The Way I See You

“People think pleasing God is all God care about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.”― Alice Walker, The Color Purple

My Benjifriend is down sick today, so I had to stay home with him and miss out on church. As Michael can tell you, I took this news rather...immaturely because I didn’t want to miss service. I like going to church. It is a happy place for me, full of good things and good people. People that do not want to have themselves or their families exposed to my wee babby’s biological warfare. So, I will sequester myself this Sunday feeding him the medicines of my youth--7-up, reruns of Price is Right, and saltines--and bring him back when he is safe to be around other people, and I will use this quiet opportunity to listen to my Ludovico Einaudi and write in peace. (If you want to hear it as I wrote it, listen to "I Giorni"--https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uffjii1hXzU.)

I am an optimist by nature. I want and choose to see the beauty and goodness in the world; it feeds the hope that lives inside me, the whisper that says, “Wait. The best is yet to come.”

When I was younger and my faith was the sum total of all my parts (a place that has slipped through my fingers to make room for life; a place I have been trying to get back to), my heart’s desire was to see as He sees, to view the world not through the distorted vision of opinion but in truth and reality because it was as He made it. As many that have gone before me, I found the most pure, tangible connection through nature. I lay in the grass, feeling the heat the sun had lent the ground seep into my cold body. I imagined it was healing me, dragging doubts and fears and darkness down and dispersing it far below where I didn’t have to feel it anymore. At just the right time, when my skin was glowing golden from the warmth of the day, a breeze would stir and carry me away, away with the leaves and the caterpillars on their silken strings and the motes of dust that made the air sparkle like glitter.

God intended so much more than this for us. We know that; we can feel it, read it, experience the separation that sin caused. It is easy to forget that He meant more for nature, too.

He made this world to walk in with us. He made it and named it good because it pleased Him. It was a paradise He wanted to share. I can envision how eagerly He would anticipate the delight on our face when we saw for the first time the snow falling on the mountains, a hummingbird sipping from honeysuckle, the ocean washing up on the shore. In His garden, I could have bear friends named Otso and Mischa that I could hug and feed sweet potatoes and nap with in the sun.

I would have really liked that.

The Bible says that Adam and Eve disobeyed and ate the fruit, setting off the chain of events that has somehow arrived in a place where Andie does not get her potato-eating pet bears in the sun. Lady days suck and we have to toil and work and things are hard and they suck and what could there possibly be to be hopeful for?

To me, salvation is a not a story that is finished yet. Our brains hate things unfinished, which is why it wakes you up in the middle of the night repeating “This is the Song that Doesn’t End” because why doesn’t it end?! Brain likes to be able to close the box and say, “this is complete”--this story is done, the task is finished, the song is over. It bothers us endlessly to leave things open because it is still waiting, waiting to be attended to. It would be so much more comfortable for us if the Bible was self-contained, starting with “in the beginning…” and ended with “Amen”. Close the book and put it on the shelf; it is done. It relieves us of the burden of becoming.

It is so exhausting to be unfinished.

If that was all there was, the stories related to us of God working in the men and women of the Old Testament to culminate in the birth, life, and death of Jesus Christ, everything since is just an reverberation of that defining moment. We are living in the aftershocks of God’s dramatic crescendo, and thus relieved of being or becoming anything more than what we are. Why bother; Jesus said himself, “it is finished” (John 19:30). Show’s over, time to go home. Everything since is inconsequential, our lives and our actions amount to nothing, and nothing matters.

Nature shows us that it’s not over. He still cares; He’s still trying—He is still making something out of nothing, propelling us toward something more. The story didn’t end at the cross, but started there and continues on through today and into infinite tomorrows. If Jesus was sent to bring us back, then we still matter enough to try for.

So many of our opinions of ourselves can be so brutal. How is it so instinctual to tear ourselves down? When the voice in our head is dogged and determinedly repeating how we are not good enough, not strong enough, not smart enough, not brave enough. We just aren’t enough.

