Processing, Grieving, Learning

I am taking a class this semester called "Violence, Poverty, and Social Justice." I had taken the professor before and liked his teaching style, plus I thought the class would help me to explore issues--particularly on the international level--about which I was really ignorant.

What I didn't expect when I signed up for the class was how much I would feel these issues pertaining to me personally as I think about my time in Romania. I realized this summer that, in many ways, I never really processed all the things that I saw or experienced over there. I'm not totally sure why that is: I think some of it was just have been fresh out of high school and not having schema--in terms of life experience, academic knowledge, theological insight--to fully grasp what I had been part of. I think it also had a lot to do with the fact that I immediately returned to the world of "going to college," which was all-consuming and had very few "access points" for which to think about, talk about, or process Romania.

I read a book this summer about street children and that sort of kick-started thinking about it all again, and now in this class we're reading about chronic poverty, structural oppression, street children, etc. and it's all coming back to me in waves. I started a book this week about sex trafficking that is haunting and powerful and just makes me very angry--I think I have to be careful about who I talk to after I've been reading this book because it shakes me up so badly. While the book doesn't relate to my experience directly, it does bring to mind so many old memories and events and even just observations that I never fully realized before. It's a bizarre experience--grieving and aching for the first time over things I saw nearly 4 years ago. I'm struggling, too, with some shame over my responses at the time. I think so many things just passed by me unnoticed; the child at the Day Center who became a prostitute, the kids who were lured into making pornographic videos, even just the everyday stories of alcoholic fathers who made them leave home. I know at the time I felt like I cared, but my responses to it all seem pitiful now. I feel like I didn't know how to cope with it all, and so to some degree I just held it all at arm's length. Reading these books, talking to friends, and just thinking about it make me wish that I had done so many things differently.

At the end of the day, I know this will be an ongoing experience. Hopefully, I will always be maturing in a positive direction, and that will mean that I will always be able to look back with a greater awareness and wish that things--really that I--could have been different. But while repentance is important, I'm not sure what to make of this regret. It's certainly not productive; I cannot retrospectively wish maturity on myself, for all my desire to. I can continue to learn, though, although I have no idea where it will take me. This seems to some degree so passive, but I am trying to process and discover as much as I can and simply wait, trusting that this will all be used and redeemed--whether I go back to Romania to live or whether I never get the chance to even visit, but I use what I have learned in other ways and in other places.

Everyone should read The Natashas by Victor Malarek--devastating, but important.

more quotes

I haven't read this in quite some time, but I used to have it hanging on my wall and I thought of it today somewhat out of the blue. (It probably has something to do with the fact that I have work to do and do not feel like doing it!) I first saw the quote hanging in the laundry room at a camp where I worked. Its presence in that dingy old laundry room, where confused high school counselors, trying to sort out a profound understanding of faith and life, washed "pee sheets," has always made it much more profound to me. It's by George MacDonald, who was a Scottish theologian who had a pretty major influence on C.S. Lewis.

Troubled soul, thou art not bound to feel, but thou art bound to arise. God loves thee whether thou feelest or not. Thou canst not love when thou wilt, but thou art bound to fight the hatred in thee to the last. Try not to feel good when thou art not good, but cry to Him who is good. He changes not because thou changest. Nay, he has an especial tenderness of love towards thee for that thou art in the dark and hast no light, and his heart is glad when thou dost arise and say, “I will go to my Father.” For he sees thee through all the gloom through which thou canst not see him. Will thou his will. Say to him: “My God, I am very dull and low and hard; but thou art wise and high and tender, and thou art my God. I am thy child. Forsake me not.” Then fold the arms of thy faith, and wait in quietness until light goes up in thy darkness. Fold the arms of thy Faith I say, but not of thy Action: bethink thee of something that thou oughtest to do, and go and do it, if it be but the sweeping of a room, or the preparing of a meal, or a visit to a friend. Heed not thy feelings: Do thy work.

--George MacDonald

Juno

So here's the skinny: it's a movie about teen pregnancy, the harsh realities of love lost, growing up in an age where marriages never seem to last, and outcasts. Doesn't seem like there's much to be happy about. And yet I think Juno was the most delightful movie I have seen in a long, long time. To be fair, it did not devote a great deal of time to dealing with those themes I mentioned. They were present, but not necessarily the focus of the movie. At the same time, though, they were not simply ignored; the best way I can think to describe the "outlook" of the film is to say that it imagines a world where all of those factors are present, but none of them gets the final say. Instead, hope and love--albeit unexpected and perhaps at times complicated and painful love--are the real story going on. And they go on in the midst of as much teenage awkwardness as you can possibly cram into two hours. It reminded me vaguely of Napoleon Dynamite in that sense--except, it was humorous and touching awkward, not gasp-and-twitch awkward. Plus the actors are all wonderful and all develop their characters in quirky and, for the most part, really human yet really lovable ways. In summary, I loved the movie. I would probably go see it again if anyone asked me to. I will also probably buy it, and I almost never buy movies, but I want to own this one.

good quotes

Here are a few thoughts I've been meditating on. The first two are from Thornton Wilder, whom I love but had forgotten about (obviously, I'm a pretty fickle lover) until today when we discussed him in class. He was probably my favorite playwright in high school. The second is from the Psalms, which I had always loved but particularly learned to love again this summer

"Hope, like faith, is nothing if it is not courageous; it is nothing if it is not ridiculous."

