For When You Lose Your Train of Thought

The other day, I sat across from my supervisor, who’d arranged for us to have a full day excursion in her hometown. A quaint little thing with ghostly brick buildings and dank alleys and too many craft beer bars. We sat there talking about many things I don’t recall in any particular detail now, and I ate buttered toast and nodded aggressively, eager to show how interested I was in the conversation. One minute I was nodding up a storm and the next, I was ready to call an ambulance because I felt like my head was spinning. I remember feeling woozy, leaning my head in my palm for support and then reluctantly swallowing an Advil pill an hour later when I realized it wasn’t going to get better on its own.

The rest of the day went by in a haze, moving along in the kind of slow, feet-dragging way that uneventful but frightening days usually do. Uneventful, because as dramatic as that morning had been, I still trotted half the small town and giggled with a young coworker about how its best days were behind it. I took stock of my surroundings at the same pace, the corners of the streets smelled like urine— like most street corners, the beer my coworker offered me tasted as pungent as it usually does, my skin stung gently from being under the sun for so long— again, not unusual. What was unusual and frightening is how unlike myself I felt while doing all this, like my head was filled with cotton and hay and unfinished sentences that would never see completion. I felt like I was cutting through a thick cloud of fog.

It was an unnecessarily dramatic day but it also got me thinking; what if my life was an unending, super drawn-out brain fart? Like, what if I forgot things all the time and couldn’t finish my sentences and make logical arguments again? The things I take pride in— being able to remember random details, stringing together sentences that make me feel giddy, coming up with witty clapbacks— what if I couldn’t do those things anymore?

So much of this Christian life is in the mind, we believe with our minds, we control cosmic powers with the battles we fight in our minds, we’re commanded to love God with all of our minds. So the thought of this mind failing me, of the possibility of one day being unable to grasp the truth as I’ve come to know it, sours my stomach.

One of my favorite movies is Still Alice, it’s about a Columbia linguistics professor getting diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's and her life basically falling apart after that. I enjoy watching the movie because I think she’s a badass and she’s the kind of woman I want to be when I’m 50. She runs every morning, “thrives on work,” eats froyos in the most guiltless way, and even though her children don’t really get along they still listen to In Dulci Jubilo at Christmas gatherings and eat fancy desserts. At the end of the movie, though, she can’t even recognize her daughter and in one scene, after scrambling to find where the restroom is in her own home, she urinates on herself. Her family contemplates ending her life and I wonder, is life not worth more than our minds?  

It’s easy to feel invincible when you’re in full control of your faculties. You almost start to believe that the world begins and ends with what you can perceive— in the people sitting across from you, the conversations you’re having, the books you’re reading. But how flimsy would this life be if that was true and the truth begun only when we were able to fully grasp it, when we were able to connect the dots?

My roommate who’s not a Christian told me that if he actually bought into any of this “Jesus stuff” and prayed, his only prayer would be “let your will be done” and I looked at him and said “well that wouldn’t be wrong,” because it wouldn’t be. No one I know or listen to from afar really understands how prayer works alongside God’s sovereignty (If things that are going to happen are going to happen anyway, why do we need to pray?) but they still pray anyway. That’s the case with a lot of other things, not just prayer. Even though our minds fail us sometimes when we try to balance seemingly contradicting realities, we still submit because we know that there’s a reality that exists outside of what we can understand.

The other day I read about Jesus resurrecting the little girl from death. Talitha cumi, and tears welled-up in my eyes because I realized as if for the first time that unlike what I’m prone to believing, he’s the resurrection and life, not a beating heart and a well-functioning mind. I realized as if for the first time that his deity transcends my ability to reason and find answers to hard questions. Jesus, who’s the essence of all creation and thought, who speaks into being the things that aren’t, that Jesus is the same one who holds the world together by the word of his power. The world will go on if I misspell a word and lose my train of thought.

Grappling with Truth in a Post-Truth Era

I often find myself getting mentally defensive when someone presents certain lines of thinking to me, especially lines of thinking that have to do with politics, explanations for suffering, identity, right vs. wrong, etc. Perhaps it is the person’s visible presumption of my position that rubs me the wrong way. Or perhaps since I am used to being a minority in many different ways I find myself in a state of perpetual resistance. Or maybe simply this tendency is from a desire to always be right and subsequently be the one who sees what others cannot see.

I do know that I don’t want to fit inside the box that people are constructing for me. Because if I do, then directly and indirectly I am hurting myself. If I step in that box, then I begin a gamble on my deepest beliefs – a gamble that has too far-reaching of implications for me. If I step in that box, then I am denouncing someone else – someone else that may represent a core part of me. The plethora of identities that reside in me fight to be represented and defended.

It is from this mindset that I had the following thoughts. I don’t know if this type of mindset would discount the ensuing perspective, but, nevertheless, I think it represents a thought worth some consideration.  

