The End Of Myself

“Bend your legs! Get down!” my prof told me. Timidly, I wobbled my legs a bit into a crouching position. “More! Don’t be afraid of your legs!”

I tried again. And again. And again.

He told me to do more things. To move in more ways. But I just couldn’t. I tried for what seemed like a thousand times, but every time, he’d tell me to do it again.

‘”Run around the room and scream!”

I ran. And tried to scream. But I could only laugh. Awkwardness, timidity, insecurity crowded my soul.

I’d asked my professor for help with my physicality as an actor. We were working one of Titania’s monologues from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’d told him yesterday that “I knew I could do it because I wanted to.” But just then, we hadn’t even gotten past the third line.

“I can’t do this,” I told him before we parted ways. “I’ll just never get it — all my life I haven’t,” I said through tears.

~~~~

My pastor says that when we are at the end of ourselves we find God. Job was a the end of himself. Brought there through suffering and strife.

As Christians, we often see the end as something bad and to be feared. We stay in the shallow end or maybe on the sand, too afraid of the deeper waters ahead. We don’t like the word ‘end.’ But the end of ourselves is only the beginning when we know Jesus.

~~~~

I held back the tears when I got home. I put on a flowy skirt and a tank top — clothing that made me feel like Titania. I thought it would help.

I went outside and shivered. Even late March was much too chilly for spring clothing.

There, in the comfort of my own backyard, I tried it again. I tried to move, alone, outside. But it was the same as before. I couldn’t. I fell down in a ball on the ground. The cold grass absorbed me and my tears and trembling limbs.

 I was at the end of myself.

But at the end of myself, I prayed. Prayed like I’d never prayed before. Prayed for something I never thought I could or would pray for.

~~~~

Job lost everything. Everything he’d ever had or known. He was at the end.

But in that end, He found God. Not that he hadn’t known God before, but I don’t think he’d really known Him until that point. At the end of himself, Job saw God.

~~~~

“That was wonderful!” My prof burst out, less then a week later, after watching me perform my monologue. This time it was complete with an active physical score; I was bold and daring beyond belief. I had moved fluidly and without shame.

I smiled hard. His affirmation tasted sweet. But even sweeter was the knowledge that I had reached my end and come back even more whole than before.

I recalled the beginnings of my monologue creation. I had laid on the living room floor after leaving the cold outdoors. I prayed on the ground, long and hard. And then I got up. And it happened. All at once. And looking back, I know that it wasn’t my doing at all. At the end of myself, I found the beginning of Him.

Is God Enough?

I grew up hearing that God was enough, that God always satisfied, and He was all we needed.

I said ‘the prayer’ at the age of four because I believed, as strongly as I could in my little heart, that God was the One and Only.

Years of Sunday school lessons and singing songs and hearing people talk about how God is enough. And God will always be all you need. There’s nothing else that could compare.

Then, the well-meaning friends who went so far as to say that God obviously wasn’t enough for someone if they did such and such. But God should be enough for you if you’re a true Christian. Again, God was supposed to be enough.

Turning from that stream of thought, I kept going in my Christian walk. God was still enough — I just didn’t want to be judgmental about it. God is enough. God is always enough for me. That’s why I prayed every night and went to church several times a week and taught little kids in Sunday school. Because God was enough for me and enough for them too and enough for us all.

And that’s why I stood up on the stage at church, wearing a white dress, next to my youth pastor who held an open book, and answered ‘I do’ to questions on faith and shared my testimony about how God had always been enough.

But what about when God isn’t enough for us?

When I’d rather read a novel than the Bible. When I lie awake, thinking of other things and loves instead of praying. When I felt so alone and thought I could never do anything in Mexico. When I plunged into relationships, school, or theatre, hoping they would fill the void. I didn’t know it then, but I’d stopped believing that God was truly enough.

But the other day, as I lay in bed, I heard Him whisper in my ear that He is enough for me. And for the last quiet moments of the night He was that.

I realized then that God hasn’t always been enough. And he won’t always be enough for me or anyone. God can’t be enough for us all the time.

