P.S. Further reflection on reading habits.

If I could only devise a way to dance while reading, a vast quantity of my daily frustration would dissipate.

Ideas anyone?

"The Other" – A reflection on reading habits.

I write in my books. A lot. Like, I'm pretty sure I take substantially longer than the average person to read anything because I am constantly stopping to mark in the books. I've justified this practice in the past with explanations like how it will be helpful when I am studying or possibly needing/wanting this information later, or how it helps me to remember/process what I am reading. This makes sense right? If you mark something, you will be able to find it later, you will be able to remember it. Sensible choice. But just now in my reading for class I boxed the name "Carl Rogers" in a text book and drew a heart next to it. That's right, a heart – like we all did (don't deny it) in middle school around the names of the people we had a crushes on. Now, I know who Carl Rogers is. The book did not say anything particularly enlightening about old Carl, and I can think of no reason that I should ever need to return to that point in my book and re-read it. The fact of the matter is that I just love him, I love Carl --- but the question is why does this compel me to create adolescent book graffiti?

This has been my reading-break reflection for the past few minutes. What is the meaning of my scribbling? Why do I feel the need to underline/note/create murals around my reading materials so (most people would say) excessively?? When looking through a book I was moderately engaged with you will find an overwhelming number of asterisks, boxes, "Amen!"s; "what the crap?!?"s; question marks and the like throughout.

Staring at the heart I have just written, which cannot possibly have an academic goal connected to it, I think I have come to understand on a deeper level why I continue this strange practice. It goes back to that personal particularity that has kept me blogging despite inner battling about it's value: my absurdly extroverted nature. I basically cannot spend a moment that is not relational. In theatre we call whomever it is that you are acting opposite your "other." Drama theory posits that on stage you always have an other, regardless of whether you are alone or with someone; speaking or silent, you are always relating on a metaphysical level. I'm not sure if this is true for everyone, but this definitely made sense of my life. I literally have conversations going on with "others" in my head constantly (I know, I know, there is probably a DSM category for people like me, but luckily I put myself firmly in the anti-diagnosis boat). It is not abnormal for me to be brushing my teeth, or washing my hands in a private or public bathroom and spontaneously start talking. Mind you, I am not talking to myself, as most might assume, I am talking to my other. In this vein, I am one of those annoying people who talks back to movies (sometimes in simple breath vocals, and small movements, but other times in more overt, sometimes loud, speech, "What are you doing?!? Stop! No!" I was made acutely aware of this recently, sitting with two male friends watching "Avatar," them completely still and silent, me writhing in my seat, alternately gasping and covering my mouth, and looking back and forth at them to see if they were seeing what I was seeing). Even though I conceptually acknowledge that I cannot effect the characters or the story line, my heart tells me that they are relating to me, and I must respond.

And there is the rub my friends. I write in my books because I have the real sense when reading that someone is communicating with me, and I need to talk back. I cannot simply sit by as a docile observer to words I am taking in. I see the world not in information, but in relationship.

So there is a little insight for you today into the madness of the Savage mind. I would say it is blessing to any roommate (and especially any possible, future husband-roommate) that I have learned to get many of my relational needs met on my own. I mean, just imagine if I actually had to get all of this extrovertedness out to someone... I'd probably blog a lot more.

------

And now, for a couple of wonderful updates:

Graduate School Chapel – I decided to talk with the coordinator of our chapel services about my disappointment with the chapel for Haiti and wish that we could express grief and anger communally. After a good talk about it he opened up his computer and pulled up the schedule for the upcoming chapel. It was a special service for Holocaust Remembrance day, and next to the reading of Lamentations he had noted "Emily Savage." "I was just going to ask you if you'd be up for this reading? It's a bit dark though." "Yes. Yes yes yes." Isn't life beautiful sometimes?