Over two months ago, a thought hit me— if we are living in a post-truth generation (basically where one’s experience is reality and people are expected to take one’s experience at face value), wouldn’t we then expect this acceptance of reality from all angles? Fake news, alternative facts and so forth have been able to thrive under this type of phenomena of post-truth acceptance. I mean, based on how one phrases and interprets an occurrence, could those event retellings that we call fake news also be true? What truly is truth? What is reality?

However, the interesting thing is that we (we as in society, or at least in western/American society) want the individuals sharing these types of alternative facts to be held accountable. We seek out someone to denounce it, someone to give us objective norms. Yet, at the same time we turn around and pursue our own personal post-truth acceptance and then pressure others to accept our experiences as truth.

I found this double-standard to be fascinating.

It became apparent to me that there is still a desire within people for an objective right versus wrong; we want there to be an objective truth of what is good and bad. The catch is that this desire arises mainly when it is convenient for us; when the truth is advantageous, that is when we seek its presence and that is when we demand societal obedience to it.

When I shared this train of thought with my friend, she poignantly put it this way: “People still have a longing for truth because we have the law of God written on our hearts. So no matter how far from truth we get and how much our hearts harden to the truth, our consciences somehow still bears witness to the truth.”

I guess the world and the way we live our lives are full of double standards, so perhaps the perspective I have shared is not necessarily a special point. I guess since I have been feeling like the times we live in are times of life or death that I noticed this particular pattern. I guess it is because I have been feeling that I must feel a certain way or see a certain way in order to validate my humanity that I presented these thoughts. Either way, beyond my own uncertainties and anxieties, I believe the desire for truth and for others to know it and be held accountable demonstrate our true nature and identities. Even though we may lie and fool ourselves, the truth cannot be hidden. It must make itself known.

Unproductive Saturdays Remind Us

This Saturday morning is like any other. The alarm is silent but I wake up at 9, that’s unusually early for a Saturday. I run the list of things I should do in my head, clean the bathroom, wash my hair, maybe cook for the week – but not before I read my bible. I’m in the middle of pouring cold water on a bowl of garri when I remember that I’m supposed to be fasting. I lift the spoon I’m holding to my mouth anyway because it makes no difference now – that fast was supposed to have been from Tuesday to Saturday.

I finally make it back to my bed and splay the bible open on my lap. I’m reading through Titus this week, actually I’ve been reading Titus since last week and I’ve been on chapter 1 for just as long. It looks like I won’t be going any further today because my confusion has lunged me headlong into a 30 minute long monologue about Paul’s political incorrectness. How could he possibly make the generalization that all the Cretans are liars and lazy gluttons? How’s that okay? So that ends the bible reading for today. I make it over to Instagram to make an unimaginative birthday post for a friend. The biggest chunk of my day is spent hoping between Instagram and Facebook, stalking people I’ll probably never meet in real life. I look at the time and it’s 2:30 pm. I feel guilty and wonder how differently my day would’ve been had I spent time in prayer, trying to understand what Paul is actually saying.

Most of my days are like this. A list of shoulds that never materialize into actual dos. Roiling in guilt and then deciding that every bad thing that happens to me is because I didn’t do what I was supposed to have done. I stub my toe or feel a pimple raising its head and it’s because I didn’t spend enough time reading my bible. My ‘quiet time’ has become a barometer for deciding whether or not God is pleased with me, for gauging whether or not he’ll answer my prayers. So on days when I don’t get a full hour in the word, when my prayers sit in my mouth like chalk, unconvincing and bland to my own ears, I can imagine God sitting up on his throne looking at me with a sneer on his face, shaking his head as he looks through the list of misfortunes that are going to befall me because I didn’t pray hard enough to earn his protection from them.

I’ve made quite a stir about hating the “prosperity gospel.” I’ll march up and down and try to speak “sense” into people who think they’ll live long healthy and prosperous lives because of their faith, because they pray long prayers and speak in tongues. To them I say “Come on! Look at Jesus, look at Paul.” But I’m slowly realizing that a part of me still buys into the idea that I can bargain with God – that in exchange for cowries of good behavior, I’ll get to carry home bucketfuls of the kind of Christian life I want to live. The kind of life that’s not boring, that brims over with mountain top experiences and makes you immune to pain and the beckonings of earthly desire.

Dull days still stretch on endlessly though, and life trails in the kind of zigzag way that can’t be mapped neatly onto moralizing blog posts. Not everything makes sense, and even though I’m trying really hard to get to the place where I don’t desire things (because we all know the trick is to be so satisfied in him so that you don’t want them anymore– and then he’ll give them to you), I still have longings, petty and ever-evolving, weighty and at times all-consuming.

