The Marginalized

This past week I have been awed at the side of Jesus that addresses and corrects the pathogenic social forms that marginalize certain groups. First, a friend visiting from out of state got me thinking about how the church today is marginalizing artists. Not all churches, of course, but she mentioned how churches that operate by the business world's rationale of efficiency are more eager for artists to serve in a prescribed "useful" way, and treat their original work as too selfish, or need it to tell an explicit story about salvation for it to have a place in the church.

Then today I read the last part of Luke, where women, who were up until Jesus' time not invited into Bible studies or ministry, were the first to find out about Jesus' ascension. He chose them to carry the news of the unbelievable to the masses! It fell fresh on me how Scripture always highlights our core essence as human beings. I love Scripture because it is what God is telling us and reminding us and it illustrates who He is. Of course, I am glad there is a book that tells us good ideas about how to live. Following His commands in it will make our lives better and richer, because his way helps us as limited, finite physical beings to transcend brokenness by His power. But more than usual, this week, I appreciate Scripture because it addresses social malformations. jesus is interested in empowering the marginalized, giving them a role and purpose, where they don't feel like the church is doing them a favor by allowing them a voice or by allowing them to serve in their own special way, the particular way God created them to before they even had a heartbeat.

Waking Up Late

Today I woke up at 8:24. That means that I was supposed to be at work in 36 minutes. Well, that wasn't going to happen. I would rather have the balance instilled into my entire day by keeping my morning routine (semi-) intact and be late to work (thank goodness I have a job where I can do that- self-made hours) than to be on-time to work and have not gotten exercise out of the way. Because if I leave it to later in the day, I can be pretty certain it will not happen.

Summertime is interesting. I have the freedom to sleep whatever hours I want, really; but at the same time, I prefer to keep a rigid, structured day like I do during the academic year. Sleeping in makes me feel bad, unless I planned on doing it. The loss of a quiet, cool morning where the sun is not on full-blast yet is not something I'd like to part with in these free summer months. What can outdo that? A quiet start to your day is bliss. And I'd like to add, when work is forcing that morning time to be cut off, the morning is far sweeter. Things seem to be sweeter in their limited state, than in abundance. Too much of anything, anything without limits, loses its spice. Keeping a lid on the delights of life keeps them delightful.

So, this entry is really about the joy that streams forth from discipline. I used to cringe at the thought of a disciplined guy I knew in college. His life was so perfectly calculated, down to the management of each moment, that I easily grew jealous. I tried to stamp discipline as a killjoy to extinguish my jealousy. But really, I cannot deny that it is when I have self-discipline that I am at my fullness of joy. As writers call to their muse to do their work, I call to Discipline to live. What a gift is the Alarm Clock, when applied to more than just one's sleep schedule. An inbuilt mechanism and purpose in the discipline that is strong enough to control my body and mind and stream their powers and actions and desires down good streams. What joy!

Unbridled Tongue

Maya Angelou tells in her autobiography, "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings," how her grandmother, who raised her between the ages of 7-13 (approximately), started each morning praying bedside, "Thank you, LORD, for this new day, and help me not injure anyone in my household with my tongue." (paraphrase)

This morning I am reminded of the power of speech. I am reminded freshly the truth to the Word's instructions on living the best life possible; God knows how we're created and our capacity to harm, even with the seemingly tiniest part of our bodies. To guard my speech, so that the things that I say don't hinder people, hurt people, especially in a sneaky fashion (seemingly benign, but really a jab), this is my new thing that I lay at Jesus' feet for His repair.

Don't you hate it when you say something that, no more than a minute later, you know will have consequences? Indeed, out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks. If we're fearful, if we're wanting to get even for feeling lesser the moment before, we'll often recruit our tongue to do the right-making. Except, our tongue seldom does that. How much more restorative would silence have been? I wish I could have held my tongue, instead of starting a little fire. Even if the person who hears the ungracious words forgives me, what battle have I now brought myself into, to hate my very own words and actions and rue them? Indeed, part of the regret after the mouth-spill is the reality that one has to deal with one's own sinful reflection. That is, the mouth shows us a heart we would rather not see. That's why we try to hide it away, to not acknowledge our heart's sorrows and fears and insecurities. In a small way, I am thankful God gave us our mouths, even in their unwieldy way, because it exposes us for who we are: dependents on His grace and mercy. And what a miracle and gift it is indeed when our own fellow men can forgive our words with the same grace and mercy.

"Every Dog Has its Day"

Alright, so I pride myself on hating cliches. I even invent odd, odd ways of explaining the everyday (for example, "recreational talking" is a famed phrase of mine), to avoid the dreaded Cliche. But this one....well, this particular one is alright by me. I will let it slide every time.

