Let us behold... and, beholding, become like Christ.

I’ve read Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ, a Piper book, two or three times through. And I keep rereading certain sections lately, as I keep losing my place in the book. The problem is, I have a picture of Ellen as a bookmark. Sometimes I just pull it out and stare dreamily at it and forget to keep my thumb in the page. So, what I’m saying is—I’ve read this book (or sections of it) lots of times.

It challenges me, though, each time. That probably has a lot to do with the fact that it’s saturated with Scripture and all about God’s glory in the character and person of Jesus Christ. And I love God’s glory.

Recently, though, I’m specifically challenged to glorify God in my joy. My view of joy—though I feel like this is a mountain I’ve been around a lot of times, a well-trod lesson topic, especially in Sudan—has been stretched, yet again.

Jesus has gladness above his companions.

Moreover, He’s indestructibly happy.

Moreover-over (not even a word), He’s got the infinite, holy, indomitable mirth of his Father.

And, I was reminded, that’s available to me.

Because I’m in Christ, He gives me not just my own joy increased to its final limit, leaving me short of his.  No, no. That’s not quite sweet enough.

“My capacities for joy are very confined. So Christ not only offers himself as the divine object of my joy [(that is, that I may find all my joy in him)], but pours his capacity for joy into me, so that I can enjoy him with the very joy of God.”

Now, honestly, how amazing is that? The very joy of God. Imagine!

(“Imagine!” is often what I say when I simply can’t imagine.)

And it’s not gloomy joy. “Salvation is not mainly the forgiveness of sins, but mainly the fellowship of Jesus (1 Cor 1:9). If this fellowship is not all-satisfying, there is no great salvation. If Christ is gloomy, or even calmly stoical, eternity will be a long, long sigh.”

But, perhaps more important for me, it’s not glib joy. This hit me. If it’s not glorious to be gloomy, neither is it glorious to be glib. I often forget that. A plastered-on smile isn’t glorifying to God. Shallow joy, fake joy—not glorifying to God.

I actually wonder if being real in my joylessness is better—more honest, at least. Raw. And if I dare to try to be joyless—if I neglect my great salvation in such a way—then perhaps I’ll realize how impossible joylessness really is, in Christ.

In the face of the gladness—the infinite, holy indomitable mirth—the indestructible joy of my Savior and my King, my Abba Father and my Helper… how dare I be glib.

And that alone… Well, it makes me just plain joyful.

 

leave it to beaver...

I woke up late for the Illini game on Saturday.

Before I knew it, Dad had highlighted directions in my hands.

And Mom went all June Cleaver on me, sending me off with piping hot, hot chocolate and cautions to be careful.

I guess living with my parents isn’t so bad after all.

(Though, now that I think about it, they could have just been anxious to get me out of the house…)

I shouldn’t say nice things about living at home, lest my parents get wind that I’m getting comfy. They’ll start charging me rent.

But I’m surprising myself a bit, in how my feelings toward the ol’ Illinois Valley have changed.

When I graduated from LP, I was out of the door (literally) the next day to Iowa, to work until I started school (again, literally the next day) at U of I. II was ready to be gone.

But now I feel drawn to be part of the community. I’m subbing while I’m getting a good support base, and I’ve found I enjoy being at the old stomping grounds of LP. I enjoy getting to see the same students again and again. I even took my niece and nephew to an LP volleyball game the other day. I love my church here, obviously, and would love to give as much as I get, to serve as much as I’m served.

And I, of course, mean no offense against the fine folks here—it’s just that I was always the one who was ready to get away. I think that’s simply in some of us.

But now it’s different. Since I’ve been home, it’s been sneaking up on me, this reluctant fondness for life here.

Maybe it’s the sense of community that I miss from Sudan. The sense of having a part and playing it—however unique and awkward my part was in Lopit. And with such a greater level of “belonging” possible in my home culture, it’s all the more desirable.

Maybe it’s just a dreamy, rose-colored thing that’s a part of coming home. I really came to miss the Midwest when I was out there. I came to appreciate it. Small town life, right? I mean, wow. So perhaps it’ll just be a matter of time before that wears off and I’m ready to skedaddle again, to leave home, to uproot, to life the missionary life.

