Undercover

[what's brewing: I hope the water is hot enough to kill any germs; I can't get sick; what if I do...]

My somewhat excessive (okay, slightly neurotic) treasure keeping ways tells you something about who I am and how I operate. Beyond being a treasure keeper, this diary of Coffeegirl Confessions has revealed that I am also:

• an introvert
  
• a coffee lover
  
• a creative copycat
  
• a reader
  
• a lover of chocolate
  
• a lover of beauty and
  
• a learner of language
  

And now I must confess another quality that is deeply engrained within me: I am a worrier. I don’t wear this one proudly; in fact, I scarcely acknowledge that I am a worrier on most occasions because I am largely an undercover worrier. Undercover not because my worry is so subtle I don’t see it, but because I tend to call worry by a different name which allows me to forget its true identity most of the time.

In the thought world that keeps my mind running in circles instead of resting in His peace, I call my worry by the name of wisdom. As I rehearse different scenarios in my mind and anxiously wonder what will happen in this situation and how I’ll respond and what I’ll do next, I convince myself that the investment of my thoughts and energy in this way is an exercise of wisdom. It’s planning ahead, anticipating possibilities, and developing responses in advance. Worry is something else entirely, I tell myself. In fact, it may even be un-wise not to think things through as I do.

And then there are moments like last Thursday night when my oh-so-wise ways bring me to an emotional breaking point and my anxiety over the unknown feels as if it could literally kill me. In tears of desperation, the veil is lifted and my eyes can see the true identity of my torturer: worry.

This verse is as familiar to you as it is to me:

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?” (Matthew 6:25)

But I read this and say, yes, life is more important than food, the body more important than clothes; therefore I contemplate worry about these things: life, health, relationships. I am a planner – a self-proclaimed control freak. I long to feel in control of my circumstances; not to control what happens, but to consider and anticipate every possible outcome so that nothing can take me by surprise.

If you remember the Choose Your Own Adventure books from years ago, you can understand what I mean when I say that in times of uncertainty, I create countless combinations and sequences of events to try and gain some understanding and control over what may be coming my way. If I just knew what were going to happen, I could handle it so much better. But again, when the veil is lifted through the power of Truth, I see what is hiding beneath my well reasoned ways: worry. And not just worry, but unbelief.

On Thursday night, in the midst of tears and anxiety, I read these words on a blog that was recommended to me recently:

We are all in His divine, omnipotent care. He has numbered our days. He orders our steps. The more we believe this with evangelical faith, the more we will be set free from worrying because we will see it for what it is — unbelief. God loves us and He loves our children more than we do. What a great relief and blessing the truth always is. Wisdom doesn’t worry.

These words stripped away my well rehearsed justifications and injected truth right where it was needed.

Worry isn’t wisdom. Wisdom doesn’t worry.

Treasure Keeper

[what's brewing: Ma'am, would you like to keep your Starbuck's gift card?...of course, it will remind me of...]

I suppose my tendency to keep things started at a young age; in fact, it’s probably something I either inherited genetically from my mom or learned through osmosis as a child. My mom taught me to save special things, and I eventually adapted this to include saving anything that could potentially become special at some point in time. Even as a young girl, I felt emotional connections to the strangest things, and I insisted on keeping them once the connection was made.

My parents indulged this tendency and allowed each of us to reserve the top drawers of our dressers as our “Treasure Drawers.” My sister, brother and I would keep our treasured mementos in these top drawers and they were always overflowing with undoubtedly sacred items. New additions to the drawer were carefully slipped in when it had been opened just enough to let the item in without letting the rest of the contents emerge and keep the drawer from shutting again.

I had a collection of all the teeth I had lost, and a number of orthodontic retainers, saved in my drawer; by second grade I had packets of letters that had been exchanged with my childhood best friend who had moved away to Illinois after kindergarten; I had a coin purse of copper disks – pennies that my Grandpa helped me to place on the railroad tracks that ran through their town. Favorite stickers, invitations to birthday parties, old pairs of glasses (yes, I’d been wearing them since 1st grade) and funny shaped pencils were just a few of the collections that amassed in my Treasure Drawer.

