A Spider!

There's this spider--about the size of a silver dollar--that has taken residence on my back patio. 

Although the web didn't seem too beautiful when I almost ran face-first into the center of it, as I jumped back into the doorway I was quickly attentive to a big, colorful, spider and mounted in the center of a beautiful, HUGE web. It glistened in the light of my cheap white light bulb, and rocked gently in the breeze off the man-made pond. Super classy for a spider, of course.

I couldn't bring myself to break it, so I ducked underneath it as I let the dog out and walked her around the corner to do her business. 

I ducked under that web for two days until I felt like things were getting a little ridiculous; I finally caved and pulled one tiny strand of the web (one that appeared to be a major anchor) and guided it into the others. The web collapsed on itself, yet the spider was no where to be seen. 

I felt a twinge of guilt for ruining such a beautiful creation, but after all, it was a spider! 
Not a big deal, Jenna. Get it together! 

That night, I went to take my dog back outside and realized that the big spider was well to work again, carefully weaving a brilliant pattern with his web, re-building the home I intentionally destroyed. As I sat and watched, I realized I couldn't bring myself to tear that web down again. So I ducked low and crawled underneath as Hadley ran off to do her business. 

This morning, after weeks of this pattern, I sat on my little patio with my Honey Nut Cheerios and my babygirl (dog), and pondered that web which was there last night, and no longer there this morning. 

Why is it that this big spider chose my porch of all places? Why is it that day after day and night after night, this spider chose to RE-build that web over and over again? Carefully, meticulously rebuilding that which was destroyed. The same pattern, the same anchors, the same height from the ground. 

Does there come a time when the spider knows that it's time for him to move on? I'm not going to give up, no matter how beautiful that web is. 

Does there come a time when the spider gives up on his gloriously large and ornate webs and is satisfied with something a little more out of the way, a little less flashy? It could be strung with gold and I'm pretty sure I still wouldn't want to run into it at night. 

Does there come a time when weaving webs loses it's appeal? Perhaps Mr. Spider should consider...a dam. Or a cave. Anywhere, really, as long as it's not my patio! 

Sometimes I wonder how much I am like that spider, and how much I am like the person tearing down the web (substitute: dream, self-esteem, comfort, confidence, safe place, etc). I wonder if building my own little web will ever become such a burden that I finally decide to move locations. Am I so tied to my man-made pond and the big, loud fountain that I doom myself to monotony? How many times will I miss out on the adventure of trying and experiencing something new because "that cheap white light just makes everything look so stinkin' good!!"? Is the lighting really better on the other side? Will I ever give up all the extra *stuff* I place carefully around me to make me for comfortable when I finally realize that I can't take any of it with me? 

I'm not really a huge fan of spiders, but I can see beauty in their work.
I still don't want them living on my patio, but I think there is something to be learned here.

Matthew 6:19-21: 19 “Stop collecting treasures for your own benefit on earth, where moth and rust eat them and where thieves break in and steal them. 20 Instead, collect treasures for yourselves in heaven, where moth and rust don’t eat them and where thieves don’t break in and steal them. 21 Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

As children of God, we are called to do so much more than build webs. In fact, I think that had Jesus been a spider, and we were all spiders, he would call us away from our webs daily.

"Dude! Leave that web behind! We'll get our flies another way and trust God for our safety. Just do your best to trust me to take care of you instead of relying on your own handiwork. Your web is nothing compared to my creation"

                                            ***

And so we would leave our webs of comfort and our personally-made stores of things that make us feel good and safe and venture out into the world where our webs don't mean much anymore because value isn't drawn from them.

But let's be real...I love my web, and I love my porch. I love surrounding myself with things that make me feel good because sometimes I can convince myself it's all necessary to "make me better at my job."

What a joke.

I think I'm more like that spider than I'd like to admit. I'm not ready to leave my web just yet, but I think perhaps this is a new seed that has been planted in my heart--something to strive for.

Strive indeed.

