Yes.
If ever there was a word more neglected than this one, I’m not aware of it. And by neglected, I don’t mean rarely used. This word is used more often than I can count in my own daily speech. It’s a necessary part of my vocabulary, and I cringe to think how I would circumvent that word were a ban put upon it.
By neglected, I mean mistreated and ill-used. I mean all the apathy and indifference that is shown toward it; all the slang and slurring that it has degenerated into.
The word no, as I see it, isn’t in the same category of neglect as yes is. It is spoken thoughtlessly and frequently enough, but what follows a no is usually much less harmful than what follows a yes.
Yes is an affirmation. It is a signal of agreement, confirmation, and acknowledgement. In conversation, it lets the speaker know that the listener is listening; that the speaker may continue with the expectation of being heard. It lets the speaker know that what he or she has said is understood and that the listener feels or thinks the same way. In planning, it gives either party the understanding that what they have said was heard, sounds good, and will work.
Yes is a promise. It is a signal of commitment, responsibility, and obligation. It binds one to another, either conditionally or unconditionally.
And many times, before and after the word yes leaves our lips, there is none of the acknowledgement, affirmation, promise, or commitment that it implies. We have verbally confirmed and made ourselves responsible, but inwardly we are ignorant of what we have confirmed and unconcerned about what we have bound ourselves to. We speak one thing and mean another.
I am grateful that there is one who does not use yes as callously as I do. When he says, yes, you are forgiven, I do not doubt that it is true; that my sins have been washed away. When he says yes, go there and do this, I do not question if he heard me right. When he promises yes, I will be with you, and yes, you will be with me in Paradise, I do not fear that he will forget his commitment and leave me, or scratch his head when I knock on heaven’s door.
* * * * * * *
“Hummmm,” the room fell silent for a moment while a student gave the pitch. Then, at the same time, broke forth the sweet melody of Psalm 32. As I drew in my breath to sing, I took in the complexity of faces surrounding me. Some with smiles, some with sadness, laughter and desperation.
The year had been a tough one. Four months into marriage, one month into school. The summer that I had just left behind was full of highs and lows: the bliss of married life and the struggles of binding myself to another. I had tasted the goodness of the Lord, and yet I had responded in selfishness and moodiness.
And he will comfort me with songs of victory and grace.
My lips often form the words of the Psalms without thought; after years of singing them, I knew many of them by heart. These words, however, were desperately needed, and the Spirit used them to pour balm on my bleeding heart.
God had promised me victory over sin, and it was not a promise that would be unfulfilled. But wherever I would fall short, another promise would lift me up: God’s grace, comforting and healing. Like a father to his screaming child, he would soothe me with his gentle words, songs of victory and grace.
Our hearts are meant to sing, to resonate with the words and melodies of song. Songs, often the ones I could blot out of my memory forever, easily stick in my head, their beats and words constantly running through my mind. This is the song that never ends truly doesn’t. (And now, I must apologize for poisoning my reader’s mind with this insane melody)
But resonating tunes are not always this evil; sometimes, instead of insanity, they can bring life. The right words, paired with the right musical notes, can act more powerfully than those same words written over and over again on a page.
And he will comfort me with songs of victory and grace.
* * * * * * *
Home.
A gust of wind blew into the open window of my bedroom, catching the curtains and causing them to tickle my bare feet. The summer breeze was refreshing after all the tumult of May. In one month I had faced the rigors of English finals and projects, ended the first year of college, and moved back home. I had made a world for myself at school, and without preparation it was concluded; I was thrust back into my old world, which I felt no longer fit me. I clashed with my parents and sisters over little things, striving to prove my maturity and independence and yet failing with every argument.
I laid on my stomach reading Elizabeth Prentiss, a woman whose words transcend the century and a half that separates us. Her words are full of truth, and I ate them up eagerly. But as I read I’m suddenly slammed up against a wall with her words:
I am in danger of forgetting that I am to stay in this world only a little while and then go home.
Go home.
The tears flow steadily down my cheeks, as is common when I am at a loss for words. After years of searching, I have finally found my home. And perhaps the reason that it was so elusive is that I haven’t seen it yet. But it is the hope of seeing it, of seeing the One who will welcome me into his warm embrace, where I will belong for ever and ever and ever, that makes my heart leap.
* * * * * * *
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Part 3
three months later...