In a life at once full and unfulfilled, I’m learning that good behavior doesn’t warrant good reward. And I’ve heard a lot of pastors try really hard to drive home that point. But too many times I’ve heard well meaning teachers say, in an attempt to smother the legalistic tendencies that some of us have, that our righteous deeds don’t matter. That they mean nothing because we’re totally justified. And I disagree. I disagree because even though we’re saved through his mercy and not through any righteousness of our own (Titus 3:5) we’re called to live and walk in a manner worthy of our holy calling (Ephesians 4:1, Colossians 1:10), not because we can ever be deserving of our salvation but because we know him who’s called us. So while it goes without saying that keeping sacraments and checking off boxes doesn’t make us deserving of our salvation, there’s a place for striving to live a life that’s pleasing to God.

Anyway, flesh and blood business is complicated, and sometimes it can be glamorous to recline languidly in the ironic ever-wandering, never coming to any conclusion about what God wants kind of way. But I pray that the Holy Spirit will awaken us to the beauty of resting in God, knowing that nothing we do can earn us his grace, while making us a people who’re not passive about living in a way that’s pleasing to him.

Cool Black Girls Don't Fall

My Freshman year in college, I fell in the dining hall. I was trying really hard to balance a strawberry-filled cup in one hand, while holding on to a bowl of soup perched gently on a takeaway tray. I dropped on my butt right in front of the desserts, and after this sweet boy helped me up he couldn’t resist asking what had happened. Why, was there water on the floor? Did someone accidentally push me? Why did I trip on nothing? Anyway, later that day as I recounted the event to one of my friends, she too, couldn’t understand why I fell. She wanted to know why I, a cool black girl with a certified homegirl badge, had fallen in the dining hall.

I would later come to understand that not only are cool black girls above falling in the dining hall, they also can’t fistpump in frat basements— that’s a dance move for those who can’t really dance, they scream “yaaaaas!” in applause of other cool black girls’ achievements, and most importantly, they can’t show fear. And for a good minute it was fun to try and fit this mold, however absurd it seemed. To live in exclamation marks and move to the rhythm of ‘black’ as choreographed by I know not who.

It was all cute until I realized that there are some things that wouldn’t yield to my will as easily as punctuating sentences in unnecessary 'daaaang's. Like when I would stand in front of my peers to give a presentation, mouth quivering and heart hammering; when fear would choke out my voice in the middle of a class discussion, forcing me to sit in silence, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself because cool black girls can’t be weak— they’re supposed to be sheathed in a solid haze of fortitude and ‘unbothered-ness’. They're supposed to be above fear.

You know who else is supposed to be above fear? People who have a real relationship with God. Those who live in light of eternity. Who have the imagery of grandeur and awe seeped into their bones. Those who laugh and cry in the same breath while talking about king Jesus in hushed tones. I’ve always wanted to be like those people, those whose knowledge of God spares them from fear.

Instead...

This past Sunday I caught myself in a circle of acquaintances, having to offer up a prayer that wasn’t exactly a grace for a meal. And I froze, my tongue sat in my mouth like steel, uncompassionate and obstinate, unwilling to sound dumb. And so as I often do when I feel like I’ve fallen short, I entered into a bid with God to prove that I’m worthy. I would fast and pray like I never had before. I would stay up past midnight to call down shekinah glory. Maybe then my flesh would faint and my eyes would open wider and I would see him like he is and I’ll see man as I should. Maybe then I would be above this kind of sanctification, the kind that strips you bare and reveals your uncoolness in front of everyone. But on my way home I laughed at the idea.

I laughed because the solution to every sin problem is learning to see God as he is. But will I ever see him in his fullness on this side of heaven? No.

An undignified struggle/ The Prayer for Boldness

I’m fairly certain that anxiety is the kind of sin that’s meant to be slaughtered, quickly. Not only because it’s sin, but because it makes you look weak— because it often links arms with cowardice. And as ready as we are to admit that we eat too much or have anger outbursts, no one wants to be accused of being a coward.

Yes, even as I write this, my tendency is not to pray for God to deliver me from fear, instead, it’s to pray against getting ostracized for struggling with something that’s not cool to struggle with. I want it to be a normal struggle, an unstigmatized one. Maybe then I would be more comfortable to share it with the Christians who seem to have it together and not worry about it being reduced to “it goes away as you get older”s. But as I pray for him to release me from this seemingly unrelenting grip, I’m realizing that he wants me to pray for a heart that doesn’t treasure comfort over loving others. A heart that’s willing to speak the truth with a trembling voice. A heart that’s willing to distance itself from the love of others’ approval. A heart that’s ready to inconvenience itself because it loves truth more than it loves pride and a fine reputation.

