I hate bureaucracy. I want nothing to do with ridiculously insignificant rules that govern large institutions, such as the University of California. Like when I reapply for my TA position or fellowship every year I have to fill out the same dang paperwork, including a tax form where I never know how many exemptions to declare, a voided check from my bank, and a contract with my union. Or if I want a refund for that surfing lesson that never happened because of rainstorms, I have to call or email multiple people in the Recreation department before I make any headway. Or when I have to wake up at 4:30am to wait in line for a gym locker. I always need to be armed and ready with my name, student ID number, social security number, date of birth, email address, password... you get the idea.
So, no big surprise, when a student walked into my shared TA office, asking to borrow a couple chairs for his over-enrolled classroom, although I know it’s against “the rules” to remove furniture from the room, I shrugged, “Sure! Why not?” He promised he’d return them anyway, and I felt this helped my image as that cool, laid-back TA. I mean, I’m all about sharing my possessions, as a follower of Jesus and all.
Feeling good about my stick-it-to-the-man attitude, one of my colleagues interrupted my self-congratulatory moment, “That was a bad idea.” I looked up to see if he’s joking or not. He continued, “We’re never going to see those chairs again.” I was shocked. Of course the student would return the chairs! He said he would! I retained my composure and promised to wait around until the class was out, taking full responsibility for the chairs and confident that this student would return them promptly at 5 as he said he would.
Five o’clock rolled around. Maybe his class ran a little late. I gave him some grace time and decided to wait until 5:15. At 6 I began stalking the nearby classrooms, peeking in one-by-one, wishing I had asked him which room he was taking the chairs. Then, lo and behold, I found them in a deserted room a couple doors down. I chuckled to myself as I rolled them across the courtyard back to our office.
A few days later a student knocks on our door asking to borrow a couple chairs, promising to bring them back after class.
“No, I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s the rules.”
07 November 2009
25 August 2009
13 July 2009
Joe's prayer
One of my friends from Skid Row, named Joe, wrote this prayer. This man and his words are very beautiful so I thought I'd share them both with you:
"There are many medicines and cures for all kinds of sicknesses. But unless kind hands are given in service, and generous hearts are given in love, I do not think there can ever be a cure for the terrible sickness of feeling unloved.
None of us has the right to condemn anyone. Even when we see people doing bad and we don't know why they do it, Jesus invites us not to pass judgment. Maybe we are the ones who have helped make them what they are. We need to realize that they are our brothers and sisters. The alcoholic, that drug addict, that sick person, they are our brothers because they too have been created for a greater love. This is something we should never forget.
Jesus Christ identifies Himself with them and says, 'Whatever you did to my brethren, you did to me.' Perhaps it is because we haven't given them our understanding and love that they find themselves on the streets without love or care.
Be kind, very kind to the suffering poor. We little realize what they go through. The most difficult part if not being wanted."
Lord Jesus, change our hearts - make them like yours.
"There are many medicines and cures for all kinds of sicknesses. But unless kind hands are given in service, and generous hearts are given in love, I do not think there can ever be a cure for the terrible sickness of feeling unloved.
None of us has the right to condemn anyone. Even when we see people doing bad and we don't know why they do it, Jesus invites us not to pass judgment. Maybe we are the ones who have helped make them what they are. We need to realize that they are our brothers and sisters. The alcoholic, that drug addict, that sick person, they are our brothers because they too have been created for a greater love. This is something we should never forget.
Jesus Christ identifies Himself with them and says, 'Whatever you did to my brethren, you did to me.' Perhaps it is because we haven't given them our understanding and love that they find themselves on the streets without love or care.
Be kind, very kind to the suffering poor. We little realize what they go through. The most difficult part if not being wanted."
Lord Jesus, change our hearts - make them like yours.
11 June 2009
Discipline and Punish
Although I don't think my parents ever did anything very dramatic to teach me a lesson, there is one particular episode that remains forever imprinted on my mind.
I was five years old and it was the night before the annual Vichy Elementary Fun Run. Big day. My mom had signed up to volunteer the next morning at the registration table, and I was going to join her, being a big-helper-girl and all. At least... that's what I thought.
The specifics of the situation are still a little murky to me. Apparently, I broke something. But not just "broke something" my mom reminds me. I maliciously and spitefully cast her cow-shaped, milk pitcher to the ground. The parents say I was angry about not getting my way. So I had a fit and broke that pitcher, as if showing them the strength of my emotion would change their minds. Guess what? It didn't.
