#blessed

Every once in a while I'm overcome by the feelings of hopelessness that can only befall the chief of sinners who so needs that grace abounding. It's that crushing weight of being the worst possible Christian, the least diligent prayer of prayers, the shallowest Bible reader. I'm sure nobody else feels like this because I am the lowest of the low.

Perhaps God is looking at me and thinking, "Trust Me. I've seen worse." It doesn't feel like that, but, on the upside, that occasional feeling does make me look deeper, pray more, donthise things I ought to do but often don't.

All that to say, I've been moody lately and in that moodiness decided to read my Bible, specifically Psalm 67. Why 67? Not a clue. But, I read it because I felt like it, and I've been reading it almost daily since. Here's a bit of it:

1 May God be gracious to us and bless us
    and make his face shine on us—
2 so that your ways may be known on earth,
    your salvation among all nations.

First off, I like that it's about God's blessings. I want to be #blessed. All God's children want to be #blessed. And the verses are almost asking for those blessings--May God be gracious to us and bless us. But it's not about blessings just for the sake of blessings; it's not about being blessed so that we have things or so that we feel good. This is asking for God's blessings so that the people around us will see and understand God's ways. Through seeing our blessings, people can see God, know Him, and experience Him. 

When God makes His "face shine on us," then people can see the goodness of God, like a radiant-faced Moses coming down from the mountain. Moses came down from the mountain, not carrying things we'd typically see as valuable; he was carrying stone tablets, but on those stone tablets was written God's law and covenant. Moses' face radiated from being in God's presence, and through his meeting with God the people were blessed. 

To me, these verses are an amazing revelation. But, you might not take my word for it;  I am the worst of the worst. 

I'm good at things. And you can be, too!

I have always done things that I'm good at. Basically, I avoid anything that requires work, perseverance, patience, or any other virtue that I have zero interest in cultivating. So, that's how I manage to be good at things. I just steer clear of things I'm bad at. Feel free to use this trick in your own life.

The downside of this habit is that I do it too often. Even things I'm good at and could be really good at I don't devote the time needed to make that jump from good to really good to, maybe, even great. The strange thing is that, as a writing teacher, a big part of my job is judging the work of people who are doing something that they might not be good at and then telling them that they should work harder to be better at it. Life is full of little hypocrisies, isn't it?

I might be diligent at very little, aside from avoiding work, but even that diligence doesn't keep me from falling into situations in which I'm doing things I'm not good at. A few weeks ago I read a book that was set in Russia--not a Russian novel, just a novel that happened to take place there. I've never, ever finished a Russian novel. I've tried, but they're hard, and you know how I feel about things that are hard. But for whatever reason, I decided that I wanted to give it a go again. I would try to read a Russian novel.  I've been slogging through The Master and Margarita. I like it; I hate it; I'm utterly confused and intrigued by it.  I'm bad at understanding it.

I was thinking about that on my walk tonight. By reading this book, I'm doing that thing I don't do. I'm sticking to something that I'm uncomfortable with and something that makes me work harder than  I have to. I don't like it, but it helps me to understand where my students are when they're reading short stories, poems, and plays that I've read dozens of times. They hopefully like it; they definitely hate it; they're utterly confused and maybe slightly intrigued by it. And even though it uncomfortable,  this crazy Russian novel is where I need to be to get me to the place where my students need me to be.

What I like...

Lately I've been on a detective novel kick.  As I've always been a book snob, this new-found obsession embarrasses me no small amount.  And, it is an obsession.  Seriously, I've read ten detective novels in less than three weeks.  I'm practically freebasing detective novels and am in need of a twelve step program.

Back to the embarrassment factor.  I've always put a lot of stock in appearances.  I'm not saying that like it's a good thing because it's clearly not.  It's shallow, really.  But, in the case of something like "the kind of books I read," it's shallowness masquerading as something deep.  You know, the old "I couldn't possibly waste my time reading anything but the classics or histories or really depressing stuff because I'm deep like that."