What an adventure, this messy and beautiful life is!

(Though I could live without that real spider on my porch. For real.)

The Storm

I've always loved storms--good, long, loud Texas storms. I love falling asleep to the sound of steady rain on my windows, wind blowing through the trees, and lightning lighting up the sky. Maybe they were scarier when I was a child, but I don't remember that time of my life. All I remember is feeling safe.

Of course, I haven't always felt completely safe in storms: there have been times I've panicked and worried like the rest of us. And of course, some storms should be feared. I've seen the devastation from storms in the past: tornadoes, hurricanes, lightning storms all have the capacity to elicit major damage--damage that I've seen and experienced, and worked to help clean up. 

I've realized over the years that there are two ways that people can react to storms: panic and fear (and in turn, isolation), or they can gather together and work together to achieve some pretty incredible stuff in the face of panic and fear and devastation.

Last Tuesday night, I arrived at the Manila airport as it was beginning to rain. We all knew it was coming, so we weren't too worried...until our bus was short 17 seats (we had 20 in our group). Some of our group went into the airport to wait while three of us stood in the rain to watch the luggage (which was, by the way, getting soaked). The rain began to pick up as we waited for transportation for over 30 minutes. Finally, our transportation arrived, we got all the luggage loaded, and we were on our way to Tagaytay, Philippines where our hotel and the GYPC-LA was located. 

Traveling was slow, as we had to stop to avoid hitting fallen trees. The wind was so strong it pushed the cars while we were driving. The rain was so hard it made it hard to see. All we knew was that we were wet and cold, and ready to get to our warm beds. 

We pulled up to the CCT, and immediately knew something was wrong. We were quickly ushered inside without our bags (to be unloaded for us), and informed that we could not be placed into hotel rooms because of damage done to the hotel already. Instead, we should gather only what we needed and head into a large gym to wait. 

None of us knew how bad the storm really was--it wasn't like the Texas storms we were accustomed to. No loud thunder, no bright lightning. Just steady rain and loud gusts of wind. 

Eventually, I dozed off on the stage, wrapped in a rain coat and my airplane pillow under my head. I woke up periodically to the sound of crashing glass and bending steel. We didn't realize how bad it was until the following morning as we all woke up and started to look outside. 

Truthfully, none of us really knew how devastating it was until we made it to the fishing villages of Rizal and saw how it affected their livelihood, and got out into the city to see how crazy it all had become so quickly. When we asked locals about it, they simply told us this is what they do: they just keep going. Just keep repairing. Just keep living. Typhoons are just a part of their existence. They choose to gather together and make things work because there is no other option. Isolation is not a choice. Resiliency is the only way to survive. 

The typhoon was not the only storm we encountered. While it was tangible and visual, it was not the only storm we weathered at the GYPC-LA. 

This other storm was one I expected, but hoped could be weathered with more grace. At the GYPC-LA, we were set to deal with the same issues that the general conference faces, and that people around the world are facing daily. The "issue" of homosexuality in the Book of Discipline and in our local churches. I knew that we were divided, but I didn't realize just how polarized that division was.

We spent two days of legislation trying to work through the wording in the Book of Discipline and four pieces of legislation pertaining to these words. Feelings were hurt, emotions ran high, and there seemed to be no way to approach this topic with grace and love. Each person felt they were right, and there was no convincing anyone of anything different. The storm raged in and between and among us, and it looked as if there was no way we could ever repair the damage that had been done. 

But there was one piece of legislation that was different. The approach was different. The words were different. The conversation was the same, but because the author of this legislation took the time to really get to know people on each side of the argument, they were all able to see each other as human beings who simply wanted to offer the most love.  And so perhaps for the first time, people looked past their biases and preferences and simply saw a way to offer love. 

The vote on this storm was the closest it could have been: 54 votes for and 54 votes against. A TIE. 