The occasional chore of cleaning out our drawers usually resulted in a 2 hour reunion of sorts as we rediscovered the gems that had sunk to the bottom of the drawer over time. A limited number of items would resurface with the realization that their sentimental value had been lost over time, and those few things would find a new home in the waste basket. But most everything in the drawer was reinstated as a treasured item and returned to the drawer where it rightly belonged.

As I grew up, the Treasure Drawer overflowed into treasure boxes that were stashed in the top of my closet and then under my bed as space ran out. At the end of each year of college I would fill a shoe box with the best treasures of the year and bring it home to add to the collection. When we left for our new home nearly a year ago, I left many boxes of treasures behind in my sister’s basement and I can’t wait to go through them again someday.

Over the years my criteria for selecting “keepers” had become a bit more reasonable (though a non-saver like Jason may claim that to be quite humorously untrue – he calls my saving habits “hoarding” – imagine!). While my standards or criteria may have changed over the years, I suffered what Jason would call a setback in this regard upon moving so far away to our new home last year.

My treasure keeping ways have not only followed me here, but they have actually grown stronger. If an item (or scrap of paper) reminds me in the least of friends or family back home, if it captures any essence of an experience in our new culture, it goes in the box. Not just letters, but the post office claim slips for letters are treasures. Not just the photos from the sleepover we had for the girls in the Children’s Home, but the little notes about it they passed to each other during Sunday School the next day. Not just birthday cards, but the tags from the new items of clothing that were sent as gifts.

I don’t fault you for thinking I’m crazy; I’ve grown comfortable with my own husband’s doubts about my sanity in this regard. To those who aren’t treasure keepers, it is difficult to explain the genuine warmth and comfort I find in simply knowing these little keepsakes are safely tucked away. When I look through them on occasion, I am reminded of so many special details that would otherwise slip away from my memory. Each item represents a treasured moment, and those moments collectively remind me of the many good and perfect gifts I’ve been given by the Father of the heavenly lights. And that’s worth remembering.

Ahhh, summer!

[what's brewing: iced Caramel Macchiato -- read on to see why!]

The month of May seems to have evaporated and I was in disbelief when I flipped my calendar today and found the reality of “June” looking me in the eye. Maybe it’s because I’ve been so busy lately (but when am I not busy, really?) but I haven’t really noticed the days passing by so quickly until I turned that page today. Even though it isn’t technically summer here, June + July + August will always equal SUMMER in my mind. And what is so great about summer exactly? Oh, I’m glad you asked.

For me, whether I get to experience these things or not, summer conjures up images of:

…strawberry lemonade
…barbecues
…playing Frisbee in the park
…the Coppertone baby
…covering myself in bug spray
…running through sprinklers
…homemade ice cream (oh, that’s a torturous thought!)
…sunglasses and ponytails
…windows down and the radio up
…road trips
…iced Caramel Macchiato’s at Starbucks
…my mom’s famous strawberry Jell-o salad

I am a happier person when filled with these distinctively summer images, and somehow even though I’m removed from most of them this year, they still leave me feeling like I’ve been sprinkled with a bit of Tinkerbell’s pixie dust. Around the holidays I was saddened by my separation from my many distinctively Christmas images, but not this time of year. I don’t know what the difference is, but I feel refreshed just thinking of summer days and simply picturing them in my mind.

Okay, I confess. I’m headed “home” for a quick visit soon and will get to enjoy some of these summer treats over my stay. This may contribute to my summer giddiness, but I stand by my claim that just thinking of summer has an intoxicating effect on me. So indulge yourself with me…

Whether you’re headed into summer or winter, and whether you actually have these things or will simply dream of them, what would you add to my list?

Are visions of root beer floats dancing in your head?

Not My Words

[what's brewing: something from another pot]

One of the books that made its way into my bags nearly a year ago is a small prayer book that I found on the shelf in a used Christian bookshop I used to frequent. It’s the only prayer book I’ve ever owned, which I now know is a shame. There are times when my own thoughts cannot create the words I need to express myself before my Maker. I pray similar things in similar ways most of the time, and I find written prayers express familiar experiences and thoughts but in a new way that allows me to process them differently.