But, maybe it's even a little deeper to try reading something I wouldn't normally read because, hey, maybe I'll like it.  Maybe I'll end up loving some hard-boiled detective novels, and maybe I'll tell people about it.

"By acting like a man in love, he became a man in love again."

Summer is upon us.

Okay, so that's a little optimistic.  I'm counting my chickens before they're hatched.  I'm jumping the gun.  I'm lapsing into all those clichés that I warn my students about.

But, I am looking forward to summer and its restorative powers.  I need a little time when there are no more papers to grade, no more lessons to plan, no more offices to hour.  That last part didn't work, perhaps because "hour" just isn't a verb.

And, while it's true that simply doing nothing has its own restorative power, I don't want to do nothing the whole time.  For the record, that's not an invitation to ask me to clean your house, sit your dog, or do any other task that you'd rather not, though I am a pushover, so do with that what you will.

To avoid falling into "The Great Time Suck of Summer 2013," I've started making a list of things I want to accomplish.  Some are goals I'd like to achieve; others are things that I want to make a habit of doing.  As for the second, I began thinking over which kinds of spiritual practices I'd like to work on making more habitual. 

A confession: I'm terrible about reading my Bible.  I mean, I don't do it nearly enough.  Sometimes I (gasp!) don't want to.  For real, people, I'm lousy at keeping up with Bible reading.  So, I thought I'd make a goal of reading my Bible _________ number of times per week.  I'm leaving that blank for now, but, as I read, I'll check it off so that I have a record.

A moment after I've schemed this out, something inside me recoils.  This feels so forced, so inorganic, and I wonder if this plan is all wrong.   It feels as if a desire to read my Bible should develop naturally and as if forcing the point isn't being honest.

But, then I think a bit longer.  I think this plan is actually a good plan.  I don't always feel like doing the things I should do.  To be more honest, I rarely feel like doing the things I should do.  I feel like doing their exact opposite.  The only thing that changes that is to make (however unnaturally) those things a part of my life. By doing the things I should do, they become the things I want to do, and, even if the beginning feels forced, what I'm doing is, in and of itself, good.

This little internal debate reminded me of one of my favorite scenes from a film, the "Bastille" scene from Paris, j'Taime.  The film is made of little vignettes, each taking place in a different arrondissement of Paris.  I highly recommend you watch this.  I also highly recommend you keep a tissue nearby while you do so. :)

Responsorial Prayer and the Hot Sting of Tears

On Sunday, I had a baptism to go to.  It followed the 11 o'clock mass, which is the same time my church starts, so I decided to just go to mass at my friend's church.

I arrived, as usual, a bit late, and, though it looked like the only option would be to stand throughout the mass, a kind older man came up and told me that there were seats in the choir area and that he'd show me the way.

Sitting, standing, kneeling.  All in my odd little perch near the front of the church but, thankfully, enough removed that I was inconspicuous.  

Then came the responsorial prayers--the prayers for community, country, causes both large and small--with our united response of "Lord, hear our prayer."

I recognized the prayers because, even though I'm not Catholic, I've been to mass enough to remember which petitions are usually made.

But, one seemed different.  Maybe I'd heard it before, or maybe I hadn't.  Maybe I was really hearing it for the first time.

It was a prayer for those who had fallen away from their faith.  

Then I felt it.  The hot sting of tears and the lump in my throat as I tried to get out the words, "Lord, hear our prayer."

There's something about praying for someone.  There's something about being in a position in which you can pray for someone.  It's a gift to be able to pray for someone.  It's a heavy weight to be the one who needs prayer.

In hearing the prayer for those who had fallen from their faith, I heard the prayers that must have been prayed for me for so very long.  I felt humbled--both the shame of my falling but also the immense gratefulness of knowing that, at my worst, people had prayed for me.  Those who knew and loved me prayed for me, though it must have felt useless at times.  And, somewhere, maybe in the same church I sat in Sunday, people I didn't know prayed for me too.  

During that short, simple prayer, I was hit with the understanding of how much I had needed each and every prayer offered on my behalf, though, while those patient petitioners offered up their pleas, I never would have known the depth of my need.