Because home isn’t really something most missionaries get.

It’s not in the job description. One of the reasons I picked JESUS Film was because I thought it was OK not to have a real home, that I was “tough enough” to grab hold of my singleness and my no roots and just bounce in and out of Orlando, to strange countries. I know I have to be a self-feeder, independent, flexible. And I was ready to hit that full speed.

So it scares me that I’m liking the comfort, the sameness. I never wanted to be comfortable—comfortable is bad, right? I’ve gotta keep moving, keep pressing. But I feel a little lulled to sleep and charmed to comfort by the idea of something so nice—so constant, so steady, something I can snuggle into.

Or, better, something so nice, so constant, so steady and I can snuggle into… and even find God in?

All that to say… all that to ask, rather… pray for me, that I’d wake back up, pick up the pace and charge on.

Or, at the very least, submit to whatever God has for me.

Here and there.

I woke up a bit wily this morning.

So, yikes. Watch out.

I think it was the combo of a really good weekend, too many episodes of the Office, a touch of cynicism about the curve balls God is pitching me, and the very real idea that if I don’t step it up this week, I’m in very big trouble.

All of that translates into… wily.

(And scratching out this blog on scrap paper while I’m subbing at Ottawa High. Blah.)

Ok, so. Good weekend. I went to the Illini game in Wisconsin with my brother, sister-in-law and brother’s college drinking buddy.

My experience from the game tells me that Wisconsin fans are not the Big Ten’s finest. Eww.

It also threw into question my perspective of my sister-and-law (a Wisconsinite).

She used to be uber cool, but then she rocked up in an entirely Badger outfit. An outfit that she’d bought the night before, specifically for the game. And apparently also for the specific purpose of throwing me into moral throes—do I loathe her for her choice of loyalties or respect her because she has any loyalties at all?

Actually, said Illini game even got me thinking about spiritual things. Namely, is it OK to pray for a specific outcome in a sporting event? I often come to this crossroads unwittingly. I’m sitting there—in this case freezing my tush off—a little stressed, and I naturally start to call on God. I mean, who else would I call on? But then I get a bit into my prayer and realize that I’m praying for a sporting event and fall into a stupor about the validity of that.

It’s hard to imagine the Kingdom purposes in winning a game. But then again I’m sure there could be some. And if I’m praying for God to be glorified in an Illini victory, then isn’t that OK? In such cases, the tumblings of my mind often continue for some time before I realize I  should be paying more attention to the game. And the cycle starts again.

Gosh, life is so complicated.

In other news, Dad turned 50 yesterday. Which basically means he’s ancient. However, there were some personal benefits of Daddy’s going geriatric—namely, free food and lots of cake at his surprise party. So, all in all… I’m happy for the guy.

Maybe I'm illiterate...

I misspelled a word on the prayer flyer I just started handing out.

 

I’m telling you this, just so you know I know you know.

 

And because it’s about the biggest slap in the face for a woman who is supposed to be some sort of editor.

 

And I’ve got about 1,000 copies of that baby to unload—which I will do with a certain amount of shame.

 

And, to make it all the more humbling, it’s quite ironic that I picked this particular word to misspell.

 

So, now you know… I know you know.

just thank you...

I’m working on saying thank you.

And by that I mean, saying simply thank you. Just thank you.

Like when, in what seems like your (ya’ll’s, general “you”s) communal effort/conspiracy to fatten me up, you buy me a nice dinner.

Or when you compliment my writing.

Or say going to Sudan was great and God really used me there.

All these things, I’m ready to argue with right away. Put up a fight against them. Squirm.

But now I’m working on simply saying thank you.

So if I seem like I’m in pain or exceedingly uncomfortable, you know why.

I’m just working on my just saying thank you.

Life Application.

When you’re a single, Christian, 25-year-old woman whose closest peers are mostly married and/or pregnant, you—whether you admit it or not—often wonder why it is you’re still single. What’s wrong with you or (if you want to put a spiritual spin on it) what God still needs to teach you before you get married.