Anyway, tomorrow, or Sunday I’ll have a friend ask me to pray over her. And I’ll look at her and wonder why I came to church. We’ll hold hands and I’ll probably totter under anxiety and wait for her to pray first and then decide it was a bad idea to have her pray first because there won’t be anything new to say. But even if there’s nothing new to say, I’ll ask for boldness for her too. Because fear doesn’t always look like chattering teeth. Because boldness doesn’t look like a steady voice and a firm grip and an easy manner.

On This Side of Heaven

Commuting in the subway has a way of  exposing you to the underbelly of the city. On most days, I just want to get out, avoid all the smells that seem to morph into a physical presence and walk in the city like they own a part of it. But try as I do, I can’t seem to avoid it because, you see, I live in a funny part of town. The subway is funny and the neighbors are funny and I can’t seem to muster the sympathy to understand any of the humor.

Anyway, I walk past this man to work every morning. And after work he’s always sitting right at the entrance to the subway station, lines seared across his forehead and jaw clamped tightly into his neck. He begs me for a quarter and I think to myself, “Life can be rough.”

* * *

A couple of weeks ago I walked with a friend in the oldest park in the country. It’s all green and the giggles of children create a wholesome and happy cacophony. It’s Thursday and my hair is acting like it often does on Sunday mornings right after I untwist it. I’m wearing white and my friend breaks into prose about the amphibious duck boat, her hair coiffed into sturdy puffy pigtails. The duck boat is “cool,” I say. A day later I find out that whole families have been splintered apart by the duck boat. One of the survivors, a woman, had lost nine members of her family. “Eeeii Awurade!” I knead my body into my bed and groan. Life can be cruel.

* * *

It’s Monday and my coworker laments how utterly Monday it feels. She’s right. Monday hangs gloomily in the office like a frown. And along it the chill breeze from the air- conditioner dries my nose and makes me thirsty. That Monday also happens to be the warmest day of the week for me. The following day, the icy hands of womanhood wrap themselves around my waist and send painful ripples through my body. I can’t go to work and so I anchor my back on a heating pad and drink hot peppermint tea and beg my body to melt into submission. In the bathroom mirror, I catch a glimpse of tiny burn marks ballooning into ugly black masses along my lower back. I’m startled that my body could rise up and declare war against me like it does. Every month.

* * *

I’m on the phone with my mother and she asks me how I’m doing. “I’m well,” I say. And so with that permission, she tells me about her family. Her mother is well and so is her sister. Her five year-old nephew is a song and her forty-seven year-old brother is a happy task. She funnels them money every month and that’s her way of helping. I get off the phone and realize it’s her way of coping, too. I realize that giving, to her, is a salve for all the open wounds.

I think to myself “Maybe I should give.” I should give to the man at the corner of the street without questioning whether or not he’ll spend the money on food. Give in spite of myself. Lavish the angsty teenagers on the train with smiles and give in to the desire to hold my nose in revolt against the nauseating smells. I should give-in to the desire to mourn. Weep the finiteness and already-overness of this life. Weep the unnaturalness of families ripped apart by death and those yet to be ripped apart by life. Groan and lament the fact that both healthy and weak bodies breakdown. Well-functioning bodies bleed. Here is life on this side of heaven. But I mourn with hope. I mourn with hope because He gave first.

I find that my understanding of goodness is so finite, it fits neatly into a two-by-two inch box. It also forgets too easily. It forgets that for every one duck boat accident, there’s a million automobiles that swim the ocean and earth unscathed. That for every one person who sits outside the subway station begging for money, there’s a million who lift hand to mouth, filling their bellies before the day is over. For every body afflicted with a malady, there’s a million that heal and recover.

I’m young, with only twenty-three years tucked underneath me, and in that time I’ve seen more joy than I’ve seen pain. I’ve seen laughter and tears that spill over from happiness than I’ve seen sorrow. I’ve seen many days I didn’t want to forget and lived in a body that wants to be lived in. I’ve seen God’s grace in difficulty and in ease. There’s also much I can’t understand. Not the pain that assails this earth and the people in it, not the fact that this good God doesn’t fit my image of the round-bellied, white bearded, candy dispensing father who protects his children from all kinds of suffering. But you know what I also don’t understand? I don’t understand why he extends grace to me like he does, without measure. I don’t understand why he’s mindful of me, dusty old me. So when I’m given to question his goodness, I remind myself that none of the good I’ve seen is deserved. Not one.

Are We Called To Judge?

I pride myself on my unfusiness. But it’s an unsustainable state to be in. Plans go sideways and life gets hectic and complaints happen— more often than they should. And then you’re not unfussy anymore because smiling makes you feel like a fraud. I’ve realized that I’m not the only one who prides myself on being unfussy however. In fact there seems to be a movement of easygoing-ness sweeping through my generation. Our holy language gets reduced to trite sayings and encounters with God that send shivers down our spines are described as “fun”, and meals are as “great” as are mountains, and God.