Part 3:
One clear, sticky summer night, as most of the suburbs relaxed in their air-conditioned homes, I sat on a couch with a thick upholstery, every so often squirming in an attempt to increase the distance between my own arms and legs and those of my friends on either side of me. The thick-pile carpet beneath my sandaled feet did little to decrease the temperature of the room, which, from pre-teen and teenage boy sweat, was becoming sultry.
Despite the oppressive atmosphere, a small woman sat quietly across the room from me, attentive to the introduction of my pastor and youth leader. Her white hair was unpretentious and practical. She wore her summer dress with its mandarin collar and floral pattern. But she fascinated me immediately; I knew she had been a missionary to Japan for many years.
As she told the story of her journey from youth to old age, from girl to grandma, her speech was unadorned, almost distant. Repeated in her story, however, was a simple phrase that she took from I Corinthians 6. She discussed her own calling to the mission field, and the realization that she must follow wherever God may lead:
I am not my own. I am bought with a price.
Immediately I was still. I felt as if someone had reached inside me, grabbed my heart, and squeezed. I felt those words call me, as they had called her, to missions, to the work of the Gospel in a foreign land.
I am not my own.
In the silence of my own heart, that phrase reverberates. It’s hard to hear when I am moving. The business of my life drowns out the echo; the conversations of practicality and everydayness dominate, clamoring for my attention and claiming importance. But the words remain, and while circumstances have led me to stay in the States for the time being, her words still remind me of my identity. They remind me of Christ’s precious blood shed for me, and of my dependence on him for my very breath.
* * * * * * *
The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on my left side through the classroom windows, making me drowsy after a filling lunch of pizza and pop. My teacher’s voice felt like the sun; relentless and tranquilizing.
“Laura? What theorem do we use for the first proof?”
I came back to earth with a jolt and stared at my teacher blankly. Quickly I tried to find the proof we were on.
“Laura?”
I was dumb and mute, and I failed to respond. The heads of my classmates craned forward to see my face, to figure out why I wasn’t responding. She always knows the answer, they were thinking.
“Theorem 5.1,” I muttered finally, in a desperate attempt to get the eyes of the class off of my back.
“Hmm.” The teacher smiled. “Nope, it’s 6.1,” she looked cheerfully down at me. “You see, class, Laura really isn’t that smart.”
The class laughed, and I, in another attempt to blend in, laughed as well. She had said it with such a complete lack of spite or meanness that there was nothing else for me to do. I laughed again after class when I shared the story with the girls whose lockers were next to mine, and again at dinner when I related the story to my family.
Laura really isn’t that smart.
It’s okay if you laugh; it really is ridiculous. It’s one of those moments that hopeful teachers like myself pray every day to avoid, and gasp in shock when they hear that a teacher has actually said something so demeaning to a student. I can’t say my life has been scarred forever because of those words, and I’m sure that teacher will be happy to know that. I can say, though, that those words echo back every so often, causing me to share the story with fellow educators, who are sure to laugh and express dismay. I like making people smile.
But despite how many times I’ve shared the story, my heart continues to pinch a little. And I’m reminded of the resonating power of words, especially ones spoken without thought.
* * * * * * *
With this ring, I thee wed.
Staring at the paper in front of me, I felt incapable of making any decisions at the moment, least of all one of such importance as wedding vows. My pastor had given Ryan and me a sample of traditional and more modern vows. The small voice said inside me, you’re an English major, dummy. Shouldn’t you be able to put together something beautiful and poetic that captures the moment forever? Yet I felt completely inadequate and unable to face the task. Not to mention the time factor; when would I find time to pour into wedding vows when I felt as if my classes were an avalanche, simply waiting for my sneeze before they poured down the mountain, crushing me beneath their weight?
As usual when unable to make a decision, I picked up the phone.
“What are we going to do?” I moaned.
“Why wouldn’t we just use the traditional vows?” Ryan asked, as if there were no issue at all.
“Don’t you want our vows to be unique? To stand out? I don’t want the same old same old.”
“Uh, no.”
Of course not. Always ready to be new and innovative, Ryan would revert to tradition on such a significant event in our lives.