During our time in the Philippines, we all knew that we had lived through a huge storm. 80 people in Tagaytay were killed. We survived, and survived well. However, had we not been surrounded by men and women who worked tirelessly and continuously to provide for us, our time as refugees in a giant gym would have spanned much longer. We could have stayed wet and hungry and without any place to go, but instead we were well-fed, and were found warm, dry places to stay. The staff at each hotel we stayed in worked around the clock to provide for us. There was no isolation, only gathering together to make things work because there was no other option, just resiliency. 

And so after the example set for us by our Filippino family who provided so well for everyone present, the young people of the UMC joined together in beautiful, tangible ways at the end of our convocation. While our beliefs remained polarized and our legislation did not pass, for the first time we the Global Young People's Convocation were able to see that there can be compromise in our denomination. There can be a way forward. We can work together to find a resilient way to move into the future, because for us there is no other option. 

On our last night together, we danced together as if there was nothing between us, because there really wasn't. We worshipped together as if there was nothing between us, because there really wasn't. We laughed together as if there was nothing between us, because there really wasn't. 

Sure, our minds hadn't been changed, but we were able to recognize that that which unites us is and will always be stronger than that which divides us. The love of our God and the love of our Church prevailed. 

So we voted almost unanimously that last night to produce a statement of unity. Not because we sorted out all of our differences or came to be of one mind, but because we were able to clearly see that that which separates was no match for that which unites us. 

I am so proud to have been a part of this convocation which, in my opinion, has gone to show that weathering the storm together is so much more fruitful than seeking to go about the business of life in isolation. I have so much hope after seeing that with genuine conversation and open hearts, there really can be a way forward. I have so much love for my people-my church--which I believe can find a way through this that does not relish in victories or votes won, but in seeking perfect love. 

The storm might not be over, but for now, I take respite in knowing that we can make it through...together.

Chewing on El Salvador

I quickly became tired with the way people asked about my trip.

I walked around for days, hearing people excitedly asking me: "how was your trip? Was it wonderful?"

And I cringed.

I cringed because I had spent a week in El Salvador, doing nothing but learning about what life was like for Salvadorans. I didn't come back feeling all warm and fuzzy. I didn't have pictures of homes I built or churches I renovated. I didn't have stories of offering hope or respite or really even something to eat. I felt no sense of entitlement or even the feeling that I had anything of worth to offer a hurting world.

For the first time, maybe ever in my life, I couldn't (and still can't) hide behind any physical accomplishments that improved the quality of life for another, or the ways I influenced or enhanced the spiritual lives of others.

I cannot pretend like the lives that these "others" lived were really any better for meeting me and experiencing my timid and broken Spanish.

I cannot pretend like I have anything to offer that can do much to affect the fear and pain that so many of these people experience daily.

I cannot pretend like I did anything to lessen the weight that these people carry daily--the weight they live and breathe and love under.

Instead, I have been left with the weight of their suffering. As we walked around some parts of El Salvador, the pain was so thick I could taste it.

I spent my week cracking jokes because that weight was just too much. Looking through photos of Jesuit priests, murdered in their pajamas. Gazing upon gardens planted on top of the sites of massacres. Speaking with people who feel abandoned by the world. Listening to people talk about the Church as something to be avoided rather than sought out. Watching young girls divert their eyes from my gaze because they have been taught they are worth nothing. It was just more an I could swallow. More than I could wrap my mind around, and more than I cared to.

So...I cracked jokes. I made silly faces at my new friends, and skipped down the sidewalk, and danced on the bus, and did my best to love the others in my group. I did everything I could to offer joy (which included the above, in addition to belching, singing, climbing trees, and pretty much anything goofy and over the top) so that our hearts could take a break from breaking. These actions aren't atypical for me--I'm usually bubbly and energetic--but I didn't always feel that way in El Salvador. 

Why is it that I hid behind humor? Why is it that I kept making light of such gut-wrenching reality? Why did I keep changing the subject and trying to make people laugh and smile?

I didn't realize that I was doing it at the time. I really thought I was making things better.

