Bigger than Theology

I find myself needing to express something that I don't fully comprehend. I have come to my blog in a stream-of-conscious state of mind. I may not make much sense, and part of me thinks that's okay; after all, what difference does my sense make, anyway?

I try to avoid trends and fads, bandwagons and following the crowd. At least I like to think that I stand on my own feet, make my own decisions, form my own opinions. But in a world full of messages -- advertising in print and television, film and fiction -- and opinions flying about, from friends well-intentioned and pretend-friends with a product to sell, I wonder if I can actually call that the truth. I don't follow fashion trends to a tee (but I watch trends and adopt what I like.) I don't blindly take advice (unless I've decided to do so in advance.) I try to sift all information through my critical-thinking filter.

Sounds a little sceptical, even a tad cynical. I guess it is. Even when I'm not trying to be, I guess I'm a bit of the "I'll be the judge of that" persuasion. When books and movies are recommended to me, for example, I can sometimes feel a jade wall crop up in front of my eyes, upon which, "That's good for you, maybe..." is written. Recipes and fad diets are even more suspect. But perhaps the thing that renders me most uncertain and unreceptive is a spiritual recommendation. By that I mean must-read books and gotta-hear messages and ministers. The more often I hear about a book or a message, the further I retreat into my own fortress of resistance. I tell myself or the recommender that I intend to get around to it, but I really don't. In other words, I try to avoid bandwagons, big or small. The more persistent a trend is, the further I tend to run. I don't know why, I just do.

I have friends who rave about a life-changing work every time I see them. In fact, they rave about it to everyone, even those they're just meeting. I trust these friends, I respect them and their faithwalk. So you'd think I'd take the recommendation, right? I gave the mandatory response, "I keep meaning to buy that book." I never did.

Finally, sitting around their table at a New Year's Eve gathering, the question came up again:

"Have you read The Shack yet?"

"Not yet," I respond. "I will."

My friend got up from her seat, disappeared into her room, and emerged to place a paperback book on the table in front of me. As if to say, "There, now you have no excuse -- you must read this."

Two days later, during my holiday-cleanup, before I dived further into my extensive list of things to do, my body felt as if it were pressed into the floor. I became an energy void. My head began to ache, my nose and sinuses pounding. My joints stiffened almost imperceptibly. I looked at my husband, who had been nursing what the doctor later that day determined was a virus, with questioning-and-blaming eyes, to ask him again, "What are your symptoms?" He goes down the list. Yep, you've infected me. (Thanks, hon.)

Around 1:30 pm, when I should have been at the grocery store or sweeping or toting decoration boxes back up into the attic, I retired to my bed, the only place of comfort in my whole house. Lying there in misery I looked around with a moan on my lips, and saw that little book, The Shack, next to me.

Sometimes it takes a bit of incapacitation to make us sit still long enough to receive a gift, or something we need. Sometimes a virus is a blessing, a way to make us stop our frenzied life long enough to let our bodies and minds rest and our spirits heal. This time it took a wee little bug invading my body to make me seek solace in a good story.

I was pulled in and entranced straightaway. I have a friend who described Paradise Lost as such a good read, one that resonated with points of spiritual poignancy so vividly that she had to constantly remind herself it was fiction and not Scripture. While there is much in the personification of God in The Shack that doesn't encompass all of God's immensity, (what human words actually could?) I experienced that same resonance that my friend described within this new work's pages.

I'm sure that I will write more about it as I process it further, but I will end this post with a hearty recommendation. Any open heart that reads The Shack will close it in the end with a heart full of wonder and joy, and an overwhelming desire to know God in his mystery and splendor. If there's a better purpose to pursue in life, one that fully satisfies a person and everything/one that he/she touches, I haven't discovered it yet. Knowing God is bigger than doctrine, deeper than theology. Knowing God is having a relationship with God -- a real, vibrant, living and loving intimacy. One in which we know Him like He knows us.

So. My stream-of-conscious led to a book recommendation. I don't expect anyone to blindly accept it. But I know it wouldn't hurt. And I sure don't regret it. Not just for the reading, but for the conversation that the reading is sparking between me and my God. Any room on that bandwagon for more? I'm sure there is.

Christmas and Calculus

Okay, so it's New Year's Eve, but it's still the holidays -- which happen to be, in the section of my brain still heavily influenced by public-school education -- categorized under Christmas Break.

And yet hubby sits downstairs earnestly completing a calculus assignment. He's in the second half of a calculus I course that he's taking by correspondence through UT. This second half is actually his absolutely last month that he has to complete the class. He signed up in February, applied for and received an extension in October, took his midterm in December, and is now cramming the last half of the course into six weeks in order to meet a drop-deadline at the end of January.