Rina – I talked to Rina last week (after much anxious avoidance on my part) and found out that for the first time since I left Bangladesh she and her mother have jobs. I cannot express my relief and thankfulness. For a while longer at least, they will continue to be able to feed their children. We had a good conversation (with her reminding me once again that I needed to have children and move back to Bangladesh), but it ended in a hilarious attempt by her husband to give me their address. If you have ever worked a job where you had to get important information over the phone (think spelling names "no that's p as in Peter, not d"), perhaps you can imagine for a moment that you are trying to spell something over the phone, in a language that is not native to you, and that it MUST be exact. This practice in not recommended for the weak-in-patience.

There is a time...

Today I went to a chapel service that is put on for graduate students every Wednesday. I was especially glad to be going to it today as we were scheduled to have a time of mourning for Haiti and a collection taken. I breathed a sigh of relief when I read the email announcing the service. Finally, a time to mourn.

But no. I was wrong. I do not want to come down on the leaders of the service at all. The talk was good. They did not brush over the suffering, they did not skirt the issues, and they did not let us off the hook to respond in active love. I say to this, amen. But it was short, a nod to the suffering, and the songs and scriptures read were singularly at odds with what I had viewed as a time of sorrow and crying out to God against what was happening. I kept looking around as we sang on and on about how "wonderful God's creation" is and how "thankful we are for his unfailing love" feeling sure that someone else was noticing the disconnect. And they probably were, but see, we are used to disconnect. We are used to going on the same old way even when the reality staring us in the face calls for a different action. There is a time for grief and anger, but we just keep pretending the time hasn't changed.

When we got to the hymn "Great is Thy Faithfulness" I couldn't handle it anymore.

Great is thy faithfulness, Oh God my father, there is no shadow of turning with thee... all I have needed thy hand hath provided, Great is thy faithfulness Lord unto me.

What?!? This is the song we sing in light of the destruction of a city that was already destitute? This is what we sing to the deaths of 200,000 people? This is what we sing when violence is erupting everywhere in the streets and people have been laying in rubble helplessly waiting to be rescued?! Oh right, maybe they meant, all I the privileged have needed thy hand hath provided. All I the few and the far away, the protected, the separated. All I have needed has been provided.

It was all I could do not to stand on the pew and scream at the absurdity of the words coming out of our mouths. Instead I just left, and gave God my own words outside.

My God, my God why have you forsaken them?

They are worn our calling for help; their throats are parched their eyes fail looking for their God. Rescue them from the mire! Do not let them sink! Do not hide your face from them! Scorn has broken their hearts and has left them helpless. (psalm 69, adaptation)

O Lord, the God who says he saves, day and night they cry out to you. You have put them in the lowest pit; in the darkest depths. Their eyes are dim with grief. They spread out their hands to you. Do you show your wonders to the dead?! Is your love declared in the grave, your faithfulness in destruction?!? Why, O Lord, do you reject them and hide your face? They have suffered your terrors and are in despair. Your wrath has swept over them, your terrors have destroyed them. All day long it surrounds them. Darkness is their closest friend. (psalm 88, adaptation)

The mentor I met with recently jokingly mentioned that I seemed to have survivor's guilt. I do. I own my guilt for there is blood on my hands. Because friends, if we do not take the responsibility for the injustice of the world, who will?? Who will cry out for those who have no voice? And how will we do that if we do not own their pain as ours, and see our part in it? Yes, the guilt is mine, and it is all of ours, all who have two coats and keep them both (Luke 3:11).

I know friends, I know there is a time for praise in the midst of great suffering, but oftentimes I think this praise is not out of a heart that is facing the full reality of pain and has found the way to thank God anyway, but instead the heart that accepts just as much reality as it can handle with out being brought to its knees. So I ask, if just for a moment, consider holding off your praise and going on to the next thing on your to do list, and instead join the people of Haiti in their abandonment.

Isn't there a time for grief and anger? What time but now? Put on your sack clothe and mourn with me.

One thing.

But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."
Luke 10:41-42 NRSV

I met with a new mentor this week, and the conversation - and perhaps more precisely, the communion – that we shared is still trickling through my spirit; bringing new hope as it touches each brittle, fragmented part, softening me, and opening me again.