Instead, the pronouncement came: "Caroline, you can't go with your mom to the Fun Run early tomorrow. You have to stay home."
Torture.
Even as a child, before I started elementary school, my extroverted tendencies were in full force. The idea of being surrounded by hundreds of people, brimming with energy in the name of educational philanthropy and physical activity, really excited my little four foot frame. I think I also liked to be in charge of things. Needless to say, I had patiently awaited the morning of the Fun Run. The day I would fulfill my young, extroverted fantasies of directing crowds of people, manning registration tables, and pinning paper numbers to strangers’ clothing. What a nutty kid!
It may sound silly, but I remember more vividly this punishment than any I have ever received.
I remember waking up early the morning of the race, hoping that my mom and dad had forgotten the events of the night before. But my nightmare had come true. Mom calmly reminded me that I could not come with her. I still wouldn’t accept it. I screamed and cried as she pulled the old Volvo station wagon out of the garage. I ran after the car and held on to the rear view mirror (no joke.) To no avail.
This is the day I learned that I could not always get my way. And that throwing a fit just made things worse. Boy did it hurt.
PS Whoever gets the hidden grad student joke in this post wins a prize!
Speaking of grad school, I just finished my first year! It was challenging on many levels, but God was infinitely gracious and compassionate. Hallelujah!
I was five years old and it was the night before the annual Vichy Elementary Fun Run. Big day. My mom had signed up to volunteer the next morning at the registration table, and I was going to join her, being a big-helper-girl and all. At least... that's what I thought.
The specifics of the situation are still a little murky to me. Apparently, I broke something. But not just "broke something" my mom reminds me. I maliciously and spitefully cast her cow-shaped, milk pitcher to the ground. The parents say I was angry about not getting my way. So I had a fit and broke that pitcher, as if showing them the strength of my emotion would change their minds. Guess what? It didn't.
Instead, the pronouncement came: "Caroline, you can't go with your mom to the Fun Run early tomorrow. You have to stay home."
Torture.
Even as a child, before I started elementary school, my extroverted tendencies were in full force. The idea of being surrounded by hundreds of people, brimming with energy in the name of educational philanthropy and physical activity, really excited my little four foot frame. I think I also liked to be in charge of things. Needless to say, I had patiently awaited the morning of the Fun Run. The day I would fulfill my young, extroverted fantasies of directing crowds of people, manning registration tables, and pinning paper numbers to strangers’ clothing. What a nutty kid!
It may sound silly, but I remember more vividly this punishment than any I have ever received.
I remember waking up early the morning of the race, hoping that my mom and dad had forgotten the events of the night before. But my nightmare had come true. Mom calmly reminded me that I could not come with her. I still wouldn’t accept it. I screamed and cried as she pulled the old Volvo station wagon out of the garage. I ran after the car and held on to the rear view mirror (no joke.) To no avail.
This is the day I learned that I could not always get my way. And that throwing a fit just made things worse. Boy did it hurt.
PS Whoever gets the hidden grad student joke in this post wins a prize!
Speaking of grad school, I just finished my first year! It was challenging on many levels, but God was infinitely gracious and compassionate. Hallelujah!
14 May 2009
More on Women!
Here are some articles relevant to my last post:
- On women in academia:
"How Babies Alter Careers for Academics"
- On women in the church:
"How the Church Can Fail Women"
- On women in academia:
"How Babies Alter Careers for Academics"
- On women in the church:
"How the Church Can Fail Women"
05 May 2009
What's a Woman to do?
I’ve been thinking a lot about my womanhood lately. (big surprise)
I feel like these thoughts fall under the larger question I’m exploring this year: who the heck am I?
More specifically, I ask myself, “what does it mean for me to be a woman?” Besides the basic anatomical differences and my remarkable capability to give birth (booyah!) - what does this mean about my identity?
Between graduate school, “Christian culture,” and my own brokenness I feel like I am being pulled in many different directions. I want above all to follow that still, small voice which has given me abundant life. But first I need to decipher the voice I know from the noise surrounding it.
