Fear-defying Love

Today as I sat around enjoying the company of my family, laughing, eating, and chasing nephews, slowly but surely a darkness crept in around the edges of my joy.

Perhaps it is the fact that coming home for the holidays is one of the few times I am able to give my mind a clear break from the relentless processing of ever-looming projects, or perhaps it is the reminiscing that is inevitable with a return to the people and the place I grew up in, but something about these stays always turns me inward and convicts me. The experience seems to force one to ask questions like: "What have I done with all I've been given? This is where I came from, how will I ever endeavour to deserve it?"

Escaping from my family and going on a walk, I allowed my thoughts to wander where they would. I soon came to the quandary I have countless times since I went to Bangladesh. The quandary of love and fear.

You know that verse about love conquering fear? I believe it, or at least have an ardent hope that it is true... at least, if there is anything that overcomes fear, it cannot be but love.

There are different kinds of fear though. The fear I mainly experienced before this past year was one that sits in the back of your mind, usually just out of your conscious awareness and gives you a dull ache, stealing bits of joy and contentment as you go through your day. This is an important kind of fear, but if it is all you have experienced, it gives you (or, it gave me) a skewed comprehension of the power of that verse. In Bangladesh, for the first time in my safe little life, I experienced physical fear. A real and immediate fear (taking no imagination, and extremely practical) that I could be seriously, physically harmed. The feeling is like nothing I had known before, and I quickly realized it trumped all that I have ever learned in thousands of sermons, Bible classes, and heartfelt devotionals about how to do what is right when it's hard.

I cannot now imagine myself possessing, living, being a love so great that it would overcome this type of fear. I was shocked and am now simply ashamed to admit that I am completely paralyzed in the face of it. Or not paralyzed really. I am able to run away, protect myself. When I was a child I used to think how I would like to be a martyr. I know the idea was the product of an appropriately childish dramatic mind, but I cannot help contrasting that with my feelings now. Now, when I can bring those few moments clear enough into memory, I wonder... I wonder what there might be (a person, ideal, cause) that could give me the courage to submit myself to physical harm. Writing this brings back the disgust I had for myself after those moments, and yet, so much of what I learned last year was that people in general (not only myself) are much weaker than I had imagined before. Or... perhaps I simply never gave all those who are so courageous enough credit, thinking I deserved a place in their ranks, not realizing I was just an actress dreaming of a heroic role.

But I have so much more compassion now for those who live lives of cruelty. Are they blameless? I don't know. I guess I can't be the judge, but what I know is that they are probably afraid; afraid in a way that I have only had terrifying glimpses of. Living in a society filled with metaphysical, intellectual jargon, I think we underestimate the power of physical fear, and from our comfortable thrones judge too quickly those whose lives we cannot comprehend.

I am writing tonight because I have failed miserably in the cause of love, and because the darkness broke through my joy today. This is a resounding theme in my life lately: joy showing up in the midst of pain, and sorrow sneaking up on me in the midst of rejoicing. And lately, (inconvenient as their arrivals often are) I've taken to opening my arms to both when they choose to present themselves. I am regularly labeled as either morbid or inappropriately ecstatic (usually there may be some sort of drug related joke here), but I think my problem is hope. I have hope in these thoughts, perpetuated by this complicated, inconvenient heart of mine. I dare to hope that these leadings (as some of you have so graciously helped me consider) may be the workings of that holy spirit I've heard discussed in vague, and usually incomprehensibly meaningless, terms for so many years. I have hope that listening to these voices will guide me to what I seek: a life of real, fear-defying, love.

Oh friends, is it possible?

If you've made it to the end of this dauntingly wordy and dark message, I ask for your help. You see, I am good at theorizing and confession. I am good at loving with words, but I struggle to no end with action. So if you have won any battles (as I know you have) with learning to live a life of real, practical love, please continue to share with me.

If you'll help teach me, I promise to do my best to return the favor.

A Leaf Story

Today I went jogging while autumn leaves glided down around me. I would not be exaggerating to say the experience was idyllic. I recommend the activity to anyone who… well, now that I think about it, just anyone.

Lately I’ve noticed that more than ever before, the outdoors seem to minister to my soul, connecting me to God in ways I haven’t found words for yet. I’ve honestly started leaving my house earlier and earlier to walk places because it has become inevitable that I will be distracted by the beauty and walk progressively slower trying to take it all in. Being on time seems quite insignificant when you are confronted with such splendor. The earth cares not for schedules, and it sucks you into its defiance. Sometimes I fear that if I ever live somewhere more beautiful than Abilene (hold back the derogatory comments please) my senses won’t be able to endure all the stimulation, and I’ll eventually be rendered catatonic with ecstasy. Perhaps a blindfold would be in order… I always thought using a guide dog would be fun…

Though I’ve always had a special affection for trees and the leaves that emanate from them, I’ve been especially enamored with them lately. Their shapes and colors; the silhouettes they make against the sky; bright yellow bunches of pecan leaves and colorful sycamore leaves as big as my face… often I feel compelled to pick them up when I spot especially wonderous ones. But what does one do with a leaf, I wonder? Were I just a little more courageous and less imprisoned by socially dictated norms, I think it would be delightful to give them to people I cross on the path. Not say anything, just run up, place one in their hands, smile, and walk away. Then, I imagine they would look down and discover a red and green oak leaf perhaps, and laugh out loud at this unexpected gift. They’d stop and contemplate it for a moment, then find themselves also compelled to pass the gift on to the next unsuspecting passerby.