"In love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."

"Bless the Lord, O my soul,
And all that is within me, bless His holy name.
Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all His benefits,
who forgives all your iniquities,
who heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the pit,
who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy,
who satisfies you with good,
so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.
The Lord works righteousness
and justice for all who are oppressed.
He made known His ways to Moses,
His acts to the people of Israel.
The Lord is merciful and gracious,
slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.
He will not always chide,
nor will He keep His anger forever.
He does not deal with us according to our sins
nor repay us according to our iniquities.
For as high as the heavens are above the Earth,
so great is His steadfast love toward those who fear Him;
as far as the east is from the west,
so far does He remove our transgressions from us.
As a father shows compassion to His children,
so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear Him.
For He knows our frame;
He remembers that we are dust."

skunks and hope

This will be a short post, even though there is so much to say. I would love to write on and on about this topic, but unfortunately, my time once I get back to school is always more of a commodity than I expect.

But I have been meaning to write for some time on the idea of hope, because it has been haunting me for the past semester and does not show any signs of going away. I am realizing that, while I think of myself as an "upbeat" person, I am not always a hopeful person in the truest sense of the word. I tend to either be naively optimistic, hiding myself from the facts of life that tell me that the world is not, in fact, as it should be; or I finally am forced to face some of the stark realities of a fallen creation, and then I slip into both a depression and a wariness, expecting more bad news around every corner. Neither of these is a way to live, as I have seen more and more. Naive optimism is not only going to disappoint me; it is insulting to those whose pain I am denying, and it also prevents me from seeking opportunities to enter into hurting places and alleviate suffering if I am able. At the same point, depression and wariness deny that Jesus is the King, that He is coming, and that He is good. There are days when surely I doubt that, but I do not want my mode of thinking to regularly deny that. I need hope.

But hope can also be frustrating and raise so many questions: If God is sovereign, does that mean He actually wants bad things to happen? If He is redeeming all things by using suffering to produce good, does that also mean that He inflicts suffering to produce good? If He does not work in the ways I expect, how do I hope with confidence? Can I pray for and expect a good outcome when I know that my definition of "good" may be very different from my Father's? I have some of these answers starting to be formed in my mind, but none of them are crystal clear. I think my most profound realization has simply been that, at some level, it must be mystery. There is some equation out there that makes sense of it all, but in my finite capacities, I cannot hold onto all the components at once to see how the fit together. I simply have to cling to all the pieces I know are true: God is good, He is sovereign, He is redeeming all things, He will come again, He graciously allows but also commands us to participate in His coming kingdom in the meantime, He weeps when His people suffer, He is making all things new.

One phrase has kept returning to me as I struggle with all of this: faith like a child. Jesus praised the little children who ran to be with Him even though they could not possibly have understood all He said in the complexity that the disciples could have (or should have). But I have been trying, over this past month, to come to my Father as a child with all my delights and sorrows. I have probably wept a little more but also laughed a lot more as I considered the beautiful things He has given me. One small example: in New Orleans this past week, there was a lot to be sad about as I saw the brokenness and injustice around me. It made me angry that people don't have homes and that the government seems to in fact be limiting their options. But at the same point, there were more repaired businesses; more people moving into homes; more cars on the road. One small but beautifully encouraging surprise was being reunited with Chuck and Liz, the couple who have somehow "appeared" on every missions trip I've gone on in college, and who have impressed me immensely with their love for the church wherever it is and their desire to serve in their retirement. I know God did not send them down there just for me, but I did receive it as a very personal gift: a reminder that He is with me, orchestrating the details of my life in ways I don't know how and can't control, bringing good (a reunion with friends) out of evil (a city that is so broken and needs so much help). It was also encouraging to see so many people on our trip get excited about New Orleans and possibilities of continuing to serve and love that city.

Then, two days ago, I was back in Charlottesville and babysitting three of my favorite girls. The babysitting gig involved an adventure in a minivan (which I was not expecting!) but after I had finally figured out how to simultaneously drive the minivan and calm the excited/crying girls at the same time, we had a moment of peace and quiet. Then, out of the blue, Caroline called up to me from her back seat, "Sarah, do you think we can play with skunks in Heaven?" I said I thought so and then she clarified, "But will they spray us?" I have recently become very convinced that adults need to take children more seriously, particularly in the way they process things, so I decided not to give her another straightforward and quick answer. Instead, I asked her, "Caroline, do you know why skunks spray?" and she responded, "Yes, because they're afraid." I then asked, "Do you think we'll ever be afraid in Heaven?" and she immediately answered, "No, because Jesus will be there, and we will see Him--not like pretend to see Him, but really see Him!" And then she sighed for a moment contentedly, and concluded, "So I know we'll be able to play with skunks in Heaven--and Jesus will too!" It was obviously amusing, but also such a beautiful illustration of this childlike faith. Caroline will certainly run into much bigger problems than spraying skunks as she grows, but for now she knows the truth: there will be a new heavens and a new earth, where all that is wrong will be right. And she takes delight in that. I want to do so too.