Grad school tells me my womanhood is irrelevant. The doctoral process for history is still based on a centuries-old apprenticeship system which assumes a 19th century masculine identity. In other words, young budding scholars are expected to invest their whole selves in the discipline - scorning all human relationships and interactions at the pursuit of historical knowledge. (Because white professional men in the 19th century weren't expected to a. spend much time building family relationships b. show any emotion) - as you can see this ideal is problematic for both men and women.
One female professor of color told me that as a graduate student I would learn not just how to become a scholar and teacher, but how to talk, think and carry myself like an intellectual. Another told me that within the doctoral process one is “remade.” Still another woman scholar warned me as I started my first quarter that I “shouldn’t expect to have a life.” Even though these women were subjected to this ridiculous process (or probably even worse), they merely accept that it’s what you have to go through to become a professor.
Thus, the majority of the professors I encounter at UCLA are, or have been, divorced. And I bet you anything there children are really angsty and unhappy.
However, “Christian culture” certainly has something different to say about my womanhood. [Now, let me preface this by saying this does not speak for all Christians, rather its more a vocalization of a cultural/societal force I personally feel.] Much of this depends on how you interpret key Biblical passages (Ephesians 5, 1 Timothy 2). Now regardless of what these passages REALLY mean, and how God really intended male-female relationships to be, there is a fairly dominant Christian view that the woman needs to submit herself to the leadership of her husband. And regardless of the true definition of “submission” or “headship,” for many American Christian women this means that their ultimate goal should be to find a strong Christian leader husband. Now don’t get me wrong, I love strong Christian leader husbands. [I’d love to have one myself someday... wink.] But it worries me that so many Christian women aren’t attentive to what God’s call may be for their life, that they may miss opportunities to pursue God’s kingdom wholeheartedly because of convention.
More than anything, it makes me worry how much of this “Christian culture” is influencing me in the decisions I make about my future. As I consider whether I should leave my program early with a masters, I worry that I may choose that path not because I feel God is calling me to it, but because I don’t want to be more ambitious or successful than my future husband (... and he's only hypothetical!) Isn’t that sad? If God calls me to get a PhD, then I want to follow his call! Why would I listen to these other silly voices?
But I also don't want to disregard all human relationships at the expense of professional development - in fact, I'm pretty certain I would not survive mentally and spiritually in those circumstances.
So what's a woman to do?
[Note: I imagine that a man's experience would have both similarities and differences from what I've written below... I'd love to hear a masculine perspective sometime - or an alternative feminine one!]
I feel like these thoughts fall under the larger question I’m exploring this year: who the heck am I?
More specifically, I ask myself, “what does it mean for me to be a woman?” Besides the basic anatomical differences and my remarkable capability to give birth (booyah!) - what does this mean about my identity?
Between graduate school, “Christian culture,” and my own brokenness I feel like I am being pulled in many different directions. I want above all to follow that still, small voice which has given me abundant life. But first I need to decipher the voice I know from the noise surrounding it.
Grad school tells me my womanhood is irrelevant. The doctoral process for history is still based on a centuries-old apprenticeship system which assumes a 19th century masculine identity. In other words, young budding scholars are expected to invest their whole selves in the discipline - scorning all human relationships and interactions at the pursuit of historical knowledge. (Because white professional men in the 19th century weren't expected to a. spend much time building family relationships b. show any emotion) - as you can see this ideal is problematic for both men and women.
One female professor of color told me that as a graduate student I would learn not just how to become a scholar and teacher, but how to talk, think and carry myself like an intellectual. Another told me that within the doctoral process one is “remade.” Still another woman scholar warned me as I started my first quarter that I “shouldn’t expect to have a life.” Even though these women were subjected to this ridiculous process (or probably even worse), they merely accept that it’s what you have to go through to become a professor.
Thus, the majority of the professors I encounter at UCLA are, or have been, divorced. And I bet you anything there children are really angsty and unhappy.
However, “Christian culture” certainly has something different to say about my womanhood. [Now, let me preface this by saying this does not speak for all Christians, rather its more a vocalization of a cultural/societal force I personally feel.] Much of this depends on how you interpret key Biblical passages (Ephesians 5, 1 Timothy 2). Now regardless of what these passages REALLY mean, and how God really intended male-female relationships to be, there is a fairly dominant Christian view that the woman needs to submit herself to the leadership of her husband. And regardless of the true definition of “submission” or “headship,” for many American Christian women this means that their ultimate goal should be to find a strong Christian leader husband. Now don’t get me wrong, I love strong Christian leader husbands. [I’d love to have one myself someday... wink.] But it worries me that so many Christian women aren’t attentive to what God’s call may be for their life, that they may miss opportunities to pursue God’s kingdom wholeheartedly because of convention.