I feel like this wave of easygoing-ness that’s sweeping through our generation is supposed to be an affront to the judgmentalism we associate with all “religiosity” and regulation. We hate litanies and sacraments and so we’re willing to throw out babies with the dirty bathwater and our message becomes all about the “love of God”.

This topic has been put on my radar because I was recently confronted for not being easygoing enough. What do you know, I’m a harbinger of darkness and doom because I don’t mind making a case for tacos when asked to decide between Indian and Mexican food. I should say “I’m fine with whatever.” Because that’s the will of God for my life— indecisiveness. It’s all silly until we realize that we’ve confused any type of assertiveness for the kind of rigidity that calls to mind the dystopian fundamentalism shown in the Handmaid’s Tale. We’re afraid to make a case for our faith and we pray that people will never question our stand on controversial topics because then we’ll have to actually make a stand.

It’s an irony because in making the decision to flee from a certain kind of perceived dogma, we actually make the judgement that a) anything that appears remotely [fill in the blank] must certainly be dogmatic and b) we make the judgment that that kind of dogmatism is not worthy of our time.

What Does The Bible Say?

We’re called to exercise good judgment everyday (1 Corinthians 2:15). We can’t expose ourselves to everything under the sun in the name of “open-mindedness” because then we put ourselves on the slippery slope to temptation and sin. Not everything is good and we should learn to discern, and not be afraid to follow the right path even when it contradicts popular belief. We’re also called to refrain from judging others(Matthew 7:1-3), and it’s in moments like this that I wish I knew Hebrew so that I could distinguish between the words used in the different instances.

When We're Not Called to Judge

Jon Bloom has written about this topic on Desiringgod.com and in his words:

"We must not judge “the hidden . . . purposes of the heart” of other Christians based on their decisions, actions, perspectives, words, or personality that concern us if those things themselves are not explicitly sinful (1 Corinthians 4:5). We must not assume sin if we suspect sin, given how biased our suspicions can be."

We’re called to not pass judgement based on appearances(John 7:24). We all have a tendency to see more into others’ actions than we should. Someone’s reserved nature might be mistaken for haughtiness and their discomfort around crowds has to mean they don’t like people. People who only eat vegetables must surely think they’re better than those who eat meat, and those who listen to non-mainstream music must think they’ve seen the face of God. That’s not your call to make.

When We’re Called to Judge

When we see a believer walking in sin, we’re called to correct them(1 Corinthians 5:12 & 1 Corinthians 5:3). “But we’re all sinners” you might say, yes we’re all sinners, who should understand the magnitude of our calling to live holy lives(1 Peter 1:15). If we find ourselves in habitual sin and excuse ourselves by saying that we’re not perfect, we fail to understand what Jesus did in dying for us on the cross. It means we’re comfortable with nailing him to the cross everyday and holding him up to contempt (Romans 6:2 & Hebrews 6:4-6).

We're Not to Condemn

We must walk the careful line between judging rightfully and condemning others. We’re to call others out for their sin, so that they may be saved from eternal damnation. As James says in James 5:19-20, a person who’s corrected from wandering from the truth is saved from death and covered from a multitude of sins. We’re not called, however, to make the decision that only God can make on the judgment day in deciding who’ll spend eternity with him and who’ll spend eternity in hell. So let’s be slow to pass judgment but let’s not withhold truth out of fear of offending others. When we do that we show that we fear man more than we fear God.

An Ordinary Life of Faithful Obedience

A couple of years ago I attended a send-off party for graduating Harvard students with my peers from a campus chorus group. I remember as I sat there, uncomfortable from having rested my elbows for too long on a bare wooden table, I looked on as young men and women sung each other praises about “holding down the fort” and keeping themselves sane through the rigor that we all imagine these sorts of schools to be. I remember rolling my eyes at the said-too-often “you’re going to change the world” and other sweet dandy things that threatened to give cavities if listened to for too long, but reminded me too much of what I’d heard growing up.

We like to be at the receiving end of pomp and praise, at least I know I do. And when you grow up believing that you’re destined for a life of greatness, which probably embodies some variation of rich and famous or world leader of some kind, you’re in for a major letdown when you realize that most people-- the smartest, most charismatic, and most faith-filled believers and unbelievers alike, will live quite ordinary lives that will probably not draw any applause from the world.

A counter-cultural life does not mean a Holy life

I was talking to a friend the other day about how our transitions into the “real world” have been since we left school. We spoke wistfully about the food-- the fact that there always seemed to be so much, too much of it. We heaved a collective sigh of relief because we no longer have to twist our tongues around impassioned activist jargon in an effort to appear “woke”. But mostly we begged each other for answers about how we’re supposed to be forces for change in our communities if most of our days are spent squinting at computer screens in over air-conditioned offices. We both wondered if this uneventful but ordinary existence is a test of how much we can endure or if it’s a challenge from God to step away from a life of comfort and security. The reality of the mundane lives we live stands in sharp contrast against the “radical” Christian lives we both imagined we’d be called to.