I don’t read it every day, but more often than not, when I open it up I find exactly what I need to hear. Today was one of those days. Fraught with anxieties about the future (distrust, as the prayer would lead me to see) and wondering if I will ever be confident of what God is calling me to do, this passage and prayer were waiting for me.

May you be encouraged by the truth reflected in these words as well.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

so are My ways higher than your ways,

and My thoughts than your thoughts.

Isaiah 55:6-13

Everlasting and ever-working God, who makest the acorn into the oak and enterest into the rib of the leaf, who lightest stars upon their way, and bringest forth the sun to lift up the heads of flowers, be near also to Thy servant and enable me to walk the whole path of this life – in joy and sorrow, in achievement and failure – without distrust, submissive to Thy will, and assured that, by reliance upon Thee, neither temptation nor mortal loss can overwhelm me, and that all things are secure finally in Thy care and keeping. Amen.

Innovation

[what's brewing: just water today, I need the bottle for...]

One of the things I find inspiring here is the demonstration of human ingenuity that I see on a daily basis. These daily observations make me keenly aware of the limitations of my own mind that have been set by my preceding life of convenience. Human needs do not differ greatly across cultures, but our means of meeting them do.

Here are a few of my favorites:

In the absence of a sprinkler to water the grass, a repeatedly punctured two-liter size plastic soda bottle fastened to the end of a garden hose, resulting in the same sprinkling effect that tempts children into its range around the world.

In the absence of mop heads, old t-shirts wrapped tightly around the end of a broom stick(and at times, tied around the foot with the leg serving as the broom stick!).

In the absence of shin guards to protect the legs of determined soccer players, pieces of cardboard fashioned to stay in place with rubber bands around the calf and ankle.

What things do you see that demonstrate the depth of human ingenuity in your area? Have you adopted any of the practices you’ve seen there?

Lurking in the Silence

[what's brewing: something to keep me going]

“The irony of this is that I often push these aside when I don’t feel I have the emotional energy to enter into silence and solitude – as if I am simply too thirsty to invest the energy in filling my cup and lifting it to my lips. Yet without taking these steps, I can only be filled with water that leaves me thirsty again.”

These two sentences capture the real conundrum that I am faced with in this struggle to give silence and solitude the role I believe they deserve in my life. I don’t have the emotional energy to be filled up. I have been encouraged by your comments this past week, affirming that this experience is not unique to me. I know that I need to consider this tension more if I hope to find lasting change – life giving change.

I say I don’t have the emotional energy to be still before the Lord, but what does that really mean? For me, I know that I am holding my fears closer to my heart than the healing truth I need. I choose to expend my emotional energy on protecting my fears rather than addressing them in moments of stillness. And what is it that I fear?

I am fearful of losing control of my emotions, fearful of crying – fearful of losing all the ground I have gained in my adjustment to the loneliness I’ve encountered here. I spend my days focusing on the positive elements of our life here, celebrating my decreasing feelings of homesickness, and enjoying the new aspects of life in a different culture. I am afraid of slowing down enough to the point that my guard will be let down and in my honest reflections, I will be an emotional mess, sliding backwards into the pain that I am trying to overcome.

I am fearful also of being still and silent, expectantly wanting to encounter my God, and to be left empty and dissatisfied when it is done. I sometimes fear that my well is so deep and so dry from the demands of my everyday life that it cannot possibly be filled in a comparatively brief period of rest; I would rather accept that and keep going than expectantly open myself up and be left dry.

For those of you who understood the dilemma of being “simply too thirsty to invest the energy in filling my cup and lifting it to my lips,” I would love to hear more from you. Do you fear something that may be waiting for you in the silence and solitude? Are you afraid of being asked to forgive someone, to love someone, or maybe to love yourself?

What fears are lurking in the silence for you, or what specific things keep you from entering into the solitude that can fill your cup?

Drawing from a Dry Well

[what's brewing: refill, please.]