More than anything, it makes me worry how much of this “Christian culture” is influencing me in the decisions I make about my future. As I consider whether I should leave my program early with a masters, I worry that I may choose that path not because I feel God is calling me to it, but because I don’t want to be more ambitious or successful than my future husband (... and he's only hypothetical!) Isn’t that sad? If God calls me to get a PhD, then I want to follow his call! Why would I listen to these other silly voices?
But I also don't want to disregard all human relationships at the expense of professional development - in fact, I'm pretty certain I would not survive mentally and spiritually in those circumstances.
So what's a woman to do?
[Note: I imagine that a man's experience would have both similarities and differences from what I've written below... I'd love to hear a masculine perspective sometime - or an alternative feminine one!]
13 March 2009
Why I Love Riding the Bus
I’ve only really started taking advantage of public transportation here on the Westside this quarter. A few weeks ago my friend Amy, a seasoned bus rider, encouraged me to take the bus to Santa Monica Public library (another great public space and resource!) rather than pay for parking. Since then I have become hooked. I am grateful that I get to ride the efficient and user-friendly Santa Monica Big Blue Bus. Here are some reasons why I love it:
1. It’s cheap, efficient and safe. With the swipe of my BruinCard, I pay 25 cents for a ride to the beach, 3rd Street Promenade, the public library - just about anywhere in Westwood of Santa Monica. I rarely wait more than 10 minutes, and I have never felt unsafe even when riding alone at night.
2. I get to see and interact with people who aren’t doctoral students or professors. People of all races, classes, and ages take the bus to get to work, to shop, to attend a protest, to go to church or temple... It’s a beautiful and refreshing thing to be around men and women who I would not typically see in my grad school bubble. When I drive alone in my car from onramp to exit on the freeway, it’s so easy to lose sight of the neighborhoods and people surrounding me. Public transportation has become my antidote for the isolation and fragmentation inherent in the greater Los Angeles landscape.
3. Perhaps most importantly, the Big Blue Bus demolishes my stereotypes about the Westside. Each time I ride the bus I am amazed by the friendliness and goodwill of both the drivers and passengers. One driver a couple nights ago made a conscious effort to wish each rider individually a good night as they left the bus. Today a Santa Monica College student helped an elderly man figure out how to open the handicapped seat while the bus was moving. A Latino man gave his hand and arm, to a disabled white woman as she climbed aboard the bus guiding her toward a seat right next to him.
I’ll have to admit, I wasn’t completely psyched about leaving the easygoing neighborhoods of Eagle Rock, Pasadena, Glendale, and Highland Park for Westwood, Beverly Hills, Brentwood, and Santa Monica. All I could picture, and all I really saw for the first few months, were pretentious white executives in their fancy cars, cutting people off on Wilshire on their way to their high-rise office building. And while there is some truth to this, it is only a piece of the puzzle. As I become more acclimated to this side of town, I am learning to look for the "other side" of the Westside - whether it's the Mexican market where the janitors and gardeners of Westwood grab lunch, or the community car washes organized by the residents of the housing projects in Mar Vista.
Where I expected selfishness, entitlement and homogeneity I have seen selflessness, humility, and diversity. I am grateful that I have been proven wrong!
Thank you Santa Monica Blue Bus!
PS I feel like my new-found love for public transportation definitely pegs me as a “white person” as defined by the website Stuff White People Like - if you haven’t checked it out, you really should.
1. It’s cheap, efficient and safe. With the swipe of my BruinCard, I pay 25 cents for a ride to the beach, 3rd Street Promenade, the public library - just about anywhere in Westwood of Santa Monica. I rarely wait more than 10 minutes, and I have never felt unsafe even when riding alone at night.
2. I get to see and interact with people who aren’t doctoral students or professors. People of all races, classes, and ages take the bus to get to work, to shop, to attend a protest, to go to church or temple... It’s a beautiful and refreshing thing to be around men and women who I would not typically see in my grad school bubble. When I drive alone in my car from onramp to exit on the freeway, it’s so easy to lose sight of the neighborhoods and people surrounding me. Public transportation has become my antidote for the isolation and fragmentation inherent in the greater Los Angeles landscape.
