What's your story, friend?

Wednesday night, I was on a night flight out of Boston, significantly delayed because of wind somewhere elsewhere, like Chicago, keeping our plane from making it to us. As we 60+ slightly peeved passengers sat waiting at the small gate, with the squalky child and two yappy puppies, we were soon distracted by a different hullabaloo.

About 20 feet to my left, our offender was easier to smell or hear than to see. Camouflaged behind a pillar, he was heatedly debating health care policy with anyone within a 10 foot radius, welding insults and opinions as if it they were life or death matters. His scent betrayed the fact that he had in fact been indulging at at least one neighborhood bar rather liberally... multiple times.

While he seemed to think that he was well-beloved by his neighbors at the gate, they seemed to wish for a slightly higher fence between them... especially when he asked "do you want to fight about it?" (I think "it" was Nancy Pelosi's attractiveness, if anyone cares) and took off his jacket, albeit rather clumsily (navigating sleeves becomes exceedingly complicated with double vision), as if to start said fight... finally, the flight attendants in residence intervened and he left the gate briefly, hypothetically to cool down. Within about five minutes, he returned to the gate, beer in hand, and happily plopped down next to the same neighbors, greeting them as if they were dearly loved friends, completely befuddled by their less than warm welcome. Short term memory seemed to fade quickly for this one.

Long story short, when given the option of choosing between his beer or taking the flight, he chose to fight the matter over the moral liberties and rights of having his beer and flying too, and the state police arrived shortly thereafter to inform him of his rights therein and escort him from the premises. Needless to say, he did not fly the friendly skies with us that night...

Regardless, the story gets more interesting to me because, as I flew home this morning, on an exceedingly early and very on-time flight back into Boston, this same gentleman was sitting across the aisle from me, on the flight this time. This time, much subdued, red-faced, and looked tear-stained, as if many a tear had been shed very recently. He slept most of the way and otherwise stared aimlessly into space, not talking to anyone...

And it just made me wonder... what happened between Wednesday and Sunday? What's your story, friend?

How did you make it down to Virginia?
What happened while you were there?
What's the tragedy behind your bravado?
Why were you drinking?
Why were you crying?

See often times, I'm tempted to release these narratives as merely humorous escapades demonstrating how I tend to encounter the craziest people (which is a true fact). But I forget to ask the question "why"? Or, I miss the fact that these narratives are about real people with real stories and real stuff going on below the surface. And I think in some ways, I realized this week that that's actually very arrogant and self-centered of me. I use someone else's story for my own repertoire. And I neglect them in the process. Not that I'm going to stop relating humorous anecdotes (that feels wasteful). But perhaps I should learn to look at them from more angles than just my own...

And ask the question, "What's your story, friend?" Why were you drinking? Why were you crying?

Turning

So I suppose that I should follow up on my last post by telling the rest of the story... you need not fret dear reader, God is the ultimate lover, and he pursues his children, even when they very much do not want to be pursued...

On Friday afternoon, still very much angry, I decided to go for a walk... as I began to walk, I felt like God's presence was walking with me, and what ensued thereafter felt very much like a dialogue between me and God... this is how it felt like it went:

Me: God, I don't really want to talk to you right now. I'm pretty angry. Please go away.

God: That's ok. We don't have to talk. I just want to walk with you.

Me: I don't want to think about these questions that are making me angry any more. And I definitely don't want to talk about them.

God: That's ok. Let's just walk together.

[so I continued walking. not talking, not thinking, just walking]. [a little bit later]:

Me: God, I'm sorry, I feel really ugly right now, both inside and out, in the midst of my anger.

God: Do you know that my delight in you is every bit the same now, when you are ugly, angry, and closed off, as it is when you delight in me. I love you and delight in you.

And that was the end of our conversation... but that gentle love and steady presence was what I needed at that time. I still don't have answers. I still don't like my options. And the questions are still frustrating to me when I think about them for too long. But what has changed is that I've decided to turn and bring my hurts, questions, and frustration to God, rather than running away from him in my anger. To wrestle with him, rather than against him.

I am still in the painful process of dying to self. But I am also being pursued, carried, and led by a God who loves perfectly, and deeply, even in the times that are painful.

And I am choosing to turn toward Him, rather than run away.

Dying to Self

Anger is a strange emotion. It can be aggressive. It can be passive. It can be for no reason, or for very deep reasons. Often times it is merely sadness moved into offensive position.

And today, I am angry.

And, I think, if I'm honest, my anger is primarily directed at God.