So, since I meet all the qualifications of the aforementioned person—very single, Christian, 25-year-old woman whose closest peers are mostly married and/or pregnant—and since I’m in the “admit it” party, I’ll tell you, I think I realized something the other day that could be one of those big lessons God wants to teach me pre-marriage.

I think maybe one of the reasons God has not yet chosen to marry me off is that I’m far too selfish, especially with my time.

In short, I give the people who mean the most to me, leftover me. They get me at the end of my day. They get me rushing through. Yawning. Changing and dashing out. When I’ve already hit my limit with social time. They really get the leftovers, but they’re the ones who mean the most. I’ll block out time to spend with other people, or for appointments, and these important ones will get lost in the rush. My parents. My few good friends. The kids. They really get the shaft.

And here I am, telling people one of the things I learned in Sudan was that relationships take work, that you have to make sacrifices for them. But I haven’t applied that to life back home quiet yet, it seems.

And so I’m being selfish, not sacrificing enough and sometimes I’m even being selfish by trying to be something to everyone.

And you can’t do that with a husband. Or a family. You can’t shaft your spouse and, oh gracious, my heart hurts when I think about doing that with the kids. (It was hard enough when I realized I was doing it to my little friends.)

So, I guess this must be a current lesson I need to learn (… again). I’d like to say “the” lesson I need to learn, but I have a feeling God still has a lot of work to do on me.

Yellow submarine...

So I sub now. Yeah, I’m a substitute teacher. I mold young minds.

They call me Miss C-----. Awkward.

Ever go into the teachers’ lounge at your old high school? Yeah, that’s weird, too> or try seeing your teachers have real conversations and even call each other by their first names. Or, worse, hearing bubbly grade school teachers curse (gasp!). It’s like another dimension.

But, don’t get me wrong, subbing isn’t half bad. It’s flexible hours with decent pay. It covers my gas money from support appointment to support appointment, church to church. And I get to see how classrooms work and I get the challenge of teaching—a stretching experience for me. I like to learn new things.

The only downside is high school, where most of my job is just glorified babysitting—and boring. The last few days, I’ve lowered myself to honest-to-goodness begging the real teachers for busy work.

Aaaah, yes. Molding young minds… through busy work.

I guess the other bonus to young grades is that I’m less likely to be mistaken for a student. Student teacher, yes. Student, no. (Though the lady who gave me the kids menu would gauge me at about 5^th grade or less, I suppose. So I guess I’m not safe anywhere.)

I was mistaken for a student at the high school yesterday during lunch. Twice. First by a lunch lady who was actually quite snotty until she found out I was an adult. And second by a “fellow” student who was informing me that the only Coke machine available was in the teachers’ lounge and “we”—in this context, he and I, fellow students at large—couldn’t use it.

Everyone keeps telling me how great that is, how when I’m 40, 50, 70, I’ll just love it.

But, malarkey. Right now I really don’t love it.

But, yes, definitely enjoying the subbing otherwise. Very different than Lopit.

 

 

Falling to reality...

It’s fall.

I’ve driven to Ottawa two times already this week, which puts me going straight through Starved Rock, which is a place that just screams fall. This is my first autumn in three years, since 2005. So I get a little… well, something… at the turn of the season.

So, for a few days, I was just enthralled with it being fall.

I came out to my car to see wet leaves plopped all over it. And I actually was just really happy about it.

I smelled fall. And breathed in all I could.

And I even broke out an old jacket since it’s been a lot cooler.

But another piece of reality hit last night, about the time I walked out of dinner at some friends’ house and I was freezing. Absolutely freezing. It was like 50 degrees.

I turned on my car’s heat, and then I realized—fall is almost certainly followed by winter.

And winter, as best as I can remember (which I can remember pretty well, as much as I’d like to forget), is cold. Like snow cold. Ice cold. See-your-breath cold.

Whimper.

Naturally I was devastated.

But then I remembered—with glee—that also associated with fall/winter are mittens and scarves (my favorites!) and the holidays.

And by the time I’d got myself a McFlurry—you know, to help me recover (and prepare for hibernation)—and was eating it in the blasting heat of my car, all was well again.

 

A peculiar fancy...