Thankfully, I had a fiancé (and now, a husband) who not only was able to make a decision, but also was able to recognize the value of tradition. The repetition of words often cause them to loose their meaning. How many times have I said “I’m sorry,” with each new utterance bringing me closer to not being sorry than before? That danger occurs with ceremonial words, as well. But while these words can slam the door on all imagination and hope, they can also open it to life and possibility. There is something sacred about ceremonial words, about uttering with my husband the phrases that I had heard from the time I was a little girl – almost sacrilegiously, such as the incompetent priest in The Princess Bride, and reverently, such as the clergyman in Pride and Prejudice. The act of repeating together words that had been uttered for hundreds and hundreds of years, by men and women of many shapes, sizes, ages, geographic and cultural backgrounds, only increased for me the intensely communal act that taking my marriage vows was. With those words, I not only joined myself to one man for the rest of my life, but also to a community of men and women who had gone before me, who had walked the path of marriage, taking up its burdens and joys, ending both faithfully and unfaithfully. With those words, I made a promise that must resonate with me as long as I still draw breath, for it is not only within my own heart that it was spoken, but also within the hearts of the hundred and eighty people who gave their assent to our marriage.
As long as we both shall live.
* * * * * * *
Part 3:
One clear, sticky summer night, as most of the suburbs relaxed in their air-conditioned homes, I sat on a couch with a thick upholstery, every so often squirming in an attempt to increase the distance between my own arms and legs and those of my friends on either side of me. The thick-pile carpet beneath my sandaled feet did little to decrease the temperature of the room, which, from pre-teen and teenage boy sweat, was becoming sultry.
Despite the oppressive atmosphere, a small woman sat quietly across the room from me, attentive to the introduction of my pastor and youth leader. Her white hair was unpretentious and practical. She wore her summer dress with its mandarin collar and floral pattern. But she fascinated me immediately; I knew she had been a missionary to Japan for many years.
As she told the story of her journey from youth to old age, from girl to grandma, her speech was unadorned, almost distant. Repeated in her story, however, was a simple phrase that she took from I Corinthians 6. She discussed her own calling to the mission field, and the realization that she must follow wherever God may lead:
I am not my own. I am bought with a price.
Immediately I was still. I felt as if someone had reached inside me, grabbed my heart, and squeezed. I felt those words call me, as they had called her, to missions, to the work of the Gospel in a foreign land.
I am not my own.
In the silence of my own heart, that phrase reverberates. It’s hard to hear when I am moving. The business of my life drowns out the echo; the conversations of practicality and everydayness dominate, clamoring for my attention and claiming importance. But the words remain, and while circumstances have led me to stay in the States for the time being, her words still remind me of my identity. They remind me of Christ’s precious blood shed for me, and of my dependence on him for my very breath.
* * * * * * *
The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on my left side through the classroom windows, making me drowsy after a filling lunch of pizza and pop. My teacher’s voice felt like the sun; relentless and tranquilizing.
“Laura? What theorem do we use for the first proof?”
I came back to earth with a jolt and stared at my teacher blankly. Quickly I tried to find the proof we were on.
“Laura?”
I was dumb and mute, and I failed to respond. The heads of my classmates craned forward to see my face, to figure out why I wasn’t responding. She always knows the answer, they were thinking.
“Theorem 5.1,” I muttered finally, in a desperate attempt to get the eyes of the class off of my back.
“Hmm.” The teacher smiled. “Nope, it’s 6.1,” she looked cheerfully down at me. “You see, class, Laura really isn’t that smart.”
The class laughed, and I, in another attempt to blend in, laughed as well. She had said it with such a complete lack of spite or meanness that there was nothing else for me to do. I laughed again after class when I shared the story with the girls whose lockers were next to mine, and again at dinner when I related the story to my family.
Laura really isn’t that smart.
It’s okay if you laugh; it really is ridiculous. It’s one of those moments that hopeful teachers like myself pray every day to avoid, and gasp in shock when they hear that a teacher has actually said something so demeaning to a student. I can’t say my life has been scarred forever because of those words, and I’m sure that teacher will be happy to know that. I can say, though, that those words echo back every so often, causing me to share the story with fellow educators, who are sure to laugh and express dismay. I like making people smile.
But despite how many times I’ve shared the story, my heart continues to pinch a little. And I’m reminded of the resonating power of words, especially ones spoken without thought.
* * * * * * *
With this ring, I thee wed.