I understand now, and I will always be grateful and overwhelmingly humbled that the Lord hears our prayers.

On being more

Humbled. 

It's not a word I like so much. It's not a feeling I enjoy. But, today I was reminded that it is the last who shall be first, that it is the least of these who are the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven. 

It's a different kind of currency. It's a different way of looking at everything. 

I always hoped I would do something great, be something great, be known for something impressive. I always hoped to have a stockpile of the coin of this realm, in whatever form it might take--for my taste, most probably the form of intellect or some such thing, really any thing that would make me better, stronger, more than what I feel like I am. 

 But, it's an exhausting thing, trying to amass an earthly fortune, and there is always the knowledge looking overhead, reminding me that earthly fortune lasts only as long as I do. In some cases, earthly fortune is even more fleeting, gone in an instant, worthless in less time than it took to gain. 

So, as I sat in church today, hearing that dreaded word "humble," I thought of my desire to be more, how impossible it feels. And,then I realized that there is a way to be more. That way is to become less. Even if I spend all my time trying to be more, it will never be enough. But what if I focused on being more in the Kingdom of Heaven? Might I then have a reward that is eternal? And, might my striving to be more in Heaven result in my focusing more on doing God's will here on earth? 

So, now I am (surely with many falls and missteps) trying to be more and trying to be less. It's a paradox, but it's something that actually, finally makes sense.

The Courage of our Convictions?

One of my favorite authors, Peter Kreeft, has taken a very different but very good turn in writing a recent essay. I recommend this essay to anyone who is interested in pro-life issues,and, basically, I'd recommend this to anyone looking to better understand the intersection of faith and the pro-life movement (and what that means to the individual).

Kreeft, who has a talent for making complex moral debates comprehensible (often through the use of a dialectic method, sometimes in the form of a play), has written an essay entitled, "Pro-life or Pro-happytalk?" Stylistically, this essay is nothing like his previous work, a point he remarks on. But, in this essay, I felt like I got a better understanding of Kreeft's own struggles to "do the right thing" in response to his deeply-held beliefs in the sanctity of life and his feelings of conviction as a committed Christian who took a look at what he had sacrificed for his beliefs and found his sacrifices paltry in comparison to what he could do.

It's a position that most everyone has been in, regardless of belief structure or religious creed. We look at what we believe and what we do to further those beliefs, and (when we're really honest with ourselves) we're embarrassed by the dearth of action we've displayed in response to our convictions.

Kreeft encourages us to look at how bold we've been and how bold we can be, how we can use our God-given talents in support of the cause of life. It's an amazingly revealing and compelling essay. So, go read it!

Just in case you're not convinced, I'll give you a little bit of Kreeft's essay. This is the part that was my moment of "a sword will pierce through your own soul also." Or, in plainer language, this part really got me:

"But we do know what will happen in the next world if we do respond, because God has clearly told us that. He has told us that when we die and meet Him, the Judge that no one can ever escape, we will hear these words: 'I was hungry and you did not feed Me, I was thirsty and you did not give Me to drink, I was naked and you did not clothe Me, I was sick and in prison and you did not visit Me.' That is not my opinion, that is His clear, literal, word for word divine revelation and warning. Do you honestly think He will not add: 'I was slaughtered in abortion clinics and you did nothing to rescue Me'?"

I Still Wanna Dance With Somebody

It was a day toward the end of the 1980's, and I was a young girl, standing in a Kmart, trying to fend off boredom as my mom and I waited for a prescription to be filled. Over the store's loudspeakers played "I Wanna Dance with Somebody." I barely knew what this music was because we only really listened to oldies and Christian music. Whitney Houston wasn't someone I listened to much as a kid.

But, somehow I remember her. I think of that song, and I immediately picture Whitney in that pretty pastel dress (was it lavender, or was it pink?), shaking her blonde curls as she danced. I'm not sure I'd seen anyone light up like she did while singing or have such a brightness and joy--all while maintaining perfect tone and pitch. She was one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen in my life, and she had that voice.