3. Perhaps most importantly, the Big Blue Bus demolishes my stereotypes about the Westside. Each time I ride the bus I am amazed by the friendliness and goodwill of both the drivers and passengers. One driver a couple nights ago made a conscious effort to wish each rider individually a good night as they left the bus. Today a Santa Monica College student helped an elderly man figure out how to open the handicapped seat while the bus was moving. A Latino man gave his hand and arm, to a disabled white woman as she climbed aboard the bus guiding her toward a seat right next to him.
I’ll have to admit, I wasn’t completely psyched about leaving the easygoing neighborhoods of Eagle Rock, Pasadena, Glendale, and Highland Park for Westwood, Beverly Hills, Brentwood, and Santa Monica. All I could picture, and all I really saw for the first few months, were pretentious white executives in their fancy cars, cutting people off on Wilshire on their way to their high-rise office building. And while there is some truth to this, it is only a piece of the puzzle. As I become more acclimated to this side of town, I am learning to look for the "other side" of the Westside - whether it's the Mexican market where the janitors and gardeners of Westwood grab lunch, or the community car washes organized by the residents of the housing projects in Mar Vista.
Where I expected selfishness, entitlement and homogeneity I have seen selflessness, humility, and diversity. I am grateful that I have been proven wrong!
Thank you Santa Monica Blue Bus!
PS I feel like my new-found love for public transportation definitely pegs me as a “white person” as defined by the website Stuff White People Like - if you haven’t checked it out, you really should.
23 February 2009
"Where is God?"
Arturo lives in a tent on Skid Row. He avoids the missions because there are too many "locos" there. He keeps a big metal pipe by his side at night for protection. Just the other day he had to threaten someone who wanted to take his belongings. He was exhausted during our conversation - fear of early morning street sweeps, theft, or criminals keep the homeless from truly resting. Also like the other thousands of homeless men in Los Angeles, Arturo hungers for intimacy, paying for the companionship of women to ease the pangs of loneliness.
I was on coffee duty, passing out steaming styrofoam cups, doctoring them up with powdered non-dairy creamer and sugar, when I noticed someone was staring at me from across the sidewalk. He wasn’t staring in a creepy way, but in a "I want to talk to you" way so I walked over and started a conversation. He told me he had some questions: “I wonder...can you tell me... where is God?" I can see his face - it’s tired, discouraged, but earnest.
Putting on my Christian hat, I told him that God was right there with him, next to him, inside him, all around him. “God is here on Skid Row.” He shook his head, "No, no, no... Look around you. God isn't here." I did look around. If I lived on Skid Row, if I woke up every morning to heroin, urine-stained sidewalks, mental disability, litter, police harassment, would I be able to see God when I looked around me? That’s a difficult question. I've never even come close to poverty in my lifetime, much less homelessness, much less Skid Row. I don’t think it would be too much of a stretch to say that my reaction might be pretty similar to Arturo’s: frustration, anger, and resentment towards God - I’d probably throw in some entitlement too.
Although I like to believe (and have even seen) that God is very present on Skid Row, I knew that my experience on 6th and Gladys was very different from Arturo’s. Maybe I’ve been reading too much Henri Nouwen, but I felt God wanted me to enter in, to displace myself in this man’s pain and suffering rather than give him a sermon on Christian faith before driving back to my cozy apartment and PhD program in Westwood.
He recounted quite candidly that other Christians had told him God was his friend, but from his experience, he couldn’t see God as anything but his enemy. After attending AA and NA meetings and cleaning up his life for a few years, he recognizes that there is still a struggle in his mind: “I feel like there’s a wall there.” He's still on Skid Row, without a job, without money, and lonely. He showed me a pin on his bag he got at an AA meeting with the serenity prayer: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." Arturo struggles with that first phrase - why does he have to accept the things that he can't change first? Why does he have to accept his life on Skid Row and trust that God is good? Unfortunately, I didn’t have a very clear answer for him.
I asked him if he ever told God how he felt, if he ever asked God why he was on Skid Row. He sounded very tired "I don't want to talk to God." Even when I offered to pray for him throughout the week, he asked that I do not use his name while talking to God.
I told Arturo that God loved him. He didn’t want him to be alone, depressed, and distant. That he longed to hear from Arturo, his beloved son. I said I'd be back next week to check up on how he's doing, and that I'd be praying for him.