It wasn't that he gave me answers, though some of those were given, it was that he communed with me in my struggle and grief. He saw the spirit of God moving in me where others saw disobedience and rebellion. He leaned into my pain rather than trying to turn away, he believed me rather than attempting to make me question myself. In short, I suppose it would suffice to say, he loved me, he accepted me. Isn't that funny? We learn so much in church about right belief and right practice, and how to evangelize... yet, so many of us seem lacking in the skill of loving each other in truth.

I'd like to put down our whole conversation and all the new connections I made between experience and faith, the path I've forged in the question of the suffering of the world... and maybe someday I will, but for now I'd just like to share that the answer was: Love. The answer for me is love, as a noun and a verb, in all its complicated, all-consuming, unbelievable reality. Love. (You can be the judge as to whether this sentiment is of God or the Beatles)

-------

Last night I talked with a friend who is struggling to live an extremely counter-cultural life (NB: Of late I have become aware that I am excessively blessed with good friends. I confess I am a glutton of amity). As he conveyed to me how hard it has been and how people are constantly pushing him to get back on board with the "American Dream," he said, "Emily, I just want to do one thing well." It made me think of all the theological struggles I have had, well, forever. I have countless memories of myself in high school pouring through apologetics and Bible commentaries for hours on end to discover why you shouldn't take communion until after you are baptised, or what Paul really meant when he charged the single people to stay single; and what did it mean to be holy? and how should I pray? and who is saved?? So many questions; so many why-s; so many am I doing this right-s. I was the head of the search committee. Then yesterday I thought: I have no idea how to love my neighbor. I have no idea how to do the thing that Jesus commanded more than anything else; the thing that makes more sense to me than anything else, that is so clear and uncluttered by theological dissonance.

So in this fast-paced world that teaches us that we can know and do all, I've decided, that though maybe there is a place for all the other questions (and maybe not), for now, I'll just stick with this one thing, and try to do it well. So if you are interested in the place of feminism in the church; or whether or not there is a hell; or how many paths there are to God; then God bless you and may your search be fruitful, but don't ask me. For now, I am only pursuing one question and I am only doing one thing.

Speak to me not but of love.

Christmas Story numero dos:

But first, a couple of shining moments from my time with my family.

#1: A Health Conversation Gone Wrong with my Granddad

Granddad: It scares me all the obese people these days. I just can't believe it. We didn't used to have people so obese like this. You know what? I bet it was them who voted for Obama... he promised change - I bet they thought that meant more food.
(I search my Granddad's face for any sign that this is a joke... nothing)
Granddad: (turning to me) Emily, you are an Obama fan aren't you?
Me: (long pause) Yes sir, I am.
Granddad: Well - (long pause) - I guess I love you anyway.

#2: Nephew Bonding

My sister's 2 year old son Ezra gets in trouble and has to go to time out. This is my brother's 3 year old son Ethan's response.

Ethan: (very serious) Mommy, Daddy, I don't like Ezra.
My brother: (trying not to laugh) Son, that is not very nice.
Ethan: But really Daddy, I DO NOT like Ezra. I DO NOT LIKE EZRA!

Ah, holiday family fun.

Ok, and now moving on to the real story, numero dos.

Perhaps you've heard it before. Once there was a God, who chose to give up his godly form, and godly dwelling to become a man, and live as men do, to know them face to face, and love them.

The Christmas story was told to me twice as the holiday neared, but with a focus that was, if not completely new to me, unusual.

The first time was in a book by Henri Nouwen called The Selfless Way of Christ: Following Christ on the Road of Downward Mobility. The subtitle drew me in. I am yearning for a way out of the American productivity, cosumeristic obsession. I am yearning to join and help the meek.

