Prayer is a crazy trick.
Saturday, we helped clear the rubble of someone's house. Not just someone. Two someones who have names. Don and Thelma. We stripped their house down to its foundation, shoveling away pile after pile of soggy debris, and sifting through it all to find just one picture, then another, just something, anything, to connect them to the life they lived only a week before. As I stood in the area that had been their bedroom, thinking about how that tree used to be outside their window, Thelma walked over to me. I could see her tears. I jumped down. Putting my arm around her, I asked her how she was, and she wrapped her arm around my waist and started to cry. What do you do? You cry, too. My own tears came, and she leaned her head against me, saying that they'd been married 50 years, lived in this house for 42, and now it's all gone. We closed our eyes, and began to pray. And I have never known God as I knew Him in that moment.
As I held Thelma, and prayed, I saw my whole life fill in around me, and hers. When we stopped praying, we stayed close, and she told me that her favorite bible verse was Philippians 4:13. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me," she whispered. There! Standing in the middle of a neighborhood-now-warzone, watching as a crew of people shovels away the remains of her belongings, she's telling me that she can do all things through Christ. She's showing me hope.
The faith of this woman thrust suddenly into dark circumstances threw open the doors to every step of faith I've said I'd never take. Not so much because if she can do it, I can, too...as because He's working in both of us. She reminded me. We stand through Christ who strengthens us.
Last Monday and Tuesday, after the tornado had ripped through, and without any idea that I'd soon get thrown into the relief efforts (thinking I'd give some groceries and call it a day, frankly), I had spent hours in prayer down in Clark Chapel, begging God for some direction. I can't help but link those moments with that in which I prayed with Thelma.
In the chapel, I called out for help in choosing a direction, through a change in my heart. I asked God to work in me, and make me into whoever it was I'm supposed to be. And then, there was Saturday's prayer. The skeptic, timid in faith, and too self-conscious to step up to a crowded altar, out in a field of decimated houses, praying with a woman I'd only met, in front of all of the people I'm most awkwardly faithful around. Maybe disaster just changes everything--makes you do things you'd never ordinarily do.
Or...maybe prayer does. Either way, Thelma's prayer, and her faith, brought me to a moment of stunning clarity. As I stood there, I realized...I want to do this. Whatever "this" is. This thing here, where I'm caring for people, and praying with them, and letting God work through me as a reminder of His constancy.
I don't know what job that is. That's actually not a job as much as it is the basics of Christian life. So, thanks to Thelma...I know what I want to do with my life. I want to be a Christian.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Joplin, again.
Joplin, day two.
I was on the phone with a woman wanting to donate childrens' toys when AGTS called to tell me I've been accepted into seminary. I walked back out into the waiting room to a man who told me he'd lost his family in the tornado. He looked stricken. Honestly, I just wanted to sit down next to him so we could look stricken together.
Another woman refused clothes, didn't want any food or shampoo, but finally said she'd accept a case of water. Her brother lost everything in the tornado, but he had a chemo treatment this afternoon, and the doctors said to drink lots of water.
Another woman came in pregnant. Her husband, and four children had been killed around her.
Others just stared at me, half-smiled.
We're working out of Family Services, providing support and encouragement to the staff, and attempting to fill the needs of the families who come in, under the umbrella of James River's Cherish Kids ministry. As people come in to speak with case managers regarding their financial assistance, or the status of their children, we meet them in the lobby, and have the opportunity to ask them what they need--food, water, clothing, hygiene items, etc. A lot of them are hesitant to say they have needs. When we find out how we can help, we have a room set up down the hall from the waiting area with donated items. We put bags together, and bring them back out to the person while they're meeting with Family Services staff.
Other churches and individuals are also contacting us to find out how they can help support us--today we received the most amazing donation of boxes and boxes of clothes. This is important, because we had turned away people who needed them only moments before. Tomorrow, we're looking at getting food donations--food is running low. One woman called saying the Lord had told her she needed to bring new toys--a total God-send, as we're attempting to minister to kids in the waiting area.
