beards

I get the feeling (though it’s never been plainly stated)
That for a man, the capacity to grow a beard is quite the source of pride.
Those with full beards can look pensive and wise
Merely by leaning back and rubbing their chins.
Those who cannot faithfully shave their thin whiskers every day
As if to say,
“Oh I could have a beard if I wanted one.
I simply choose this naked face."

And those with the power to beard that truly do choose a naked face
At least once a week,
Will “forget” and leave a scruff, to distinguish themselves from their lesser smooth-faced friends.

Surprisingly, for women, it is entirely different.

I know some women with quite a bit of chin hair.
You’d think they too would wear it proudly.

But they hide in a room with a mirror that blows their face up to the size of the room
And a vicious pair of tweezers,

And emerge only when their face is smooth and clean.
They walk into the world and say, “Of course I have no beard. I am woman.”

Now some women have nothing like this to worry about.
But for them the shock will be worse
When around fifty they look into the mirror
And the light catches their face in such a way
That they note, a rather long hair
Where there was none before.
Were psychologists to do a test, I have a suspicion they would find a strong correlation between this traumatic discovery and the purchase of new clothes, a gym membership, and the word “botox” typed into the Google box.

Some people say I’m really reading into things, that people actually just shave and don’t shave and don’t think about it at all.
Skeptics.
In the same way I can’t understand when they speak another language,
They simply don’t speak beard.

the study of creativity.

Today my professor played us a piece of music and asked us to write down what we thought the sentence structure of the piece would look like. Would it be filled with commas, m-dashes, exclamation points? Would it be a poem, or prose?

Then she asked us to use our imaginations and paint the piece of music in words.

The piece consisted of two instruments that I could make out; an organ and a horn. I wrote that the organ was an old lady in church nodding off, and that the horn was the preacher yelling hellfire and damnation, and that the whole piece had this eighties cheesy charm to it that reminded me of Love Story but mostly made me a bit queasy.

She turned off the piece, and I raised my hand, excited to share because I believed I had nailed it. She pointed to me, and then casually mentioned that this piece was the music in her wedding. I choked, coughed, told her to come back to me, and by the time it was my turn had prepared a lovely summary of a swan gliding on the a lake at dusk. The organ was the swan, and the horn was the sunset.

I think I brought tears to her eyes.

Screwtape

For my Spiritual Formation Class, we wrote a letter modeled after C.S. Lewis' book, The Screwtape Letters. If you haven't read the book, it is a fictional series of letters from one demon to another about the man they tempt and torture. So for this class we were to imagine how a demon might be lying to us. I don't know how this all really works, spiritually, but I wrote a letter about the lies I believe Satan feeds me, and the traps I into which I frequently fall. It's fairly dark, and I may change my mind and take this off my blog, but I thought I'd put it out there to edify and encourage. Enough qualifiers.

One more quick intro. I named the demon "hollowine." I did so to play on the word Halloween of course, and also because all of the lies of the Enemy aim at hollowing me out, like a dark ice cream scoop, taking out all that is lovely and true, and replacing it with emptiness.

