cigarette smoke

The cigarette smoke clung to him lazily as he leaned against the brick wall on his break; we worked at the same coffee shop and he was the quintessential bad boy, as night as I was day, but I adored him.

He was a flaming liberal; I was super conservative. He had to get gas at an even numbered pump; I didn’t ask questions. He drank caramel lattes as if they were going out of style.

He blasted Counting Crows and Jeff Buckley into the warm summer night as we drove around for no apparent reason but simply to drive and feel the wind whipping through our hair. This was a new concept to me.

We’d argue for hours at a time about anything and everything; he vowed he was always right, but we both knew better.

He still pretends he’s always right. I just smile.

He was an atheist turned agnostic; I was a hardcore Jesus-follower. He went to church with me on a dare; he came for two years. We made it a ritual – we’d grab coffee beforehand and then sit outside the church, drinking our coffee while he smoked one last cigarette before going into the sanctuary; we sat in the front row. He stopped coming the day the pastor said the tsunami could be a judgment from God. I didn’t blame him.

We’d watch Stephen Hawking science videos until the late hours of the night; he’d pause the videos every ten minutes to make sure I understood everything and he’d scribble down drawings and diagrams for me on pieces of paper. He loved science and he loved to teach. Watching him watch a documentary on science was like watching a kid on Christmas morning. His whole persona would just glow with excitement.

He taught me how to laugh again.

He’d show up in my driveway, in his battered minivan, a family hand-me-down that he named Bessie – the smoke coming out of the exhaust pipe, his window rolled down while he waited for me. He hated that minivan. “Hey babe, we’re going to a movie, no excuses.”

I’d protest because I had work in the morning. He pretended not to hear. We went every Friday night. I looked forward to Friday nights.

He never protested when I wanted to go for a walk; even when he had injured his big toe and was in a lot of pain, he went on a walk with me. I only found out about the toe after the walk when we sat on my front porch and watched the sun go down. He shrugged it off and simply said “You wanted to go.”

He was a Star Trek freak; he made me promise to never, ever tell his friends. We’d watch episodes together just so I understood his love; when I jumped at the slightest provocation on screen, he laughed at me.

He had a whole other life he kept separate from me; he told me about it but he didn’t want me entering into it. One time he debated with himself about bringing me to his favorite club. He decided not to. Something about a pole.

One summer, we spent every spare minute I had together; that was one of the best summers of my life.

We’d drink coffee until the late hours of the evening… we talked until we got kicked out of the coffee shop because it was closing and then we’d linger outside enjoying the warm summer evenings, looking at the stars. He loved astronomy. He explained the sky to me, time and time again; I tried to remember certain stars but usually failed miserably. He still taught me.

He used to be a race car driver. To mess with me, he’d take curves really fast just to hear me scream.

He’d start yelling about politics and I would just laugh at him. Our first conversation was a six hour argument about Aids in Africa. At the end of that conversation, I thought he hated me; he knew he loved me. Said it was because although I was completely wrong on the topic, I could think and had reasons for my beliefs.

He respected that.

We became friends.

People still wonder how we became friends. We wonder with them.

For his birthday one year, I taught him how to bake a pecan pie, his favorite dessert. He had no idea what he was doing in the kitchen and wondered if baking powder and baking soda could be interchanged. I just smiled and told him to stir.

He grinned with delight when we took the pie out of the oven and he took his first bite.

He held me after my heart was broken. And he let me rant and rave about men, not mentioning that he was one. He didn’t think pointing it out was relevant at the time. He shared his stories. And I held him, stroking his hair, letting my tears mingle with his.

When I announced I was becoming a nun and shutting myself up in a convent, he laughed and told me I was right on time; when I questioned him, he informed me I have a male freak out (where I decide I am never speaking to another male) about twice a year. I told him he was sorely mistaken – it’s only once a year. And I reminded him it doesn’t last very long.

He reminded me I can’t become a nun unless I become Catholic.

He took me to see the movie “Monster” for his birthday; I walked out of the theater halfway through the movie and drove home; he came over later to apologize and tell me about the rest of the movie; we laughed; he never made another mistake about which movie to take me to.

When we worked at the coffee shop together, he was my supervisor but he spent most of his time visiting with the customers, dancing around the shop, and taking smoking breaks – he gave me all of his tips. He was the best to work with; our shifts flew by because we argued about everything under the sun and we laughed. We laughed a lot.

His laugh was infectious, as was his grin. And in the quiet moments sitting on the steps of his garage because he wouldn’t smoke inside, he showed me his heart, his soul. We spent a lot of time on those steps.

When I was in the middle of a fight with Mom, he drove me home, picked up a broom, and started cleaning, just because; I went upstairs to get some things done and came down later to find him dancing crazily in the kitchen with the broom, singing Motown at the top of his lungs. My siblings, watching, laughed with delight.

He left his sweatshirt at my house; I kept it hostage for a month and didn’t care – it smelled like him, and he was comforting.

I eventually gave it back.

He loved to get me riled up, saying ridiculous things he knew would cause a rise and then sit back and laugh at me.

I changed his thoughts about marriage; he changed my thoughts about liberals.

He always forgets my birthday; I never forget his. I forgive him for that.

One time, we spent the entire day together, doing whatever I wanted just because. We ate at a hippie vegan restaurant, grabbed coffee at my favorite coffee shop, walked downtown and people watched, drove to a neighboring mall and window shopped; he told me I was decorating his next house and we went into Pier One and picked out what we’d get. We passed a chocolate shop, Godiva, and he stopped me and told me to get whatever chocolate I wanted. I asked why. He said, “Because I know you absolutely love it.” We nibbled on dark chocolate for the rest of the afternoon.

We argued about evolution, marriage, the government; war, politics, our relationships; he always told me like it was.

When I flooded his email inbox with my writings, disabling his account for a few days, he didn’t get mad. He just smiled and suggested maybe I shouldn’t send “quite” so many emails at one time.

He has the Counting Crows’ “Rain King” song tattooed on his right arm.

He never likes any of the men who come into my life, except the one who broke my heart. I don’t like any of his women, either. They’re usually psycho.

He has the most fabulous sense of style and has the greatest rings ever.

He first introduced me to the television series, Alias. I still have his dvds hostage. But he has about 900 of my books and cds, so we’re even.

He’s one of my biggest fans but also one of my most honest critics.

He once wrote me a love letter – a platonic love letter – the kind of letter expressing love other than and deeper than Eros love – he titled it “el phantasmo and the chicken run blast-a-ramma.” I tried not to laugh when I saw the title, and then when I read his letter, I proceeded to cry. I still have that letter.

Seasons have come and gone and it has been many years since we first became friends; we don’t find the opportunity to hang out as often as we once did, but we are still connected to each other in the tangled way one is connected to one’s closest friends. He still smokes like a chimney and I try not to yell at him about it too much. Whenever we have dinner together, inevitably we find ourselves arguing and laughing simultaneously about something ridiculous or not so ridiculous. And sometimes, sometimes we just sit together, in silence, his cigarette smoke clinging to me lazily like a comforting sweatshirt.

(November 27, 2007)

 

silence

He passed away unexpectedly a little over a month ago and I am forced to reexamine as the grief mucks around the crevices of my heart. Sometimes the pain is too deep for words and so one remains silent.

I am at a place where I cannot give birth to what is churning within; I cannot give voice to the deep utterances of my heart; I cannot do it adequately.  And so, I wait.

For one who expresses herself through the written word and finds release in so doing, this season of draught has been tough. But then I remember that God calls us into the desert for times of pruning, honing, and growth. He called Moses into the desert for 40 years; he called Jesus into the desert for 40 days. Who knows how long this season will last, but I embrace it. For it’s in the deserts of my life that I have grown the most, come to know God deeper and have fallen more in love with Jesus.

May it be so during this season as well.

 

redefinition: letting go

The more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I knew, I’m learning them again

One’s self-awareness is a concept that fascinates me. Six years ago, had you told me I was a feminist, I would have glared at you or given you a quizzical eye, depending upon my determination of the needed response (were you maliciously calling me a feminist or did you haphazardly make the mistake?) — my glance challenging you, daring you to again call me a “feminist.”