Staring at the paper in front of me, I felt incapable of making any decisions at the moment, least of all one of such importance as wedding vows. My pastor had given Ryan and me a sample of traditional and more modern vows. The small voice said inside me, you’re an English major, dummy. Shouldn’t you be able to put together something beautiful and poetic that captures the moment forever? Yet I felt completely inadequate and unable to face the task. Not to mention the time factor; when would I find time to pour into wedding vows when I felt as if my classes were an avalanche, simply waiting for my sneeze before they poured down the mountain, crushing me beneath their weight?
As usual when unable to make a decision, I picked up the phone.
“What are we going to do?” I moaned.
“Why wouldn’t we just use the traditional vows?” Ryan asked, as if there were no issue at all.
“Don’t you want our vows to be unique? To stand out? I don’t want the same old same old.”
“Uh, no.”
Of course not. Always ready to be new and innovative, Ryan would revert to tradition on such a significant event in our lives.
Thankfully, I had a fiancé (and now, a husband) who not only was able to make a decision, but also was able to recognize the value of tradition. The repetition of words often cause them to loose their meaning. How many times have I said “I’m sorry,” with each new utterance bringing me closer to not being sorry than before? That danger occurs with ceremonial words, as well. But while these words can slam the door on all imagination and hope, they can also open it to life and possibility. There is something sacred about ceremonial words, about uttering with my husband the phrases that I had heard from the time I was a little girl – almost sacrilegiously, such as the incompetent priest in The Princess Bride, and reverently, such as the clergyman in Pride and Prejudice. The act of repeating together words that had been uttered for hundreds and hundreds of years, by men and women of many shapes, sizes, ages, geographic and cultural backgrounds, only increased for me the intensely communal act that taking my marriage vows was. With those words, I not only joined myself to one man for the rest of my life, but also to a community of men and women who had gone before me, who had walked the path of marriage, taking up its burdens and joys, ending both faithfully and unfaithfully. With those words, I made a promise that must resonate with me as long as I still draw breath, for it is not only within my own heart that it was spoken, but also within the hearts of the hundred and eighty people who gave their assent to our marriage.
As long as we both shall live.
* * * * * * *
Thursday, May 08, 2008
"Echoes," pt. 2
Here's part two...you'll have to wait a week for part three -- I'm going on a canoe trip to Minnesota!
At eleven years old my world was rocked like the carefully balanced tray carried by a server. I had meticulously placed each platter and drink, each friend and family member, on my tray, and now I was knocked off-balance. I struggled frantically to grasp at the sliding dishes, but with no success. My diligence had come to naught; I was left empty-handed and embarrassed.
Hugging myself in the brisk fall air, I stood outside our new home in Pittsburgh, 400 miles away from Baltimore. 400 miles away from Nan. Away from Shelby, my best friend and confidante.
Goodbye.
I looked at the old, brown shutters and compared them to the freshly painted black ones of my old house. The huge pine tree in front of the townhouse covered up the big window on the first floor and almost the entire half of the house. Cold and hostile, it seemed to echo the fact of its rental nature: not a home where the floorboards are worn out with your regular steps or the wall of the bedroom dented where you continually slammed open your door year after year. Here, I was a guest.
At thirteen, I had regained some of my lost confidence – Nan, though far away, still poured out her grandma-love to me and I wrote letters to her every week. She came to visit each summer, bringing Shelby with her. It was my favorite week of the year. Nan would bring peach buns and crabmeat; Shelby and I would climb under the covers of the same double bed to whisper secrets and dreams, and, for a brief moment, I could almost imagine that everything was the way it always was, that I had a place to belong.
Goodbye!
Again, my Nan and Shelby would get in Nan’s car and return home to Baltimore. After a couple of summers, though, Shelby wouldn’t come back when Nan did.
Goodbye!
I have said this word often in my short life, and each time it feels excruciating. Each time it feels as if my tray has been knocked over, just after I’ve finally picked up the pieces. This simple phrase contains the word “good,” and yet nothing about saying it seems good. It seems only to bring heartache and loneliness and desire for a time, a place that was, but is no more.
At eleven years old my world was rocked like the carefully balanced tray carried by a server. I had meticulously placed each platter and drink, each friend and family member, on my tray, and now I was knocked off-balance. I struggled frantically to grasp at the sliding dishes, but with no success. My diligence had come to naught; I was left empty-handed and embarrassed.