It's basically triage at this point. There's a lot of confusion about what's needed where. So, for instance, the people who brought the clothes had stopped at six other places and been told they weren't needed there, before arriving at us. There's still a boil-order in the town, so there's bottled water everywhere. Certain parts of the destruction are blocked off--you can't drive in, or you have to snake around to get to where you're going. People seem generally confused about where to go to get resources--like food or clothing. People who've lived there their entire lives say they get lost in their own neighborhoods because the street signs and landmarks are gone. When you're out in the worst of it, you just see people climbing around in the rubble, setting aside piles of things that are salvageable. There's still search and rescue going on.
Though you focus on the details at hand--getting someone a case of water, or chatting encouragement with a staffer--the destruction is unfathomable. It's almost like it didn't happen. While I'm out there staring at it, I can't believe it. I mean, I see it, I understand cognitively what happened, I comprehend the basic dynamics of a tornado, but I don't get it. It's unreal.
I was on the phone with a woman wanting to donate childrens' toys when AGTS called to tell me I've been accepted into seminary. I walked back out into the waiting room to a man who told me he'd lost his family in the tornado. He looked stricken. Honestly, I just wanted to sit down next to him so we could look stricken together.
Another woman refused clothes, didn't want any food or shampoo, but finally said she'd accept a case of water. Her brother lost everything in the tornado, but he had a chemo treatment this afternoon, and the doctors said to drink lots of water.
Another woman came in pregnant. Her husband, and four children had been killed around her.
Others just stared at me, half-smiled.
We're working out of Family Services, providing support and encouragement to the staff, and attempting to fill the needs of the families who come in, under the umbrella of James River's Cherish Kids ministry. As people come in to speak with case managers regarding their financial assistance, or the status of their children, we meet them in the lobby, and have the opportunity to ask them what they need--food, water, clothing, hygiene items, etc. A lot of them are hesitant to say they have needs. When we find out how we can help, we have a room set up down the hall from the waiting area with donated items. We put bags together, and bring them back out to the person while they're meeting with Family Services staff.
Other churches and individuals are also contacting us to find out how they can help support us--today we received the most amazing donation of boxes and boxes of clothes. This is important, because we had turned away people who needed them only moments before. Tomorrow, we're looking at getting food donations--food is running low. One woman called saying the Lord had told her she needed to bring new toys--a total God-send, as we're attempting to minister to kids in the waiting area.
It's basically triage at this point. There's a lot of confusion about what's needed where. So, for instance, the people who brought the clothes had stopped at six other places and been told they weren't needed there, before arriving at us. There's still a boil-order in the town, so there's bottled water everywhere. Certain parts of the destruction are blocked off--you can't drive in, or you have to snake around to get to where you're going. People seem generally confused about where to go to get resources--like food or clothing. People who've lived there their entire lives say they get lost in their own neighborhoods because the street signs and landmarks are gone. When you're out in the worst of it, you just see people climbing around in the rubble, setting aside piles of things that are salvageable. There's still search and rescue going on.
Though you focus on the details at hand--getting someone a case of water, or chatting encouragement with a staffer--the destruction is unfathomable. It's almost like it didn't happen. While I'm out there staring at it, I can't believe it. I mean, I see it, I understand cognitively what happened, I comprehend the basic dynamics of a tornado, but I don't get it. It's unreal.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
gone.
I need a hug.
I know that that is uncharacteristically vulnerable of me to say, and I feel bad saying that after a day spent meeting people who need more than a hug. So many of them need a hug, and a home, and a car, and just a pair of shoes.
I went to Joplin today with some people from the church, to find out how we could be most helpful as we look for the most immediate needs after the tornadoes that ripped through on Sunday night.
