bekahcubed Items eaten in class today:
On days like these, I love Food Science. I just enjoyed enough junk food to last me all month–in one thirty minute class.
I have everything to say and nothing to say. My world has been rocked but I don’t know how to say it. I am not what I was, but I cannot describe what I am. The unexplainable has touched my explanation and I am speechless. The God-plan has touched my man-plan, and my plan is naught. I wanted until I met the desire of nations, now my want is swallowed up in desire. My life is changed, I know not how. I only know that I have had an encounter with the living God.
How long has God been prompting me to lay aside my plans for His great call? I don’t know. The first I can remember is in July of 2002 when God spoke to me in a car on the way back from Omaha, “Rebekah, will you give me your husband?” Then in January of 2003, while I was spending time with God on a farm in Kansas: “Rebekah, I’m a wild God. You have a choice-your tame dreams or the wilderness with Me.” In March of 2005 my pastor approached me with the Scripture in Luke 10 of Mary and Martha. God spoke to me that I was distracted with much service, just as Martha had been.
I remember telling my youth pastor, when I was applying for youth council in 9th grade, that my life verse was Jeremiah 29:11–and that I liked it not because of the “prosper and not harm you” part but because of the part that says God has a plan. You see, I’ve always liked to be in control, but that verse reminds me that God is in control, not me. I wrote about my struggle to let God take control in a poem: Struggle
I don’t know when the breaking started, I only can think of the great hammer blow this weekend has been. I went to Main Event, only to hear a message the speaker wasn’t speaking. It wasn’t the small groups, the message, the songs, or the workshops. I don’t know how it was being spoken, but I heard it loud and clear. I must die to my plans.
God has been speaking to me to step down from a number of my roles within the church. I’ve been scared to death and been disobedient in my procrastination. I think that I can do something great for God and for others within my church, but my plans are nothing more than MYSELF. And myself has nothing to offer. My friend, Jeannette helped me see the error of remaining in that sin. And so I went to Main Event.
As I was packing my bags, I remembered the phrase that has been haunting my brain for years. “Always have a bag packed.” It’s a staccato in my mind. Over and over and over again. “Always have a bag packed. Always have a bag packed. Always. Always. Always have a bag packed.” And I have not. Almost three years ago, I stepped through a door made of tree branches. From the world I had known–the world of tame dreams, of a tame husband, of a tame life–into the wild. The wild had nothing to offer me except one thing–my husband and Lord, my Wild Man Lover was beckoning me to join Him there. And I stepped through the door, recognizing that my nice, tame life would be worth nothing if I were separated from the Lover of my soul–the Wild One who calls my heart. I followed Him to the next step, and then I sat down, unpacked my bags, and civilized the wild. I took on bondage as if it were freedom, and unpacked my bags to settle in for the long haul. I forgot that anytime my Lover and my Lord may part the Red Sea and call me back into the wilderness. I unpacked my bags.
Friday night, Drew Frazier mentioned the topic of our God being wild, untamed. And the memories flooded my mind. When I was deep in the throes of a tumultuous relationship, God calling out to me, persistently crying: “What about me? What about me? Do you really love Me with all your heart, soul and mind? Do you really want Me above all else? What about ‘Bob’? Do you love Me more than he? Why don’t you read My letters like you read his? Why don’t you spend hours talking to Me like you do to him? What about Me?” The jealous God, calling out my Name, determined to give His praise to none other. I remember the God that asked me to give up my dream of world travel, only to send me to Sweden. I remember the God that meets me when I least expect it. And I remembered my call to follow after my Wild Man Lover.
The next day, I went to an EDGE corps informational meeting. And frankly, I wasn’t really that interested. I don’t want to do EDGE–it would get in the way of all of my plans. I want instead to finish school and run my community center and do all sorts of wonderful stuff for God, and for others, and for myself. EDGE doesn’t fit into that plan. And God said, “Whose plan was that again?” And I had to hang my head and confess, “Mine.” “For I know the plans I have for you” declares the Lord. And I can only hang my head further and declare, “Yes, Lord.” I’ve been following my plan instead of running after Christ, living in my comfort instead of for His glory. And so, my plans must die.
I made my vow and declared it Saturday night. All of my ambitions, dreams, and plans are nothing compared to the greatness of knowing Christ. All of my serving, doing, and accomplishment are nothing compared to sitting at His feet. My goal cannot be to do something great for God or to do something great for others, or to be something great for myself. Instead, my one and only goal must be to chase after Christ and follow wherever He leads me.