Whitney wasn't just a singer. She was a standard, a benchmark of what a voice should be. The beauty of her voice was in its strength. A classic mezzo soprano, Whitney could belt out the higher notes, but she rarely gave them too much vibrato. She owned those notes, took hold of them and didn't let them go until she was finished.

Sadly, the last few years of her life were mined for tabloid fodder, and unscrupulous paparazzi kept the public supplied with embarrassing pictures, video, and anecdotes of a woman struggling with substance dependence. I, like many others, find it all too easy to click on those little "news" stories while reading up on the day's events, and I, even though I should know better, overlook the fact that I'm engaging in gossip when I do that.

Lately, I've started to feel really conflicted about those habits. It's easy to separate a news story from the actual human being who's written about in that story. Celebrities begin to look less like real people and more like things that can be discussed (dissected, probed, exploited) for our amusement because, well, they knew that's what they were signing up for when they aspired to this fame. It's the sort of excuse for bad behavior that rests on the idea that "they were asking for it."

When I say it like that--the way it actually is--I can't really justify my urge to click on those stories. The first couple of verses from Psalm One come to my mind.
"Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night." And, I don't want to be one of the "scoffers." I don't want to allow the personal troubles of another person to be my entertainment. Mainly, I don't want to think that I spent (or, actually, wasted) my time doing something that didn't honor the dignity of another person's life.

So, this is how I want to remember Whitney. I want to remember that light, that beauty, that voice. I want to think of her with the same grace and love that Christ had for her and has for all of us, even in those times when we feel the least deserving.

On Patience (or a lack thereof)

When I was young, I wasn’t much of a reader. Now I read all the time. Perhaps I even read a little too much now, but when I was a kid I didn’t have much use for books, didn’t see any real point to reading.

Part of that not reading was due to my suspicion that the really good books would come later, when I was older, abler, whatever it was that I needed to be to read those big books with small print and no pictures. Those, I thought, were what reading really was.

It’s a familiar story, a kid wanting to be a grown up, not content to be just a kid.

I think part of what makes that story so familiar is that so many of us struggle with the patience it takes to live right now without thought to the future or without the expectation that the future holds something better. Or, maybe that’s just me.

The other day in church the sermon was about the Prodigal Son. Actually, it was about several parables, but, as always, it was the Prodigal Son who stood out to me. He is a little bit me, as I am a little bit him, as we all are a little bit prodigal.

When I think of the parable of the Prodigal Son, I’m usually moved by the grace that his father shows; that’s what I focus on most. But, this time I was thinking about something different. I was thinking about patience. As one who has no patience, I think about patience a lot, as one who has lost something valuable remains fixated on that object until it is found. Fixated on the how and why and where that object has gone.

However, I’ve never had patience. My patience is not lost. It is simply nonexistent. And yet, I know it should be there. And so I think about it.

Patience stood out to me precisely because of the Prodigal Son’s lack of patience. He wanted his inheritance. Now. Not later. The son had plans for now, and those plans could not wait for later.

His request for the inheritance obviously goes against tradition. However, inheritance, in and of itself, is not a bad thing. It is what the son would have been entitled to and his father’s heir. In that way, the inheritance itself is a financial benefit for the son and is also more or less morally neutral. It did not cause the moral decay of the Prodigal Son any more than it could edify him.

To me, the problem is not the inheritance. It’s the timing of the inheritance. The Prodigal Son received his inheritance before he was ready for it. Though money alone could not corrupt him, it could give him the means to pursue his baser desires, to move away from the safety of his family to a place where he would be free to do as he chose. He was not ready for such freedom because his heart and soul and mind were focused on his own whims and needs, not on those things that would provide a firm foundation for a life.

