as God intended

I sit with my back towards the front of the train as we cross over the Manhattan bridge. It’s a gloomy morning, with the clouds threatening to give way to mixed precip later in the day (or come to find out, in less than an hour). Construction at a few of the stations has forced a few of the trains to share tracks, accounting for our stand-still on the bridge this morning. As the train comes to a hesitant stop, time too begins to stand still. The black woman next to me speaks softly into her cell phone, in French. “J’arrive. Bu-bye.” She gently closes her flip-phone. The petit, Asian woman right in front of us reads her energy bill, in Korean characters. A well-groomed, heavy-set young professional shows her gummy grin as she gushes on the phone (to, perhaps a boyfriend) that she has decided to come into Manhattan on a whim. As she hangs up, her cheeky smile all but alludes to the sheer excitement she has from her spontaneity. The Hasidic Jew, donning traditional hat and curls, got up when Aidan chose a seat near him, and relocated between two men to diligently read his Holy texts in Hebrew. A Hispanic man sleeps, and a few Chinese men and women get ready to get off at the famed Canal Street station, should the train ever get to moving on schedule.

To each of these, this is home. I am simply an outsider to their melting pot of a world, ever fortunate to experience an unspoken equilibrium as it is played out in front of me in this stand-still moment. I think this is the way God intended us to live. Unique in our differences, united in them as well. Sharing a train as individuals, sharing a city as neighbors. In this car, there is no uneasiness between race or religion; no threat of jihad or anti-Semitic preconceptions. No expectations as to what language one should speak, or who should be allowed to gain citizenship and how long they must wait. There is more than just a tolerance here; it is a life lived as God created: quirks, flaws, and stereotypes all living side-by-side, calling the same place home. I think our forefathers would be proud.

The Body AND the Blood

(I cheated. There were no subways involved in the making of this story.)

The wafer morsel crumbled to pieces as I cracked it from the larger cracker. I held on to what I could, and prepared to dip it into the cup. Much of what was left was held gently between my thumb and index finger. Careful not to dip my fingers into the communal grape juice, I more or less simulated a dipping of the bread into the juice.

As I sat, eyes closed and pensive, considering the cross, I took the bread. It was dry as it crunched between my teeth and got stuck in my molars. It really is lacking without the juice.

As is the case with the body and the blood. Christ’s life serves as example for us to live by. His body (the bread) is a perfect illustration of God’s person-- His Character, His Love. But without the blood shed for us, to redeem us from our sins, His life is nothing more than an illustration of how to be a “good-person.” Both the earthly example of God’s love and the fulfillment of the blood sacrifice are necessary for the canyon that separates us from the Lord to be filled first by his grace and mercy, then by His unyielding desire for us to have a relationship with our Creator and Redeemer.

The next time you break bread as a church family, whether it be weekly, monthly, quarterly, do it in remembrance of both his life AND death. unfortunately, we just can’t have one without the other.

Walking in light of the Subway Car

I stepped off the train and made my way right down the long corridor toward the exit. I passed the conductor, as his head stuck out the window checking to confirm that all limbs were safely inside the cars before shutting the doors and being on his way. My brown boot wedges “click-clacked” on the cold concrete platform, only to become hidden beneath the roaring acceleration of the engine as the train began to propel forward. Looking to my right, I saw my reflection in the passing car windows. My quick walk seemed became eclipsed, and even reversed, as the train raced by me with an unfamiliar quickness. I appeared to be standing still as life was literally flying past me with light-speed.

The pride burns as I swallow it down; a bite too large and difficult to chew. Here I am, slowly creeping (albeit, though it seems to be fleeting all too quickly) towards thirty, with many of my ambitious aspirations from adolescence unfilled, and most of my what-should-have-beens left as what-happened? I feel a cold loneliness in the solitude of this station, as my peers all seem to be darting off into a purposeful adulthood; getting engaged, moving cross county, enjoying honeymoons, having babies, buying homes, and paying off car loans. how did i miss the train?

i walk towards the same dreams and desires and wishful thinking for my own life. i notice less and less are walking around me as more of their visages are flashing by my reflection in that train car window as they speed by on their way to the next station. i would be lying if i said i feared never getting on the train; being forced to walk the distance, with my reflection a comparison to the dreams that have slowly ceased to be.

Yet, I’m still walking. I’m moving, assumedly so in the direction of my dreams, as once suggested by Thoreau.