His thesis was that as Christ stepped down from heaven to be with us, so we who follow him are called to give up our upward striving, to instead join the powerless. It is not a new take on the Christmas story really, but a different interpretation of what the implications are for us. Usually I think our reaction to the story is thankfulness. As in, "I'm so thankful Jesus came to save me," or, as I am asked so many times when people find out I lived in a third world country last year, "aren't you so much more thankful for what you have?" Well, truthfully, no. Truthfully thinking about what I have when others have not makes me angry and disgusted. Why should seeing starvation make me thankful when I am overly stuffed? The stark difference between my life and the lives of the multitudes in underdeveloped countries knocks the air out of my positive attitude, and pushes me not toward thankfulness, but toward (I hope) getting my fattened excesses trimmed away and put to use where they are desperately needed. It seems the Christ story should do the same.

Randy Harris, the most insightful, humble (and humorous but that is straying from the point) theologian I have ever had the great blessing of hearing speak, took a similar stance on the story of Christ's coming in a sermon I heard the Sunday before Christmas. He pointed out that Jesus gave up his home for us, and defined home has people - I guess in this case God-people... angels maybe? - and feelings of security and comfort. In doing this, Harris said, he extended home to us. And once again, in following, we are called to give up what we are most driven to protect, our homes, our security. Harris posited that in giving up our homes - in loving our poor, needy neighbors; our international neighbors; our enemy neighbors, rather than protecting ourselves from them - we are in fact, extending our home. Thus the beautiful paradox becomes that by giving up our home we gain a home which cannot be taken because it has no bounds.

I love these takes on this story. They make my heart beat faster and bring tears to my eyes. Yes, I think, this is what I have been called to do, and I love the God who calls me. But after the sermon has ended and I've finished the last page of the book I find myself at a loss. A loss for the how. I can't tell if all this searching, weeping, writing, and railing is going anywhere. Passion is simply a child's tantrum if it has no road to travel.

Harris' sermon, though pointed, did not contain practical steps, but only a challenge. Nouwen's book, on the other hand, was very practical about the way he believes one should endeavour to follow the road of downward mobility, namely: go to church, read the Bible, and pray. Those of you who have had religious conversations with me recently can probably see my problem with this. What can someone like me, who has been jaded by a life in a conservative middle-class church and a year in a 3rd world Muslim nation, do with this command? No. No Nouwen, I need to do something besides these things that I've been doing my whole life. I've gone to church, I've read the Bible, I've prayed. Now give me action.

Even as I type and my zeal against the passivity of the American church rises, I know there is truth in Nouwen's words. From my youthful perspective, the truth has something to do with living a life that is somehow above this world, above its endless running and needing, above the voices who tell us what to do. He is saying that pursuing these disciplines transforms us into people who walk a different path. I just haven't had the experience he had, and I see few others who have. I don't know how to follow his wisdom.

A sinking feeling of hopelessness is rolling over me as I write this. I am tired; the Christmas break wore on my heart and spirit. A friend challenged me recently to be more forward in my words about the state of the world that I saw in Bangladesh and my condemnation of the way we Americans go about life in spite of it. The challenge was deeply validating to my grief, and yet, I can't follow it. I can't because I have no answers. I know many of you, my dear friends, yearn to see the kingdom come for all humans as fervently as I do (and more so), and thus it is simply... well, I can't find stronger words than I have used before, it is heart-wrenching to look on the reality of the world when you have faith in another way. Many times it paralyzes rather than inspires. Where is the road to the kingdom? I'm not ready to try to put anyone else on my path till I have some idea of whether or not it is leading to something good. Perhaps it is a road to a cross of salvation for all mankind, or maybe it is the railings of a silly, emotional girl with too much time on her hands and verbal ammunition.

I am tired. This is my second Christmas story.

Two Christmas Stories

This has been an interesting Christmas, to say the least. The season was rung in by my increasing anxiety over American consumerism, and following paralysis in the face the pressure to buy and receive gifts, when neither I, nor the people I would give to, had any need. I resolved this dilemma by buying inexpensive, unthoughtful gifts at the last minute only for those who I knew would be hurt if I didn't. I consider this choice a dismal failure. I'm hoping to find a better resolution next year... perhaps that can be my New Year's resolution: In 2010 I will resolve the gift giving/receiving dilemma... except I never actually do New Year's resolutions... hmmm new dilemma...

