often overlook in search of my own happiness. I spoke with a wise friend about the “why?” situation, and she shared something that made my heart jump at the prospect: God can use the why situations to grow us in ways we couldn’t grow otherwise. Woah, watch out, “grow”, I know, what everyone wants to do (sarcastic “psh” echoed). Maybe it was how precious this friend is, she can talk about spoiled milk and I’d beg to drink it— but it was more than her enthusiasm. I have asked the Lord to mold me into a woman of character in my prayers for quite a while now, and perhaps this is the first throw on the wheel. Paul writes the the Corinthians about distress, and while it was written to their worries about him in jail, I still gleaned some applicability to my measly, collegiate life:

Distress that drives us to God does that. It turns us around. It gets us back in the way of salvation. We never regret that kind of pain. But those who let distress drive them away from God are full of regrets, end up on a deathbed of regrets.

And now, isn’t it wonderful all the ways in which this distress has goaded you closer to God? You’re more alive, more concerned, more sensitive, more reverent, more human, more passionate, more responsible.

2 Corinthians 7:10 (The Message)

That’s all I’ve got at this point. Hopefully he won’t stop there with me.

Ends

Kamp is over, and I don't quite know how to process it all. After being around the same 80ish people everyday, creating our own reality, making our own memories separate from school, home, family, it is incredibly surreal to be without them all of the sudden. It's the same feeling I had as a kamper, but on an extremely more emotional level. When I first went out there in July, I could not have fathomed the attachment I would make. I have not felt so much joy since I worked in DC and giddily pranced through the hallways of the Capitol- I absolutely fell in love.
I hate change, more than anyone I've ever known, so being in the Durango airport yesterday alone for the first time in six weeks was ridiculously hard. Any words I put together are not sufficient to describe the love I have for the people I worked with or the ties from my heart to theirs. The Lord showed me His love through others in ways I have never experienced. He displayed his constant companionship through a peace I had never before known. He poured out his grace at every turn and in every situation-- the LORD is so good!

"O Israel, hope in the LORD! For with the LORD their is steadfast love, and with him is plentiful redemption" Psalm 130:7

Experts

I thought no one read this (and they still may not... besides you, Jadie, haha!) but I saw it on someone's "blogs i read" list the other day and felt really guilty I haven't updated! The internet is such a funny thing... It has given people confidence and power unlike anything else I can think of-- I mean, really, who am I to think that anyone else actually wants to read my jumbled, run-on sentences? The internet has provided an alternate reality where people feel as though they are entitled to share their thoughts about anything and everything and become their own "expert". It's pretty crazy when I actually think about it, not to mention entirely narcissistic. Really, who do we think we are?
I was thinking the other day, when I was reading someone's blog, about a theory I had when I was younger. I decided, on no specific occasion I can remember, that everyone was an expert on something. Some were more obvious, like doctors or lawyers, whose occupations require a trained expertise. Others, though, were more elusive; I would sit in a restaurant and wonder what our waiter's secret expertise must be-- perhaps he knew everything about dirt bike racing, or was an avid fly fisherman in his off-time. (Or maybe he had all the knowledge able to be acquired about chicken tenders, after all, he was serving them to me.) It became my way of finding the "good" in everyone-- no matter how dumb, lazy, helpless or insignificant a person might seem to the world on the surface, I knew that there was something that they knew more about than anyone else (or, at least, knew more about than I did!) and that made them unique. As I would postulate about everyone's individual talents, I would also try to determine my own. I remember becoming anxious that I would never be able to "find" my expertise, and therefore would become an obsolete citizen. Oh, the worries of the elementary school girl!
As the years have past, I have found different things that I seem to have a knack for. (If there was a career to be made in "Googling", I would have it...) But moreover, I have had the opportunity to see the good in other people, which I have determined to be Jesus in everyone. (see a lower post for this theory of mine) It's thrilling, to be able to look at anyone, from the cashier at Planet Smoothie to the girl who sits next to me at work, and search for Jesus within them, no matter if they know him or not.

Walls and Waiting

It is so much easier to hate than to love. Hate creates walls, chains emotions, gives protection, but leaves you alone. Love tears down the fortress and makes vulnerable all the areas that had been previously held as hate's captive. Love demands honesty, sincerity, vulnerability; it can form fear like nothing else. Love takes cultivation, while hate needs no time to fester. Hate storms the castle, while love waits patiently, sometimes painfully, for the gate to open. 

Love can hurt. So many times I wish I would put up the walls and cloister behind the mortar of hatred because I would be protected from so much anxiety and pain. Sometimes I do put up those walls, but they always end up crumbling, stones crashing in places I never meant for them to go. 