The word “feminist” was a dirty word, almost equivalent to the word “Nazi.” While I blame some of those entangled with the right-wing conservatives for my bias, I also acknowledge that Betty Friedan’s views were far more responsible for my distaste, and rightly so. I assumed in my naiveté that the feminism I was seeing in action around me and the ideologies being espoused — that of Friedan’s — were true feminism, and so I hated the feminists (it’s so great to hate those you do not know, isn’t it?) with a passion. (Of course, since Jesus says to love everyone, even your enemies, I made sure I just “intensely disliked” them. “Hate” was much too strong of a word and I couldn’t be accused of that.)

I was quite content in ranting and raving against feminism, not realizing I was ranting and raving against corrupted feminism, not true feminism. And then one day, I realized Jesus was a feminist.

Now this was entirely upsetting, for here was the man I loved, my Lord and Savior, the one I follow, and he was a feminist. I forget who first told me he was but I was sure this could not be — this did not fit into my neatly constructed worldview. Surely, something was amiss.

My ideas of feminism started to slowly be challenged. Jesus spent time with women when they were second class in his society; his ministry was supported financially by women; he had women followers, and women were the first to see his empty tomb and see him, resurrected – quite crazy considering that in that society, a woman’s testimony did not count in a court of law – that his disciples elected to point out that it was women who first saw the empty tomb struck me as odd – that Jesus would interact and hang out with women when he was ostracized and persecuted for it was noteworthy. Jesus respected women and treated them with great love, care, and concern. He valued them, and by doing so, challenged everyone around him.

So I started my quest to better understand feminism, realizing I had a wrong understanding, and what I discovered is that there are two types of feminism. It was a haphazard quest and not a very methodical one — whenever I came across the subject in whatever books or newsmagazines I happened to be reading at the time, I stored away points, both pros and cons, in my head, slowly deconstructing my original understanding of feminism while simultaneously building a case for true feminism.

All the while, I still prided myself on not being a feminist, not realizing something under the surface was stirring.

Until one day, I realized that people viewed me as a feminist – it’s always an interesting exercise when you begin to see yourself through the eyes of others – sometimes you’re quite startled at what you see. When you have spent your whole life judging the feminist movement, to be labeled as a feminist is a little mind-bending. But as my spirit started to protest, I paused and listened to what people were actually saying about me, and I was left with the only appropriate response, to smile coyly and nod in recognition: I am indeed a feminist.

–

How did I seemingly go from one extreme to the other?

Simple: I had gotten my brand of feminists mixed up.

My distaste for Friedan feminism started at a young age and I still hold it. Much to my parents’ chagrin, at the tender age of ten, I started consuming over six hours of political talk radio daily (I attribute my love of dialogue/debate to the hours I spent immersed in it within the context of national and global politics). My heroes (funny how heroes change and morph – most I cannot stand today) thus ranted and raged against “feminists” and the Betty Friedans of this world, and I nodded my head as I recognized the outworkings of her philosophies on the lives of my friends – their mothers, absent; they, rebellious; their lives pockmarked by the effects of the “progressive” feminist movement of the seventies and eighties — and it left a distaste in my mouth that still remains today.

Friedan feminism (see an earlier piece) in essence encouraged women to become men – to leave their homes, enter the career field and disparaged those women who desired to stay home with their children as not fully being all that they should be. While I believe women should have the option to work, we were sold a lie that women can be mistress of their homes as well as aggressive, successful career warriors – the reality is that one domain will suffer; we cannot effectively do two-full time jobs without sacrificing the quality of one or our sanity and health. And so we have suffered the consequences of stressed, burned-out women trying to juggle both worlds in a male-dominated workplace. Friedan feminism, essentially, implicitly taught that if you chose to stay home and not have a career, not enter the male-dominated work world, you were somehow inferior, and so there is this undue pressure, stress, and expectations, both from other women and from men who enjoy two-income homes for women to work outside the home. This has resulted in many mothers letting others raise their children and in the children resenting their absent parent and actively rebelling as a result. The rippling consequences of Friedan feminism are surfacing and making themselves known, and it is that understanding of feminism that I challenge.

However, I started to realize with acuity that I was a true feminist at heart – that I believe that God made men and women equal (but complimentarian). And so while I support the right for women to work if they choose and to receive equal wages for their work, I recognize that women were created to be women; we were not created to be men, and the feminism of the seventies and eighties asked us implicitly to deny our femininity and become, in essence, masculine in order to compete with our male counterparts. Of course, while doing that, of which many of us have been successful, we were still required to bear children, keep the home, and somehow manage a family on top of pursuing a career, and it is in trying to do both well that we do neither.

Men and women are not the same; the gender-neutral push of the late eighties and early nineties has thankfully been silenced in light of scientific evidence that men and women, are, gasp, different. (Even I could have told you that but thankfully we have the scientific method to “prove” it and tell us what we did not know.) But while we are not the same, we have the same intrinsic worth and our voices are both desperately needed, not one more than the other, but in conjunction with each other. And I started to become aware that true feminism is about embracing who the creator has made us as women to be – fully feminine and fully free to express ourselves in the ways he intended – as strong, confident, loving, gracious, thinking, feeling women – in essence, a woman who is not threatened by masculinity but enjoys it and responds to it and encourages it – not a woman who tries to emulate it. When we start to understand our differences, to embrace them, to accept them, we start to truly understand what it means to be a woman.

In redefining my understanding of what it means to be a feminist, I learned that one should not hold on too tightly to labels, to positions, to arguments, but instead, should look at the principles behind the argument. I was deadest against being a feminist because I had misunderstood what true feminism was; I saw only the derogatory effects all around me; I did not see what it was intended to be. I had not yet met the Susan B. Anthonys, the Harriet Tubmans, the Mother Teresas of this world – women who took their femininity and changed the world.

I’ve learned not to be so tenaciously sure of my beliefs and to hold my opinions a little more loosely. Sometimes we do not have all the facts; sometimes we don’t see the whole picture; sometimes we need a little time to be challenged, to grow, to examine. We’re not always right, and there are times we find that we even change positions and proudly become what we thought we once hated — even if it’s only a change in definition, our acknowledgement makes us a little less crusty, a little more understanding, a little less likely to judge.

And sometimes the more we know, the less we understand and we are left with nothing else to do but cling to grace and laugh at ourselves.

 

misplaced priorities

I heard one of the most disgusting displays of vanity/materialism from my gender on the radio this morning on my way into the office.

Catching a morning talk show with three hosts, one male and two female, the subject of today’s musings was a question posed by a listener. The man, who desired to propose to his girlfriend (and with whom he intended to purchase a house) wondered in light of wanting to be financially wise, if he could purchase a “fake” engagement ring and upgrade to a real diamond at a later date, whether he should buy a small but real diamond, or whether he should just not get a ring at all in light of the impending financial obligations and responsibilities with both the wedding and down payment. The male host was shocked at both of his counterparts who argued that it would be horrible and inexcusable for this man to purchase a “fake” engagement ring. I was just as disappointed by their response.

But it got worse as listeners started to call in to give their two cents. And I was incensed, incensed at the response almost all of the women gave, and I was ashamed to be called female. I heard everything from “nothing under a caret is acceptable,” to “it must be huge and I’ll help pay for it, if necessary” to the most offensive offering – a woman called in to say that she flung her “fake” engagement ring (who determined that “diamond” was the standard by which all other rings are to be considered “fake”?!) at her intended fiancé and ran out of the room crying. He had explained to her he could not economically afford a real diamond but would upgrade when he could. Had I been in his shoes, I would have dumped her right then and there. I was horrified. Another woman said she must have at least three carets and it had to be real because otherwise her girlfriends would talk. To her, I would suggest she find a better circle of girlfriends and to her boyfriend, I suggest he find someone else. One woman said she would rather have a small real diamond and then wait until her husband can upgrade to a real – the implicit assumption that he should upgrade to a real diamond. One woman claimed that the ring is reflective of a couple’s love and therefore it must be “real,” for to have a fake is the first lie in the relationship. I felt nauseous.

Not once did I hear a woman profess that a ring is symbolic, that there is wisdom in not living beyond your means, that a diamond is no indication of love whatsoever.