In thinking of the story in this way, I’m reminded all the more of the importance of the virtue of patience. There are so many times when I wish for something—perhaps an actual thing or more likely for something to happen in my life. I wonder why those things don’t come immediately, why there has to be waiting. So, now I’m trying (with gritted teeth) to remember that waiting has a purpose. Sometimes God makes us wait, knowing that we don’t yet have the capacity or strength to handle what He has for us, knowing that receiving all of our gifts at once—before our own hearts and souls and minds are focused on what is good and right and true—will lead to a squandering of fortune.

And so, I wait to read the story He has written for me, the one with the words I don't yet understand.

Why I've Gone (just a little bit) "Team Sheen"

By now, the Charlie Sheen sound bites are ubiquitous, quickly becoming a part of our collective knowledge, as Charlie Sheen, via every available media, brings us such terms as “tigerblood,” “rockstar from Mars,” and “winning” (in its new Sheen-ian usage).

We know these terms mainly due to the fact that they’re played repeatedly. Those sound bites are good for ratings. We eat up anything laced with schadenfreude, and, for better or worse, even “serious” journalists are willing to serve up such stories, despite the harm they might do to their subject or to our communal spirit.

We wouldn’t watch it if it wasn’t there; they wouldn’t report it if we didn’t want it. A cyclical argument that gets nowhere fast and bears too much resemblance to the arguments for and against certain fast food chains sporting golden arches. Let’s just say, this media circus is supersized—perhaps because the supply is inflated, perhaps because demand is high. It’s an interesting argument, but I’m not worried about it. Like I said, it gets nowhere fast, and I just don’t want to go nowhere.

I think there’s a more serious issue within this media frenzy, one that is getting overlooked. The fact is, for the past seven or so years, Charlie Sheen has been playing a character not so dissimilar to the man we’re seeing almost constantly on the news—a womanizing bachelor who takes pleasure, even pride, in his hard-partying lifestyle. The thing is, on television, this character is played with a wry smile and hints of a debauched side that the viewer never fully sees, and, though his antics speak to a shallow well of narcissism, he’s the guy everyone likes because he is fun and because, at his core, there is some good.

Conversely, when the real Charlie steps out and displays the kind of behavior that his TV character hints at, the same people who write, produce, and direct his show are quick to distance themselves; they’re quick to censure him, to tell him that this sort of behavior reflects poorly on the show and to, essentially, let the public know that Charlie is acting in ways they do not approve of.

That his behavior is bad is common sense to those of us watching at home, but I do wonder if the outraged parties realize that it is precisely this type of behavior that they’ve profited from for years, even if it was mere fiction created for a sitcom. The antics and humorous asides his on-screen bad behavior leads to is where they get their laughs and, in turn, their big payouts.

Again, that Charlie Sheen is behaving badly isn’t news to anyone. What seems to surprise the powers that be at CBS is that such bad behavior has negative consequences. It’s okay to draw a character that acts like Charlie; it’s not okay when that character is an actual human being, possibly struggling with the physical and mental stresses that accompany substance abuse. The message they send is, “We want Charlie to act like that, not actually be like that.”

But, the character they’ve created, while fictional, survives by perpetuating an even greater fiction—the fiction of a selfish, substance-using playboy who miraculously exists without inflicting lasting psychic damage on those who love and care about him. He makes mistakes; he messes everything up, but, in just the length of a TV episode, everything is back on track. However, anyone who knows, loves, and cares about someone struggling with addiction, sees through that fiction. Anyone who knows, loves, and cares about someone struggling with addiction has had to deal with the very real damage that such a struggle causes. The damage isn’t funny, can’t be solved in thirty minutes, and certainly doesn’t come with the sort of profit a hit sitcom does.

So, maybe in the midst of this media blitz I’ve become a bit “Team Sheen.” Or, if not that, I’m feeling more strongly that the entertainment makers should be a little more responsible with the images they create. Their fictions are some of our real lives, and, as we see more of the Sheen story unfold (or, perhaps, unravel) the only laughter is canned.

Please Help SHIP!

We love these kids. We love every single one of them. We’ve seen them grow up over the years, start school, graduate, go to college. We’ve seen them fall in love with those of you who’ve gone to El Salvador. We’ve seen their faces light up when they get their Christmas gifts from those who’ve sent them. We’ve seen the love they show each other and us, and we’ve known that in them we see Christ.