But what if I wasn't making things better at all? What if I was just continuing a cycle of indifference? What if my offering of joy was contrary to that which God was trying to offer our group?

So often we find things--anything, really--to hide behind. We see pain and fear and heartache and suffering and we run away. We turn our backs because it's too hard to face the fact that we live comfortable lives where our fears are limited to disease and loneliness and failure when there are real people who live in fear for their lives and the lives of their loved ones at the hands of unmerited and inhuman violence (in addition to our first world problems). It's too upsetting to really wrestle with the dark places in life: the places where pain bubbles to the surface and it cannot be ignored. It changes the taste of life; it's no longer light and sweet. Instead, it is thick and difficult to chew.

Today, I'm chewing. Two weeks later, I'm still chewing. Knawing. Pulling bits and pieces out of my teeth as I try to swallow the reality of this life that I find so easy to spit back on my plate and give to another to clean up.

I'd rather not wrestle with the realities  of femicide and patriarchy and gang violence and poverty and fear and manipulation and social/economic/gender/racial inequality. Do I have to face this?

Do we, as blessed people, have to face this?

The obvious answer, of course, is yes.

Dang. 

But I'm still searching for my "how" because let's face it: anything I can do isn't enough. It's something, but it isn't enough. No amount of money, no supplies, no building, no home, no lecture or book or website seems like it will ever be enough. I can't tell enough little girls that they are world everything, or enough little boys that their worth isn't measured by the fear they instill in others. I can't heal the sick or raise the dead or even speak calm into the hearts of Salvadorans. 

But I'm going to do something. I'm going to figure out a way that I can help inspire change. It's already happening without me...slowly...but there is progress being made. I just want to be a part of it.  I have to be a part of it. 

Because the bite of El Salvador that I took was heavy and tough, but it was rich and full of flavor--a history rich with self-sacrifice for the good of others, deep ties to community and relationship, and a commitment to a God who not only suffered for others, but suffers with them still today. 

If I'm to be like Christ, I've got to figure out how to suffer better. To walk beside those who have nothing and listen. To feel the ache in my feet and my heart, and to sit with it. And sit with others. And chew. And chew. And chew. Until eventually I can swallow again, and take another bite. 

I don't want  El Salvador to eat alone. 

Surprise?!

I don't know why I'm still so surprised when God shows up.

I feel like by now, Jesus and I are pretty tight. I mean, we are on a first-name basis. I've come to expect him in my day-to-day activities, and to listen to me when I celebrate or complain, but if he does more than listen, I'm still surprised. And then, I'm surprised when I'm surprised.

(Did you really just follow that?)

The other day, I was on a plane next to a very clearly sick woman, who, kept her barf bag extremely close to her face at all times. She panted a little bit, and rocked back and forth, and let's face it. I was totally freaked out. It could have been the stomach flu. It could have been a virus I didn't want. If she threw up, I was toast, too. Not good. Not good at all.

I offered to help however I could, and we chatted every once and a while when she wasn't checking on her sister, trying not to lose the in-flight dinner, or trying to sleep. She finally was able to rest, and when she woke, she seemed to be feeling much better. Of course, having a twinge of pastoral instinct, I engaged her in conversation to see if there was anything I could do for her. She looked at me, after thanking me profusely for my kindness, and proceeded to tell me that she was on her way to El Salvador with her sister because that morning, she had found out that her father had suddenly passed away. She was sick with worry and grief, and had been en route to her family the entire day.

Here I had been, complaining to God for three hours about the fact that I didn't want to get sick before the plane even landed, and the reason my new friend was sick was that she had just lost her father.

I would have been sick, too.

Surprise?!

Hello somebody.

Sometimes God shows up, and I'm surprised. Other times, God shows up and I feel a bit ashamed that I get so wrapped up in my life and agenda that I miss the powerful ways God is moving through my world.