• "But you KNOW me!"
• "Why do you only ask me to consider things that are hard, painful and difficult?"
• "Why would you even think of asking me to do that?"
• "I thought you were a God of new life, abundance and joy, of spacious places, but this feels trapping, confining, bitter and like returning to the grave-clothes."

And yes, I do know that he is God, that he knows better than me, that he is good, that he acts on my behalf, and that ultimately his plan is the best.

But at the moment, I'm still angry. And my anger comes from being asked to die to self. To let go of my plan, my ideals, my agenda, my desires, and my hopes, and let Jesus lead. Wherever, Whenever, and Whatever that means. And no matter what Christians will tell you, the act of dying to yourself is a painful process. It does not come naturally, and we fight against it with everything inside of us, even as we know that it is exactly what we need to do and even what we want to do.

And I will get to that point eventually, of dying to self, of letting go, of free falling. But at the moment, I'm still in the death throws.

I tried so hard /And got so far /But in the end /It doesn't even matter I had to fall /To lose it all /But in the end /It doesn't even matter [linkin park, "in the end"]

latex

Conversation overheard on the T tonight:

Girl: I'm allergic to latex.
Boy: So glad that I hate wearing condoms.
Boy: But don't worry, I tested HIV negative...

I'm not even entirely sure how to react to that...

Someone's son

This morning I was riding the T home, after meeting up with my spiritual director. As usual, when I changed trains at downtown crossing, there were a large number of both homeless men and women and very strange men and women on the platform. For whatever reason, this particular station seems to attract that crowd.

But today, one gentleman in particular caught my eye. He was upper middle-aged, wearing a white T-shirt that was at least 3 sizes too big, and pants that barely stayed up, carrying a heavy winter coat over his arm. He was weaving and reeling like the late night crowd leaving a bar after closing time, even though it was only 1pm.

He talked to everyone, but not in real words or sentences, just mumbled and sometimes shouted garbled blather. He seemed angry, frustrated, but mostly just crazy. He had no sense of personal space and his odor did not remain personal either.

He then began to spasm and seize as though he was having a seizure, but he wasn't. His body would writhe and then stop; writhe and then stop; writhe and then stop. The effects of his spasms were magnified by the 100+ cans that he held closely behind him, making the sounds of trash collectors or tympani, you pick. Then he would pick up his bag full of cans, in total perhaps summing to $5.00 in value, and move, weaving and reeling, rattling, to the next seat on the platform, where he would once again invade the personal space of the disturbed passenger who would try very hard to pretend that he was not there.

He was obnoxious. He was a little frightening. And in all honesty, I was very glad to be on the opposite platform, going the opposite direction.

But as I watched him, I was struck by one single thought:

"He is someone's son."

And in the middle of Downtown Crossing, standing on the train platform, I began to weep.

Simple reality.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had new eyes to see with deeper compassion: he's someone's son. She's someone's daughter. Obnoxious, irritating, frustrating, ugly, beautiful, rich, poor, homeless, public figure, handicapped, Olympic athlete, peacemaker, warmonger, diplomat or debutant, prostitute or Nobel Prize winner, he was once loved by someone. She was once loved by someone.

And if he or she was loved by no one else, they were and are loved by God.

He's Someone's son. And she's Someone's daughter.

Have mercy, Lord, and give us new eyes to see.

sleepless in...

Airports that I have slept in: Stansted, Luton, Heathrow, Dusseldorf, and now add O'Hare.

It's 5:14am local time in Chicago and I am waiting on a standby flight home... in the last 10 nights, I have slept in a bed 8 nights, gotten 4 or less hours of sleep 2 times, and gotten more than 6 hours of sleep 2 times, slept on a bus, slept in an airport, slept on a creaky bunk-bed, slept through a party, slept through a fight, slept with two different strangers, and seen the ugly side of 4am 3 times. :)

And the verdict is in: KG can sleep through anything, in any position, and any location.

Such is the adventure of my spring break [27 hr bus ride and service trip from boston to new orleans with students, then college friend's wedding in chicago].... and I wouldn't trade it for anything!

Last night I dreamt that I was attempting to decorate a nursery in the theme of the Princess and the Frog and was very nervous that I would set my child up for frog-failure. Not sure what "frog-failure" meant, but that was the 2am fear. I also dreamt that I was a ninja. Not sure how those two fit together, but that is the perk of sleeping in strange places: very strange dreams!

And news flash, airports: as helpful as those security alert warnings are when we are flying, at 3am, when there are no flights leaving and all the residents of Hotel Airport Floor are attempting to grab 40 winks, they are less than helpful.

None-the-less, fun as it has been, I must say, I am more than eager to finally see my own bed again. :)