Silence. Solitude. Rest. Renewal. These words have begun to feel almost as foreign to me as the lists of new vocabulary I review every week as part of my ongoing language learning. Without knowing it, I seem to have left these things behind when we made our move into cross-cultural ministry. Perhaps they were confiscated by the customs agents when we entered as residents, not merely tourists. Or perhaps they arrived in our home, but have been pushed to the shelves that hold my disregarded nail polishes and facial masks – items which certainly haven’t been touched since they were originally unpacked!

Other words now describe my state of being more accurately at the end of a day. Exhausted. Drained. Reclusive. Weary. By the time we have gathered our things from around the Children’s Home, dealt with the urgent matters that seem to present themselves only when we are trying to leave, and pulled out of the gate to head towards home, my emotional energy has been spent. Undoubtedly the cell phone will ring soon after we leave; needs will develop in the evening hours that require additional support and guidance. We came here to offer this support, but I’ve come to subtly resent these afterhours phone calls that snatch us away so immediately from any personal matters.

Walking through the front door of our home brings some relief just in knowing that I am entering my space – a significant place for an introvert like myself. Yet there are things to be done here as well: phone calls to be made, emails to return, domestic duties to be faced. I find that physical work can be easier to face than the phone calls and emails; interacting with others, even friends and supporters that I want to connect with, requires drawing from my emotional well which has often run dry at the end of a day.

I find it curious that I develop a sense of guilt in admitting these things. I believe strongly in the importance of self-care and the need for quiet, restful periods of renewal. Yet something inside of me remains sympathetic to the lie that I should be capable of pouring myself out continuously without a need for rest or renewal. I seem to believe that the more I can do, the better I am; therefore, the more I feel a need for rest, the more disappointed God must be with me. I say I don’t believe that to be true, but my dismay at the emptiness of my own emotional well betrays me.

I often find myself staring down into my dry well and wondering how I can fill it again, just enough to pour out and make it to the end of my day. I have tried the best of chocolate or caffeine therapy, but neither have done the trick. I have done my best to muster up the last drops in my emotional well and then faked enough energy to make a phone call and satisfactorily cross an item off of my to-do list. Even if the other person was convinced by my performance (which I find unlikely, quite honestly), I feel frustrated by the dissonance within me.

As my own efforts have failed to add any depth to my well, I have gently been led back to the source of living water. Initially, I felt I lacked the emotional strength even to face my Creator at the end of a day; I lacked the emotional energy to put into that relationship as well. But as my own efforts have left me wanting, my perspective has begun to shift. I do not need to gather my emotional reserves in order to come to the Lord; I go to Him as I am – weary and burdened – and He will fill me.

If my prayer is to be poured out as an extension and reflection of the God I serve, I must allow myself to first be filled by Him. This filling didn’t happen just once when I accepted the Truth; it happens continually as part of my own process of sanctification. The source of living water is within me, yet I attempt to draw from the well that runs dry. Jesus’ words to the Samaritan woman were different to me when I read them with this in mind:

"Sir,” the woman said, “you have nothing to draw with and the well is deep.Where can you get this living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well and drank form it himself, as did also his sons and his flocks and herds?” Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.” ( John 4:11-15)

I know this Jesus, and I have tasted this living water. Yet I, like the Samaritan woman, am again on my knees, crying out – Sir, give me this water so I won’t be thirsty again, so that I won’t continue trying to draw water from my own dry well.

How can I be filled with this water? How can I combat the crafty lie that the more I do for Him, the more loved I am by Him? Through the very means that have been curiously pushed aside since we arrived: silence, solitude, rest and renewal. The irony of this is that I often push these aside when I don’t feel I have the emotional energy to enter into silence and solitude – as if I am simply too thirsty to invest the energy in filling my cup and lifting it to my lips. Yet without taking these steps, I can only be filled with water that leaves me thirsty again.

The same King who entered the world in a dirty manger, washed the feet of His disciples, proclaimed the weak to be strong and the poor to be rich also pours living water into those who will cease in their striving to serve Him and simply be with Him.

[Editor's note: Drawing from a Dry Well also appears in the May/June 09 WOTH onlineMagazine.]