Teetering on the Edge of the Nest

Painting Pictures of Egypt
by Sara Groves

I don’t want to leave here
I don’t want to stay
It feels like pinching to me either way
The places I long for the most
Are the places where I’ve been
They are calling after me like a long lost friend

It’s not about losing faith
It’s not about trust
It’s all about comfortable
When you move so much
The place I was wasn’t perfect
But I had found a way to live
It wasn’t milk or honey
But then neither is this

I’ve been painting pictures of Egypt
Leaving out what it lacked
The future seems so hard
And I want to go back
But the places that used to fit me
Cannot hold the things I’ve learned
And those roads closed off to me
While my back was turned

The past is so tangible
I know it by heart
Familiar things are never easy to discard
I was dying for some freedom
But now I hesitate to go
Caught between the promise
And the things I know

If it comes too quick
I may not recognize it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?
If it comes too quick
I may not appreciate it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?

The words of this song have echoed through my head several times a day since coming home.

The places I long for the most
Are the places where I’ve been
They are calling after me like a long lost friend...

The past… I’m missing Greenville: the people, as well as the comfortable routine I had settled into. I know it wasn’t perfect, but the memories are beautiful. And that’s what it is now… a memory.

I don’t want to leave here, I don’t want to stay
It feels like pinching to me either way...

The present… mixed into the past… This place is like a time capsule gone bad. Everything is the same, but nothing is the same. I don’t fit in this town anymore. I am even struggling to find my place in this house after being “on my own” for the last year.

I was dying for some freedom, but now I hesitate to go
Caught between the promise and the things I know

The future… I’m fearful of the future. I know that what’s ahead is what I’ve always dreamed of, almost like envisioning my Promised Land. Even though I’m excited, I am so scared. What if what they say is true? What if I’m not responsible enough to keep myself focused throughout the next four + years? What if I have made poor relational decisions that will set me up for distraction and failure? What if I don’t have the strengths that are needed to become a doctor? What if it’s just too hard and I want to quit?

Growing pains hurt.

Dear self,

Maybe this is the nudge over the edge of the nest. Spread your little wings, tiny sparrow. The drop over the edge looks like a long fall, but your Father has instilled within you the means with which to fly.

Love,

catherine

Sterilized (Summer 2009)

“What does it mean to feel?”

This question was the basis for a discussion that my adviser and I had while sitting at a corner table in a small restaurant in the mountain town of Magdalena, Guatemala. Dr. Dunkley claimed that our society was in the process of “sterilizing” its members. As the conversation went on, I slowly began to see what he meant. We were being exposed to so much sickness, labor, and overall poverty in Guatemala. We couldn’t help but contrast it to our homeland. As Dr. D reminded me, in our comfortable American middle class society, we do not have to feel hot if we don’t want to. We can switch on the air conditioning and be comfortable.  If it is winter and we are cold, we simply turn on the heat. We have the means to keep the cold food cold and the hot food hot, and can even purchase it ready to eat. We can't even wait for someone to make us a decent meal, so we populate fast food restaurants. We demand entertainment- someone to make us laugh, someone to keep us enthralled, whether in our classes, sermons, or relaxation. We can’t do it by ourselves anymore. We can’t feel depressed so we alter our neurotransmitters so that we can feel happy. We buy on credit because we want to want something. We want to have something, and we want it now.


What would it be like to wait for something? Would that make its presence more valuable? What would it be like to work for something? No, not just to put in your time, but to actually sweat and go without? What would it be like to experience joy after a season of depression?

Some know the answers to those questions, some hope they never have to, so they keep on sterilizing their lives. It’s not their fault, really. It’s the way things are.

Or is it?


Our Guatemalan friends are so happy, despite their poverty. They value what little possessions they have, but they welcome strangers into their homes with joy and give freely.

They are in the opposite of a sterile environment. There are police with machine guns in front of their shops. There are bacteria and parasites in their water. They must often wait for basic things, like education or milk. But they do not wait for the important things: they take time to smile and laugh and love.


I like being comfortable, but I also want to feel. May I be willing to leave my sterile bubble, dear Lord.

"I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.I can do everything through him who gives me strength." Philippians 4:11-13

Counter Intuitive (Spring 2009)

Superior are the proud, for they must have high self-esteem.
Superior are those who are tough, for real men never cry.
Superior are the over-confident, for they will climb the ladder to the top.
Superior are those who hunger and thirst for more money and possessions, for they must have them to be happy.
Superior are those callous, for they will never be walked upon.
Superior are those who tell dirty jokes, for they are the life of the party.
Superior are those who take sides, for they see what is right in their own eyes.
Superior are those who lay back, problem free, for they avoided issues of great importance in order to remain favored.