Christmas story numero uno:

Despite wide spread skepticism of the weather forecast I emerged from my home in Abilene Christmas Eve morning to discover a few inches of snow covering the earth as far as the eye could see (so, to my neighbor's house). Since I was about to drive to my parent's home in Fort Worth, this charming holiday surprise was not welcome. However, after listening to the radio for a while to hear the road conditions and no one mentioning any problems, I set out with confidence (for those of you confused by this action who are thinking, "why not just check the weather on your computer, or the weather channel, or your iphone?" I have access to none of these fancy technological advances in my home. I know, try to contain your awe and wonder at my Quaker-like life).

My zeal to be homeward bound was heightened after talking to my mom and finding out that my sister had had a problem when she got to the DFW airport the night before and had to be rushed to the hospital, where she still was. The snow was blowing hard but there didn't seem to be any build up on the road. I nestled myself in for a long drive, turned on my new Brandi Carlie cd (thank you Amy), got my coffee thermos situated and thought "I dare you to try and stop me storm! I will be home for Christmas!" Oh the arrogance of 20 somethings. To make a long story (sadly lacking grand drama) short, the storm took me up on the challenge. About 20 minutes down the freeway I hit some ice on the road, lost control, and skidded off into the center guardrail. Stupid stupid stupid girl.

The police officer who came to help me was not nearly so kind or helpful as the Bangladeshi boys who helped me out of the ditch in my second bicycle accident. First of all he didn't get me off the road like they did, but left me to sit there in my handicapped jeep and wait until some other vehicle hit the ice and skidded my way; and secondly rather than being in awe of my beauty, eager to do all he could to make me comfortable, he gave me a speech about reckless driving that ended in a citation (though speaking the same language has its advantages, I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't have taken one of those Bangladeshi men up on their marital offers). So eventually I was removed from the freeway, as was my vehicle and some dear friends risked life and limb in the worsening storm to bring me back to Abilene to celebrate Christmas with them.

At some point during all of this I called my mom to let her know that her other daughter wouldn't be making it home either, only to find out that my brother's flights had been cancelled and he was stuck in Nevada. If you see my mom any time soon, give her a good long hug.

Though the time with my friends was the joyfullest, accidental, home away from home Christmas that anyone could ask for, when I finally stepped through the door of my parent's house a day later and saw all my siblings and nephews I was overcome with relief and thankfulness. Who cared about about "gifts"? We all made it home for Christmas. After a few heartfelt hugs and thoughtful looks, my siblings and I got to the serious holiday business of making fun of each other and our parents as extensively and cleverly as possible.

So, that first story was a smidgen longer than I anticipated. Rather than going through the trouble of changing my title (arduous work it is) I will end this entry here, and will get #2 to you at my earliest convenience.

How are you?

I talked to Rina recently and found out that no one in her family has had a job for the past couple of months. They are all living in one room in Dhaka, surviving on rice.

"How are you?" she asks me.

What would you say?

"Well, I've got more stuff than I know what to do with and am getting more by the minute (since it's Christmas and all). I've got so much in fact that I have to spend significant chunks of time organizing and ridding myself of it. I'm prospering and can be almost certain that I will never see a day of real need in my life. I have so many friends and family that I'm currently pretty stressed out trying to figure out how to stay in contact with them all. Lately, since I am off school for a month, I've been spending a lot of time sitting around thinking and drinking coffee."

Good thing I have no idea how to say anything like that in Bangla.

I tell her I am well. I tell her I am so sorry things are so hard for her. She says, with her fearless (or powerless might be a better characterization) optimism, "astay astay bhalo hobe" [slowly slowly things will be well]. I say that I love her, feeling very much like the hypocrite who tells the starving to be well fed. She she asks when I am coming back to Bangladesh. I don't know. I don't know. She reminds me (as was our joke while I was there) that I need to get married, have a baby, then move back so she can cook for me and take care of my child. Yes Rina, I'm working on that.

I think, "forgive me, forgive me for abandoning you, my sister."

I think, "I have to get off the phone so I can go buy Christmas presents..."