Quite frankly, it scares me to death. What if He calls me to change my major? I didn’t choose it with Him in mind–I chose it with an earthly husband in mind. What if He calls me to not complete an internship–thus not actually doing anything with my degree. Will I have wasted five years of my life? What if He calls me to EDGE–and I never have a chance to see my community center dream come to fruition? What if He calls me to drop out of school? What if He calls me to work full time? What if He calls me to never marry? What if He calls me to marry? The difficulty is I don’t know what He wants me to do. Everything is up in the air. The only thing that is for certain is that I must follow Him. But I know that the only thing worth doing is following Him.
Lord, work in me to will and to do Your good pleasure. Continue to break my heart of the things that are not of Your heart. Continue to cleanse me of all that is unholy. And lead me, lead me, wherever You would have me go. You are my husband, and I will follow You wherever You go. You are my Lover, and I would not be separated from You. You are my champion, and I will not leave Your corner. For You, my Wild Man Lover, are the only one worthy of my life.
I go through life, moving slowly along from childhood to adulthood, so quickly that I barely notice the time passing. Then one day I stop and find myself driving a car. Driving a car! Since when have I been old enough to do that? I am in control of a moving vehicle, capable of exacting horrible damage on anything it encounters. How did I get mature enough to do that? And I’m driving home, to where I live. Away from my parents’ house. I don’t live with my parents anymore. I’m an adult now. I’m wearing a business suit and pumps–and I’m not dressing up in Mom or Dad’s hand-me-downs. I’m an honest to goodness woman. I don’t have a child’s body anymore, I have a woman’s body. I’m not begging for a ride anymore-I’m in control of my own vehicle. I’m paying my own bills, signing my own papers. When I have a toothache, I can’t just tell Mom and she’ll get me an appointment. I need to make my own appointment. I buy my own clothes now. I wear makeup. When did I grow up? When did I become a woman? I’m not sure. Sometimes I wonder if I really have–I feel like a little girl playing house.
You wanted to make me feel okay about myself when you told me only 2% of the population doesn’t have body-image problems. In reality, it made me doubt my self image. So I’m abnormal, huh? I’m weird because I accept my body and even like it? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I was lying–after all, by the numbers, I probably have a body image problem. Maybe my ankles are too thick, my belly too paunchy. Maybe I feel bad about my body because I notice the cellulite on my butt–or maybe I’m just a realist. I sure like my butt enough when it’s clothed. Or perhaps I’ve been repressing issues about the acne I’ve had for forever. But I don’t think so. The doctor was always more worried that I might be worried about it than I ever was. Or maybe I have bad body image because I recognized that I’m probably within 5 lbs of my ideal weight, but I know I don’t have very good eating or exercise habits. Does that qualify as bad body image? I don’t know. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m one of those freaks of nature who don’t have body image problems. Never mind that you just gave me a self image problem by classifying me either as abnormal or a liar. That’s okay. What matters is that I love my body, right? That is what you were trying to tell me. Right?
To be recognized. To be acknowledged. To be known. What is it about being known that so enraptures our hearts? It’s intimate, not in a sexual sense but in the sense that it is familiar, comfortable. It makes one feel cared for, respected, honored.
It’s when somebody I met with once, talked with once, spent time with once sees me on the bus and stops to catch up–when she just as easily could be studying or reading the newspaper or staring into space as we normally all do. But she didn’t. She remembers me and she cares. I am known.
It’s when I’m walking on campus and see a familiar face. I know them, but I don’t know if they know me. Perhaps I’ve slipped under the radar screen and they mind me not. But then they raise their hand, acknowledge me with a wave–and I’m known and it feels wonderful.
It’s when I go to Bible Study and share my heart into what sometimes seems like the void, and the next day I have a couple messages on Facebook from my Bible Study friends asking how it’s going. And then someone calls to encourage me. I am known, and those that know me care.
It’s when I go to Greekside, feeling a bit out of place but so desperately needing a chance to worship with the body, and someone begs to sit next to me and asks me about life and prays for me. Then I feel recognized, cared for, known.
It’s when I’m sitting at the bus stop and someone stops to chat. He could ignore me–we don’t know each other well enough that I’d feel slighted if he did. But he didn’t, and it does my heart good. I am known.
Some have said that one of the greatest desires of a woman’s heart is to be known. I don’t know how I feel about issuing this as a blanket statement, but I do know that it holds true in my own experiences. That’s why when I was walking across campus today, not paying attention to anything or anyone, and someone called out my name, got my attention to say Hi, it made my day. Because it lets my heart know that I’m known.