-Popular belief



“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

-Jesus, as found in Matthew chapter 5

I think I’m starting to realize that the commands of our Lord are counter intuitive to the way we often think and act. I need to make a conscious effort to live in accordance to His. What do you think? Are the ways of Jesus easy to slide into our generation, or are they capable of starting a revolution?

What's In a Name? (February 13, 2010)

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."–Juliet, Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

Last Saturday morning, I went down to St. Louis with Dirty Roots Revolution’s homeless outreach. On this particular week, I stationed myself with my friend Andrew making hot cocoa for our homeless brothers and sisters. Although sometimes the line is long and crazy, I try to take the time to learn each man or woman’s name as I stir up their steaming cup of cocoa and place it in their shivering hands. I’m not usually good at remembering the names, but I try, and I’m starting to recognize certain people that we see week after week. Sometimes, our friends drink their cup of cocoa, and then come back five to ten minutes later sheepishly asking for another cup or a refill. Of course, I happily oblige.

This week, a fairly well-kept middle aged man entered my line for the second time. His name is Forrest. If that is his first name, last name, or nickname, I do not know. As I handed him his second cup of cocoa, I cautioned him, “Be careful, Mr. Forrest. It’s still pretty hot!” He accepted his cocoa and looked at me in disbelief. “You remembered my name?” he asked. “Of course I did, Forrest!” I laughed, “Why would I have asked if I didn’t intend to remember? Besides, it was only a half an hour ago that you introduced yourself to me!”
He sat back for a moment and stared beyond the bus stop where we were standing. After a few seconds he spoke, “Well, ma’am. Most people who come down here don’t care about my name. Even the ones that do ask don’t seem to care to remember.” My heart broke.

What would it be like to have no one know my name? Even worse, what would it be like to be passed by in the park as though I was the refuse of society? What would it be like to live in fear that if I gave out my true identity, that a background check would be run, and I would be further ostracized for my past that I so desperately wanted to separate myself from? That is the life of many of our homeless friends. To many, they are nameless, smelly, unshaven bums. Although this might seem like words that can be used to describe their state, it is not their identity. They have been created by God, and are loved by Him, just as I am. They have made mistakes, and many want to change, like I do. They get hungry and thirsty and cold, just like I do, but much more often. They need the forgiveness and love of a Savior, just as I do. They need to embrace their identity as a Child of God, just as I have.

I would love to hear God say to Forrest as He did to the Israelites, “But now, thus says the Lord, who created you, O Forrest, and He who formed you, ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; You are mine.” (Catherine Paraphrase Version)

For now, I will not take for granted that God will audibly speak those words to that man. I cannot trust that someone else will say them, either. I will go to St. Louis again, and I will look for my new friend. I will call him by name, and I will offer him a cup of hot chocolate. And perhaps, one of these days, I can speak to him the name of Jesus.

“But now, thus says the Lord, who created you, O Jacob, and He who formed you, O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; You are Mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, Nor shall the flame scorch you. For I am the Lord your God, The Holy One of Israel, your Savior; I gave Egypt for your ransom, Ethiopia and Seba in your place. Since you were precious in My sight, You have been honored, And I have loved you; Therefore I will give men for you, And people for your life.’” (Isaiah 43:1-4)

Appetite (Spring 2010)

I struggle to read the Bible. I know how to read, so that’s not the problem. I just get distracted. Well, technically my priorities get mixed up. I’ve been doing okay lately. Not every day, mind you. A dear friend and I read in conjunction, which helps.

Today, while hanging out across the street from the St. Louis Public library, I listened to a guy named Shorty talk about how he too struggles to stay consistent in his Bible reading. He talked about how he doesn’t really notice at first that he’s not doing it, but then his actions start to slide a little. Shorty talked about his pastor from his hometown and how she asks him if he’s spending time in the Word. He talked about how it’s a necessity to stay in the Word especially to encourage the men around him to do what it right. He relayed how his pastor once told him that he should be getting to the point in his life where going to his Bible was like going to the refrigerator- he needs to go to it every time he’s hungry. But not just that. He needs to go every time he gets even a craving, even when he’s not really hungry if he wants to get fat.

It’s good to know that someone else struggles with spending time with the Lord like I do. But here’s where I start to feel ashamed.

Shorty is homeless. He doesn’t have a refrigerator.

For the Marginalized (2009)

Once upon a time, my good friend Jeremy and I were having a talk about letters. You see, it had been getting on my nerves recently that so many people take the innocent letter f and substitute it for a vulgar word. The poor little letter gets a lot of attention, but not necessarily the right kind. Jeremy disagreed that f is worst-off letter, and explained that he thinks that x is by far more abused. He told me that this is partially because it isn’t in many words, and is really only that popular in math. X is a seemingly important letter when you open any algebra or calculus text book, but as Jeremy explained to me, if one doesn’t feel like having x as their variable today, one can switch it out without a thought. Oh, the sad existence of being an f or an x…

I am not an x or an f, but some days I feel like it. Sometimes I feel like my name is muttered in vain, or like a resounding, “F!” More often than that, I feel like our little variable friend x. I’m good for some things, but there’s bound to be someone that comes along who is better. Then I am set aside for a variable that might be slightly more defined.