I think we both imagined that at some point we would see in a vision that we should shave our heads and move to a jungle in Papua New Guinea to share the gospel to nomadic peoples who’ve never heard it. However, it comes as a rude awakening that on most days, the most exciting thing that happens to me is successfully getting my unruly twist-out to mold itself against my palm. And that’s okay. The lives called to be spent on the frontiers of mission fields are few and far-in between. I’m not called to that right now but I’m called to be faithful to my present.

As I think about what it means to be faithful in this present season, here’s what God has been showing me:

Obedience: Keeping In Step With The Spirit

God delights in our obedience more than he does in our eagerness to sell everything to live a life of servitude to an unreached population. That’s a very comforting and freeing thing to know, but it also forces me to look at the topic of obedience more closely. It forces me to examine my own heart to see how well I’m obeying.

When I look at the specifics of Saul’s disobedience in 1 Samuel 15, I’m tempted to comfort myself with the thought that my disobedience won’t ever be as hefty as his. After all, the closest I come to thinking of myself as leading anyone is when I’m the first person in line for the mini procession to the communion table on Sundays. But as I examine my heart and find myself in conversation with faithful friends, I’m realizing that disobedience is often found in the passivity. The willingness to let dirt and grime accumulate and char our hearts into an unrecognizable dullness that can no longer reflect the light as God wants us to. It’s the willingness to look at unworthy things that numb our ability to discern as we should. So then walking in obedience means fighting to see as God wants me to. It means being serious about fighting sin and pursuing holiness. It means not allowing myself to coast in the name of “just resting”.

I’m realizing that at this stage in my life, living a life of radical obedience simply means entering numbers into spreadsheets and sending a copious amount of emails and resisting the urge to doodle on my notepad as I sit through meetings about topics I don’t understand. And so I ask God for a heart of gratitude-- to be reminded that the tedious tasks, the inconveniences, the desire to do more, are all gifts. And I pray against the lie that deceives me into thinking that I’m too important to sit through the drudgery of it all.

Fighting Pride

As I find myself being lifted into the air with lofty thoughts about how to live my life in a way that’ll leave a dent in the universe, I remind myself that my life is but a mist. As the adage goes, we’re here today and gone tomorrow. If I fall in love with the idea of making an impact so much and lose my love for God, it would have been for nothing.

On The Subject of Rest

My pastor has been preaching a series on the subject of rest. Naturally the topic seems to be a permission for folk to embrace the kind of easy living the Summer season brings. But I don’t know what to make of the topic because I’ve always embraced easy living at all seasons. Friends are wont to encourage me with words like, “You’re such a Mary” because unlike many of them, I’ve always been more at home standing on the sidelines looking on as their lives brimmed over with activity.

I had a friend visit a couple of days ago and after not being able to reach an agreeable consensus on whether we should order Mexican or Indian, we decided to cook. As a dutiful host I took on the bulk of putting the meal together and tasked her with the harmless chore of stirring the batter. I looked on as she stirred a milky concoction that was getting lumpier with each rotation and so deciding I was not having lumpy mac-and-cheese for dinner, I carefully steered the ladle out of her hand and started moving it in the right direction. When she teased me on how type A I was acting, I retorted with a quick “No you’re type A!”. Because she is in fact, type A.

My friend is one to keep a planner and journal faithfully and stick to a budget and go to bed at 10 to wake up at 6. On the contrary, most of my undergraduate career was spent in an Art studio hauling fresh oil paint straight from their tubs onto canvas because I didn’t have the patience to draw lines and then be expected to fill in those lines steadily with a brush. We’re different.

Maybe I’ve changed, or maybe the rhythm of working a 9-to-5 job is finding my hands steadier, but these days the impatience that used to masquerade itself in ‘bohemian abandon’ is coming out in more appealing ways. I’ve suddenly taken to scheduling meticulously and planning everything from time spent answering emails to what hairband I’ll wear on what day of the week. Living life with more intentionality is nothing to scoff at, however for me, this level of micromanagement reveals a restless heart. I don’t want to fumble through life and somehow I’ve convinced myself that seeing into the details will protect me from misfortune. That’s a lie-- I know, but it’s forcing me to reckon with the fact that I, like everybody living under the sun, very much needs to strive to enter God’s rest.

At the Root of My Restlessness

In examining my own heart I’ve found that my restlessness belies my unbelief. Yes, I know that God is sovereign over the minutest details of my life. And as such, I earnestly pray for the rain to stop and the baby wailing in the seat next to me on the train to shush and for my skin to clear up. I have a lot of faith in those prayers. I have a harder time throwing up my hands in surrender about other matters concerning my sanctification.This unbelief is a distrust in God’s ability to be a sovereign Lord who’s also tender and sympathetic. I know that His primary goal is my sanctification, and while I have the firm assurance that He’ll present me faultless before the joy of His glory, I don’t know what the preening process leading up to that day will look like. I bite my nails in anxiety as I think about the fact that some have lost their heads in the process.