And thus my dear leaf would go on its merry way, spreading the seeds of peace and hope with a new awareness that beauty surrounds us and begs us to recognize that the earth reverberates with the love from which it was surely formed.

Big job for a leaf I suppose.
I imagine their up for it though. We’ll talk.

How American Men are Different from Bangladeshi Men.

Last Friday night after eating dinner with a friend I decided to stay at a cafe and read. Yes, I was alone with a book on a Friday evening, and (though I admit this is not always the case), I was absolutely content.

At some point three young men came in and positioned themselves at a table just in my line of "staring off while pondering" vision. I know this because in the midst of contemplating my eyes suddenly focused to become aware that I had locked gazes with one. I immediately realized my grievous error: girl sitting by herself on a Friday night starring at you - she must be lonely. I quickly attempt to correct this blunderous invitation by using extremely closed off body language (torso turned toward the wall, hand on forehead, face close to book), but it was too late. Next thing I know one is striding toward me. I think "perhaps he is just getting a refill?" I lean in closer to my book, and hug the wall. "May I sit with you for a moment?" Game over. I think "Not this. I'm not in Bangladesh anymore, leave me alone." I say "sure."

He introduces himself, asks my name, then plunges into a speech about how he and his friends like to find out if people know God, because they know God and he saved them, etc. I think "Oh even better, an evangelistic dater, that is so Abilene of you." I say "interesting." I am tense. What is this kid about to ask me? I hold my breath waiting for the inevitable "have you been saved?" But instead hear: "would you say that you believe in God?" Momentarily relieved, I respond "I most definitely believe in God."

Then, rather than going the next step and making sure I am a Christian, he surprises me again by beginning the next part of his sermon on how he hates evil and how he adamantly believes that all people who commit crimes against women and children should be publicly executed. He explains how he simply cannot understand why Obama is talking so much about health care when he should be focusing on keeping people safe. "You see," he said "the more politically left you become, the more you want to take over the world; the more politically right you become, you actually get closer to God."

Not what you expect to hear from someone who is try to save your soul, or date you. As he continues his aimless tirade a barrage of defensive statements and arguments come into my head. This kid has no idea what he is talking about, I could shut him down in no time. At the same time memories from my first suitor in Bangladesh come flooding back to me. Perhaps this is the moment to try out the "I am strong and happy" line again... or maybe in this context something more along the lines of "sorry to confuse you by looking like the girl next door, I am a liberal, feminist, passivist."

Just as I was on the verge of trying out something like this, he paused. He seemed to have lost his train of thought for a moment and nervously looked into my eyes. We looked into each others eyes. I stopped. What is it about the eyes that cut through our charades and lay us bare?
(When acting, until you come to accept the fact that there is always some reality to the fantasy that is being played out on stage, eye contact can really throw you off. There you are playing your role when reality suddenly breaks in. Sometimes it makes you laugh when you shouldn't, and other times you have this gut reaction, and it is like you are somehow suspended between two worlds... the eyes make the moment real somehow, even though you know it simultaneously isn't. You see the real other and see them seeing you, and you think "wait a minute what happened to the game?" You keep playing the part, but you walk off stage knowing a connection just took place with another human, and you wonder what it means. The eyes seem to reject our attempts to block ourselves off, like doors forever nailed open.)
I suddenly woke up to the fact that this man in front of me was not some pompous, imbecile that I needed to put in his place, but a brother, confused, struggling, biased by his background and history, and yearning for love and acceptance -- just like me.

And I thought to myself: "you are a judgemental, arrogant, fool." And I changed my tactic. Rather than trying to get rid of him (my first approach) or entice him (what I assumed he thought I was doing), I would instead try something novel, offering him real love.

I asked him how he came to care so much about protecting people. I asked him why he loved God. Then I found myself talking to him about how amazing Jesus is, and my own struggle between justice and mercy. I touched on the topic of criminals again, and rather than fighting for his point of view he said "you know, I never thought about it like this before, but I don't think God would want me to execute those criminals - he'd probably want me to love them... I could do that."

Just like that. I couldn't believe it.

Then he seemed to get back on track. I could see it a mile away. He began telling me about this other girl he was trying to convert and how frustrated he is that he can't have intelligent conversations with her. "I need intelligent conversation, I can't stand stupidity - I think it is a choice" he says. And I am certain his next move will be "and since we have such brilliant conversation together, how about you give me your number so we can talk some more..."

I restrain a smile. I talk about how amazed I have always been at the type of people Jesus chose to hang out with, uneducated and unrighteous, "how did he do it?" I wonder aloud.

He did a lot more talking and I asked more clarifying and deepening questions. Then for my final surprise of the night, he looks me straight in the eyes and says "Wow, this has been great, thank you so much." Then he shakes my hand and goes back to his table.

No asking for my number, no "can I see you next week," no "come meet my mother," and certainly no proposal. I then realize that not only am I judgemental and arrogant, I am also conceited.

Humbling as this moment was, I choose to blame my error in judgement on a year of having every man I pass stop to stare at me, and any who had the chance to talk to me moving quickly from "what is your country?" to "do you need a husband?"


You see, it's not me, it's just the re-acculturation process.