The devastation is breath-taking. The residential areas hit hardest look like the pictures of war zones in far-off lands that you'd see in newspapers, or history books. Block after block of bombed-out homes. Everything inside of the house, all of the intricacies of your daily life--the cabinet where you keep your medications, and that box of old family pictures you keep in the living room, and your junk drawer of empty tape rolls and rubber bands and chip clips--all exposed, all scattered for everyone to see, when only you understand. They'll never know that you got that chip clip at a charity walk for dogs on the same day that your niece threw up all over your golden retriever. They'll just see it lying there on the sidewalk, maybe pick it up and throw it away with the rest of the debris.
Maybe that all sounds dramatic. But there's something so outrageous about the whole thing. What was in is now out. What was whole is now broken. What was normal life is now so entirely abnormal. So shattered.
As you drive north through Joplin, you pass through the worst of the damage. There's broken glass, and pieces of wood and aluminum everywhere. Entire stores look as though they've had bombs dropped on them, or as though quick-burning fires ripped through their insides, hollowing them out. Emergency crews are out attempting to re-string the power lines. In some sections of town, no business are left intact. Everything's gone. Decimated. There are piles of debris everywhere you look. In the blocks behind the business are residential areas similarly war-torn. We drive over downed power lines, unable to find the right turns because the street signs are knocked down. Cars sit in unnatural places, right up against trees and houses, at odd angles, upside down, and all with the glass blown out of their windows. A dryer sits perched atop a roof--one of the few roofs upon which anything can still be perched. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods are roof-less. The lawns are so littered with debris, there's no grass to be seen. You look right into the house, into a person's bathroom, where four days before the person took a shower in privacy. Now the walls are gone.
As I see all of this I think of the terror of being in the house at the moment at which those walls were taken. It's unfathomable. One family described it like a freight train. I can't imagine.
I know that that is uncharacteristically vulnerable of me to say, and I feel bad saying that after a day spent meeting people who need more than a hug. So many of them need a hug, and a home, and a car, and just a pair of shoes.
I went to Joplin today with some people from the church, to find out how we could be most helpful as we look for the most immediate needs after the tornadoes that ripped through on Sunday night.
The devastation is breath-taking. The residential areas hit hardest look like the pictures of war zones in far-off lands that you'd see in newspapers, or history books. Block after block of bombed-out homes. Everything inside of the house, all of the intricacies of your daily life--the cabinet where you keep your medications, and that box of old family pictures you keep in the living room, and your junk drawer of empty tape rolls and rubber bands and chip clips--all exposed, all scattered for everyone to see, when only you understand. They'll never know that you got that chip clip at a charity walk for dogs on the same day that your niece threw up all over your golden retriever. They'll just see it lying there on the sidewalk, maybe pick it up and throw it away with the rest of the debris.
Maybe that all sounds dramatic. But there's something so outrageous about the whole thing. What was in is now out. What was whole is now broken. What was normal life is now so entirely abnormal. So shattered.
As you drive north through Joplin, you pass through the worst of the damage. There's broken glass, and pieces of wood and aluminum everywhere. Entire stores look as though they've had bombs dropped on them, or as though quick-burning fires ripped through their insides, hollowing them out. Emergency crews are out attempting to re-string the power lines. In some sections of town, no business are left intact. Everything's gone. Decimated. There are piles of debris everywhere you look. In the blocks behind the business are residential areas similarly war-torn. We drive over downed power lines, unable to find the right turns because the street signs are knocked down. Cars sit in unnatural places, right up against trees and houses, at odd angles, upside down, and all with the glass blown out of their windows. A dryer sits perched atop a roof--one of the few roofs upon which anything can still be perched. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods are roof-less. The lawns are so littered with debris, there's no grass to be seen. You look right into the house, into a person's bathroom, where four days before the person took a shower in privacy. Now the walls are gone.
As I see all of this I think of the terror of being in the house at the moment at which those walls were taken. It's unfathomable. One family described it like a freight train. I can't imagine.
Monday, May 23, 2011
what is mine.
"Let what is mine be mine."
I heard it, so clearly. And again, then again.