Learning to Value the Infinitely Valuable

God is revealing to me that my rest is found in my ability to see Him as infinitely worthy. When I know that I have all because I have Him, I won’t be driven to lose my peace chasing after other things-- be it a job or friends or people’s approval or even life itself. My rest is not only found in knowing that He’ll do what He says He will, it’s also found in knowing that He’s enough. That should He choose to take away everything in order to give what’s infinitely more valuable, Himself, I’ll be good (typing these words make my fingers tremble). Yes He’s a sovereign Lord who’ll accomplish what He’s purposed in me, but He’s also a tender and merciful Father who’ll not deal me more than I can bear.

Worshiping As A Way to Find Rest

I don’t know what tiredness looks like for you, but for me on most days it looks like disinterest and apathy. When I’m feeling burdened with my own problems-- and often that sense of burden eludes me, I can’t feel for anyone or anything. Usually what jolts me out of this stupor is time spent with God in praise and worship.When I lift up my heart through songs of worship, the Holy Spirit recenters my heart on God and aligns my head with my heart to feel what I know-- that He’s God.This is not a prescription on how you should go about unburdening your own heart, but I can confidently say that the process will include identifying what restlessness looks like for you, and clamoring against it by spending time with God. A life of rest is after-all, a life spent in constant communion with Him.

When Being Called “Quiet” Feels Like an Attack

My desk is nestled right at the intersection of our boisterous, redheaded CEO’s office, and the desks of five other colleagues who like me have not yet earned the titles to be awarded private office spaces. The central location is a natural invitation to listen in on passing conversations. But I often choose not to participate in many of these, why?... because I prefer my Spotify playlist.

A lunch invitation, an inquisitive “Precious, how about you?”, a “How are you settling in?”, and a dozen other questions that would usually make me feel loved seem to put me on the edge these days. Whenever I hear another too curious inquiry from a coworker who’s taken it upon him/herself to get me out of my “shell”, I’m reminded that being in a shell is not the preferred state of being.

I don’t think I’m introverted. Neither do I believe I’m extroverted. I relish good company but also enjoy to hear myself think from time to time. Sometimes I say way too much and don’t listen enough; other times I simply have nothing to say and that’s okay, I guess, if you live in a society that doesn’t uphold extraversion to an obnoxiously high esteem. But I do live in one such society. And now that I’ve started working, it’s become very very important to laugh at co-workers’ jokes and say good morning and goodnight more than is necessary and offer to grab coffee even if it’s the last thing I want to do. But that doesn’t run the whole gamut. There’s also the part about actually feeling like a failure when people want to know how many new friends I’ve made since I moved to Boston and I realize I would be lying even if I said “one”.

When Being Called “Quiet” Feels Like an Attack

The other day at work I sat squinting at my computer screen, scrunching up my face in a way I often do when I want to ward off uninvited banter. It seems to work most of the time but this time the figure approaching me was relentless. As I looked up and locked eyes with the figure, my CEO, she stopped at my desk and to my amusement and disappointment said, “Precious… you’re so quiet”  and then as if attempting to ease the impact those words heaped added, “It’s a gift.” Behind the lips that’d by now been stretched into a thin smile, I snickered “Please!”

For something that happens to me often, you would think I’d have a whole shelf on which to stow away these kinds of exchanges.You might also be thinking,“But it’s not that serious.” But that’s where you’re wrong because it is in fact that serious.

We live in a world where phrases like, “she’s full of life” and “she knows how to command a room,” are often used to describe boisterous women. So being called quiet does feel more like an indictment on my character than it feels like a mere observation on my reluctance to speak.

When Socializing Becomes a God

In College, I made no fare about my unenthusiasm for socializing. Even then I knew my frame and knew my limited capacity for staying faithful to friendships. So I nurtured few with young women who fed me with truth, patted my back with encouragement, and nudged my feet forward with rebuke when I needed it. When God would enlarge that circle throughout my time in school, I was grateful for an overflowing cup. Times have changed though and I’m increasingly feeling the pull to tend and pour into new relationships. I’m also realizing that this new pull might be something more sinister masquerading as virtue. It’s the desire to be somebody. To be known.

I realize this most on the days when my life feels inconsequential because the only thing I said all day was a “yes” in agreement with my 55 year old roommate that palm-oil is carcinogenic(is it?). The quietness drives me restless because I can’t help but to think of all the things I could be doing to disturb it. It’s a questioning, “how can my life be this still when the world out there is anything but?” But mostly it’s a condemning sense of emptiness that comes from feeling like I’m not doing enough-- that there’s a whole world out there waiting to be known, so many stories to listen to, and so many experiences to share in. And I’m missing out.