I guess sometimes I like to fancy myself and my life a little peculiar.

 

Or maybe simply “awkward” is a better word.

 

Kim says claims I have “coincident misfortune syndrome” (from that old classic Pure Luck, for those keeping score at home).

 

My friend Christine told me this weekend that I’ve always been a bit neurotic.

 

Both Kim and Christine are luckily they’re such good friends, lest I’d probably never speak to them again.

 

But, it’s true. I’m a little strange.

 

Take Friday, for example. I was running around, trying to get things in order for heading down to Champaign for the weekend and creating and checking off to-do lists on any spare scrap of paper available. Those who have lived with me know this particular demeanor of mine to be “go mode,” which actually often even makes other folks a bit jumpy and nervous, a bit stressed.

 

But then I’m also just socially awkward. Or do dumb things. Both happened when I was over at Stratford Park this weekend. First, I was in Go Mode because the delicious Lopit cuisine I’d made Saturday night (you know, in an attempt to save time and avoid Go Mode) turned into some strange solid creature in the fridge by Sunday morning. So I was trying to whip up a pot of goo in the church kitchen during the first service, during which time a splat of said goo boil-boil-toil-and-troubled right out of my makeshift caldron and onto my neck—of all places. So you can imagine me, bag of flour in one hand, spoon in the other, trying not to howl in agony as this thick boiling-hot paste sears my neck. And, ya know, I’ve got no hands to wipe the thing off with, so I’m just flailing a bit trying to put something down, and therein, sending a decent amount of flour out of the bag and all over the kitchen. Add to that, the goo leaves an ugly mark on my neck that looks suspiciously like a hickie. And I speak in about… 20 minutes. Absolutely golden.

 

I think I survived the presentation well enough—I don’t have high expectations for myself and have relatively low standards in these sorts of things—but then I had a little encore of the Lopit food fest with the kiddos in junior church. During which time I (not thinking) grab a wee chair, turn it around backwards and straddle it, as I’m trying to tell a story to the kids. Well, next thing I know all the precious little girls in their cute little church dresses are spinning their chairs around and following my very-not-ladylike example. And the teacher chimes in about how they’ve been trying so hard lately to be more ladylike. And of course the damage is already done and I can’t reverse the trend, no matter how proper I try to be for the rest of my visit. SPBC parents, please forgive me.

 

You see? I’m just really awkward. I can’t tell you how many times my old roommates laughed at me this past weekend, either. I could go on forever. I’m just a social mess.

 

Sigh. So. Anyway. I suppose I oughta fancy my life and myself as peculiar as I’d like, as I’m almost certainly not overestimating. But I sure hope I—at some point in my life—grow out of this.

  

Fullness.

I was driving home tonight after a long weekend in Champaign—a late Friday night, Homecoming and Babe Barn (senior roommate) reunion ‘til late, late Saturday and a full-on day of being at Stratford Park and catching up with people—and I was musing a bit to myself about how great of a weekend I’d had.

 

It was exhausting, yeah. And a bit stressful. But still—really, really good.

 

Seven of our ten roommates were there to trounce around campus and invade our old (now-crumbling and beer-drenched) house. This was the first BB reunion I could make after all this time, so it was extra sweet. And we’ve got our first Barn Baby on the way! Wee!

 

I got to see a really good old friend, randomly.

 

Speaking at SPBC was encouraging and revitalizing. (Can you say that about something other than hair products? “Revitalizing”?) And, in general, just such a good, good time.

It seems like maybe God is thinking about bringing some new folks on to my financial partner team. And people are just so darn supportive, I can’t get over it. They really care. No, really. I can’t get over it.

 

I got to spend a short but quality time with the kiddos, over a game of Wii bowling. (Kyla beat me handily. She’s four. As in, I’m 21 years her senior. And have actually bowled in real life. Sigh.)

 

Kim and Pattie both wore down the battery on my cell phone this weekend—each, in their own ways, easing the ache of my recent wave of culture shock and missing Lopit.

 

So there I was, further wearing out my stretch of I-39, and thinking about all this. And I was trying to put it to words in my head and in my conversation with God. Sort of grinning a bit and feeling alive.