The part born inside is there to remind us that we weren’t meant to walk alone. God always meant to be right there beside us. He meant friends and family to love and surround us, to encourage and support one another. Our souls remember and remind us—

We weren’t meant to walk alone.

How joyous it is that partnership! How wonderful it is that He has never left us, will never leave us! I have taken great comfort in that.

As my relationship with God grew, it stretched to encompass humanity in my desire to see as He sees. We are separate and apart from creation, made special by His design, but we are also part of it. We are exhibits of His glory, too. It is difficult to see His face reflected in the actions of man, but I had to remember—in the Bible, we saw God’s chosen people turn away again and again. It was in the individual stories where we saw the most change, God working directly on hearts to better the situation for the group. It was through David, through Rahab, through Moses and Elijah and Deborah and Esther, that God led and delivered His people, and it is through those stories that we see His intent for our lives.

God loves us so much it hurts. I truly believe that. He’s so proud of us. I feel like if He had a wallet, He’d have our picture in it and show it to everybody at the grocery store. “See that Andie? She’s got FOUR kids now, can you believe it?” He isn’t sitting up there grouching about how little we visit or fuming that we messed up again. He’s hoping I got the sunshine He sent today, that it made me think of Him and brought a little smile to my face because He loves my smile.

God’s reality is that He made all of these people and He loves them, so He wants us to love them, too. I mean, He may have mentioned once or twice. That attitude  is what I strive hard for every day.

It’s hard though. Sometimes my emotional, opinionated side flares up and clouds my view of a person, leading to arguments with the Voice in my head I call God that go like this:

I don’t like them.

I made them.

Well, you did a bad job. I hate them.

I love them.

...okay, fine. I don’t hate them. But they need to be smacked.

About as much as you need to be smacked?

….that was uncalled for -generic grumbling-

Since first joining social media, I have wanted to make a post encouraging us all to share our genuine opinions of one another. In the idealized, romanticized version in my head, it would a platform for people to share how much they admired other people, how they wanted to know them better or had little crushes on them; fun things that show you how others viewed you.

My hesitancy was born in that more realistic voice in the back of my head, the one that has seen all the “Roast Me” posts on Reddit.

Do not ask for honesty if you are not ready and willing to hear the ugly, untarnished truth. My hope would be that people recognize that we all have so many negative thoughts about ourselves that we don’t need anyone to add to that. As I cannot control the direction the post will take (likely it will die on arrival; most posts that require interaction are bypassed all together), let’s not take any unnecessary chances, shall we? All I have power over is my own opinions.

Through this screen that I have carefully constructed, using what I believe of God based on my personal relationship with Him, I see you.

To me, you are the most interesting person. I love to hear stories an out your life, your family, what you wanted to be when you grew up and what your favorite things are and why you think and feel the way you do. I want to see who you are, the things that drive you, inspire you. I could listen to you all day.

I’ve seen you struggle, and my heart ached for you—I see how hard you are trying. I’m so impressed with the strength and dignity you have displayed, handling what life has thrown at you. You are so tough, so strong, so brave. I don’t have to worry about you because I know that you can overcome any obstacle, but I am going to be here to help you in any way that I can because we are stronger together.

I have prayed for you, through sickness and hard times, but in the good times, too. I pray that you feel safe and loved and happy, that you see God working in your life and it brings a smile to your face. I pray that you have everything you need, and some things you want as well. My heart is so filled with hope for you, because I know:

The best is yet to come.

—Andie

Daydreams

It is my dream to own a home one day.

When I am laying awake at night trying to relax enough to sleep, I think about what it will look like. What colors I will paint the walls, how I will decorate. What it would be like to have holidays there, and that feeling of “coming home” the kids will have when they’re grown and visit.

I joke with Michael that my decorating style is “teddy bears wearing dresses”, but I could better describe it as Parsonage, that mid-century time capsule, intangible and universal grandparent home.