What in the world is wrong with women?!

I used to not even want a wedding ring, let alone an engagement ring; however, as I grow older, I appreciate and value the symbolism of a wedding band. It is, however, only symbolism, and as I am in a season of life where many of my friends are married, have been married, or intend to get married in the near future, the subject of engagement rings and wedding bands is an often-discussed subject and thus has been a topic with which I’ve engaged.

I see no need to put an extra stress or burden upon my intended simply to keep up with the status quo or even tradition. Having been to many jewelers with my girlfriends, I learned to keep my tongue in check but I was aghast at the racket the jewelry business has. And I am utterly content to have a simple band, something perhaps reflective of my personal taste, remiss of any kind of stone. In fact, if I was in love and getting married and all my intended could afford was a cracker-jack ring, then I would be happy and proud to wear that ring.

The ring is simply symbolic of a bond that has been created and engendered in two individual’s hearts. In a world in which faithfulness and fidelity are not encouraged and women and men are extremely aggressive, I do see value in choosing to wear a band as a statement that your heart is taken and has been given and committed to one person. But to obsess over a ring, to make implicit or explicit demands upon your intended, to go into possible debt or use financial resources for a ring when those same resources could be used for a down payment on a house seems to me ludicrous.

I know I may be a lone voice regarding this manner, but I was personally sick and disgusted at hearing the women call in on the show, and I felt grieved for their spouses/partners. The ring (and the wedding day, for that matter, but that is another rant for another time) are not reflective of your love or the health of your marriage, and perhaps therein lies some of the problems we face regarding the state of our unions – if we have placed our security in the size and quality of our engagement ring, we have not only placed our security in the wrong trust, we have missed the point entirely.

 

expanding dreams

The mind of man plans his way, But the LORD directs his steps.

Or stated another way, “You may make your plans, but God directs your actions.”

—

Life continually surprises me.

Last week I had the pleasure of talking with my childhood best friend – she lives in Montana and we see each other once every few years. When we became best friends, she was six and I was three (I’ve always gotten along better with those older than I, almost from the womb ;). We were neighbors and our parents were close friends, which helped foster our friendship. We spent hours romping together – creating, playing, dancing through childhood – and we were inseparable for years until my family moved away when I was thirteen.

She was an only child – independent, adventurous, a self-proclaimed feminist – into fashion, movies, the mall and boys – I looked up to her as she was three years my senior and was “cool.” I was the complete opposite. I was the oldest of a pack of siblings and I was most happy running around barefoot, climbing trees, reading and making things with my hands…and my parents, in their parental autonomy (which I disliked intensely back then but absolutely love now as an adult) refused to let me wear makeup or hang out at the mall during my formative adolescent years, so our worlds, while connected, were always slightly separate.

She wanted to be a marine biologist and was headed toward college and a career; I wanted to be a stay-at-home wife and mother (I realize I’ve always been a nurturer) and college didn’t interest me, nor a career. Instead, I wanted to write and start a home business, pursuing any one of my myriad interests. She never wanted to get married and didn’t want children; I longed to get married, have a family and homeschool my children. She was the Murphy Brown to my Laura Ingalls Wilder.

And then life happened.

And here we are, ten years removed from our former selves. She just had her third child, a precious little boy who joins two beautiful older sisters; she’s living in the mountains with her loving husband. And she tells me they hope to have seven children and would like to adopt after that, which upon hearing, my jaw literally dropped, and I was thankful she couldn’t see me register surprise. She is a stay-at-home mother and is homeschooling her children.

And here I am, a single, post-college graduate, working in the legal field the last three years living the craziest, best adventure of my life. Would I like to marry and have a family one day? Yes. That desire has never faded, but it doesn’t drive me as it once did – it’s somewhere there, on the back burner but it’s not my end-goal as it used to be – if it happens to take place along my life’s journey, wonderful, but if not, I’m content and happy with the life I’m living and the pursuits I run after. But I find it ironic that in essence, we switched lives, and I’m living out her dream and she is living out mine. Both of our adolescent dreams changed and morphed over the years, being affected by life’s circumstances and personal choices, and we are now supremely happy with where we are today, but had you told me at fifteen we would have changed places, I would have laughed, asserting by my tone that you were crazy. I never foresaw living the life I lead, nor enjoying it so much. Little did I know myself. Now I just smile and thank God that he sometimes turns us upside down and gives us the desires of our heart that we don’t even realize are within us until he cultivates them and makes them blossom.

I’ve learned not to hold on too tightly to any dream or plan I may have, because inevitably, when I just follow Jesus and take one day at a time, I am surprised and delighted by the journey that He takes me on, and my dreams, hopes, and passions change, morph, expand. I am living a life better than I could have ever dreamed or planned for myself, and I reflect that sometimes it’s better to leave the dreaming and planning up to him and be flexible when your life does not look like what you envisioned.

Maybe one day part of my childhood dream will be fulfilled and I’ll have a home with a loving family; until then, I’ll save up to fly out to Montana to enjoy my friend’s and rejoice with her while thanking God he’s directing both of our steps.

 

question to ask ourselves

“Is what I’m living for worth dying for?”

 

to my sister, with love

Dear Tessa,

I may not be especially wise and I certainly don’t have all the answers, but I was also fifteen once, and every time I look at you, I am reminded that we were cut from the same fabric. So if you will indulge me, the following is an open letter that I wish I had received when I was fifteen. I submit it to you as a reminder of what you already know but what we all need to be reminded of.

Do with it what you will.

~

Remember that you are beautiful and vivacious.
Remember also that “beauty is as beauty does” and that outward beauty fades with time.
Develop yourself; figure out who you are; figure out who God has made you to be.
Don’t let others define who you are.
Don’t worry about the boys; they will come flocking later…trust me.
Smile.
Don’t read the beauty magazines; they will only make you dissatisfied.
Don’t worry about your weight; instead, learn about your health.
Don’t compare yourself to your friends. You will only damage your relationships with them, even if only in your head.
Dance.
Read. Read the classics. Read for fun.
Follow the news. Both national and global.
Develop your mind. Use it. Exercise it.
Dialogue with others; learn how to converse.
Learn how to be challenged by another viewpoint and not become defensive. Learn how to entertain that viewpoint, even if you don’t accept it.
Listen.
Learn when to keep your mouth shut.
Learn when to speak.
Discipline yourself, work hard, but play well.
Rest.
Get eight hours of sleep.
Don’t abuse your body. It is one of the greatest tools you have.
Look for the good in everyone.
Choose to love.
Choose to forgive.
Pursue your relationship with God; ask the tough questions; don’t be afraid to seek the answers.
Have mercy and grace for your elders who don’t know.
Continue to ask.
Laugh.
Work before play, but don’t become obsessed.
Pursue interests that you love; find out what it is that makes you tick, that you can do on your own. When your friends are busy, you will find this invaluable as you will never be bored.
Learn to read music; learn to play an instrument.
Sing.
Draw.
Write.
Keep a journal.
Visit those in the nursing homes.
Serve others. Seek to put others’ needs before your own.
Respect your elders.
Respect your parents.
Tell them you love them.
Tell your siblings you love them.
Show physical affection.
Learn how to cry.
Learn how to be angry.
Learn how to make a mistake.
Be quick to acknowledge wrong and ask for forgiveness.
Be careful of how much television you watch. You can never regain that time.
Paint.
Cook.
Bake.
Learn how to do your own laundry.
Learn how to clean a house.
Learn how to change a tire, sew on a button, pay a bill.
Take walks.
Listen to classical music.
Be confident without being arrogant.
Learn what it means to be humble.
Twirl.
Don’t be afraid to be unique
Realize that everyone just wants to be loved.

And most of all, remember that you are loved.

Your big sis,
Christy

 

legacy

As I sat there shivering in a hospital robe, waiting to be seen by my father’s friend, I fought back the tears. For some reason, the emotions and memories came flooding back with more acuity, and the grief, which never fully subsides, made its presence more fully known than it had in past months.

When the doctor knocked on the door, I pulled myself together and answered with a smile, “Come in.”