Hugging myself in the brisk fall air, I stood outside our new home in Pittsburgh, 400 miles away from Baltimore. 400 miles away from Nan. Away from Shelby, my best friend and confidante.
Goodbye.
I looked at the old, brown shutters and compared them to the freshly painted black ones of my old house. The huge pine tree in front of the townhouse covered up the big window on the first floor and almost the entire half of the house. Cold and hostile, it seemed to echo the fact of its rental nature: not a home where the floorboards are worn out with your regular steps or the wall of the bedroom dented where you continually slammed open your door year after year. Here, I was a guest.
At thirteen, I had regained some of my lost confidence – Nan, though far away, still poured out her grandma-love to me and I wrote letters to her every week. She came to visit each summer, bringing Shelby with her. It was my favorite week of the year. Nan would bring peach buns and crabmeat; Shelby and I would climb under the covers of the same double bed to whisper secrets and dreams, and, for a brief moment, I could almost imagine that everything was the way it always was, that I had a place to belong.
Goodbye!
Again, my Nan and Shelby would get in Nan’s car and return home to Baltimore. After a couple of summers, though, Shelby wouldn’t come back when Nan did.
Goodbye!
I have said this word often in my short life, and each time it feels excruciating. Each time it feels as if my tray has been knocked over, just after I’ve finally picked up the pieces. This simple phrase contains the word “good,” and yet nothing about saying it seems good. It seems only to bring heartache and loneliness and desire for a time, a place that was, but is no more.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
"Echoes", pt 1
I just finished a piece for my Creative Non-fiction class. I'll share it with you all, but I'll do it in installments, like Charles Dickens :-) I think it works well for that, as I have the piece divided into sections that are linked by theme, not as a narrative. The temporary title is "Echoes" -- I'm not sure if I want to keep it.
Enjoy!
p.s. for those of you who read my "Weight of Words" essay, this part won't be new -- I stole the first section of it for this piece -- but it is a little different! so read on :-)
In the beginning was the word!
Arms lifted, eyebrows raised, Dr. Paul Kilpatrick gestured emphatically from the front of the classroom at 8 a.m. It was too early for most of us, having just crawled out from our blankets and used what energy there was to climb three flights to our classroom. Yet the words of the apostle John jumped from Dr. Kilpatrick’s lips as he laid the foundation for Linguistics 201.
With his token brightly-colored shirt rolled up at the cuffs, denim jeans, and cowboy boots, Dr. Kilpatrick paced the front of the room. He stroked his goatee as he continued his lesson, attempting to reveal to us the mystery of language, its beginnings and its diversity.
Most of us were barely conscious, barely aware of the life-giving words he was offering us. Thankfully, the words didn’t stay in that room, but remained with me, shaping the way I think about words, and, in particular, writing.
Words are able to resonate within my soul, to continue speaking long after the speaker ceases. They repeat themselves back to me, like a shout into a cavern, echoing faintly, yet clear and distinct. Words can shake the walls of my soul, and my soul both absorbs them and speaks them back.
In the best of moments, the words that echo back bring life and peace. Mirroring the words of God in the creation of the world, words can create a world of beauty in the soul. Words bring life primarily because they are relational; they bring opposites into communion. Christ, as the Divine Word, is the ultimate example of this restoration. He brings my sinful self into communion with the holy Father, with others, and with myself. Words, of course, cannot throw a shadow onto the magnificence of Christ's work of reconciliation. But they are, nonetheless, a shadow of that work and are able to mimic it.
Words bring me into communion with God. With words he calls me to himself, sending his Spirit to shatter my heart of stone. He gives words so I may praise him in joy; he gives words so I may cry to him in anguish. With words he writes his law on my heart and my name in his Book of Life. He bridges the gap between heaven and earth with words that are sharper than a two-edged sword; able to divide soul and spirit, bone and marrow; and able to breathe life into my dead heart.
Words bring us into communion with others. With words we speak love and peace. Words can heal and bind up, create intimacy and harmony. They are the means by which we connect our lives with others, bringing wholeness. And the written word takes this even further, creating a link between two worlds, two times, bringing refreshment and enlightenment to the thirsty. “You build a world in what you say,” says Diane Glancy. “Words—as I speak or write them—make a path on which I walk.”
Enjoy!
p.s. for those of you who read my "Weight of Words" essay, this part won't be new -- I stole the first section of it for this piece -- but it is a little different! so read on :-)
In the beginning was the word!