Thankfully, I was shaken out of my self-absorbed moment quickly enough that I don't think I caused damage. My friend won't ever know that I was so concerned with my own well-being that I was grossed out, or that I wished I was in a different seat. She will only know that I was the woman beside her who asked her name, her father's name, and promised to pray for her and her family on her pilgrimage to make preparations for his burial, who offered weak smiles and pain killers on the three-hour flight.

So far on this trip, I've continued to be shaken out of my bubble. The reality of the deep-rooted, systemic pain and violence of this society does not allow for self-absorption. There's no room for worry about not liking the veggies on my plate or misery from the lack of Coke Zero. There's not a place for my concerns about what I'm missing at home, or the fact that I could really use a pedicure (yes, the toenails on my left and right feet are two different colors because I was interrupted mid-painting and never got around to finishing).

I feel like someone has gotten a hold of my heart in their hand, and they're squeezing my insides, making it hard to breathe. The weight of this violence is nearly unbearable, and I've only been here for two days. I have so many questions, and the solutions to the questions aren't coming quickly
enough.

Yet still, the people here still believe in a God who has continually showed up.

I'm surprised.
They're not, and that surprises me, too.

Have I mentioned that I'm not a huge fan of surprises?
Sweet fancy Moses.

Someday I'll write more about the specifics, because people don't know enough about this place they haven't had time to fall in love with these people. To experience tiny pieces of their pain, their suffering, their hope. 

But that's a surprise for another day. 

Thank goodness I believe in a God of surprises. 

Reality Check #1 (because I feel like I'm going to keep having them continuously...)

Sometimes I feel like reality stings a little more than others. 

Not the bad kind of sting, or the kind that leaves marks that a person can't recover from.

But you know, the kind of sting that wakes you up, reminds you of your humanness, makes you stand up a little straighter and slow down long enough to at least see the flowers you haven't been smelling. The kind that brings you to your knees, not because you're broken beyond repair, but because you're so overwhelmed with humility and gratitude that you can't quite stand up on your own. The kind of sting that makes your eyes well up, not because you're upset, but because you're so overwhelmed by the depth of God's love for you that there's nothing else to do but wipe away the sting behind your eyes and smile to yourself. 

Today, reality stings a bit more than I remember. 

As I prepare for Spring Break and the travels it holds for me, I've been running around like a chicken with her head cut off...for days. The packing part isn't what has stressed me out, or even the part where I have to leave Hadley with someone else for week. I'm worried about going through airport security or flying or any of the details of my trip (which I'm absolutely clueless about). 

I've been stressed out about leaving work. 

I have honestly sent out a zillion emails this week, all about things that need to be taken care of. I've left ridiculously (and annoyingly) detailed instructions for people in the office, and my volunteers, about how to conduct business while I'm away. I've spent extra time on the phone, and extra time making lists and leaving notes than what's probably necessary. 

So this morning, after my wonderful boss told me I didn't need to come into the office and so that I had a chance to pack for my trip, guess what I did?

I came into the office. Late, but I came in nonetheless. 

And as I sat in my desk chair, turned on my space heater, and opened up my email...**sting**

Reality check. 

I had literally no emails to answer. No voice mails. No long lists of things to do. 

Worst of all...things seemed to be going completely smoothly without me. 

So I made up a couple more emails to send, like they were necessary, sat at my desk for a couple more minutes, and left. 

It stung.

Because I realized (again?!) that so much of my self-worth is wrapped up in what I do. 

Look, I don't suffer from self-esteem issues. I've got confidence to spare (whether or not it's merited). But so much of my identity is rooted in how well I do my job, how compassionate and energetic and inspiring of a leader I am, how well people respond to my work. Could it be that my worth comes from other people needing me? 

Lord, I hope not. 

One of my biggest fears in life is that I'll fail the people who count on me. I'll let them down. I'm worried that for some reason the stability in their spiritual lives is tied to my successes, and that something going wrong on my end will be detrimental to their faith (seriously, Jenna, get it together. Ego, much?). 