—

I still go out of my way to go to the hospital where my father worked for the last fifteen years of his career when it would be much easier to find a hospital closer to where I currently live. The reasons are many. I have memories of office visits dotting much of my childhood – like old videos playing through my mind — meeting the nurses and physician’s assistants, chatting it up with the receptionists, holding my daddy’s hand and having lunch with him in the hospital cafeteria. The green jello catching the garish glare of the basement lights.

I am tied to that building like an old, familiar friend, and even eight years removed from his active practice there, I can still see him – tall, handsome, grinning – walking around at a quick pace that I am all too familiar with as I have been accused of having the same gait.

People stare at me when I go; some know me on sight; others only are caught off guard by a strange familiarity – their quizzical faces searching mine, as if they know me but can’t quite place me. I know it’s because I am clearly my father’s daughter. His features grace my face, and for that, I am thankful – I was always Daddy’s girl and the tangible reminders are welcomed. (Though I like to think that I am slightly more beautiful, especially considering my father’s face was usually graced by a beard.)

I continue to go partly because I can still see Dad, sitting in his office, his white lab coat turned around, put on like a straight-jacket, hamming it up with the phones for my amusement, a huge grin lighting up his eyes as his daughter laughs at his antics; I can smell the sterile hospital smells as I scribble at his desk, eight years old, amusing myself for hours while he sees patients until he is able to take me home, doctor friends coming in and out to give me those horrid hospital suckers that I always eagerly looked forward to after a doctor’s appointment, to supply me with crayons and paper, to bring me apple juice and graham crackers – Dad popping in after every appointment to make sure I’m okay. I can see the piece of rough wood sitting on his shelf, onto which I scratched “I love you, Daddy” in an unsteady hand with pencil, the lines fading – simple but profoundly magnificent for a four year old – and where my father, in his infamous doctor’s handwriting, denoted “Christen” in the bottom right hand corner.

It is always bittersweet when I see his old colleagues, his friends, his family; I intentionally make it a point to say “hi” to some – everyone who knew my father loved him. One might say I am biased, but to this day, I meet people who barely knew him but know of him – they tell me stories that bring continued healing to my heart – it is cathartic to talk about my father, but so few do because they watched the grief I went through. But those at the hospital don’t hesitate. Perhaps they unconsciously understand how I hunger to talk about him with those who knew him.

Today, the front lobby receptionist on the first floor called out after me, as I walked toward the front entrance, “Are you related to Dr. Patterson?” A bit startled, since I did not recognize her and Dad worked on the second floor, I paused, turned around and nodded affirmation. Before I know it, I am being told a tale of how she didn’t know him well but yet, stated warmly, “There was no other physician like him.”

She explicated, “When I first started here, I would always see this doctor running around the waiting room, dashing in and out in his white coat. I asked the girls who he was and what was going on, and they nonchalantly replied, ‘Oh, that’s Dr. Patterson – he likes to come and get his patients personally.’” Her story, a two minute recount, belies the admiration many felt – Dad’s humility and authentic realness was seen even in his work ethic – whereas most other physicians let the nurses call the patients, waiting if necessary for a nurse to be freed to do so, my father was not hung up on his title and instead, went out and personally greeted them and brought them back for the appointment. And for that, he was respected by the office staff and beloved by the patients. It’s a story I’ve heard many times before; the storyteller, however, is someone new.

I wonder if my father had any idea how many people he impacted.

There’s the woman who pulled him aside and showed him a picture of a beautiful little girl, a girl she might not have had if my father had not counseled her to cancel her abortion appointment six years prior; with tears in her eyes, she said, “Dr. Patterson, my daughter is the best gift I have; thank you.”

There’s the single mom with five children my father supported without any of us knowing; there are the families who received blessings from him financially or through the gift of a furnace or other appliance. My dad, not one to talk about his good deeds, as he lived by the rule, “Don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing” was ousted only when it became obvious his illness was terminal – people came out of the woodwork to thank him for his influence in their lives and to tell his children what kind of man their father was.

Dad, ever humble, always ascribed it to his relationship with Jesus. When he passed away, there was no doubt whom he served. And at his funeral, I realized that the only thing that mattered was my father’s relationships – with God, with his family, with his friends, with his colleagues and patients.

And it is for that reason that I return. My father loved his colleagues. I know because every night around the dinner table as a young child growing up, I would hear him warmly speak of them. I knew them by name. It is for this reason I feel connected to them as an adult, because they are the people my dad loved. And it is to honor his love for them that I seek them out. Not for my own sake, though I am enriched, but because by a small note, a “hello,” a touch, I remind them of his love for them.

—

In the span of a quick office visit, six people stopped me to ask me how I was and to speak warmly about my father.

It has been eight years since he practiced; over six since he passed away. Seasons come, seasons go, but to realize that my father’s life still has a lasting impact upon those he touched is a profound charge to me: when my time comes, will those who know me remember me with such love in their eyes because of the love I showed them?

Thanks for setting the bar, Dad. I love you.

“By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another.”
– Jesus (John 13:35)

– Christen Patterson, August 2007

 

thought

“There are three things that are too amazing for me, four that I do not understand: the way of an eagle in the sky, the way of a snake on a rock, the way of a ship on the high seas, and the way of a man with a maiden.”

 

quest

When all else fails, laugh

It’s cooled down to a stifling 84 degrees, the central air working overtime. However, walking into the Inferno, otherwise affectionately known as my apartment, was the least of my adventures this evening.

The night all started off innocently enough. After putting in a full day at work, both pushing through an insane workload while simultaneously training the woman hired to be my help, I packed up my bags and headed out the door, heading to my silver Scion, thankful to be heading homebound instead of my usual appointment, which I had canceled due to illness.

It was a cool 95 degrees outside; I thanked God for air conditioning and headed to an after-hours urgent care clinic. I figured six weeks of illness, eight days off work, three infections, vertigo, and no healing merited a change in doctors and an urgent care visit to get the highly desired miracle drugs, otherwise known as antibiotics. I refused to dwell upon the fact that I had met unsuccessful in my pursuit just the night before. Apparently the receptionist hadn’t taken logic 101. I bowed out graciously from our chit chat after she repeatedly told me it would cost me $50 out of pocket to be seen for an illness I had already self-diagnosed because she would be billing it as an emergency. If only I could self-prescribe. Be a doctor’s daughter long enough and you think you have an M.D. after your name.

Sometimes you might as well.

However, with Dad unavailable to call in a prescription (I misplaced Heaven’s phone number the other day), I just walked out, too tired to continue to try to explain that “urgent care” and “emergency care” are not billed the same. Silly me for assuming those in the medical billing profession should know this.

Fast-forward to tonight. On a continued mission to get antibiotics (for some reason, prescriptions are required – quite inconvenient to a woman working two full time jobs as doctor appointments don’t fit into the schedule very well), I called the urgent care clinic to double check that tonight they would in fact accept my insurance card and only charge me the acceptable $10 co-pay for a non-urgent urgent care visit. After six days of coughing more than breathing and causing my colleagues to approach my desk with caution and fling work at me rather than enter my personal bubble, I figured I should take the time to be seen by a professional. Earlier in the day, I had my insurance verified. Not only was I correct, but I was armed with inside knowledge.

So, driving the hour commute at 70 miles an hour, balancing an insurance card in one hand, a cell phone in another, I called ahead to make sure I would not again face the same receptionist demanding $50 for an emergency room visit when there was clearly no emergency, nor emergency room around to merit the charge.

Aghast, I found myself speaking to another receptionist who insisted that I call my insurance company since she didn’t know; I then told her which key to press on her computer system to look up my insurance. (I had done my homework earlier in the day, thanks to a helpful nurse at a related facility.) She ignored me and again told me to call my insurance company to find out. I informed her I had already checked. She said to call again. I was not humored.

At this point, my wicked desire to expose the idiocy of what I was being told flared up, and I started to point out the painfully obvious. “Ma’am, so you’re saying I should call my insurance company, find out what my co-pay is, even though it’s stated on the card, then tell you what they say and you’ll bill me accordingly? “Yes” was her one word reply. I bit my tongue from pointing out the fact that I could lie and would still be billed the same, regardless, and instead decided to humor her and let it go.