Arms lifted, eyebrows raised, Dr. Paul Kilpatrick gestured emphatically from the front of the classroom at 8 a.m. It was too early for most of us, having just crawled out from our blankets and used what energy there was to climb three flights to our classroom. Yet the words of the apostle John jumped from Dr. Kilpatrick’s lips as he laid the foundation for Linguistics 201.
With his token brightly-colored shirt rolled up at the cuffs, denim jeans, and cowboy boots, Dr. Kilpatrick paced the front of the room. He stroked his goatee as he continued his lesson, attempting to reveal to us the mystery of language, its beginnings and its diversity.
Most of us were barely conscious, barely aware of the life-giving words he was offering us. Thankfully, the words didn’t stay in that room, but remained with me, shaping the way I think about words, and, in particular, writing.
Words are able to resonate within my soul, to continue speaking long after the speaker ceases. They repeat themselves back to me, like a shout into a cavern, echoing faintly, yet clear and distinct. Words can shake the walls of my soul, and my soul both absorbs them and speaks them back.
In the best of moments, the words that echo back bring life and peace. Mirroring the words of God in the creation of the world, words can create a world of beauty in the soul. Words bring life primarily because they are relational; they bring opposites into communion. Christ, as the Divine Word, is the ultimate example of this restoration. He brings my sinful self into communion with the holy Father, with others, and with myself. Words, of course, cannot throw a shadow onto the magnificence of Christ's work of reconciliation. But they are, nonetheless, a shadow of that work and are able to mimic it.
Words bring me into communion with God. With words he calls me to himself, sending his Spirit to shatter my heart of stone. He gives words so I may praise him in joy; he gives words so I may cry to him in anguish. With words he writes his law on my heart and my name in his Book of Life. He bridges the gap between heaven and earth with words that are sharper than a two-edged sword; able to divide soul and spirit, bone and marrow; and able to breathe life into my dead heart.
Words bring us into communion with others. With words we speak love and peace. Words can heal and bind up, create intimacy and harmony. They are the means by which we connect our lives with others, bringing wholeness. And the written word takes this even further, creating a link between two worlds, two times, bringing refreshment and enlightenment to the thirsty. “You build a world in what you say,” says Diane Glancy. “Words—as I speak or write them—make a path on which I walk.”
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Identity Crisis
"...a good argument can be made that true, authentic selves are made more than found. It is arguably as much or more by making and keeping promises than by dabbling and deferring that we come to know who we as persons really are and are called to become."
I read this today in a Books & Culture article called "Getting a Life: the challenge of emerging adulthood" by Christian Smith.
The article discussed a new stage of life in American culture which has been dubbed "emerging adulthood." As a member of this stage (being between 18 and 30 years), I found the article interesting and thought-provoking. It describes several characteristics of this new stage of life, including identity exploration, focus on self, and a delay of marriage and long-term careers.
Smith argues that much of emerging adulthood does little to prepare for actual adulthood; instead, it tends to promote self-indulgence and narcissism. The issue of morality in relationships for emerging adults is especially fluid.
This is where the above quote comes in. Smith criticizes the emerging adulthood attitude that does not understand the relationship between commitment and identity formation. This was interesting to me in light of frequent discussions that I have been a part of at Geneva. The argument is often made that before you can commit to a relationship, settle down and get married, you must know who you are. You must have your identity figured out before you can add someone to your life.
I think that this must be an erroneous argument. First of all it denies that identity is a fluid and continually changing idea. There are some things that are constant: once a Christian, you are always a child of God. You cannot change your gender, birth date, or ethnicity. But who you are in terms of relationships is always changing. I went from being an only child to being the oldest of four. I am now a wife. Someday I hope to be a mother and a grandmother. This leads to the second error: this argument denies that other people - in particular, a significant other - influence and shape who we are and who we will become. After you have figured out what you want out of life, where you want to be in 10, 20, 50 years, what you are most passionate about, then you can begin to look for someone to share that with. Of course, there is some truth to this: good marriages often work because the people in them are like-minded. But to say that at some point in our early twenties or thirties we will discover who we truly are and will be for the rest of our lives – and that who we marry will not influence that person – doesn’t work.
“…authentic selves are made more than found…”
And they are made in a community of people. They are shaped by our family, our environment, our beliefs.