So I sit at my desk, with tears stinging my eyes, the depth of my love for my people stinging my heart, and the realization that God's ability to work in the world doesn't hinge on my presence or absence stinging my hands--these hands that have typed WAY too many emails this week and who somehow have come to believe that without them, people won't experience God's love. 

Oh Jenna, you need to be reminded. It's not about you.

It's not about me. It sure makes leaving easier. It makes living easier. It makes life more meaningful and enjoyable to be reminded that my presence is not the condition for God's movement throughout the world. In fact, though it stings to be reminded, it's freeing to know that God is going to work in spite of me. 

Being reminded that I'm not the end-all, be-all is oddly not that painful. It stings for a moment, but then...it's the most liberating feeling in the world. There's a twinge of sting, like I imagine it would feel to have shackles cut from one's wrists, but it only lasts for a moment as you realize your range of motion is exponentially wider, and your reach is farther. 

Sometimes reality stings a little bit more than others, but today, I'm thankful for the sting that reminds me that the weight of the world isn't on my shoulders, that the Kingdom coming has very little to do with my lists and emails, and that God is already in the places I'm going and the places I'm leaving. 

Over and out.

Today is the Day!

For the last week or so, I've been waiting for this day. 

I've been counting down until that day that I will finally have time to get all the housework done. 

The day I can catch up on all my reading (who on earth can actually read 650 pages in a week of anything other than Harry Potter?!). 

The day I can finally clean the little pieces of cardboard scattered around my floor up and not expect Hadley (my adorable and hellish Australian Shepherd puppy) to chew something else up in its place.

The day I can vacuum without being barked at.

The day I can brew (and drink) a whole pot of coffee in silence and at my own pace.

I've been waiting for this day...the day when I would take my sweet Hadley to be spayed.

But I woke up this morning, surrounded by ice, watching the snow fall outside (which really sucks when one's dog refuses to go to the bathroom on snow or ice). I actually boiled a cup of water to pour on the grass so said puppy would have an unfrozen patch of ground to do her business on. This is dedication, people. Before I even got out of bed, I was no longer excited for this day, because I'm leaving this annoying and wonderful fur-baby of mine in the hands of someone else, and I won't be there to scold said human when they aren't doting on her like they should. Also, she is going to be cut open. I don't like that part, either. At all.

I'm a mess. 

I probably won't get most of the things done on any of my lists. I will probably spend most of the day worrying about my dog, worrying about not getting things done, and worrying about how I'll finish them during the week after I bring my very dramatic, very poor, very sore baby home at 4PM.

I spend most of my time living like this: waiting for the day I can feel like I've accomplished all I have to accomplish, waiting for the moment I feel like I've got it all together. I wait for tomorrow to do the annoying things on my list, especially if that list involves washing dishes. 

If being environmentally conscious wasn't on my list of things to do, I would switch to all paper products in my kitchen. And if having relatively decent hygiene wasn't the social norm, I would stop doing laundry. I mean, does it ever end?!

I'm not quite sure how to be better about all this, but I'm trying. 

I think that instead of thinking that "today is the day I'm going to get XYZ accomplished so that I can cross them off my lists," I'm going to start reminding myself that "today is the day that I'm going to embrace as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live life in yellow."

So...

Today is the day that I'm going to embrace as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live life in yellow. To live life with all the vibrancy it deserves. The vibrancy that God offers. Today is the day I'm going to live life with all of the generosity I can muster. And all the courage I can spare. Today is the day I'm going to spread warmth and caring and the day that I'm going to be ok with wandering from my lists, as long as it's not to the detriment of expressing love for others. Today, I'm going to live boldly and with reckless abandon so that others (who am I kidding? so that I...) can be reminded how freeing it is to live for now and stop waiting for tomorrow.

Tomorrow will take care of itself. 

Thanks for that, Jesus.

I think I like the sound of that. 

Time to get back to my list, which hasn't shrunk (dang it).

Today is the day!