Upon finally arriving at the facility, I walked in, exhausted, in pain from coughing for six days straight, and ready to be seen, get the antibiotics coursing through my body, and rest. As I passed through the electronic doors and entered the building, my senses, dulled by my sick state quickly became attuned to wild sirens, flashing lights, doors and security gates automatically descending – a loud voice paging over the speaker system, “Code Red, Code Red. Level One, there is a Code Red.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

I stood there in disbelief, eyes wide realizing my dream of getting treated tonight was further eroding. Snapping out of it a second later, realizing I wasn’t in the middle of a nightmare, I walked up to the nearest receptionist, asking her something along the lines of what kind of code it was – unsure if perhaps it was a patient who had gone into cardiac arrest and all the doctors were being summoned or perhaps something worse – the bars, gates and doors shutting suggested a lock down.

Three nurses came out from behind a door and informed the receptionist who just sat there smiling that a Code Red meant fire; the receptionist turned toward me and graciously invited me to come behind the counter, join them, and enter into an unmarked door near the middle of the building. Considering I was standing two feet from an outside door, I declined politely, thanked her for the invitation to enter further and deeper into a building on fire, and instead, quickly turned my heels and left the building, with a stream of patients and doctors in white lab coats not far behind.

After seeing everyone exit the building, I climbed into my vehicle, laughed, and decided I would try my luck at another urgent care center. I called Anna, one of my closest friends and former roommate of two years, to tell her of my latest experience in my quest for wellness, quipping to her, “It seems as if I’m not supposed to get antibiotics, hun.” I then proceeded to lose it in all-out laughter as I processed the humor of it all.

I finally hung up the phone, after Anna could barely get in a word edgewise as I was gasping for breath in between laughing, giggling, and coughing. I turned out the parking lot, in pursuit of arriving at the second urgent care center a few miles away, still determined to track down said miracle drugs. Within one minute, I asked God, “Are you serious?” as I found myself in a torrential downpour, creating flash flood conditions with almost no visibility on the roads.

As I was a mile from my home, I made the executive decision to turn into my apartment complex, admit defeat, and call it a night.

When I called Anna to update her, in the midst of trying not to hydroplane, she informed me that it was clear and sunny in the neighboring city. Irony mocked me as I pulled into my parking lot, the reality of getting drenched and wading through muddy waters in flip flops to make my way from my car to the building was not lost upon me.

Thank God tomorrow’s another day.

At least I had the foresight to make a backup doctor’s appointment for tomorrow evening at my regular doctor’s office on the off chance I was again defeated in my quest for the all-elusive antibiotic.

Though perhaps I should rethink future “backup” plans, as this one screams a little too loudly “self-fulfilling prophecy.”

– August 2007

[Update August 2, 2007: I have in my possession the precious antibiotics.  Wahoo!  Mission achieved.]

 

a severe mercy

For a friend.

“The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.” -Mary Schmich

Sometimes God answers prayers directly and swiftly but sometimes the answer comes when you least expect it and had almost forgotten you needed it. You find yourself on a Tuesday afternoon, blindsided, quite sure that the world is beyond cruel.

But after gasping from the pain, you laugh and you cry and you sing His praise, and somehow, in the midst of all that, your trouble turns to joy because He is sovereign and you trust in His goodness.

When the lie is deeper than I know
You capture me and You carry me home
You see these wounds and rescue me
You always heal things beautifully
-Watermark, “Where to Find Me”

You smile through your tears — knowing that He knows you better than you know yourself, and you thank Him because He is faithful to muck around the deepest crevices of your soul in order to bring you to a place of complete healing and freedom. And in the midst of that process, you fall on your knees and learn once again how to receive His mercies, which are new every morning.

You learn the things you thought you knew; you learn again what it means to forgive, even when forgiveness is the last thing your shattered heart is prepared to do.

Thank goodness it’s not left up to you.

And you smile over the way God intimately and tenderly loves you – giving you small gifts each day — in a phone call, in a hug, in a song. In a girlfriend showing up on your doorstep with flowers, ice cream, and a lotta love; in India Arie belting out your heartbeat when you have no words left to sing; in learning what it means to be a little girl again, receiving love from God the Father.

And the healing process continues, one breath at a time.

And with a smile, you dance and embrace your new found freedom.

–

I got the call today, I didn’t wanna hear
But I knew that it would come
An old true friend of ours was talkin’ on the phone
She said you found someone
And I thought of all the bad luck,
And all the struggles we went through
How I lost me and you lost you
What are these voices outside love’s open door
Make us throw off our contentment
And beg for something more?

I’ve been learning to live without you now
But I miss you sometimes
The more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I knew, I’m learning them again
I’ve been tryin’ to get down to the Heart of the Matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think it’s about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore

These times are so uncertain
There’s a yearning undefined
And people filled with rage
We all need a little tenderness
How can love survive in such a graceless age
And the trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness
They’re the very things we kill, I guess
Pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms
And the work they put between us,
You know it doesn’t keep us warm

I’ve been trying to live without you now
But I miss you, baby
The more I know, the less I understand
And all the things I thought I figured out, I have to learn again
I’ve been tryin’ to get down to the Heart of the Matter
But my will gets weak
And my heart is so shattered
But I think it’s about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore

All the people in your life who’ve come and gone
They let you down, you know they hurt your pride
Better put it all behind you; cause life goes on
You keep carrin’ that anger, it’ll eat you up inside

I wanna be happily everafter
And my heart is so shattered
But I know it’s about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore

I’ve been tryin’ to get down to the Heart of the Matter
Because the flesh gets weak
And the ashes will scatter
So I’m thinkin’ about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if you don’t love me anymore
Even if you don’t love me anymore

– India Arie, “The Heart of the Matter.”

–

Goodbye.

– Christen Patterson, July 2007

 

quick sketch on “love”

[I randomly found this sketch that I wrote a while ago…it may reveal more of my passionate nature than I generally reveal, and for the record, it was not written to any one specific person, but upon reading it over, I thought it was worth sharing, if only to provoke thought.]

on love

Honestly, I’m really tired of people making assertions about my love or questioning it. I am told, “There’s a difference, Christy, between ‘love’ and ‘love’” Oh, is there? Is there really?

Is not love a choice? Why must I ascribe to society’s idea of love being a feeling of falling “in-love” in order to say “I love you” to the person I’m dating? Is not love so much more? Is the assumption that if I say “I love you” to the person I am dating, that I am only talking about the “falling-in-love” type of love? Do not people know me better to know I have a deeper understanding of what love is and that I don’t use that word lightly when I say it?

Is not love a deep desire for another person’s best? Is not love a choice to be at someone’s side, even when the “feeling” is or is not there? Is not love so much more than what Hollywood and our culture screams at us? I don’t want to give or receive “shallow” love; I never have. If “love” is only, or primarily, to be determined by the butterflies in your stomach, by the excitement of another human being investing in your life, by the thrill of growing closer — mentally, physically, spiritually — then, yes, perhaps it’s “dangerous” to tell someone you love them before, oh, I dunno, six months. That seems like a good number, a good formula, a good rule to follow, doesn’t it? I wonder if it’s that my choice to tell others I love them is threatening to so many others who wouldn’t and don’t do the same?

Maybe it’s because I’m not playing by the rules. Is that it? It makes you uncomfortable; it’s outside the ordinary; it’s risky. Well, you know what? Loving anyone is risky. Ask C.S. Lewis, who wrote:

There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglement; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket – safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.

Ask Christ, who loved to the point of entering humanity and dying for us. Why are we so quick to judge other people and their love? Is it out of fear for them (she’s confusing “love” with “infatuation”) or is it out of fear for ourselves? Our constructs are being questioned; our boundaries are being challenged; our thoughts about love are being threatened. No one could possibly know whether they love someone until a certain period of time, right?

Who sold us that lie and when did we start to buy it?

I’ve heard so many times, “Love is too big of a word to use lightly and I hate when people use it often.” Rarely is that statement aimed directly at me, but in being stated, it is implicitly implicating me of “cheapening” the word because I do choose to use the word “freely.”