We have a closet in the basement of Love–our supply closet. It contains all of our chemicals, and our paper goods and trash bags. And it holds our clean cleaning rags. I love that closet, and occasionally dream of spending time inside it. It smells so clean–like sheets just out of the dryer. It makes me feel warm and cozy. I wish I could just sit on the floor and read, in the midst of that comforting smell. No one would knock on that door asking for assistance, no one would bother. I don’t have any projects in there that need to be completed. I don’t feel obligated to organize it or get it clean. Instead, it’s a little room, a refuge. I’ve never actually acted on my dream, but whenever I open the door to get a towel or some extra rolls of toilet paper, I indulge my senses by letting the door close behind me and breathing in the sweet silence, the blessed warmth, the heavenly odor. For just that moment, I’m a little girl again, wrapped in a freshly washed, cozy blanket. And that’s what I love.
To myself I’m surprisingly simple and remarkably complex. I understand my motives perfectly and I can’t for the life of me figure out why I do what I do. I could be simplistic and say that I desire the same things as everyone else–security, love, acceptance, variety within the bounds of comfort. But simplicity also demands that I have my own unique desires. I feel like a paradox to myself, which is perhaps why I so hate to be put in a box by others. And perhaps that’s why I desire so much to find a box that fits me. We laud dynamic characters in fiction, but my own complexity makes me want to be flatter. At least then I could be certain who I was. I could be “the shrew”, “the ingenue”, “the bombshell”, “the flirt”, “the femme fatale”, “the cowering miss”, “the wallflower.” Instead I am none and all. I hate and love, I am carefree and somberly involved. I am melancholy and joyful. I am organized and I am messy. I cannot identify myself, so I continue to search, to answer that great question-“Who am I?”
There’s something wrong with checking facebook at 3:21 on a Sunday morning. There’s something even more wrong with seeing that you’re not the only who’s doing it. It’s easy to become addicted. It’s easy to develop horrible sleep habits. This is how school messes you up. Either studying or partying keeps you up late, and then when you want to sleep you can’t. That’s where facebook comes in. It’s a time waster when you know you can’t sleep. It’s foolish but quitting seems impossible.
My bedroom smells like vinegar for some reason. Or maybe that’s the 409 I used to clean the microwave. One way or another, it smells funky. I luxuriate in smell. I don’t know why. It’s an odd phenomenon considering that I can hardly smell during most of the year. Allergies and a deviated septum keep my nose clogged. Yet I delight in what I can smell, or else it triggers me to obsessive cleaning. I love onions and I love to cook with them, but I hate how they make my hands smell after I’ve cut them. I smell my hands a lot. Right now they smell like 409–and it’s definitely not the same vinegary smell I’m smelling from the rest of the room. Odd. Maybe I should look into that.
There are moments in my life. Where I’m too spent to speak. There are times when I feel completely empty. Sometimes I bluff off the truth that haunts me. If I laugh, maybe no one can tell that I’m just a shell. I eat, hoping it will fill me, but it doesn’t. I am lethargic, slow. I don’t want to move. I want little more than to curl up in my bed with a book.
Why? Why am I so bound to my emotions? I thought I had reached a plateau in time to take the big plunge. I know I’m not fat, but some days I look in the mirror and I am. Some days I see through my face. Some days I feel so utterly unattractive that all I can do is pretend. And why? I know that’s not so. I know that people love me, God loves me. I know that I’m not overweight. I know that I’m not ugly. So why do I listen when my emotions tell me otherwise?
I’m a wimp and I know it, cocooning against the extremities. Did I pick the wrong major when I chose dietetics? After all, it makes me take biochemistry. No, then why is my favorite class this semester Shakespeare? Because I love to read, and I love English. Why didn’t I go with the English major I’d thought of earlier? Not practical. Why shouldn’t I give in to temptation now? Because the only reason I like Shakespeare is because it’s easy. If all I had to do was English, I would never have to push myself. I could pretend my way through life because I love it.
No pain, no gain, they used to say. That’s wrong and right. Everything’s so garbled. Unless I fatigue my muscle I’ll never grow. But I think my fatigue is the wrong kind. I have stress fractures from running too long, but no muscle built from the effort. Instead my flesh defends itself against the rigors of my life by developing callouses, drawing itself in and pushing all else outside. I’ve got too much pain so I curl in a ball and pretend it isn’t there.