But Arturo's tired, dejected face is still fixed on my mind.
I was on coffee duty, passing out steaming styrofoam cups, doctoring them up with powdered non-dairy creamer and sugar, when I noticed someone was staring at me from across the sidewalk. He wasn’t staring in a creepy way, but in a "I want to talk to you" way so I walked over and started a conversation. He told me he had some questions: “I wonder...can you tell me... where is God?" I can see his face - it’s tired, discouraged, but earnest.
Putting on my Christian hat, I told him that God was right there with him, next to him, inside him, all around him. “God is here on Skid Row.” He shook his head, "No, no, no... Look around you. God isn't here." I did look around. If I lived on Skid Row, if I woke up every morning to heroin, urine-stained sidewalks, mental disability, litter, police harassment, would I be able to see God when I looked around me? That’s a difficult question. I've never even come close to poverty in my lifetime, much less homelessness, much less Skid Row. I don’t think it would be too much of a stretch to say that my reaction might be pretty similar to Arturo’s: frustration, anger, and resentment towards God - I’d probably throw in some entitlement too.
Although I like to believe (and have even seen) that God is very present on Skid Row, I knew that my experience on 6th and Gladys was very different from Arturo’s. Maybe I’ve been reading too much Henri Nouwen, but I felt God wanted me to enter in, to displace myself in this man’s pain and suffering rather than give him a sermon on Christian faith before driving back to my cozy apartment and PhD program in Westwood.
He recounted quite candidly that other Christians had told him God was his friend, but from his experience, he couldn’t see God as anything but his enemy. After attending AA and NA meetings and cleaning up his life for a few years, he recognizes that there is still a struggle in his mind: “I feel like there’s a wall there.” He's still on Skid Row, without a job, without money, and lonely. He showed me a pin on his bag he got at an AA meeting with the serenity prayer: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." Arturo struggles with that first phrase - why does he have to accept the things that he can't change first? Why does he have to accept his life on Skid Row and trust that God is good? Unfortunately, I didn’t have a very clear answer for him.
I asked him if he ever told God how he felt, if he ever asked God why he was on Skid Row. He sounded very tired "I don't want to talk to God." Even when I offered to pray for him throughout the week, he asked that I do not use his name while talking to God.
I told Arturo that God loved him. He didn’t want him to be alone, depressed, and distant. That he longed to hear from Arturo, his beloved son. I said I'd be back next week to check up on how he's doing, and that I'd be praying for him.
But Arturo's tired, dejected face is still fixed on my mind.
20 February 2009
Life without Facebook
So this past Sunday I decided I needed to do something about my unhealthy relationship with facebook. That's right. I'll admit it. I'm addicted. Therefore, I have resolved to only check my account on a weekly basis until Easter (I got a little head start on Lent.)
My break from facebook has given me time to reflect - well, "forced me to reflect" may be more honest. When I can't distract myself by checking my friends' statuses, learning how many mutual friends I have with a classmate, or investigating the love interest of a confidante - I am left with just myself. Not some imaginary social network I can just tap into when I am alone and too lazy to actually engage with real people. And when I am left alone - without wall posts to answer, friend requests to confirm, events to respond to - I can see more clearly the empty places in my life. I can see that I'm probably more lonely than I thought.
Don't get me wrong: I'm not a hermit here at UCLA. I have been blessed by close friends who know me well and love me regardless; likewise I am often meeting new and interesting people on this big university campus; I even find myself striking up random conversations in coffee shops, the library, the grocery store. So it's not necessarily that I have a shortage of human beings in my life.
I guess it's a different kind of lonely. A different kind of longing. I desire deeper intimacy and communion with people. I long for the challenge, the support, the constancy of sharing life with others on a day-to-day basis. I am eager for the companionship and partnership that comes when we commit our lives to the same goal. I want more.
My mom thinks I'm "ready for a life partner."
Who knows? Well, God does I guess. So that helps. G.K. Chesterton said that following Jesus is like being homesick at home. We are ever-yearning for something greater, something deeper, something more intimate. Will I experience only a taste of that in this life?
The funny thing is this all came about because I'm no longer on facebook. And by funny I mean embarrassing. Who knew that a “social networking site” could have such power over me? That's really pretty silly.