God wants to be enough and He is enough, but in this life at least, I believe, our sinfulness precludes us from truly loving Him in this way.

So please, let’s stop pretending and saying that God is always enough. Let’s not force friends and family members into that place when they aren’t ready. Because that just isn’t how it is.

God is enough. But we can’t always see Him that way. And that is OK.

Growing Up Is Good

It’s been a whole year since I walked across the stage at my graduation ceremony. I wasn’t actually keeping track or planning to remember, but watching parts of the video of this year’s grad reminded me anyway. And so, here I am, contemplating away.

Growing up is such a funny thing. When you’re young, there is nothing that you want more than to grow up and do all the things you see grown ups doing. You know, drink coffee, stay up late, drive a car, have a job and your own money, get married and have your own children. At least, that was what I wanted. I thought that growing up would be so much fun.

I remember a girl, probably about 16 or 17 at the time, saying to me once that it “was better to be a kid.” I was around 7 then so she was saying it to me. Of course, I didn’t agree because growing up seemed so much more exciting to me.

But then, I soon learned, as you grow older, that there is nothing that you want more than to fall back into the “old days” of swing sets and finishing school before lunchtime. Back then, when birthday parties and surprise treats and neighbourhood friends were the highlights of our days. Back then, when we dreamed of playing Barbies or drawing a big chalk house on the road once Math was finished. Back then, when life was simple, free, and happy. And as soon as we grow up, it seems we desire the things of yesterday, just as much as we once wished for the life of tomorrow.

Today, I think back on my grad ceremony and the desires of that day. I remember the beautiful purple gown with the crazy hoop skirt, made by an amazing friend and finished that morning. I remember the curly half-up-do, the gorgeous French nails done by my friend, and my sister’s make-up on my face. The desire to look as beautiful as I could be. I remember my friends and how dashing they were and how we all took loads of pictures in the garden. The desire for relationship. I remember the dinner and the picture boards and the speeches and the prom that I was so nervous for. The desire to do well. I remember having to lift up my skirt whenever I walked and getting sore feet by the end of the night. I remember saying good-bye and taking my hoop skirt off to sit in the car and riding home thinking about how beautiful the night had been. The desire to go back and relive the good moments and forget the bad.

But you know, I don’t want to go back. Not to May 24th, 2012. Or to last year. Or to ten years before. No, I want to go forward.

Because I have gone forward this year. I am a very different person than I was a year ago when I walked across the stage with a purple hoop skirt peeking under my grad gown. I have new desires, hopes, and dreams. And that is OK. It is good, in fact.

And I can look at the 900 or so pictures that my sister snapped and smile. I can remember and laugh, reminisce and not cry. Because that is a memory, along with every other day beyond this moment. It is beautiful in its own way and I will remember the beauty. And I wouldn’t want to go back because like we all thought when we were little — “growing up is good.”

Love People

Almost a whole month ago, I completed my first year of university. It was a great year; I did well, I learned a lot about myself, God, and my craft, and I began the process of following my career dreams. Yes, it was a very good year indeed.

But still, I have regrets. Even though I managed my time well. Even though I studied for every test and handed each paper in on time. I still wish I could do something over again.

I didn’t love people. And I regret that.

Back in September, I arrived at university, fresh out of high school with all kinds of expectations for how I was going to make friends and be a great person. The first couple of days, I was very friendly, making small talk with every freshman I saw. But that’s all it was — just small talk. And I regret that.

I was one of about thirteen other first years in my program. I certainly wasn’t lacking in people who shared a common interest with me. And they are all, along with our entire theatre department, warm, interesting, and friendly. But still, I didn’t find myself at home there.

I think I did it on purpose. See, I’d run away from people. I remember eating lunch and even doing homework outside for the first couple of weeks of sunny school days. I told myself and others that I “wanted to take in the sun while it lasted” and perhaps that was partly true; but now I know that I also just wanted to avoid other people.

I didn’t arrange to go to see shows or do homework or just hang out with others because it “wasn’t convenient” or “we didn’t live close by” or “I really worked better alone.” I became obsessed with my schoolwork; I was worried that my grades would falter if I lent even a bit of time to my friendships.