Reason being, "every dog has its day" marks a special moment in my life. My favorite cousin-in-law, C., sent me a trendy Kate Spade leather-bound mini purse notebook, cool blue with gold-inscribed tiny font on the front with this phrase. She explained in her note to me, "this made me think of you, not because you're a dog, but because you will have your day, a day of success and a day when all will pay off for you." Something to that effect (wish I still had the original card. maybe it's stored in my box of received mail, the Corona box on the floor of my tiny closet getting in the way of everything.). Those simple words, so few, so concise, so parsimonious, sent hope flowing through my veins as if it were just shot in intravenously.

A phone call to my friend M. yesterday, a former grad school classmate, brought this phrase back up. I wish I remember the context she used it in. All I could do was burst out, "I love that saying." Oh, I still do, eight years later.

Now, where's my blue purse book? It's calling for me to fill it with more parsimonious pontifications.

Field Trips

I just read something by Beth Moore this morning that got me thinking. She talked about how when Jesus washed the disciples' feet, it was not the first time He had taught that lesson to the disciples. The lesson was: greatness is found in humility. Service is leadership. I am your example of how to live your life like this. In other words, Jesus had already instructed, talked, and illustrated with words. There came a time, He realized, when the lesson had reached its maximum potential and it was necessary to go on a field trip. To learn through experience, demonstration, to illustrate not with words, but with physically doing.

I agree with Moore, that Jesus sometimes taught using field trips. How can I not take this to heart as a teacher and as a follower of Jesus? When I look back on my teaching methods these past three years, I can only recount a few times where my students learned through a filed-trip-esque approach (on my part). Did we ever venture outdoors? No. Even another part of the school? No. The best I can come up with is the time I had them do a frontloading activity (teacher jargon for something that will whet their appetite for a book before opening its front cover) which involved them to move by foot to the quadrant of my classroom that said they either agreed or disagreed with controversial/moral statements I was making, which related to the book's character's main struggles.

If only I'd had them play more games! The teacher down the hall did that and I was in perpetual awe of the way she managed to get students' bodies involved in the learning process, which is (I think we can ALL agree) overly cerebral. Even incoming med students love activities, such as a quasi-anthropological game called "Bafa Bafa," according to a woman I work for who also works at UMC. After all, life is not all mental, not even close. Although I never did get my students playing instructionally-adjusted games like Memory, Bingo, or something that required individual creation time, I suppose these little leaflet flipchart things we made, as well as the index card vocabulary project and stapleless mini-books, gave them a little outlet for that. But as far as an impressive illustration of a concept by doing, as Jesus did with the feet washing? I give you props for that Jesus -- I don't know how to cross into that Territory of the Deep. I want to, though.

And I have a jubilant and sneaking suspicion that maybe teaching this way actually isn't so hard. Maybe it's easier to do than contriving an elaborate, tiresome written lesson. (BTW, did you know that some rookie teachers start off my writing scripts for themselves to perform each and every class period?! Wow! I saw that in MTC. Those lucky students...who wouldn't benefit from such careful preparation. That's a true gift, and a job fully done. Others of you may be thinking, ugh, that's too much. I retort with, better too much than too little!)

Alright, now to shift the the religious side of the field trip analogy. I want to enter into a new phase of learning from the Messiah how to be His follower. Less instruction and mental agreement with Him; more doing, acting out the Word. That means to be His hands and feet (Thank you Audio Adrenaline, bastion of the Suburban-American-Christian teen's radio in the early oughts.). That means....

• comforting those in grief (visit the mourning, lonely, imprisoned, sick)
• aiding those in distress (providing housing, food, materials, resources [beyond physical, too- our time, labor, social capital, etc.] where they've been depleted or are depressed)
• giving lavishly when the opportunity presents itself (giving others and the church our money, time, assets, labor)
• giving routinely, when we think there's no opportunity/ability for us to do so
• giving joyfully, out of the abundance He's given us
• returning good for ill to our enemies (not cursing, hindering, or punishing them, but showing grace and offering peace however best we can. This involves guarding our tongue and not allowing anger to control us, and praying for our enemies' healing.)
• resisting sin, both in our relationships with others and in social systems (speaking against it, avoiding tempting situations, confessing [rather than hiding or rationalizing or comparing or minimizing or denying] my own sin, rebuking and not following worldly patterns)
• strengthening our brothers (in regular fellowship, sharing our trials and how God's helped us through each.)
• sharing God's love, the story of redemption He has written for His children by the life of His Son, the Gospel, with a confidence and urgency that reflects the depth of our belief that this News really is Good.

Let's review all the verbs I just wrote: comforting, visiting, aiding, giving, guarding, praying, resisting, speaking, avoiding, rebuking, strengthening, sharing. Not only accepting and meditating on Jesus. This is part of the body of the Gospel: to learn by doing.

I need an action plan. Take me on a field trip, Jesus; this classroom of the daily life of comfort I choose is growing stuffy...

All Flap, no throttle.

That's the motto for airlines back in the 1970's, according to one of my surrogate parents, a former stewardess. Beautifully said, no? I love fresh spins on shabby ole hackneyed phrases. I guess the modern-day translation of the motto would be, "All talk, no action."