It is always warm and there is so much sunlight streaming through the curtains. You can see the little floating particles in the air and it’s kind of magical, like everything has slowed down around you. There is a sitting room near the front door with that couch that looks like it has never been sat on, and every item looks like it has a story to tell. The furniture and decor is a mishmash from all decades, but all of it is so lovingly cared for--they were bought not for a season, but for a lifetime. This is a place where prayer happens, where faith is practiced. It has a feel of Sanctuary, a place of calm and quiet and rest, light and life and love.

To me, that is what home is supposed to be. A peaceful place.

I think it has a lot to do with my particular view of God. Since I was a little girl, I have been inexplicably drawn to the idea of The Fountain. I remember when I was about seven or eight, we were singing the song “There’s a Fountain Free” as the invitation at my hometown church. It was in the old auditorium because we hadn’t built the new one yet, so it was all that red on red on red--red bench-style pews, thin red carpet, like you had been swallowed whole by some Lovecraftian beast. That was my favorite color. We were singing this song and it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me:

There’s a fountain free

Tis for you and me

Let us haste oh haste to its brink.

My grandmother has this voice that is legendary within our world. It is clear and strong, unmistakable. When she sang, I imagined angelic choirs in white robes and golden glow, trumpets, the whole nine yards. She was singing this song and it hit a line: Thirsty soul, hear the welcome call--tis a fountain open for all.

I don’t know why it struck me so hard. This was post-cat-exploding on me so I was familiar with the concept of death and heaven, though I had not yet lost anyone close to me. (I come from long-lived stock.) There wasn’t a definitive time that my parents sat down with me and we had the life and death talk like you see in sitcoms; more of an ongoing exposure through church that beyond this life, there was something waiting.

New places and new experiences are not things I actively seek out, so even then, this idea was terrifying. The beautiful language used to describe it, from pearly gates to golden streets. Growing up in a modest home with a modest family, these were not concepts I was actively familiar with. It sounded foreign and massive and intimidating. I pictured dirty and scraggly me not being able to fit into this heaven, too plain, too simple, too ...little.

To hear it described as a fountain, I suppose ostensibly I was supposed to combine it with the other ideals and envisioned a grand water feature a la the Trevi fountain, something awe-inspiring, but I didn’t. To little seven or eight year old Andie, the “living stream with a crystal gleam” was more private, natural, a place where maybe I could fit in, too.

God is often thought in these vast, monumental terms. We think of Him as the creator of the heavens and the cosmos; He who holds the earth in his hands and made the seas and the skies, caused the mountains to rise and can command them to fall again. This big, big God that does big, big things.The perpetual runt of the litter, I didn’t feel like I could fit into that version of God because I am not big big people, capable of big big things. He made the little things too, though.

He crafted bumblebee wings and strands of hair, specks of dust. He made many and much, and little and enough. It is in His power to fashion an infinite heaven of mansions, gilted roads and jewel-encrusted entrance. And if He could do all that, He could make a place for one dirty, scraggly, small Andie.

I am not in any kind of hurry to buy a house. There is no urgency--I watch my house-flipping shows, kind of a little sad as they rip out beautiful floral wallpaper and carpet that looks like it would be so soft under my feet. They make the homes a little colder in my eyes, more impersonal, with granite counter tops and open floor plans, and rob it of all the cozy warmth of it. My tastes are far from fashionable, but I am patient--trends change, and it’ll come back around again, I am sure. Michael and I go on dates to open houses, holding hands and talking about the house we will grow old together in. And at night, I have my daydreams of planting a garden, reading in the sunlight, decorating Christmas trees, making memories.

There is no urgency because I trust that God is making a place for me. Not just a place beyond, the fountain of rest, but somewhere earthly. Every time we have needed a place, God has provided--when we got evicted from our dank and dingy apartment, there was a beautiful yellow house on a quiet street for us; when it was time to say goodbye to Lubbock, we were blessed to find a rental right by Michael’s new work in Abilene. Proximity lead us to our new church home, a building that embodies everything I dream about--the sunlight and the peace, the feeling of belonging--and a church family that has blessed us so greatly, supported and loved us through our crazy lives and crazy family.

So I can wait. Because I know when it happens, it will be better than I could have ever dreamed. --Andie