I even let my older friendships go. Sure, I was really busy. But still, I just abandoned everyone. Stopped all communication, pretty much. All because I was afraid of my grades dropping.

But really, deep down inside, I was afraid to love people.

I was afraid to let myself go and allow people to see me for who I was, with all of my flaws and imperfections. And let them love me for that.

I was scared of the rejection that I thought that I “knew” would come of loving others.

But I’ve learned that this is not the way to live. In fact, not loving people without reserve was one of the biggest mistakes that I made this year. Because even though its rewarding to read a prof’s compliments or a glowing transcript, you’re alone. Praise is lovely, but it isn’t a friend. Accomplishments — no matter what form they are in — are always great, but success will never love you as much as you think you adore it.

So love people. It isn’t easy. I’m still learning how. I think it’s maybe even easier for me to write an English final than truly, really invest in people on a daily basis. But it’s really worth it.

Photo Credit

Love. Because it is lovely. And I don’t think you will ever regret it.

Love the Lord. Love people. Because Jesus said those were the greatest of the commandments.

Love others. Because God made us to love and be loved.

When The Ground Falls Beneath You

We spend our lives building ourselves. Subconsciously, we add a thousand pieces of life to our identity. Who we are is rooted in countless places and people.

The family we’re from or the friends that we have.The straight A’s in school. A boyfriend or a girlfriend. A hair style, a skinny body, or a tall figure. Designer clothes, achievement in sports, or the lead role in every play. The church that we go to, the Bible verses we know or even our entire faith.

And one day, all of that can fall apart and everything is gone. The ground falls beneath you and you’re the only one left. You. Just you. You’re naked, hunted down, ravished, alone.

I say this because it has happened to me. Maybe to you, too.

Until this week, I never knew how much I put my identity in things that would fade away. Relationships, who I was in high school, even dreams that I had that I knew would never come true, school, theatre, and my faith. I built them all up. I allowed them to fulfill me in ways they never could. But recently, as the weeks have gone by, one by one, each precious jewel has been taken from me. Torn. Ripped from my soul. Until now, in which I feel as though there is nothing left but me. Naked, empty, struggling, searching me. Alone and undone without all of those things that I thought made me who I was.

I used to think that faith was a good thing to root yourself in. Turns out that I was wrong.

I used to say, ”most of all, build your identity on your faith because you can’t trust anything or anyone else completely.”

I used to know that everything would be alright as long as I just had faith.

That is, until it all fell. Until I heard things I’d never heard before from someone I didn’t think would tell me these things in a place I never expected to hear them. Until I started to question, doubt, wonder things I’d never questioned, doubted, or wondered. Until everything around me was falling but I knew that I’d be fine and safe with my faith but then that went, too. Until it was all, all gone.

When the ground fell beneath me and I wound up in the pit. Naked, empty, alone. Identity-less.

I lost everything superficial about who I was. No, those things weren’t ”bad” particularly, but I’d let them define me and that was wrong. And of course, at one point they got the better of me and fell. Even my faith.

So now I’m building again. Crawling out of the hole and back up onto my faith. Building a new identity, a new faith. Trying to leave all of those old ideas of who I was behind. Trying not to do the same thing again.

This time, I’m putting my identity in God. Not faith.

The Quest For God

I remember asking, ”Who is God?” Again and again, I’ve pondered this; tonight I ask it again.

The little girl on her knees, four-years-old, folded hands and eyes closed, reciting a prayer on the floor of the church.

The child, feeling grown up, collecting money in an Easter egg basket, filling little cans full of quarters and dimes, bringing them to Sunday school for the missionaries’ fund.

The one whose braids almost met her waist, who prayed every night for her Dad to believe  and her friends’ parents not to get a divorce.

The ten-year-old girl, feeling displaced in a big old church, missing her friends from the old one, wondering if she could really feel at home here.

The girl-turning-woman, Sunday School helper, nursery attendant, GEMS leader, greeter, friendly smile, cookie-maker, role model.