Metaphorically Speaking: Don’t Underestimate the Underground (or What I’ve Learned via Manhattan-Bound Local Q,R,N, or F trains)

When you consider the likes of Aristotle, Socrates, and Plato in a modern-day context, where would you imagine their venue for philosophy? Challenging peers to a debate over Venti Mocha’s and a sea of iconic Apple-logo-ed laptops at Starbucks? As guests in an ivy-league symposium, entertaining the dialogue of scholars and academics, both biting at the chance to learn from the greatest and take the opportunity to challenge controversial topics? Or perhaps, sitting as wise gurus and sages upon the ancient steps of a shanty communal home in the tip-tops of the snowcapped Himalayans? But where would they have studied? Princeton? Harvard? Brown? Under whom would they attribute the development of their philosophy and psychology? Frued? Ghandi? Jesus? Darwin? Tom Cruise? Where would they have gleaned their observations on death and dying, on life and living, on love and lack? Reflecting on the current era of enlightenment in my own life, I would often nix university, the church, and even pop-culture as major attributors to and encouragers of my own introspection. Although these were (and still prove to be) absolutely integral to the development of who I’ve become due to the nature of my environment, I find no place more enlightening, educating, and self-assesment-enabling than the likes of an airport or a subway car.

And so, what I have learned via the (insert-city-here)-bound (insert-mode-of-transportation-here).

Who knows, maybe it will become an installment chronicling future global galavants; or maybe the installment will be compiled into a book one day.

and so i sit.

not much more inclined to pack than when i set out to do it three hours ago, but decided to write.

and not much for luck on that, either. i've written about as much as i've packed.

teetering on the corner of my bed, my foot propped on the box spring to make sure i'm not edged off by the hodge-podge of clothes strewn about my bed, i realize: i have completely forgotten how to dress for winter.

which i find completely ironic, considering we were still in the 40s here on Monday. how, in just three days time, could my mind go completely blank and i feel completely unprepared for dressing myself a la chilly-chic? i have literally been living in leggings and sweater dresses since early november, and in a matter of days, have lost all recollection of the last 4 months.

it sort of explains the heavy fog my mind and heart and soul have felt entrapped in for the past two months or so. it's like all the preparation in my faith (especially within the past year) has become so completely foreign that i almost feel as if i never donned that winter apparel in the first place, so how would i even know what to choose or how to wear it now.

life's metaphors are a funny thing sometimes.

not so funny when i have to be up and packed in 5 hours for NYC.

***

disclaimer: take my quasi-emotional tone with a grain of salt. i AM ecstatic about my upcoming trip! i don't know why i feel like such a drama queen riding space mountain to negativeville, but i trust that i'll find i took the detour when i wake up in excitement tomorrow.

i am so thrilled to be spending this week in NYC. let me just begin by saying i am thrilled to be spending this week anywhere but school!!!! oh spring break, i have realized you never existed for the students. if it wasn't for you, the teacher turn-over rate would likely triple in april, and few would return from summer hiatus.

and quite possibly even more thrilling is the fact that i get to reunite with Ashley, a girl whom i met while serving in Haiti last spring!!! she left haiti the day after i arrived, and returned for three weeks later on in the summer. she lives in Brooklyn and works in theatre, and i could not be more excited to spend time catching up and frolicking through her city!

h&m and chinatown: we comin' for you. we gunna fiiiiinnnnd you. we gunna fiiiinnnddd you.

distance can make the heart...

i admit it. i've been distant.

even sitting down to compose this blog, i feel a disconnect. i want to write, i just don't know what about. sort of like i want to lose weight, read, or even identify my emotions, but i just don't know how right now.

to be completely candid, i've been giving it to the Lord in my morning prayer times; times that i've specifically dedicated to praying for a certain missional purpose or some dear heart friends or haiti. i've even so selfishly taken that time i've committed to pray for others, to first pray for myself. to cry out to God and say "help me!" to admit my shortcomings and flaws and failures and grievances. to say to God "i don't know how to do this or fix this without you." because, after all, the sick can not help the sick. i can not help with the specks if there is a log lodged where it doesn't belong. in this case, i don't feel like the splinter is so much in my eye, as it is in my heart; where i feel it the most.

and that's sort of ironic. because i'm having a hard time "feeling" anything. more notably as of lately, happiness and joy. for the sake of sounding like i am 1) 10 years younger in the "emo" goth clique at high school, 2) a woe-is-me, my-life-is-terrible self pitier, or 3) one of those people that seem to talk about how bad they got it, when in reality, they just want your affirmation because they are emotionally void and needy; joy and happiness have been hard to come by as of late. and for no apparent reason. not much has really changed. and when it had, i felt like i was in a place of spiritual fitness in which i had all the right answers and disciplines to handle it.

but now, maybe it is the wear and tear. maybe, i haven't made enough time for "myself" to just "be." maybe there are parts of my life, my heart, still left unsurrendered. i just wish i were able to pinpoint it. to identify exactly where the lack is, and why it is so draining.

spiritually, i feel like i'm doing what i need to to wage the war. giving it over in prayer. trusting the lord. connecting and learning in tuesday night studies and sunday morning services. being vulnerable and transparent with my thursday night girls group. seeking refuge in His peace and word and presence. but still coming up dry. numb. going through the motions, not to hide it, but because i know it to be true, even when i can't feel it.

it's an awkward place for a former-optimist to live.

but if love is a labor, i'll slave to the end.