God's love for me is so astounding, the way He will always wait for those walls to come down, yet always be there for me on the other side. He never gives up on me, even when the bricks of hatred, fear, resentment, anxiety build higher and higher-- He is always below, waiting for my castle of sand to crumble, always waiting to pick me up and whisk me away. 

If only I would walk outside the walls a little more often and see what silliness I have built my foundation out of, and the gloriousness of the castle just beyond. If only. 

-----

This was meant to go somewhere. It makes sense to my midnight mind. 

My new Lisa Frank sweatshirt (see Left) has pretty much changed my life. There was a time when I would have been all over sporting this, then a long time when I would have been too cognizant of other people's judgment to not wear, and I'm so glad to be back in the former place now. It's ridiculously comfortable, goes with any outfit (I mean, check out all the color-coordinating possibilities), and, most importantly, has 3 TriDelta dolphins on it. Who could ask for a greater article of clothing?
Wearing this all week (it came in Tuesday; I've worn it everyday since) has made me come to some other realizations about life. Firstly, I am so thankful for where I am right now. I love being at Vanderbilt, which certainly has not always been the case. I don't just love being here; I realized this week that there is absolutely no other place I could imagine myself, which is an all the more wonderful thing of which to be aware. The Lord has constantly showed me that I am in His care and His plan is one that is good and prosperous. It is not always the plan I would have mapped out, but it is consistently surprising how His plan far surpasses my original desires.
Other post-sweatshirt purchase realizations: in order to build relationships, sometimes a portion of vulnerability must be shown, as a peace offering of some sort to let others see a bit of who you are. My confidence isn't so sky-rocketing that I don't notice when people give me weird looks when I wear my sweatshirt, but it's given me an opportunity to be more of myself and a chance to let people see that I don't take myself too seriously.

Weekly question: are "awkward" and "vulnerable" synonymous, mutually exclusive, or somewhere in between?

obsessions

I am obsessed with:
getting to know people, making crafts when I’m stressed,being a serial present-giver, watching Oprah and forgetting that I don’t actually know her, watching little kids get excited about silly things, anything or anyone with a connection to Rwanda, swapping Kanakuk stories with people I don’t know, carrying a potential purchase around all of Target then putting it down right before I check out, reading books I never want to end, painting my nails dark colors and loving the hardcore feeling I get,catching myself talking to myself out loud in public,laughing at my own jokes, thinking witty comebacks but never verbalizing them, embracing my awkwardness.


I love to see God’s imprint on anyone I have interaction with. If we’re all created in the image of God, then it only seems logical that his traits show up within all of us, whether we know him or not. The humor, kindness, passion, energy, sensitivity, beauty I see in my best friends and strangers at the corner are all constant reminders of how amazing it is to share characteristics with our Creator.

Attempts

I am miserable at keeping a journal. I will get urges to start journaling again, I will go out and buy one, marvel at its potential and all the possibilities of what it may one day contain, write a couple entries, get distracted, try to go back to it before I usually forget about it and wait for the next urge to come around. I was going through some shelves in my room at home, trying to see if there was anything I could get rid of. It was full of these sparse journals, mainly extremely dramatic entries about the current love of my life and how I just don’t know what I will do if I the feelings aren’t reciprocal, or utterly boring pages about the current monotony of life that wouldn’t find interest with even the most lonely person in search of connection. I cringe and wince in the back pages of these journals and notebooks, which are inevitably filled with extremely elaborate, hideous doodles I obviously put way too much effort into during a sermon or late at night, and my name written an infinite number of times in experimental styles and with a variety of last names (usually in the same ink as the entries about the most current unrequited love.)

I wasn’t able to throw any of these out. Granted, I would be mortified if anyone were to open those and heaven-forbid actually see whose last names I tested in my signature or what kind of absurdity I had found so vital and life-changing at any given moment.At the same time, however, I loved by able to see how much I have changed and yet still stayed the same. I still have crushes that become all-consuming and seem like they can be life-or-death situations, although I am learning to not worry about what the future holds in those situations and focus more on today. No one ever passed along the memo that once you reach a certain point, doodling is not as acceptable during class, so my notebooks are all still filled with ridiculous ink drawings and repeated versions of my signature. I have started only taking my computer to class, because that is the only way I have figured out to keep myself from doodling (although the urge sometimes becomes too great I’ll pull out a gum wrapper or receipt scrap from my backpack and pretend to be writing something memorable down, when in reality it’s usually a rendering of a Tri-Delt tshirt I have suddenly envisioned or series of “N”s, “P”s and “L” in various shape and arrangement. What can I say? I’m a serial doodler).