On those days I really need other letters to remind me who I am. If I was a g and felt like an x, if my friends s, i, and n got together to form the word “sing”, they would need me to remember that I am a g. By myself, I can lose focus and take on the identity of a whole new letter, but when I am in community with other letters, I am needed as who I am. I can be a part of many wonderful words as a g, like go and grape, and ring and gratitude. I can join other letters to make these wonderful words, and we can even join other words to make other sentences. Words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, books… a whole library. people, families, communities, counties, states… the world.

My identity has purpose within a word, but that word is not written into existence without an author. He places me within the words that I call my community. He writes the sentences that we make together. He skillfully crafts the paragraphs and chapters that make up our life stories. He knows which letters I need to be next to. He knows that I can only make the “ng” sound if I am next to an n. He knows that certain letters in a row can make a fabulous sort of sing-song melody. He knows that other words grouped together can move a story through a dreadful transition phase to a happier chapter.

He is the Author of life. He sees the story from beginning to end in His mind, and is writing it down, day by day. This story is written for His glory.

In the grand scheme of letters and numbers and chapters and such, one little letter seems sort of insignificant. But really, the word sing without the g is sin, and the word grape without the g is only rape. I’d rather sing and eat grapes than be confronted by the sin of rape.

Lord, please help me to be the best little letter that you created me to be. Help me not to want to be an a, and show me who I am when I feel like I am less. Help me to validate the f’s and the x’s. Help me to show them the beauty there is in their identity.

After all, if you pair the f and x with the letter i, all of a sudden, you’ve got the word “fix.”

The Day of Love… Valentine's Day 2009 (to be rewritten a bit in the near future)

It’s that time of year again- that time of the year when I curl up in my big cozy armchair to contemplate love and its little (and not so little) implications. I think that this year I’ll write about my most recent observations and musings, those which often bring me warm fuzzies. It’ll be fun, I promise.

Last week I decided that young love is like smooth jazz. As I watch young couples get to know each other through the dating and early marriage process, I watch them improvise together. It’s not all improv though. Beautiful jazz takes an individual who is skilled in their instrument. It takes a musician who knows when to take that soaring solo and when to remain in the background. This individual knows what notes sound good together, based off of much experience. Only then, when thrown in with another musician, can they make beautiful, free, smooth jazz.

Now young couples are fine and all, but I would much rather observe an old couple walking hand in hand down the street. To me, they are like a time-tested classical piece. There is practice and precision with each note. Played following the score of what has been learned before, they have learned when to crescendo together. Their rendition of the piece, however true to the author’s original score, is true to them. They rest in the comfortable familiarity of their harmony, secure in the practice of their instruments, both together and apart. I’m sure that they could handle a piece of jazz, but they prefer to stick with their way of expressing their music- through the piece passed through the years.

In both scenarios, I think that the instrument is love. Mkkkk… that might sound a bit corny, but it’s true. A young man strives in his life to show love to those around him. He is a servant to all. He hugs the little old ladies and plays catch with the little boys. He learns to love God. He practices this instrument of praise. He meets a young lady who has also been practicing this instrument. Together they realize that the notes that their instruments play together are twice as sweet. It takes a little time, but because they have practiced in advance, they are able to improvise together, following a basic score outlined for them before time began. She leads a Bible study for high school girls, her time with God over the years evident as she guides them through the Word. He uses his handy man skills, picked up here and there helping his dad or tinkering around the house.

A little old lady walks sort of slow on account of the stiffness in her hip developed over the years. Her face is wrinkled; her once thick dark hair is now thin and pure white. Her husband of over fifty years just smiles at her. He has listened and watched ever since he knew her, delighting in the way she has practiced her instrument, and as a result, she has become a master. He watched her rock their babies to sleep, teaching them of Jesus as they drifted off to dream. He helped her to save aside a portion of what little they had to help a single mother in need. He has been the taste tester for countless batches of cookie for neighborhood children. He thinks that its funny how the farther one gets along in their years of practice the different skills they have to acquire to keep playing their music well. Her delicate hands are now ridden with arthritis, but they still take the time to knead out the knots he acquires when he insists on mowing the lawn. He has tasted as the cookies got better, and has listened as the neighborhood children began to call them “Gramps” and “Gram”. He watched in awe as blessings were poured on their music as a result of faithful practice. He glances over at her, where she nods off in her chair after dinner, and a tender grin teases the corners of his wrinkled mouth. Thought they may only be two people, she is all he needs to hear a symphony.