My Dear Hollowine,

Thus far, you’ve done a great job of using the word "should" to paralyze her. Should remains one of our most powerful words because His side also uses this word, though of course, with very different purposes. When she first crossed from dark to Him, she rejoiced in the fact that her inadequacies didn’t matter anymore. Freely she exulted. But now, thanks to us, she feels they matter a great deal. Here's a little known secret: hyper-awareness of inadequacies is actually more useful to our side than the inadequacies themselves. For example, her inability to completely rid herself of pride before doing something for Him has at times left her motionless, unwilling to move. She wants to purify her motives completely before acting. This is of course, impossible. She has forgotten that He does not require perfection, but dependence, and that and that He is the one who will change her.
Continue to remind her of what she should or should not be doing, hoping, struggling with, etc. Continue to feed her the thought that nothing she puts her hands to is of any significance unless she does it perfectly. The reason the word should wields such power is that the Enemy uses the word to influence the future. He speaks to humans when they are considering a certain choice, and leads them with should and should not. We twist the word and thought, and even the feeling of should, and use it to focus the Christian on the past, or even their present circumstances. Say she feels fear, for example. Convince her that she shouldn’t feel fear, and tell her that if she were the kind of person she were supposed to be, fear would never be a part of her life. Condemn her. Be careful though; don’t speak too loudly, because at the same time the Enemy will tell her that given the fact that she feels fear, she should come to Him for peace and courage. If we are too overt, she’ll be able to hear the difference.
Convince her that everything she has done has been tainted by her inadequacies. This is of course, true, and the Enemy knows it, but He will tell her that it doesn’t matter, because Adequacy is found in Him. If we continue down this road successfully, she will arrive completely removed from the broken, needy person she was when she first crossed over, and will busy herself moment after moment trying to make herself “lovely and pure.”
One more thing, somewhat distinct, yet related; tell our dear weakling that her failures, her lack of ability to see Him, and the diversity in the world nullify her ability to reason. Convince her that Truth is unknowable, and that it is arrogant to say otherwise. Because of her emotional highs and lows, because of falling, because of coming into higher truths about God that are complex and mysterious, she may be persuaded to believe (and even better, think herself humble for it) that she has no ability to reason. Feed her thoughts such as, “Well, who am I to say what’s finally true and not true?” Then mingle those thoughts with fear of what her community around her will think for doubting, and you’ve got the best combination of all- a song and dance. She will continue acting as though the Book and the Enemy are her authority, but her heart will be with us. You may even let her have some success in self-discipline, some outward achievements to convince her that she really is okay after all. But the Enemy wants far more than that. He wants awareness, aliveness, and faith. He wants brokenness, dependence, forgiveness and love. We want fear. The irony lays in the fact that in saying “I cannot reason,” she actually is reasoning. Her human mind becomes thus worthless, and this is the only real tool we have. If she uses her mind, she’ll be lost to us forever.
Your efforts thus far have been valiant. I’ve peeked in on her plenty of glorious sunny days and seen her terrified with no clue why. But be careful. I think she may be starting to catch on…

Dutifully,
Satan

a little girl

Today I was lying on the grass in the park reading and writing and thinking and scowling and concerned that there was definitely a good way to do this thing called life, a more simple way, a more obedient way, a more abundant way, and that I was missing it. I was half praying half brainstorming when I realized that fall was crisp and sort of perfect and I was wasting blue perfection being angsty. That made me even more angsty, so I lay my head down on my hands and just sighed. I think I eeked out, "Help," a simple prayer, before I looked up and saw her.

She was probably 6 years old, with vanilla hair and skin almost as light. I watched her chase a soccer ball. Presumably she was in control of the ball, but you got the feeling the ball was pulling her along, and she chased it. I found myself jealous. Jealous of this happy hearted little girl, knowing that a piece of her was in me, but that if I let her out the other me would yell at her for not being productive. Then I heard her father call, "Mary, don't run a head of us."

I looked back and saw her father, a clean cut gentle looking man, with three other small fair headed girls. I smiled, delighted to be reminded of my family of four girls. I asked if they were all his, and he answered yes, and then turned back, his hands understandably full. Mary was the second oldest, followed by an older toddler, and then one who could barely walk. But the one who interested me was the oldest. I saw her from behind first. She turned when I asked her father a question and looked at me disinterestedly. Her forehead creased, serious and contemplative. She could not have been older than eight. I laughed to myself and watched her. She picked up a heavy soccer bag and walked around with it, following her sisters and father. The bag was almost as big as her, and pulled her little shoulders down. I watched intently now, mesmerized as she lugged this weight around. The family moved their way to the car, the father a shepherd of his little cotton sheep, zig-zagging and guiding and picking up when necessary. Two things then happened that just stunned me.

The grass the entire way to the parking lot was short and crisp, but off to the right, out of the way, was a nasty mess of shrubs and a pile of branches fallen from trees. The three little girls and their father walked relatively straight to the car. But the eldest, let's just call her Jane, walked head down, burdened by bag, for the shrubs. "Honey!" her father called, "Don't walk through that!" She sighed and went around... the long way. I teared up, seeing so clearly myself in her. I watched and waited expectantly.

As they piled their way into the mini van, I just thought, (why not?), wouldn't it be great if she put that bag down. So I prayed and asked God that she would. And I kid you not. This little girl put that bag down, climbed into the van, and they drove away. I got up and sprinted down the heel barefoot, tears streaming down my face, but laughing. A minute later I stood there, bag in hand, rejoicing, but feeling kind of bad that my prayer had caused a little girl to lose her soccer bag. I took it back and found a lost and found (not before I took a picture, of course).

Then I just sat their, rejoicing in my Father, in His sovereignty of the moment, in His love for me, and the way the Bible tells me I am His girl. And I decided, for today at least, to take a lesson from my scowling friend Jane. I'm putting down my burdens (my worries and fears) and leaving them in the dust. I might even play soccer. Okay, probably not, but I'm resting, that's for sure.

"Place my yoke on you and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble, and you will find rest for your souls because my yoke is pleasant, and my burden is light." Matt 11:29-30