“It is arguably as much or more by making and keeping promises than by dabbling and deferring that we come to know who we as persons really are and are called to become."
Commitment to a community is necessary to identity. We are made in God’s image, and part of that involves communion with others – not a disconnected, drifting lifestyle that refuses to take responsibility for oneself and for others. Marriage is one type of committed communion that aids identity discovery and formation. Family and church bodies can be others.
Wherever we are, communities are vital to shaping not only who we are in the workplace, at school, and in public, but also we are in Christ. Other people provide a mirror to which we are held up, revealing all our filthiness and sin. Other people also provide a beautiful picture of the love and grace of God. We cannot live without them.
I read this today in a Books & Culture article called "Getting a Life: the challenge of emerging adulthood" by Christian Smith.
The article discussed a new stage of life in American culture which has been dubbed "emerging adulthood." As a member of this stage (being between 18 and 30 years), I found the article interesting and thought-provoking. It describes several characteristics of this new stage of life, including identity exploration, focus on self, and a delay of marriage and long-term careers.
Smith argues that much of emerging adulthood does little to prepare for actual adulthood; instead, it tends to promote self-indulgence and narcissism. The issue of morality in relationships for emerging adults is especially fluid.
This is where the above quote comes in. Smith criticizes the emerging adulthood attitude that does not understand the relationship between commitment and identity formation. This was interesting to me in light of frequent discussions that I have been a part of at Geneva. The argument is often made that before you can commit to a relationship, settle down and get married, you must know who you are. You must have your identity figured out before you can add someone to your life.
I think that this must be an erroneous argument. First of all it denies that identity is a fluid and continually changing idea. There are some things that are constant: once a Christian, you are always a child of God. You cannot change your gender, birth date, or ethnicity. But who you are in terms of relationships is always changing. I went from being an only child to being the oldest of four. I am now a wife. Someday I hope to be a mother and a grandmother. This leads to the second error: this argument denies that other people - in particular, a significant other - influence and shape who we are and who we will become. After you have figured out what you want out of life, where you want to be in 10, 20, 50 years, what you are most passionate about, then you can begin to look for someone to share that with. Of course, there is some truth to this: good marriages often work because the people in them are like-minded. But to say that at some point in our early twenties or thirties we will discover who we truly are and will be for the rest of our lives – and that who we marry will not influence that person – doesn’t work.
“…authentic selves are made more than found…”
And they are made in a community of people. They are shaped by our family, our environment, our beliefs.
“It is arguably as much or more by making and keeping promises than by dabbling and deferring that we come to know who we as persons really are and are called to become."
Commitment to a community is necessary to identity. We are made in God’s image, and part of that involves communion with others – not a disconnected, drifting lifestyle that refuses to take responsibility for oneself and for others. Marriage is one type of committed communion that aids identity discovery and formation. Family and church bodies can be others.
Wherever we are, communities are vital to shaping not only who we are in the workplace, at school, and in public, but also we are in Christ. Other people provide a mirror to which we are held up, revealing all our filthiness and sin. Other people also provide a beautiful picture of the love and grace of God. We cannot live without them.
Monday, July 23, 2007
end of summer
So. JCP is getting a little bit dull; I'm not surprised though - I can imagine that most min. wage jobs are like that. One more day, and I'll be done!
Just finished reading The Violent Bear it Away by Flannery O'Connor. It's the next book for book club - and I'm the lucky discussion leader. Wish I had a better grasp on what she's about; when I've read her before I leave impressed and mostly confused. I have some help, though, with lit crit, so at least we'll have an interesting discussion.
Now I'm in the middle of Reading like a Writer
It's pretty sweet -- the author focuses on different aspects of writing fiction, such as words, sentences, narration, character, plot, etc. Although I'm pretty sure I don't have it in me to ever write fiction, it will hopefully help me (at least) become a better reader and (hopefully) apply some of the more general principles to writing my own creative non-fiction. What I like is how she constantly uses excerpts from famous, excellent writers to show her point, and how she doesn't establish fixed rules. She never says, "this is the best way to write." She emphasizes purpose and individuality in determining style.
This time next week we'll be in our new apartment -- w00t! It's been wonderful living at the Prichard's this summer, but I can't wait for us to have our own apartment :-) We have the most beautiful windows at the front of our house. Still new appliances and furniture, though...