I try to do the things I once did to relax. Nothing has any appeal. I start a book, and let it lie. I don’t care. Really. I want to get up and exercise–dance to some music in my room–but my body would rather not. And I don’t. I try to surf the web, to explore something. Nothing whets my appetite. I am starving for rest, but all I do is sleep. Hours upon hours upon hours of sleep. I’m so tired, but I cannot rest.
The only thing that gets me through is the promise of Romans 8:1-3. “There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has made me free from the law of sin and death. For what the law could not do in that it was weak through the flesh, God did by sending His own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh, on account of sin: He condemned sin in the flesh.” In Christ, I do not walk in condemnation. My flesh and its death no longer hold sway over me. I am set free by the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus. I have only to learn to walk according to the Spirit.
I haven’t the energy for a really useful post, so instead I will give you a crash course in quoting The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams.
“Ford, there’s an infinite number of monkeys outside who want to talk to us about this script for Hamlet they’ve just worked out.”
“Did you realize that most people’s lives are governed by telephone numbers?”
“I can work out your personality problems to ten decimal places if it will help.”
“Come,” called the old man, “come now or you will be late.”
“Late?” said Arthur. “What for?”
“What is your name, human?”
“Dent. Arthur Dent,” said Arthur.
“Late, as in the late Dentarthurdent,” said the old man sternly. “It’s a sort of threat.”“But in fact, the message was this: So long and thanks for all the fish.”
“There are of course many problems connected with life, of which the most popular are Why are people born? Why do they die? Why do they want to spend so much of the intervening time wearing digital watches?”
“The Answer to the Great Question…Of Life, the Universe and Everything…Is…Is…Forty-two,” said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.
“Potential Questions for the answer to the great question of Life, the Universe and Everything: ‘What’s yellow and dangerous?’ Forty-two Nah. ‘What do you get if you multiply six by seven?’ Forty-two Too literal. I got it! ‘How many roads must a man walk down?’ Forty-two. That’s it!”
“The note said, ‘This is probably the best button to push.'”
This book is awesome. You should read it. I’m using it to procrastinate studying for Biochemistry. And it works just great. It’s hilarious. It’s inane. It’s insane. It’s too true. You really, really should read it.
Arthur wakes up one day to find that his house is going to be demolished to make room for a freeway. Little does he know that massive galactic bulldozers are making their way toward earth to destroy it to make room for an intergalactic freeway.
Luckily, Arthur’s friend happens to be a hitchhiking alien who had been stranded on Earth for the last fifteen years. Arthur and Ford Prefect hitch a ride with the not-so-friendly Vogon on his galactic bulldozer and the story of the Galaxy begins.
This is a lively, witty book with a refreshingly cynical look at all of mankind. No wonder Hitchhiker’s has a cult following–this book is amazing!
Who can deny the power of a book that contains this description of the President of the Galaxy: “He is apparently chosen by the government, but the qualities he is required to display are not those of leadership but htose of finely judged outrage….His job is not to wield power but to draw attention away from it.” This book is a must read.
Rating: 5 stars
Category:Quirky Science Fiction
Synopsis:Arthur Dent unwittingly sticks out his thumb for the Hitchhiking ride of his life. Witty and engaging, this book explores the secrets of the Universe (such as who really runs the Galaxy, what the dolphins are really saying, and the exact improbability of Arthur and Ford Prefect running into Zaphod Beeblebrox and Trillian in the twenty-nine seconds before they die of lack of oxygen after being ejected from the Vogon’s spaceship.)
Recommendation: More Monty Python than Science Fiction, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy more than deserves its acclaim. Even science fiction haters (like myself) will love this book.
Technology is disconnecting our culture. Attached to one another by the endless cords of cell phones and wireless internet connection, we are rapidly losing contact.
People are talking but nobody’s listening–everyone’s on their cell phone. “Wish you were here,” we say tritely-but we don’t. If they were here, we couldn’t say good-bye because “I’m on my way to class.” Liars. And if they were here, we wouldn’t be able to surf the web while listening with half an ear. Or could we? A group of five at a table next to me bonds over something on the computer set prominently in the middle.
The telltale cords snaking down the sides of their faces tells me to be silent-they don’t want to talk. Lost in their own music, they have no need for others. They give in to the illusion that music can be made alone.
The internet has destroyed our last chance at interaction. I bare my soul to the void, and the void answers with nothing. Casually disinterested, my readers bite their lips and never call. After all, why should they? I’m not speaking to them. I’m speaking to no one, and no one answers back. We are all babbling heads with stopped ears, disconnected by the technology that binds us together.