They are a family. They are our family. But, our family is in trouble.

Today we visited the orphanage and learned that the orphanage is in danger of being shut down. The government agency in charge of child welfare (CONNA) thinks there are too many problems with the orphanage. The building needs to be bigger; repairs need to be made; they need more people on staff. We have until October 15 to make that happen.

Even if all repairs are made and staff added, CONNA still believes that the building is only big enough for 15 children. There are 34 children in our family.This means that 19 of our kids will be taken from the only loving home they’ve known and placed in an impersonal, government-run orphanage.

These are children who have known physical and sexual abuse, abandonment, neglect. Many of our children have been through the government system before; some of them still carry the scars of it. We can’t let our children go back to that. We can’t look at the faces in that picture and choose who we could part with.

We need the new orphanage now—sooner than now if possible. We need $130,000 to complete construction. We need your prayers. We need to keep our family together.

http://shipinternational.org/

Late Night Blogging...

Oh my...

Last night I posted a little entry on this blog. But, it was meant to go on the other blog...

I decided to leave it here and also post it there as a reminder of my absent-mindedness. You know, it's little things like these that keep us, uh, humble.

:)

Sara

Mullet: Revisited, Sort Of

Well, it's sure been a little while since I last posted. Unfortunately, today's picture requires a little bit of context, and I'm afraid that by now you might have forgotten that around the age of eleven I had a mullet.

Oh, wait. You hadn't forgotten that? Yeah, me neither. There's still a mullet-shaped scar on my heart. Or, um, something like that.

Anyways, back to our regularly scheduled post. So, I had a mullet. I knew it was bad; you've all seen that it was bad; the world in general knew that I was walking around with the worst haircut ever invented. I wanted and needed to do something about it.

That's when I hatched my brilliant plan. I would have the party-in-back removed. That is, I would get the back of my hair (the very essence of its mullet-ness) removed. I came up with this plan while at Methodist summer camp and shared it with my cabin mate, Barbie. You might remember her from the camp photo. She's the girl wearing blue shorts, folding her arms across her chest, and looking like she wouldn't think twice about ripping your fingers off one by one if you so much as thought about taking the last serving of fruit crumble in the camp cafeteria.

In truth, Barbie was a real peach of a girl. When I told her about the plan for mullet removal, she gave me a pained look and told me that, really, cutting it off would just make it worse.

Despite Barbie's wise yet somehow dubious-sounding advice, I'd made up my mind that I was due for a haircut as soon as I made it back from Methodist summer camp. So I did it. Here it is:



Now, at about this moment, you might be thinking that Barbie had a point. Let's be honest, most girls look to the moms for fashion advice, and, if they could choose to look like one parent, most girls would probably want to look like their moms. You'd think I'd be the same way. After all, I've got a super cute mom. That is, I've got a super cute mom, if every guy I've ever dated is to be believed. If every therapist I've ever seen is to be believed, knowing that might have had a negative impact on my psyche. Only joking, folks. I'm just fine. :)

But, the thing is, I think trying to look like my mom might have been aiming just a little too high for me at that moment. After all, I was an eleven year old sporting a mullet and occasionally wearing white plastic shorts with light yellow LL Bean sweaters. Maybe it was healthiest for me to just look at my dad and think, "Hey. He's got decent hair. That's the kind of thing I could actually do."

So that's what I did. The haircut was followed by months of being asked whether I was a boy or a girl, but those are the kind of childhood memories that build characters. And, more importantly, they're the kind of childhood memories that have allowed several therapists to take extended Caribbean cruises. In the end, everyone wins.

Hope, when it doesn't make sense

I went to El Salvador over the break. I love it there, and there are so many things that I want to tell you, so many things and stories to write. I miss the kids; I want to be there right this second; sometimes I wish I never had to leave.