But am I cheapening it? Is my love for someone somehow less because I love many others? Do I only have a specific amount of love to give, and therefore, am spreading it “too thin” on too many people? When it really comes down to it, is not our fear of using that word “too much” and “too freely” a reflection that we are fearful of being hurt? It doesn’t have to be just in a dating relationship. We do this in other relationships as well. We don’t want to extend ourselves by saying it and giving it until we are SURE that our significant others, closest friends, and family members feel the same way and aren’t going to hurt us by their lack of love, or lack of love being equal to ours. So we hold on to it, selfishly not wanting to give until we have received, or until we are quite sure we will receive a reciprocal love. But is not loving someone in the way that Christ loves us a love that “does not seek its own”? Gives without thought to its own needs? And if we base our decisions about who we love upon a Biblical understanding of love, upon how God and Jesus love, does it not change how we should use that word and how we choose to interact with others?

Love is a choice; when it comes to significant others, the feelings of being “in love” may come and go; love is a commitment; love is an earnest desire for another person’s best; love is a desire for them to know the one, true Lord better and more intimately. If love is those things, can not – and should not – we be using the word more often and let go of our small-view ideas of “love” and start practicing Biblical love in a way that brings honor and glory to the Father?

 

unveiled security

I drove into work last Thursday after being away from the office for over a week due to illness; I was still not well but I was having issues with my doctor’s office as my doctor was on vacation and the communication between the four nurses was less than helpful and more than confusing.

I finally gave up on obtaining a doctor’s note for the week, which I clearly needed in order to let my body heal, and I drove in to work quite sick but determined to push through. I am, if nothing more, tenacious. I had made an appointment that morning to be seen by another physician but the appointment was canceled by the office, and with my sick time almost used up and without a doctor’s note to cover my absence, I had no choice but to return to work. I worked a full 8.5 hour day, only to receive a voicemail five minutes before the close of the day from one of the nurses telling me she had faxed my HR rep a doctor’s note.

I was immediately concerned and curious, as I had not requested a doctor’s note and wondered what it would say.

I marched into Andy’s office and asked if he had received a fax. He had, indeed, and the note read that I had been treated by my doctor that day (clearly I had been at work all day) and that I was not to return to work until the following Monday.

Andy quizzically looked at me, and I burst out laughing and grasped for some explanation for the office’s seeming incompetence.

Thankfully, both Andy and my supervisor were extremely understanding of the situation.

I thus took the following day off, thanking God for his provision, for while my paid sick time off had almost completely run out, I had half a day left to apply towards my unexpected day off — and guess who received in the mail that week, in cash, an unexpected gift in the exact amount of a half day’s wages? Nothing more, nothing less than the exact amount.

God is always faithful and continually reminds me that He knows even the most intimate details of my life.

—

For the first time in my life, I am at a place of vulnerability with regard to finances, by choice. And God is providing, in unique ways, as I walk this road and trust Him for my future.

Walking away from the security of a 9-5, well-paying job is a bit challenging, but I welcome the challenge and it’s a great adventure.

I’m learning what it means to truly pray the Lord’s prayer “Give us this day our daily bread” and I’d have it no other way for it clearly drives home the reality that we sometimes too easily forget: our security is only in the Lord’s provision. It is easy to get sucked into the numbing deception that the corporate world provides security until we unexpectedly lose our jobs or have our salary cut or find ourselves unable to work — it is easy to forget that everything we have comes from the one who created us and gives us breath each day.

For me, at this stage in life, I’m remembering daily from where my bread comes. And I like it that way.

– Christen Patterson, July 23, 2007

 

rebels with a cause: why some shy away from the label “Christian”

If I may be so bold to speak on behalf of others more than just myself, we’re a ragtag bunch, many us Christians.

And that’s exactly how I like it.

You look at our diversity and it’s astounding; as our cultures brush up against each other, we are all shaped, challenged, and blessed by the differences we bring to our communities. And while I’m sure those around us sometimes scratch their heads, wondering what it is that ties us together, we know that sometimes the only thing linking us to each other is Jesus, himself. And we rejoice in that.

–

The world of facebook (similar to MySpace, though a better platform in my opinion) is a strange and fascinating world. A medium that connects people from around the world, a platform that offers “community” on some level.

Confession: I enjoy reading the “religious views” description of everyone whose page I come across. I am especially fascinated by the variety of descriptions Christians give, and it makes me realize with even more acute awareness that our generation is fighting against conformity.

Very few of us are choosing to describe ourselves as “Christian.” A quick five minute search on facebook brought up the following descriptions (one will find that almost nowhere is the word “Christian” used without some sort of caveat):

* lover of God; extreme Jesus follower

* non-religious like Jesus

* Loving follower of Jesus Christ

* I am a Christ Follower

* religion = do // Jesus = done

* purchased by the blood of Christ

* Born again Christian embracing Hebraic roots

* Follower of God in the way of Jesus

* “For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” Romans 3:23

* Follower of Christ

* Pure & Undefiled before the Mighty1 & Father: Visit Orphans and widows under affliction: Keep one Self Unstained From the World

* Jesus lover

* forgiven.loved.

* Jesus Freak

* Christian – A relationship not a religion

* i love jesus!

* Jesus is my Lord and Savior! =)

* radical follower of the Way…Acts 9:2

* Jesus is Lord, God, and Savior – led a perfect life, died on the cross, and rose again

* I love the Lord.

And that is only the beginning of descriptions. It’s clear that there are few of us in my generation (I’m twenty-five) who are followers of Jesus who actually chose to use the label “Christian.” So what happened to simply saying “I’m Christian”? Why do we go to such great, creative lengths, and at the risk of sounding cultish, to avoid saying “I’m Christian”? If I could guess, it’s probably because it’s been hijacked by so many who claim the name of Christ but who do not know Him. Erwin McManus penned one of my all-time favorite quotes: “Christianity has become our Shawshank, and our redemption will only come if we find the courage to escape the prison we have created for ourselves.”

I think the truth we’re trying desperately to express is that we’re not concerned with Christianity the religion – we’re concerned with following Jesus. Christianity the religion is the prison we’re seeking to break from. And so we come up with every possible way under the sun to convey that to those around us.

Should we try to redeem the word “Christian” from those who have hijacked it for their own purposes? Yes. But in the meantime, we want to make it clear where we stand. We love Christ; we’re about the things he was about; we’re seeking to love a broken and dying world with his love. We have been redeemed by Jesus’ blood on the cross and restored to a right relationship with God, and because Jesus rose from the dead and lives today, we have LIFE. We live in freedom, not subject to our sin and no longer living in bondage.

This whole mindset comes down to a personal level: I learned quickly in college to not allow others to ascribe the label “Christian” to me. Why? Because I distance myself from the vast group of Christians in the United States who are nominal Christians or who are simply culturally Christian.

I am fiercely in love with following Jesus, and I don’t want my relationship with God to be confused with the “Christianity” of the Crusaders or with many of the Christians today who deny Jesus by their lifestyles. As Brennan Manning wrote, “The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians, who acknowledge Jesus with their lips and walk out the door and deny him with their life style. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.” I think Manning is on to something that we’ve started to clue in to. And so you have a generation of believers in Jesus who are hesitant to fall into the “Christian” camp, because let’s face it, people professing to be Christians have done a lot of stupid and horrific things throughout history and thus “Christians” have gotten a bad rap.

It is thus the misconstrued understanding of what it means to be “Christian” that motivated me to distance myself from the word; when talking to Muslim, Jewish, and atheist friends, I realized many did not understand what it meant to follow Jesus; they would hear the word “Christian” and already have a preconceived notion of what that meant from the media, from their teachers, from history, and from their neighbors (and rightly so) and that grieved me. So I began to spit out, when asked what my religious affiliation was, “I’m a born-again non-denominational follower of Jesus” (I oftentimes had to take a breath after delivering that mouthful) in the hopes of avoiding a label. I wanted as much as possible to distance myself from the idea of “religion”, because my faith is not based upon a religion but is based upon following a Galilean carpenter named Jesus. (And yes, you’ll be hard pressed to find me comfortable with most of the Christian churches I step into today. I look around and wonder what would be Jesus’ response to what humanity has done to his name and in his name.)