The one in the dress as white as snow, up on the stage, lacy pink shrug covering her shoulders, long brown hair down about her, reciting her testimony in front of a crowded church, saying ‘I do,’ hugging people and receiving cards over Black Forest cake.

That crazy girl with messy braids and bright pink shorts, running with children on her back, hammering and painting, fumbling out Spanish and smiling a lot, learning that God loves her, learning to trust, believe, and love.

The teenager on the verge of what she thinks is love, spending her nights on the phone gabbing out issues of God, callings, and marriage; the heartbroken one, wondering how God could not give her the first love she wanted.

The one who has lost, the one who phones a number with only an answering machine falling along empty walls, who loses passion for everything; the one who is found, the one who grows through suffering, the one whom God has breathed life back into.

The girl who graduated with a pretty purple dress and friends by her side, whose speech was about God and ‘running the good race,’ who thought she was so strong in her faith, and thought she knew what ‘good’ Christians did and didn’t and knew she would do what it took, never guessing the lies she believed.

And now she sits in the Old Testament class, the same girl who prayed a simple prayer on her knees at four, the same girl who said she knew nothing but thought she knew everything just a year ago, listening, thinking, asking questions, wondering if she really knows God as well as she thought.

The quest for God does not end — in this life or the next.

Immersed In The Spirit

Recently, I found one of my many, old journals. Like most of my notebooks, it was unfinished with plenty of pages left for more words and ideas. Oh yes, I love to write, but the problem is, I often start things that I don’t finish. A lack of inspiration, I guess you could call it. Anyway, this notebook had verses in it. I think I was trying to memorize them at some point. I tore the filled pages out so that I could use the journal for something else, but they got me to thinking about my life and things I’ve done or tried to do. And all the sudden I thought to myself, remember when you used to read the Bible, Elizabeth?

So, a year of Christian education and I don’t read my Bible anymore? Is that it? No, not exactly. I do read my Bible. But to be honest, I’m not as religious about it as I used to be. The notebook I found was from a by-gone era of memory verses, Bible reading binges, and notebooks about how to be a good Christian woman. From a time when I was just a girl trying to be the best follower of Jesus that I could be. Honestly, I wasn’t immersed in the Spirit much at all. Oh yes, I tried to be. But that way of doing it just didn’t work too well.

One of my new memory verses — in Spanish.

After about fifteen years of being a Christian, I’ve tried lots of things, swinging from rebel to saint, conservative to liberal as I’ve done so. The funny truth is that I never really find my place in either direction. I think I find it for a little while, but I never really do. And then I’m just stuck again, drifting back and forth. I feel like I’m constantly at a place where being a Christian just doesn’t make sense except for the fact that I’ve been one my whole life.

Changing directions this year (as in, going to school) has honestly changed my life. I’ve been forced to think about myself, the world, other people, my life, and God differently. I’ve learned to re-evaluate good and evil, faith and religion, life and love, and countless other things. But at the end of the day, I’m still asking the same question. What does it mean to live a life immersed in the Spirit of the living God?

Let’s be honest — even as the great Christians that we are, we don’t always “feel” God in us and through us or even in the distance somewhere kind of looking out for us. Yeah, He’s there, but sometimes He does feel pretty far away. How are we supposed to be immersed in that?

I don’t have the answers — I just have my experiences and the knowledge that I can gain from that. Praying is important. And I know that from not praying because I forgot and then from praying again and realizing how much I needed it. And I also know that from having people pray for me and from friends telling me that they were praying for me–even when I didn’t ask them, too. Reading is good, too. I’ve been reading little bits at a time — when I remember and when I feel the urge. I don’t like to say, “I know I should do this everyday” anymore because honestly, that takes the joy out of it. Letting the Holy Spirit live through and in you is very, very good. And I’ve learned that can come in a thousand different ways–they key is inviting Him in.

I’m reading two Bibles now — in Spanish and in English!

I don’t know it all yet and I’m not there the whole way. But these are my observations and my beginning for living a Spirit immersed life.