But there's another side of visiting El Salvador, and that's a tougher side to think about. At some point, along with feeling such joy at seeing all the kids, I feel an immense sadness. It's the kind of sadness that comes from knowing that there is such cruelty in the world. Knowing that parents really do abandon their children. Knowing that children really are kidnapped, that young women are sold into slavery. Knowing that, for someone, other people are simply a product to be bought, sold, profited from.

There are those moments when it seems like you are confronted with all the sadness, sickness, sinfulness of the whole world. That you might be trapped beneath the weight of it all, crushed and hurt and crying for a world that is hurting so much.

It's hard to feel hopeful. It's hard to see the good. It's hard to believe that there is anything but cruelty.

But, in each of the children at the orphanage, I see some sense of hope. I see the immensity of goodness, and I feel a wealth of kindness and love that cannot be described.

Perhaps I feel those things because we are in that season for seeking hope; we are, in some sense, awaiting the Resurrection. We know it has already come, and yet each of us looks forward to celebrating that thing which speaks to each of our souls, which lets us know that there is some greater good, that there is some greater love which allows us to live each day in the hope that this world, torn and broken as it is, was conceived in love.

God bless us in those days when it seems difficult to find hope. God bless those who show us Christ, who give us reason to believe.

Love,

Sara

To everything, a season

Lately I've been reading a lot of autobiographies and memoirs. I'm not quite sure what started this kick, but there's something I love about the stories people tell about their own lives, especially the stories of their families.

In keeping with this reading theme, I picked up a book the other day--The Invisible Wall by Harry Bernstein. Bernstein tells the story of growing up in the time just before, during, and just after the first World War. But, this isn't a story of battles or even of what occurred in the larger cities during that time. Bernstein's family lived in a small village, no place really remarkable. Except that it was remarkable.

Or, maybe that is to say that the village was remarkable in the same ways that each of our towns are remarkable, that each small town or village has a life all its own that sets it apart from every other place. The life of Bernstein's village was distinct not for what brought it together, but for what separated it, the invisible wall of the title. This invisible wall was what separated the Jewish villagers from the Christian villagers; it was that thing which reminded them that they were not alike, that there was no way for them to be joined.

But, the war, which claimed the lives of several villagers, was one thing that briefly unified this divided place. Bernstein, then just a small boy, remembers the reactions of the women as they learned of the deaths of their sons,

"The women cried with one another, put arms around one another, and it didn't seem to matter whether you were Jewish or Christian, you just mourned" (160).

It didn't seem to matter. That's an interesting phrase. So often we say something similar to connote that something isn't important, but what is happening when these women are crying together, embracing each other, mourning each others losses, is something very important because, in their coming together, the invisible wall is briefly brought down.

When I read that part of the book, I thought of the first verses of Ecclesiastes 3:

1For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

2 a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
3 a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7 a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8 a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.

And, I guess what stands out to me is that everyone experiences these things. There is nothing to say that one religion or race or gender will experiences pain and loss, joy and laughter. We all experience these things. We all hurt. We all smile. We all need help when we hurt. We all hope to see other smiling faces when we are glad.

It is in these moments we all share that there is a real possibility of showing Christ's love and compassion, maybe even more so than when someone sets out with the intention of sharing the Gospel. St. Francis of Assisi once said, "Preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary use words." Perhaps it is in our shared moments of hurt, joy, pain, and love that we are ablest to preach the Gospel. If nothing else, perhaps we can try it, and hopefully we will begin to feel our invisible walls start to fall.

Love,

Sara

Hey, I have another blog!

Well, just like the title of this post says, I've got another blog. You should check it out. It will make you a better person. Or, at least it will give you a chance to laugh at my complete awkwardness.

diaryofanonlychild.blogspot.com

That's the address. I hope you go there. I hope you like it. I hope it makes all your dreams come true.

Love you, people!

Sara

Good Sundays

Some Sundays, church just feels even better than others. Today was one of those days. As I got ready for church, I kept feeling so excited to be going there, so ready to be sitting in the pew surrounded by everyone.