This is why I'm not enrolled at University of Phoenix or any other online, self-paced school. Self-paced, for me, is a slow crawl, interrupted at regular intervals by domestic distractions and daydreaming. It's interrupted and slowed for him, too, but by professional concerns such as managing service engineers, travelling to visit clients all over the country, and wanting to spend time with our family. But one thing I know: his calculus experience is a perfect picture of why I attend traditional classes. My butt has to be in a seat in front of a lecturer, or else my self-pace will get me nowhere. And I have much further to go than hubby; at least he finished his undergrad -- I'm still slogging along in search of my degree. But I think it's good to know a thing or two about one's self, such as what kind of a student/learner you are: do you learn by traditional means (re: a teacher and deadlines) or can you teach yourself?

I have a friend, a former boss and mentor actually, that marvelled I was able to complete calculus with a passing grade at all, let alone a B. She was even more faint with unbelief when I told her this was calculus II -- and the course meant for engineers rather than biologists -- and I had aced calculus I. Which made me wonder how my former self-concept had been communicated to those around me.

Maybe what we know about ourselves is transient and subject to change. It would definitely seem to be the case when it comes to me, math and the sciences, and what I can and cannot do. I am discovering that my limits are there to be tested, pushed, and run over flat as I proceed past them, onward toward higher and greater goals.

So far this blog has seemed to be a chronicle of these self-concepts and the process of overcoming them. I'm a science geek, an eclectic art lover and amateur artist, a reader, a philosopher, a mother, a wife, a lover, a daughter, a gourmand... I am many things. And centered at my core is this insecurity to settle on one thing to be. Maybe that's good -- it keeps me from getting comfortable, keeps me reaching for more, keeps me from settling for second best.

Maybe putting my butt in a seat in front of a lecturer was key in discovering that I am yet to be fully discovered. And calculus was a big part of that, to which I am thankful.

I'm also thankful I don't have to cram in a half-semester of that crazy class over the holidays, and I can actually call this a break!

Merry Christmas to me!

Reclining

We are spending time with my mother-in-law this week. Her home is a solace to me and mine. I, unlike many unfortunate souls, love every bit of my mother-in-law. She is such a peaceful presence, such a calming soul that not a thing could shake her cheeriness.

Which is all-the-more evident this trip. My in-laws live on Galveston island, recently devastated by Hurricane Ike. We drove in after dark last night, which I was silently glad for. I was not ready to see the destruction.

I had not realized how important Galveston had become to me. It's a refuge, a place of relaxation and restoration for my family and me. My mother-in-law's home is luxuriant, modern and spacious, just off the west beach. The back patio overlooks their boat slip on the canal, where the kids spend hours cast fishing during spring break and summer family weekends. In light of my mother-in-law's demeanor and the solace of her home, I thought that all the rejuvenation vibes I picked up on our trips to the Galveston coast were centered there.

Until Ike hit, I didn't realize that Galveston had become an important player on my life's stage. It's an old acquaintance, a town lazy with history and funky with offbeat charm, a bit like my favorite Austin in some ways. When the island was evacuated and awaiting to be washed by the forecasted 17-foot storm surge, we said many prayers for mom-in-law's pad. I have a dear friend at church, a realtor aware of property value and the misfortunes that can plague homeowners from time to time, reached out in such a quirky way: She stuck out her pinky finger as a "point of contact" which I took in pinky-swear fashion, while she said, "We agree that there will be no damage -- Ike will not take her place."

And it didn't. There are houses sitting flat on the beach that were once suspended atop stilts, there are crumbled foundations and piles of debris sitting where dunes once rolled. There are houses missing much siding and some decking, but my mother-in-law's home, my resort getaway, is standing relatively unscathed.

What blessings are mine and ours to count!

This isn't to say that there was no damage. They lost a picnic table (probably to the bottom of the canal) and a beer-rator that lived in the garage. Ike also stole their golfcart while it flooded their small yet stylish entryway and ripped out most of their landscaping. But most of the house is as comfortable as it always was; the garden has been replanted, the debris has been removed and life is (at least for us vacationers) seems to be relaxingly normal.

We go into town for dinner this evening. I'm still hesitant what we'll find.

Interestingly, I began thinking what a great episode HGTV's Curb Appeal could produce here after the storm tore up so many facades and front yards, and even lives. I think it would be a great way to let them design like they give a damn (to borrow from a great organization of Architecture for Humanity).

What does it all mean? I'm glad you ask.

What it all comes down to is this: This is not a sleepy old town, but a resilient place where a survivor's spirit resides. Galveston will not only bounce back, but will thrive, surpassing its former self. Galveston will be a knock-out, rising from this setback with a fresh facelift and makeover that will make her thank Ike for pushing her towards a new life. And I will be there, reclining in her shade of solace, rejuvenating my own spirit for its return to my family's crazy life.