 

Finally I thought—oh! This is it! This is fullness of life! How absolutely neat!

 

And, yeah, like I said—it was exhausting and stressful and overwhelming at times. And, sure, this is just a teensy glimpse of all that we can have in Christ.

 

But, I dunno, still a really nice moment for me there, on I-39, enjoying the many blessings of a weekend in Chambana, in Christ.

 

 

 

Orange makes me go blue...

As I was driving home tonight, I stopped my mind from running long enough to realize the world had taken on that beautiful warm, orange-yellow glow that I love so much—that I loved so much in Sudan, especially.

That glow just makes me want to take pictures.

Or, in this case, it made me want to close my eyes.

Strange reaction to beauty, I realize. And not altogether wise when you’re behind the wheel, either.

But that’s what I find myself doing more and more lately, just stopping and closing my eyes. I try to put myself back in Lopit, just like I did that first night I came home—trying to see the landscape stretch out from the foot of the mountain, trying to hear the kids yammering in Lopit, even trying to smell the smoke or that sharp, gag-inducing yeasty smell when they were making beer. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to get so busy that all those memories, that love toward my neighbors and the kids, spill out as my head is overflowing with to-do lists and jostled around by my McDonalds pace.

This is how it comes—like deep waves of emotion and thought that hit hard but make a speedy retreat back to somewhere just below my conscience. I can’t tell if that’s an unhealthy defense mechanism—how I’m dealing with mourning the end of that part of my life—or if it’s God giving me a peace in the leaving by sparing me moment-by-moment heartache. But, then again, perhaps moment-by-moment heartache is something that could only happen in a vacuum. Or in a Hallmark movie.

(Yeah, I guess in my spare time I like to psycho-analyze myself unnecessarily…)

Either way, the orange tinge over Oglesby this evening hit like a breaker. The other day it was the memory of Laundina calling me by my English name, Andi (“the name my mother calls me,” as we explained it), and how special that was in my ears, since most everyone only knew me as “Ifeja” or some strange, botched pronunciation of “Andrea” (still always followed by “Ifeja”). That wave cracked me straight in the chest and made me miss her terribly.

And then of course there’s Ellen. The little monster might as well be a surfer on those waves, she so frequently brings them.

Foofie-sliding...

(That's South African for, "zip-lining.")

Yeah, we zip. In ultra-cool gear.


The view.


Self-portraits were a must...

Especially after Mom complained about us taking too many "weird face" pictures of ourselves. Which of course is why we took this "weird face" picture of ourselves. That's KP on the left, then my sister-in-law, Riss.

The fam, plus KP. Looking pretty decent for being right off the plane.


Beautiful!

We’re pretty much just Hawaiian beauties, right?

(Right.)

The fam...

My Daddy and I at the luau.

Mom and I, on the ship.

We have proof...

Like I said, certified hula dancers.

Yuppies...

Kim and I tried to be as prim and proper as possible, for my brother’s sake. I think he was often embarrassed, even more than my father was embarrassed, by our lack of polish, sophistication and class. I liked to call him a yuppie. We really did try, though.

But, I mean, obviously, the first thing two adult women from the bush do when they get to their very own fancy-schmancy hotel room on Waikiki beach is jump on the bed.

Right?

Hangin' Loose...

So, I just got back from a ridiculously nice vacation in Hawaii, compliments of my Dad.

A Hawaiian cruise, so far as I can gather, is the exact opposite of mud hut living in Sudan.

Well, except maybe for…

 

No, there truly are no exceptions.

Eating endlessly aboard a 13+ story floating hotel/small country is in no way similar to living among an animistic, relatively isolated bush community in Southern Sudan.

This was somewhat of a (dream) family vacation, with only a few cast adjustments. Take away my little brother, his wife and the (otherwise very spoiled*) grandkids. (*This is so you aren’t tempted to feel bad for their exclusion, which they themselves chose.) Add in good ol’ Kimmie, my roommate from Sudan (and possibly, new family favorite).