My break from facebook has given me time to reflect - well, "forced me to reflect" may be more honest. When I can't distract myself by checking my friends' statuses, learning how many mutual friends I have with a classmate, or investigating the love interest of a confidante - I am left with just myself. Not some imaginary social network I can just tap into when I am alone and too lazy to actually engage with real people. And when I am left alone - without wall posts to answer, friend requests to confirm, events to respond to - I can see more clearly the empty places in my life. I can see that I'm probably more lonely than I thought.
Don't get me wrong: I'm not a hermit here at UCLA. I have been blessed by close friends who know me well and love me regardless; likewise I am often meeting new and interesting people on this big university campus; I even find myself striking up random conversations in coffee shops, the library, the grocery store. So it's not necessarily that I have a shortage of human beings in my life.
I guess it's a different kind of lonely. A different kind of longing. I desire deeper intimacy and communion with people. I long for the challenge, the support, the constancy of sharing life with others on a day-to-day basis. I am eager for the companionship and partnership that comes when we commit our lives to the same goal. I want more.
My mom thinks I'm "ready for a life partner."
Who knows? Well, God does I guess. So that helps. G.K. Chesterton said that following Jesus is like being homesick at home. We are ever-yearning for something greater, something deeper, something more intimate. Will I experience only a taste of that in this life?
The funny thing is this all came about because I'm no longer on facebook. And by funny I mean embarrassing. Who knew that a “social networking site” could have such power over me? That's really pretty silly.
13 February 2009
Love Deeply
For some of us, Valentine's Day is a special day to spend with people we care about, for others of us it is a day of pain and loneliness. I'm grateful, once again, for the words of Henri Nouwen. He acknowledges that human love is often accompanied by human suffering. But this doesn't have to be the end of our story. This passage is dedicated to anyone out there who's experienced heartache (all of us I hope):
Henri Nouwen "Love Deeply"
"Do not hesitate to love and to love deeply.
You might be afraid of the pain that deep love can cause. When those you love deeply reject you, leave you, or die, your heart will be broken. But that should not hold you back from loving deeply. The pain that comes from deep love makes your love ever more fruitful. It is like a plow that breaks the ground to allow the seed to take root and grow into a strong plant. Every time you experience the pain of rejection, absence, or death, you are faced with a choice. You can become bitter and decide not to love again, or you can stand straight in your pain and let the soil on which you stand become richer and more able to give life to new seeds.
The more you have loved and have allowed yourself to suffer because of your love, the more you will be able to let your heart grow wider and deeper. When your love is truly giving and receiving, those whom you love will not leave your heart even when they depart from you. They will become part of your self and thus gradually build a community within you.
Those you have deeply loved become part of you. The longer you live, there will always be more people to be loved by you and to become part of your inner community. The wider your inner community becomes, the more easily you will recognize your own brothers and sisters in the strangers around you. Those who are alive within you will recognize those who are alive around you. The wider the community of your heart, the wider the community around you. Thus the pain of rejection, absence, and death can become fruitful. Yes, as you love deeply the ground of your heart will be broken more and more, but you will rejoice in the abundance of the fruit it will bear."
Henri Nouwen "Love Deeply"
"Do not hesitate to love and to love deeply.
You might be afraid of the pain that deep love can cause. When those you love deeply reject you, leave you, or die, your heart will be broken. But that should not hold you back from loving deeply. The pain that comes from deep love makes your love ever more fruitful. It is like a plow that breaks the ground to allow the seed to take root and grow into a strong plant. Every time you experience the pain of rejection, absence, or death, you are faced with a choice. You can become bitter and decide not to love again, or you can stand straight in your pain and let the soil on which you stand become richer and more able to give life to new seeds.
The more you have loved and have allowed yourself to suffer because of your love, the more you will be able to let your heart grow wider and deeper. When your love is truly giving and receiving, those whom you love will not leave your heart even when they depart from you. They will become part of your self and thus gradually build a community within you.
Those you have deeply loved become part of you. The longer you live, there will always be more people to be loved by you and to become part of your inner community. The wider your inner community becomes, the more easily you will recognize your own brothers and sisters in the strangers around you. Those who are alive within you will recognize those who are alive around you. The wider the community of your heart, the wider the community around you. Thus the pain of rejection, absence, and death can become fruitful. Yes, as you love deeply the ground of your heart will be broken more and more, but you will rejoice in the abundance of the fruit it will bear."
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