I guess there are just times when you feel so much more aware of God's presence. Times when you just know that what you are doing there in church is worshiping Him, giving Him thanks. And, then you're singing "Redeemed," and you just know that it's true. The pastor prays, and, as always, his prayers sound like hug and feel like love.

It was one of those Sundays. In from the cold and snow, into the warmth.

Love,

Sara

Seasons. Seasons? Seasons!

I know that a lot of you live in places that, while beautiful, are devoid of seasons. I used to be one of you. I know how you feel. You feel a little cheated, a little sad, a little like you lost out on the geographical lottery.

Yeah, I used to be that way too. But, then I moved here, and, honestly, seasons are overrated. Sure, they’re pretty, but winter…

Oh, winter. It lasts stinkin’ forever. And it’s nothing like a winter wonderland. It’s kind of awful at times.

Okay, enough with the pity party. Because I know that all the seasonally-deprived readers might want to see what autumn looks like, I took some pictures.

I took a little walk around my neighborhood, and this is what I saw.

Please note the name of the park. (That’s a little shout-out to my Nana).

Sometimes, you’ve got to look down to see the really pretty leaves.

But, sometimes (before they all fall off) you have to look up.

And, just to let you know, even in this season of changes, some little things stay the same.

Love you all so much!

Sara

A little game

I've had a pretty lovely day today. The weather hasn't been very pretty, but, for some reason, I've been okay with this drizzly, chilly weather. It gave me a chance to wear my new jacket, so that's a pretty nice perk.

Just a while ago I was looking through some pictures of the El Salvador orphanage though, and it just made me miss being there so much. I especially felt that way when I saw a picture of Javier. Each little one is my absolute favorite, but when I saw Javi's picture I missed him so incredibly much. Mainly, I missed this game we play, "Cuántos besitos necesitas?"

It's not a real game. It's just something I made up, just being silly with Javi. It means, "How many kisses do you need?" So, I ask Javi, and he will hold up 3 or 5 or ten fingers. Then I give him a kiss on each cheek while counting up to the number he told me. But he always turns his head so that I give him extra kisses. That's part of the game.

I know it's silly, but that's one of my favorite things. And, I guess I miss him so much because I know that there is only so long that a little boy will let you dote on him like that. But, maybe that's what makes those times so incredibly precious. Whatever it is, I'm so looking forward to going back there in January. Maybe I should start counting down the days. :)

Love,

Sara

Better For

I was just reading Psalm 1, because it always helps to remind me of the way I should be, not the way I often am or the way that is easiest to be. To me it speaks about the sort of goodness we are to strive for, the sort of kindness we are to show.

But, it also got me thinking about how helpful it is to have friends who share faith, to be around people who understand that there is something greater and that that something greater is God. I definitely don't mean that I want to hole up in a compound with a bunch of other Christians. I think that would be disastrous and completely contrary to how Christ would have His followers live their lives. it's hard to be a light in the dark when that light is hidden away, right?

No, what I mean is that it can be such a comfort and a help to know that there are people I can turn to for advice, people who inspire me to want more and to be more than I might be inclined to otherwise. I think that Christians are often thought of as seeing ourselves as "better than" those who aren't. I'm not sure I would completely disagree with that. Sometimes it's hard to remember humility while striving for holiness.

Reading Psalm 1 really made me question that though. Is it that I want to be "better than" other people? Or, perhaps a better question is, is being "better than" even something that should cross my mind? I have to think that it shouldn't. It seems pretty obvious that the standard of goodness and holiness is Christ and that that is a standard I can never be "better than." But, when I think of how I interact with my Christian brothers and sisters, maybe the wiser thing is to try to be "better for" one another, not to measure ourselves by one another, but to follow the example of Christ as best we can so that we may be an encouragement to each other. If we strive to be "better" (better than our pasts, better than the bad we encounter everyday, better than what we sometimes want to be) maybe we are in some ways doing it for each other, showing each other that we aren't just individuals working our separate paths to holiness, but that we need each other, that we are there for each other.

But, that's just my idea.

Love you all,

Sara