I think we’d all agree, it made for a grand time. We went snorkeling in the clear-blue waters of the Pacific. Biking down a volcano in Maui. Got sunburned kayaking off Kona. Cliff-jumped and slid down waterfall slides in Hilo Bay. Took in the silence and saw the “black tears” (drops of oil still surfacing from the wreckage) at Pearl Harbor. Fought the waves and hit the sand in Waikiki. Caught a luau and became certified (no, for seriously) hula dancers in Honolulu.

And, in general, had a really, really wonderful time.

I got to see my brother and his wife for the first time in two and a half years and was happily reunited with KP after our (relatively short but emotionally taxing) two-month separation. Traveling with the Clinard Clan is always an experience—but one Kimmie seems to have come through just fine. We were pampered and spoiled rotten—I’m glad I had her to enjoy it with.

(This wasn’t a missionary’s vacation, to be sure. It was really neat to acknowledge it as just another way God provides in pretty neat ways. I mean, imagine! What a dream!)

As dissimilar as Lopit and Hawaii are, I couldn’t help but thinking about the former while enjoying the latter. I try to keep my “In Africa…” comments to a bare minimum here in the States, and often fumble awkwardly when acquaintances want to small-talk about what I do for a living, for fear of being That Girl who (as KP and I call it) drops the A(frica)-bomb whenever possible.

But with Kim I was free to wonder aloud about what the Lopit would think of the cruise ship. Or just how Ellen and Grasshopper would react to being put in our kayak, surrounded by more water than they could ever imagine. (The conclusion was: absolutely and completely terrified.) And it was nice to use the inside jokes. The “remember when…”s. And to speak or exclaim in Lopit to someone other than my dog or horse.

The mountains that rose high and green against the blue sky made me wish I was “home” a bit, back on our familiar mountainside with our familiar friends.

Luckily, however, I had a handful of all-you-can-eat ship restaurants and Kim’s hilarious antics to distract me out of my nostalgia…

A lot to say.

You know, I’ve had quite a lot of things to say for quite a while now, and I just haven’t got to it.

 

And, so… here goes.

 

I’m starting to feel alive again.

 

Those first few weeks back were really rough. I was worn out and having a hard time getting excited in the fog of exhaustion. I was scheduled to chat with my church about my time in Sudan, and I was honestly a bit wary about it. I felt a little drained from answering the same questions over and over again and was worried I’d be giving pat answers and not really conveying how my time really was and how truly thankful I was for them partnering with me.

 

So, that’s how I went into my presentation. Not exactly on my game.

 

But instead of drawing more energy from me, being there with my church put a new fire in me. They were just so interested, so passionate. (And they hung with me even though I’m a bit of a bumbling fool.)

 

Our team was warned a lot before we left—as part of our re-entry prep—that we needed to have realistic expectations for our homecoming. More bluntly, that we should be prepared for no one to care. For no one to even ask about our two years in Sudan or about the plight of the people there. Even for people to avoid us.

 

But, I dunno… That’s definitely not been my experience. The basement of the church was full that night. People’ve been asking about my kids by name. They’ve been apologizing for asking too many questions. And I’m afraid I’m bordering on offending folks by not getting together with them yet to tell them about things.

 

I guess I’m just spoiled rotten. But thankful.

 

And, like I said, feeling alive again. I left that night with tired feet but an excited, energetic heart. I couldn’t wait to learn all about JESUS Film so I could get them in on that, too.

 

It’s safe to say it was a huge turning point for me. I’m back on the go. Thanks for running with me. :)

Hardcore.

Give ya a little idea of how intense this conference is.

 

The fire alarm went off during one of our meetings yesterday. The speaker looked skeptically at the flashing strobes, then back at us—and told us to stay where we were.

 

The building could have been burning down around us (though I’m not sure how that would be possible, since they keep it at approximately -20F) and he’s telling us we’re just going to wait it out, see if they’re for serious.

 

Hilarious.

 

Also interesting, in our notes there’s a schedule to help us get an idea of how many hours for support raising we can build into our week. It’s from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. each day. Time is blocked off on Sunday for church, obviously. And meals. (I do enjoy eating.) And—this is the interesting part—a date on Saturday night at 9.

 

Haha.

 

How innocently optimistic. ;)