Mind you, I should be researching right now, but I thought it important to say that "throttling" in life isn't such an impossible undertaking. Seemingly dull things can become exciting as quick as a mischievous student stashes away an illicit cell phone (painted-on innocent-eyes and all). I experienced it again today in my research.

The moral of this post is really as a reminder to myself that when things seem to be all flap, keep flapping, and the throttle will come. I am confident that is not what the author of the phrase originally intended, but I have hijacked the phrase and will apply it liberally to my own ends. Now that right there is a tone of throttle-turned-adjective.

Choices

Two months ago, I had a choice to make between two options: Emory or Vanderbilt? I made out lists of pro's and con's. I swung from one pole to the other. I also led friends to believe I had sided one way, then did a 180 by the next time I talked to them.

As a concise recap - because neither you nor I are much interested in being drug through details here (relive the crowded thoughts? No way!) - Vanderbilt had money, prestige, and one particularly great faculty member to boast. Downsides: they held all their classes in one room; their graduates' placements weren't stellar; one Vandy drop-out told me she never felt connected there; I felt like if I went there it'd be for the wrong reasons. Emory's pro's: I am enamored with Atlanta. Not sure why. It seems to hold the same city mystique that drew me to Columbia. Emory was far more responsive to me in the beginning stages of applying. I started picturing myself as a scholar there. By the time Vanderbilt became a possible reality, my Emory baby was past the zygote stage. Hard to kill a life that's already gestated. Emory also seems to hold a little more clout among soc circles. Also their faculty are uber friendly and I have the one I want to emulate already pegged (hopefully she's not reading this blog!). So Emory's cons kind of never took form for me.

Two months after turning in my official decisions to both schools, I have repeatedly felt peace with my decision to go to Emory. I get excited when I'm on the phone discussing my master's thesis with my hope-to-be advisor. She gives real guidance! Woo hoo! I get excited by the virtual book club emails one faculty has set up with three of us (the other two students not in my cohort). I get excited, excited, excited..........

I'm thankful that choices come to a decision-point, and that God makes it so you can happily live with your choice. What would it be like if choices just hung around like flies at a picnic (hated guests), never coming to a crux? Or, what if decisions could kill you with regret afterwards? But thanks be to God, who keeps life in flux, who keeps time rolling, and who enables us to live with our decision, past regrets and worries. He's got us.

Summer Book Review #1: The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake

I have two goals this summer (probably more, but as I read this morning, multitasking is bad. So let's keep it simple.):


1.) do a good job at my research job for IHL (Institutions for Higher Learning in Mississippi), and
2.) read a book every 1 or 2 weeks.


I think blogging about the books I read will help both goals. The first, by offering me a fun way to take a break and be rejuvenated to do my Internet searching (and imminent phone calling; I am putting that off for now); and the second, by providing a place for me to talk about these books. Facebook seems like too shallow and too quick of a mode of broadcasting. I fear if I rely on FB to reflect on the books I read, it'll be a "look at me! I'm reading!" kind of announcement, and also I will waste at least 20 minutes and plenty of brain space while posting, getting distracted with other people's pages and statuses, etc. So blogging will keep me clear-minded and focused on the task at hand: reflecting on said book.


OK, so this book I bought in Oxford, MS, during a Memorial Day road trip with my friend E. We visited Square Books on our leisurely day off.


A national bestseller right now, with a fun title and even more fun cover, with an appealing color scheme and graphic design, I picked it up unthinkingly in a bookstore. I would compare my book selection process to a kid in a specialty candy store: she chooses what looks most appealing in that moment. Well, this is the tactic I've used for a long time, dating back to my girlhood, browsing our hometown's stellar public library's YA fiction shelves. Anyway, much to my chagrin, as I occupied myself in Square Books while E and T were off elsewhere shopping, I found myself 10 pages in and needing to buy it. Fifteen dollars on a book that looks silly and petty and might as well be chick lit (that's what the title and cover might have you believe)! I thought to myself. 


But the writing is actually superb, and the plot is rich. It follows a girl from age 9 to 22, and how she detects her mother's secrets and affair through her cooking. The main character can taste emotions and also has special insight into her father's passivity and her brother's retreat from/inability to function in reality. She is the member of the family that is closest to all members. Throughout the book, you see how the girl really understands the core of each person: father, mother, and brother. And each of these people knows it. They look to her as a special source of wisdom, and they trust her, each on a one-on-one basis. I love the plot particularly because it disbands the myth of the small, functional family, and shows how quickly human relationships become complex. It also dispels the myth of the inconsolable dysfunctional family. Here is a family that is familiar to me: off the charts in oddities, and things preferred to keep hushed to outsiders, but also, deep in knowledge of each other, and soft and tender in that particular juncture of the knowing. I am terribly predictable in my affinity for and penchant to cheer for the daughter/sister character who is in an unusual position for affecting her elders, or at the very least, who is in an unusual position for bonding with her male family members.