A friend once said Christianity is fine in and of itself, but the minute you put Christians together, inevitably they start to mess things up. The truth hurts, but we must take responsibility. And isn’t that the whole point of what those of us who profess Jesus as Lord and Savior believe? That we’re screwed up people in need of redemption? In need of fixing? In need of reconciliation with God? And that Jesus is the only answer?

And perhaps therein lies the beauty I see in being a rebel – by focusing on Jesus, we circumvent all the crap that Christians throughout the ages have added to Christianity; we point to the reason for our faith – it all rests on Jesus. As the Apostle Paul said in 1st Corinthians 15, if Christ has not risen from the dead then we are of all humans most to be pitied.

So, while we might very well sound like a cult with all of our variations, attempting through amazing acrobatic feats to avoid the label “Christian,” in reality we’re asking that we not be put into neatly constructed boxes of what it means to be a “Christian.” We’re marching to the beat of a different drum, and we’re hoping that when others talk to us and enter into friendships with us, maybe we’ll start to redeem what it means to be “Christian.”

In the meantime, I’m a follower of Jesus, pure and simple.

– Christen Patterson, July 2007

 

what makes a good marriage? part two

A month or so ago, I asked the general public, “What makes a good marriage?” and received a myriad of responses. In the time since, I haven’t touched the topic; partly, because as it’s clearly obvious to most, I have no firsthand knowledge of what makes a good marriage, and partly because it’s a daunting topic. So why would a single woman have the audacity to even attempt to handle such a subject?

My answer (of course I must justify this, this is what philosophers do, after all =) is because my generation desperately needs to start listening to those who have gone before them and actually hear what they have to say on the subject; we need to humble ourselves and ask the questions; we need to seek to learn from those who are older, wiser, and more experienced than us, and recognize when we don’t have the answers – that “love” is not enough.

Of course, I’ve never walked the road, so take what I share with a grain of salt. However, the beauty in soliciting the advice and wisdom of others is that I’m not proffering my own advice (which has no authority on my own without a healthy marriage to back it up), but I am proffering the thoughts and advice of many others who do have healthy marriages.

And with that, I submit a partial list:

Love.
Forgive.
Seek to out-serve your partner.
Laugh.
Dance.
Date.
Smile.
Be humble.
Compromise.
Put your spouse’s needs before your own.
Women – respect your husbands.
Men – love your wives.
Have fun.
Communicate.
Surprise each other.
Seek to learn each other’s love languages and speak to each other in them.
Remain each other’s best friend.
Pursue God together.
Continue to pursue each other as you did before you got married; never stop.
Commit.
Persevere.
Pray together.
Cry together.
Learn.
Cross each other’s cultures – you come from two different backgrounds; seek to understand
Be transparent with each other.
Be patient.
Fight for your spouse even when he or she does not deserve it just as God has fought for us
Choose to love when the emotions are not there
Seek to love your spouse with the kind of love Christ loved us – a love that allows you to willingly lay down your life for your spouse
Romance each other
Play
Never lose the wonderment you experienced when you were first falling in love
Talk
Say “I love you” frequently

And breathe.

– Christen Patterson, July 2007

 

lesson number 762: think before you walk

My interactions with my bank’s salespeople never cease to amuse me, sometimes at my own expense, and God reminds me that he is ever faithful to humble the proud, or just the plain inexperienced. Yesterday, I ran to one of my bank’s branches during my lunch hour. One of the salespeople saw me filling out a deposit slip and asked me to come into his office. I told him I was just depositing a check, but he insisted that he could do it faster and I wouldn’t have to wait in line, an attractive offer. (He admitted after we sat down that he had been standing all day and wanted a reason to sit.) He then proceeded to be extremely friendly and went off on quite a few side tangents that had absolutely nothing to do with banking (though I will never object to talking about coffee =) until eventually, I was able to interrupt him and tell him I needed to go as I was under a time constraint and needed to get back to the office.

As I walked away, I started laughing as I was reminded of my first encounter with a bank’s salesperson. I was a dow-eyed nineteen-year-old who had just started a job downtown as a part-time secretary for a construction firm that was renovating a historic building in Detroit; it was my first “real” job and I felt pretty cockstrong as I was one of the only women on site and as such, I was given the royal treatment (reality hit later, but for a first official job, it was an awesome experience). Although I had no idea what I was doing as I had never been inside a bank before as a customer, I walked into the bank that day with a confident stride and a lot of checks in hand. I proceeded to open a checking account, and during the course of that process, didn’t fail to notice that the young salesman who waited on me was quite good looking and that he was starting to flirt with me. When he brought up that he knew me from my coffee shop job as the girl behind the barista (the coffee shop was located kitty-corner from the bank), my feminine ego started to rise. My confident demeanor and feminine charms were going along well until he asked me when my shifts were so he could come see me, and in my naiveté and inexperience, I remember being so flustered, that as I left his office, I walked straight into the door post. Duly embarrassed, and my ego bruised, I sheepishly turned around, hoping he had been momentarily blinded and thus somehow didn’t notice my error. I immediately proceeded to walk into the next wall, well aware that he was standing there, watching me with a knowing grin.

Fighting the urge to flee the building, I held my head high and pretended that I had not just walked into two walls in the span of ten seconds, and I thanked God under my breath for automatic teller machines.

– Christen Patterson, July 2007

 

brown paper napkin theology

Are not five sparrows sold for two cents? Yet not one of them is forgotten before God. “Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows. (Luke 12: 5-7)

God is a very personal God, who knows not only the number of hairs on our heads but also knows our personal struggles. And I am humbled daily by his love.

–

We as women struggle with our identity and self-worth; I have not met one woman, no matter how confident she seems to be, who does not at some point ask, “Am I beautiful?”; “Do I captivate you?”; “Do you love me?” – whether the question is posed to our fathers, or our significant others, or our husbands does not matter, we still ask the universal question.

It seems that at the core of every woman, this cry pervades. For some, the question dictates their lives and sometimes as a result exhausts others; for others, it is a question that crops up every so often. Nevertheless, it is a common question for every woman I have ever come to know on any personal level.

I have found that the only source who can confirm and affirm that silent cry of our hearts is our creator and maker, God himself. It is only when we believe what he says about us that we can be truly whole and truly able to not always be asking everyone around us, whether explicitly or implicitly, “Am I okay; do you value me?”

This is a lesson I’m continually learning; I have come farther than where I was five years ago, but it’s a continual journey, especially in a society that screams that your value and worth is based upon your physical appearance; advertising shouts to us this lie almost every time we turn around. And inevitably, when we walk into a room, whether we want to admit it or not, we size up the other women in the room, comparing ourselves to them.

Lord, have mercy upon us.

It is only by the grace of God that we can break out of the tendencies we have rooted in our flesh.

–

Today, I was unpacking my office/bedroom (I still have some boxes to get through from my recent move) and came across a brown paper napkin and smiled.

You might wonder why I saved a brown paper napkin — I saved it because it’s a love note from God.

Yes, God. Before I sound absolutely crazy, and I’m sure there are many who would ascribe that label to me (something I rather revel in, to be honest), let me back up.

A couple of months ago, I was not feeling particularly lovely; we all have those days – days in which we just feel “blah.” That morning was such a day for me. And as I was in the shower, I started talking to God as I am apt to do and asked him to remind me that he has created me and that I am “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:13-14). To remind me that he has called me beautiful and delights in me. And so I purposed through my conversation with him that I would not dwell on any feelings or emotions to the contrary but dwell on both what he says about me in Scripture and what my worth in him is. And in my childlike faith, as a daughter approaching her father, I asked if he would remind me that I am loved and that I am beautiful. And so I went through my workday with that mindset and attitude – when any thought to the contrary encroached upon my emotional well-being, I refused to entertain it, willing myself instead to cling to the Scriptures God has given us to remind us of truth.

Later that night, I had a date with a girlfriend for dinner. As she was running a few minutes late, I called my roommate, Anna, and stood inside a Panera restaurant laughing and catching up with her. I had had a long, tiring day at work and had just driven through 90 minutes of rush hour traffic and so I was weary, but I was looking forward to having dinner and just relaxing. When my friend arrived, we both ordered soup, and I was so excited to see her and catch up that I was oblivious to the crowd around us and was just focused on her. We found a booth and sat down and prayed before we started eating. As the two of us were excitedly catching up with one another, I noticed my girlfriend pause and look past me. I stopped mid-conversation when I saw a brown paper napkin, folded over, thrust on our table, near my elbow. I immediately turned around to find a solitary man who could have been a cousin of Denzel Washington standing behind me. He shyly smiled and said, as he nodded towards me, “This is for you; I’m too shy to say it in person.” And with that, he turned around and left the restaurant.