Just finished reading The Violent Bear it Away by Flannery O'Connor. It's the next book for book club - and I'm the lucky discussion leader. Wish I had a better grasp on what she's about; when I've read her before I leave impressed and mostly confused. I have some help, though, with lit crit, so at least we'll have an interesting discussion.
Now I'm in the middle of Reading like a Writer
It's pretty sweet -- the author focuses on different aspects of writing fiction, such as words, sentences, narration, character, plot, etc. Although I'm pretty sure I don't have it in me to ever write fiction, it will hopefully help me (at least) become a better reader and (hopefully) apply some of the more general principles to writing my own creative non-fiction. What I like is how she constantly uses excerpts from famous, excellent writers to show her point, and how she doesn't establish fixed rules. She never says, "this is the best way to write." She emphasizes purpose and individuality in determining style.
This time next week we'll be in our new apartment -- w00t! It's been wonderful living at the Prichard's this summer, but I can't wait for us to have our own apartment :-) We have the most beautiful windows at the front of our house. Still new appliances and furniture, though...
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
New things
With my decision to post more often than every 4 months, I also decided that my blog needed a face-lift. Voila. A new template.
Also new is my job at JCPeney's. Greenwood Park Mall. Come buy shoes from me and support my family :-) It should be fun: yesterday was my first day on the floor, and several old ladies called me a "sweet little sales girl."
To go with my new job, I got a new pair of dress pants. A medium-brown color with pinstripes from Target. Pretty spiffy if you ask me.
Another new thing: Monday night Ryan and I made shrimp alfredo with pasta and roasted roma tomatoes. The Shrimp alfredo isn't new; that's one of our favorite meals. However, I chopped up some spinach and sauteed it with garlic to add to the alfredo sauce. MMmmmmm. The tomatoes were really good too: basil and garlic with parm cheese. Next time I'll try to give it a little more flavor.
Also new is my job at JCPeney's. Greenwood Park Mall. Come buy shoes from me and support my family :-) It should be fun: yesterday was my first day on the floor, and several old ladies called me a "sweet little sales girl."
To go with my new job, I got a new pair of dress pants. A medium-brown color with pinstripes from Target. Pretty spiffy if you ask me.
Another new thing: Monday night Ryan and I made shrimp alfredo with pasta and roasted roma tomatoes. The Shrimp alfredo isn't new; that's one of our favorite meals. However, I chopped up some spinach and sauteed it with garlic to add to the alfredo sauce. MMmmmmm. The tomatoes were really good too: basil and garlic with parm cheese. Next time I'll try to give it a little more flavor.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Day 19 of wedlock
Just finished Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. My first longer-than-a-speech exposure to Vonnegut - I've only read his "Fates worse than death" speech before. Not sure quite what to think about it, how to respond, etc. I read it as part of SSRPC's book club - we're meeting tonight to discuss it. Hopefully the other women will be able to shed some light on my fuzzy understanding.
Next in line: Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. I LOVED Hurston when we read her in Am Lit III - so peppy, funny, and confident. Her writing has blown me away in just the first couple chapters.
Re-read/close reading: The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis. I'm leading the high school/college girl's book study at SSRPC this summer. Yesterday was our first meeting, but the books weren't in so we just discussed love in our culture and in Scripture (with the help of a weird-almost-funny-but-a-bit-true article i found on the web ). I've been looking for a study guide, but can't find one. Usually study guides aren't all that helpful, as they contain knowledge-level, close-ended questions, but I can't even find a bad one. Maybe once I'm done this study I can publish the first-ever study guide on this book :-)
In other news, I put up some wedding pictures on Facebook (a few out of over 800).
Next in line: Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. I LOVED Hurston when we read her in Am Lit III - so peppy, funny, and confident. Her writing has blown me away in just the first couple chapters.
Re-read/close reading: The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis. I'm leading the high school/college girl's book study at SSRPC this summer. Yesterday was our first meeting, but the books weren't in so we just discussed love in our culture and in Scripture (with the help of a weird-almost-funny-but-a-bit-true article i found on the web ). I've been looking for a study guide, but can't find one. Usually study guides aren't all that helpful, as they contain knowledge-level, close-ended questions, but I can't even find a bad one. Maybe once I'm done this study I can publish the first-ever study guide on this book :-)
In other news, I put up some wedding pictures on Facebook (a few out of over 800).
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