"Let what is mine be mine."
Sitting in the chapel at AGTS, asking God, "How is this going to work out?"
I'm scared because I'm off the grid. I had a plan. Go to Missouri. Get the Master's. Get a psych doctorate. Graduate. Teach. Be happy forever after.
Then there came Jesus. Suddenly, I'm applying to seminary. I'm learning how to give in ways I haven't before. I'm thinking twice, and becoming comfortable with the unknown, and seeking out wisdom, and holding my tongue.
And like that afternoon at AGTS, I'm praying in tongues. I'm begging God to give me a sign of what's to come. I'm telling Him that whatever He has in mind, I can't possibly be the girl. I don't have the strength. My faith doesn't have the maturity. My life isn't in order.
But, "Let what is mine be mine."
I thought, "God, everything is Yours."
And there's the answer. Everything is His. I'm worried because I'm not ready spiritually or financially or intellectually for what I'd really like to be doing. But everything is His. There's no scrap of wisdom, and no dollar that doesn't belong to the king.
So. Again. I'll keep walking.
I heard it, so clearly. And again, then again.
"Let what is mine be mine."
Sitting in the chapel at AGTS, asking God, "How is this going to work out?"
I'm scared because I'm off the grid. I had a plan. Go to Missouri. Get the Master's. Get a psych doctorate. Graduate. Teach. Be happy forever after.
Then there came Jesus. Suddenly, I'm applying to seminary. I'm learning how to give in ways I haven't before. I'm thinking twice, and becoming comfortable with the unknown, and seeking out wisdom, and holding my tongue.
And like that afternoon at AGTS, I'm praying in tongues. I'm begging God to give me a sign of what's to come. I'm telling Him that whatever He has in mind, I can't possibly be the girl. I don't have the strength. My faith doesn't have the maturity. My life isn't in order.
But, "Let what is mine be mine."
I thought, "God, everything is Yours."
And there's the answer. Everything is His. I'm worried because I'm not ready spiritually or financially or intellectually for what I'd really like to be doing. But everything is His. There's no scrap of wisdom, and no dollar that doesn't belong to the king.
So. Again. I'll keep walking.
Monday, May 2, 2011
deeply held.
Why do you want to grow up so fast?
As to an 11-year-old begging to wear some make-up, I'm asking myself that question.
Ashley, why do you want to grow up so fast in Christ?
It's been a month of failures. There've been victories, to be sure. But failures as well--my own, and others'. And it all has me thinking about the depth of faith. About how some things that grow fast don't grow deep. About how talent or intelligence or ability are all poor substitutes for experience. About how important is the wisdom before me, the faith that grows deep before God.
The last year has moved fast, and in some ways, God has given me wisdom far beyond what I'd expect to have at this point. There have been moments in which I've known myself to be on the receiving end of calm, or peace, or understanding that I did not come by naturally.
I'm sensing, though, that there's some deep growth that has to happen if I'm not going to find myself in a bad place sooner or later. I'm excited about the stuff going on--I'm writing this awesome thesis on the discipleship process, and applying to seminary. But am I trying to grow up too fast? Am I ignoring some of the big issues of trust, stuff that few others can see, relying instead on momentum and academic skills to push forward my faith? I don't actually need to ask. I know that the answer is yes.
Maybe I sound as though I'm being too hard on myself, but I'm not. I don't feel guilty, or bad about this. I feel hopeful. In realizing, I can go to God. In approaching Him, there's power to be set right. Maybe I sound as though I'm attempting to right myself. I don't think I am. I'm using the wisdom in my heart, currently a wisdom that says to slow it down and get real with God, to seek more of His wisdom.
I don't ever want to be one of the failures I'm seeing. Not for my own sake, and not for the sake of the people I'll love and who'll love me, and most certainly not for His sake.
I don't think this means that I need to stop what I'm doing. Just that I need to be more intentional in my faith, to keep Christ as the focus of all of it. To slow down my thoughts, and be ready to accept wisdom from within me, and around me.