The first thing that crossed my mind as I was processing what he said was that maybe I needed a napkin and had some soup on my face or something (I’m quite serious) and then it dawned on me that there was probably something written on the napkin.

I opened it and burst out laughing, sure that God works in mysterious ways and loves me so intimately that he would answer my prayer from that morning, a prayer I had forgotten. It could not have been clearer if the message had actually been signed, “God.”

The napkin read: “You are so sexy. =) Just want you to know.”

No phone number (I was a bit sad and tempted to run after the man but restrained myself =) — just that statement. And I thank God for a reminder from him to his girl, “You are loved and you are beautiful.”

Let us remember the truth God says about us when we start to doubt it. Let us live boldly and confidently, rejoicing in how God has created us and celebrating the beauty he has ascribed to each and every one of us!

– Christen Patterson, July 2007

 

open me up: learning how to receive

Slow down. Hold still.
It’s not as if it’s a matter of will.
Someone’s circling. Someone’s moving
A little lower than the angels.
And it’s got nothing to do with me.
The wind blows through the trees,
But if I look for it, it won’t come.
I tense up. My mind goes numb.
There’s nothing harder than learning how to receive.
– Over the Rhine

Katie wrote me a note of encouragement this week. Apparently I had said something to another friend which meant a lot to her, something small that I barely remember saying. Katie’s email reminded me: “Our words can either bring life or death. You definitely brought life, enough for her to mention it to someone else.” And in that, Katie, in turn brought life to me.

I was thankful for the email, grateful that God used me as an instrument to bless another person’s life through my words; however, I am reminded again this week that our words, likewise, can bring death. I walk the tightrope of communication and sometimes end up tripping.

Thank God for His mercy. Pray for man’s.

My words. Before I can harness them, they are out there, like wild stallions, and I am left with my hands empty, the gate open. Sentiments are conveyed that I don’t even know if I believe; I just know you’re too close and I have to protect myself. And so I fight. Maybe not in the normal modes; I disguise my defense in intricate, deep philosophical and theological arguments; I find every reason under the sun why this cannot be.

I’m aware of this tendency; blaming it upon past events in my life is not acceptable; it is who I am, and I must learn to reign in my passionate nature. I must learn to trust. I must learn to receive. Karin from Over the Rhine sings, “There’s nothing harder than learning how to receive.” I am confronted with that reality today.

A girlfriend is struggling with feeling worthy, of understanding God’s love for her and the worth that He imparts to her as her creator. She struggles to receive God’s love for her, and thus struggles to receive man’s. I like to think I understand God’s love (I’m sure tomorrow I’ll realize that I have no clue) but today I am learning to open myself up to man’s. God’s love is safe; God’s love is a haven; I know I can trust God. He’s never disappointed me; He’s never let me down. But in my trust, in my security, in my safe- haven, I forget He’s a sovereign God who brings people into my life for a purpose. I forget that any pretense of control I have over not getting hurt is just that, pretense. I forget that He places people in our lives intentionally to teach us, challenge us, stretch us, grow us, and yes, even love us. And the process is a crazy, beautiful, intense, and sometimes painful thing.

The beauty is in the process. And the lessons come as you reflect.

Nothing worthwhile in this life comes quickly, and I am again reminded that I don’t trust easily, but perhaps I should start trusting God that He knows what He’s doing and once again learn how to receive.

– June 2007

 

we are not promised tomorrow: reclaiming the word “love”

The phone rang.

“How are you doing, Christy?”

It was late Sunday night; I could hear it in her voice; the tone betraying what was to come.

“I’m all right… Mom — what’s going on?”

“Chris…your Uncle Jim passed away suddenly tonight.”

Silence screamed as my heart went numb.

–

Uncle Jim was my favorite uncle. He was vibrant — an attorney who clearly enjoyed life and enjoyed living it; family gatherings around the holidays were usually hosted at his house. He’d don a white chef’s hat and create the most tantalizing feasts imaginable. As a young child, I had a hard time differentiating between “Uncle Jim, professional chef” and “Uncle Jim, chef-as-a-pastime” – his creations were that amazing. I blame the chef hat for my confusion.

After Dad passed away, our families did not get together as often. Time passed. I tried to keep in touch, but life gets in the way. And before you know it, your mother is calling to tell you he’s gone.

No chance to say “goodbye.” No chance to convey to him that he was my favorite.

When did I grow up and realize the need to tell him?

When did I miss that opportunity?

Do we ever realize it until it’s too late?

–

I’ve experienced so much loss in my life, and perhaps the irony lies in that I am, in a strange and odd way, somehow thankful for it – not for the loss itself, for I still bear the wounds, but for what God teaches you through your grief.

At work, I overhear some of the gals mentioning that they’ve never lost someone. I quietly start running down the mental list of all the friends and family members I’ve had to say goodbye to at the grave.

The reason I’m thankful that I have experienced loss is because it gives you a new lease on life; it makes living today that much more important. Each loved one I lose, causing me to deeply grieve my loss, is a reminder to me to not take today for granted.

–

I use the word “love” freely. Not because I want to cheapen it, but because I highly value it, and I have refused to abstain from telling those in my life how much I love them or how much I value them.

As a whole, we’re shy to use the word. It is so overly used in today’s society, it’s lost much of its meaning, but I’m on a one-woman mission to restore its profundity. I’ve been questioned on my prolific use of it, implicitly being accused of adding to the dilution of the word’s value, but the reality is that I know, firsthand, that we are not promised tomorrow; we are only given today. I will not assume I have tomorrow to tell someone I love them; I will not assume that tomorrow I can let them know how much they are valued. The saying may be cliché, but it’s cliché only because it betrays an absolute truth: man does not know his time.

So remember that the next time you see someone who has impacted your life; get used to using the word “love.” Practice saying it, if you must. Get used to people not knowing what to do, initially, upon receiving that affirmation from you, but sit back, and quietly watch what your sincere use of it does to your relationships, what it does to you. It starts to infect you and those you love with a deep sense of well-being, a deep sense of worth, a deep sense of reciprocal connectedness.

Don’t leave for tomorrow what can be said today.

– June 2007

Goodbye, Uncle Jim. I loved you.

In loving memory. June 3, 2007.

 

snapshots of the soul: reflections on writing

Writing is something that is very much “alive.” I can write a piece and three different people can read that same piece of writing and gather three completely different ideas from what I’ve presented through the written word.

That’s partly what I love about the written word and part of what I find so fascinating and awing.

Through writing, we expose only a small portion of our soul. Sometimes, we’re not even saying anything about ourselves explicitly, and yet, through anything we write, we reveal a bit of who we are and the ways through which we view life.

And then, those who read what we write bring an entire set of experiences and backgrounds to our piece, through which they apply whatever message we are trying to convey to their own lives in a very specific, personal way.

Writing fascinates me. I stumble from time to time upon pieces from my past – old, familiar friends, sometimes strangers, shadows of the woman I am now. Sometimes I don’t even recognize my voice within the piece. Sometimes I cringe as I read; sometimes I laugh; most often I smile and thank God that He is faithfully shaping me and growing me through life experience.

We are constantly growing, changing, shifting, engaging. We never stay the same.

Who I am today will not be who I am a week from now; who I am a week from now will not be the woman I am in five years. Writing captures us, gives us snapshots, so to speak, of who we are at various moments on our life’s journey. Half the joy in this crazy adventure called life is that we are always moving, always changing, always developing – sometimes at faster rates than at other times, but nevertheless, we never stay the same. We might deceive ourselves into thinking we have, but change is inevitable – if we can’t see it, others can. Change defines us.

But for a moment, when we put our pen to the page, or, as is more applicable in this present age, press our fingers against the keyboard, we capture ourselves, anchoring our souls to a specific point in time – scary, exhilarating, fascinating.

– Christen Patterson, May 2007