To be filled In Him

Meditating on what it means to be filled-up in God comes as an undressing out of the lies I’ve groomed myself into over these past 23 years. I’m learning that to be full does not not mean to have the margins of my calendar jotted in with things to do. Nor does it mean having something new to share every time someone asks me how I’m doing. Instead, it’s knowing who I’m lorded by and submitting to Him wholly and faithfully. It means loosening my grip on the empty ideologies that have crusted my eyes with dirt and condemn me every time I fail to uphold them. It means holding fast to Him in whom the whole body is nourished(Colossians 2: 19).

If there’s any way I can describe the freedom that comes from being known by God, I would say it feels sturdily weightless. I know that no amount of friendships and conversations I have will yield anything similar to the bond that exists between Him and I. And that knowledge frees and grounds me. That knowledge gives me rest.  

At the Altar of Romantic Idolatry

Since I moved to Boston a couple of months ago I’ve found myself looking forward to Sundays more than usual. I’m not exactly fond of waking up at an obnoxiously early hour in the morning, or dashing down the streets to curious stares as I try to catch the train to make it in time for the 9 O’clock service. What I do enjoy is the fluttery feeling in my stomach as I look around the sanctuary and wonder who among these people might become my lifelong friend. I also look forward to the only day of the week I give myself permission to wear a dusty-gold shimmer of eyeshadow in the inner-corners of my eyes without feeling like I’m trying too hard. Go figure!

A couple of weeks ago I found myself skulking into the building a little late. I sat next to a Kenyan lad who had a few too many questions to ask about my “background” and proceeded to extend an indirect invitation for me to move to San Francisco where he’s headed to work after he graduates. I smiled, and head cocked to the side said, “Who knows?” If you think that “head cocked to the side” description is a little too clear for something that happened weeks ago, you should see all the various renditions my memory has served me over those weeks. In the same breath I remarked “Who knows?” I had changed the trajectory of my career into something that’ll make more sense in the Bay area— UI/UX design, pictured the delightful chocolate faces of a Ghanaian-Kenyan mixture of babies, and had exchanged my last name for an unknown, probably multisyllabic surname I now ached to know. My doom.

It’s a feeling I know all too well. I’ve always envied girls who can risk multiple dates and spare a kiss and still be unsure about how they feel. In High School I had a crush on a guy I had never spoken to, for 2 years. I knew his birthday, knew how many siblings he had, and when he got arrested for substance possession I was tempted to join the #freeDeen frenzy on my Facebook timeline (seriously!). Whenever I confess this boy-crazy part of myself to people they think it’s cute. But being deceived by a wicked heart is not. The pain of deferred hope is real and shattering.

My relationship with God has gradually become the magnetic force that’s heaving me away from this quicksand of fantasy and doom. When I feel most lavished with love, when God’s doting on me feels more visceral and less like an abstract disembodied concept, when my heart doesn’t remember what it feels like to be lost in anything other than the grandeur of His love, I actually forget what it feels like to want a guy’s attention. But life happens. And disenchantment ensues. I find myself fighting harder than ever to be quickened with zeal for fellowship and some of the simple things that I once adored about my union with Christ. And in my quest to fill this chasm, I entertained the idea of a potential relationship with a guy I’ve met only twice in my entire life.

I hoped for things I had no business hoping for. I crafted this faultless idol of a man, who would rescue me from my anti-climatic life in a city I still don’t know how to make my own. He would help me carve out my own space within it. He would take me to the ICA after-hours and I would finally eat some of that “good food” Boston is supposedly known for. The thrill of anticipation is intoxicating and I love to gulp it in mouthfuls. It was all very exciting— giving in to the flesh and neglecting the Spirit’s admonition. I would find myself exclaiming out loud “Jesus help me!” but I knew I was loving every bit of dreaming up this fantasy. I neglected the counsel of the Holy Spirit, created a false image for myself, and bowed down before it in my own way (Ex. 20:1–3). To borrow the language used in Jeremiah 2:13, I forsook the fountain of living water and hewed out a broken cistern for myself. It’s evil and treasonous and there’s no way around it.

Now as I find myself reeling from the anguish of unfulfilled expectation, eyes dimmed with disappointment, and insides turning with humiliation from perceived rejection, I experience the mercy of God for His redeemed. I’ve been meditating on Psalm 107, and looking at the steadfast love of God for those who once shunned him in favor of worthless idols. He delivers them from their distress when they repent and cry out to him. As I find myself licking my self-inflicted wounds, knowing fully well that I deserve all the pain, I cry out to God. He satisfies the longing soul, and the hungry soul he fills with good things (Psalm 107:9). I praise Him for seasons like this because it reveals in my heart a deep longing for something no human can ever satisfy, and that’s Him.