To be more interested in growing deep, than in growing fast.
As to an 11-year-old begging to wear some make-up, I'm asking myself that question.
Ashley, why do you want to grow up so fast in Christ?
It's been a month of failures. There've been victories, to be sure. But failures as well--my own, and others'. And it all has me thinking about the depth of faith. About how some things that grow fast don't grow deep. About how talent or intelligence or ability are all poor substitutes for experience. About how important is the wisdom before me, the faith that grows deep before God.
The last year has moved fast, and in some ways, God has given me wisdom far beyond what I'd expect to have at this point. There have been moments in which I've known myself to be on the receiving end of calm, or peace, or understanding that I did not come by naturally.
I'm sensing, though, that there's some deep growth that has to happen if I'm not going to find myself in a bad place sooner or later. I'm excited about the stuff going on--I'm writing this awesome thesis on the discipleship process, and applying to seminary. But am I trying to grow up too fast? Am I ignoring some of the big issues of trust, stuff that few others can see, relying instead on momentum and academic skills to push forward my faith? I don't actually need to ask. I know that the answer is yes.
Maybe I sound as though I'm being too hard on myself, but I'm not. I don't feel guilty, or bad about this. I feel hopeful. In realizing, I can go to God. In approaching Him, there's power to be set right. Maybe I sound as though I'm attempting to right myself. I don't think I am. I'm using the wisdom in my heart, currently a wisdom that says to slow it down and get real with God, to seek more of His wisdom.
I don't ever want to be one of the failures I'm seeing. Not for my own sake, and not for the sake of the people I'll love and who'll love me, and most certainly not for His sake.
I don't think this means that I need to stop what I'm doing. Just that I need to be more intentional in my faith, to keep Christ as the focus of all of it. To slow down my thoughts, and be ready to accept wisdom from within me, and around me.
To be more interested in growing deep, than in growing fast.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
sinfully sad.
Do you think sadness can be sin?
Here's why I ask... I have this friend. And it just seems like her heart is so broken by distrust, and anger, and hurt that sometimes, it hurts me just to be with her. I start to think how much worse it must be to be her, and the sadness is too great. Thinking about it makes me sad for her. So sad that it's a struggle to remember God. I coach myself through our conversations, mentally thanking Him for hope, and love, and reminding myself that He is so much bigger than all of it. Yet still, the negativity of her spirit is overwhelming. She's not trying to be negative. It just rolls off of her in big waves, threatening to drown us both.
When we part, the residuals are still with me. I have to fight my way back to reality--that God loves me, that He loves her, that this world has a power for Good. Maybe this sounds intense. Am I alone in this? Am I crazy? Has anyone been in a similar situation?
Tonight, I'm not going to drown in it. If sadness can be sin, I'd rather choose obedience. Whether I feel it or not, I'm going to make the choice to live in love, to live in hope. Because that's truth, and because, in a way, she really needs me to.
Here's why I ask... I have this friend. And it just seems like her heart is so broken by distrust, and anger, and hurt that sometimes, it hurts me just to be with her. I start to think how much worse it must be to be her, and the sadness is too great. Thinking about it makes me sad for her. So sad that it's a struggle to remember God. I coach myself through our conversations, mentally thanking Him for hope, and love, and reminding myself that He is so much bigger than all of it. Yet still, the negativity of her spirit is overwhelming. She's not trying to be negative. It just rolls off of her in big waves, threatening to drown us both.
When we part, the residuals are still with me. I have to fight my way back to reality--that God loves me, that He loves her, that this world has a power for Good. Maybe this sounds intense. Am I alone in this? Am I crazy? Has anyone been in a similar situation?
Tonight, I'm not going to drown in it. If sadness can be sin, I'd rather choose obedience. Whether I feel it or not, I'm going to make the choice to live in love, to live in hope. Because that's truth, and because, in a way, she really needs me to.
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