Uber Marianne

The ease with which some people seem to sail through life means nothing to me. The ease with which it seems all sorts of Good Things flood into their hands is passe. What do I care about what happens for them? What in the world could it possibly have to do with me?

Are there moments when I feel like whoever was doing the ladling out must have had a weighted spoon? Are there moments when I feel like I must be being treated unfairly? Sure, I guess. It’s unfortunate. But when I come to my senses, worrying about the distribution of whatever kind of wealth you want to measure is pretty useless. Because whatever someone else has or doesn’t have doesn’t make me have more or less. So what good is a comparison?

The truth of the matter is that God watches over me. And He doesn’t give me more temptation than I can withstand or responsibility than I can handle. His plan for and with me is different than his plan for or with anyone else, so the tools I need are different. And he provides for my needs, so much more generously than with the sparrow. He has a plan for me, and it is between he and I. I’m reminded of a passage in John 21.

¹⁸“Truly, truly, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to gird yourself and walk wherever you wished; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will gird you, and bring you where you do not wish to go.” ¹⁹Now this He said, signifying by what kind of death [Peter] would glorify God And when He had spoken this, He said to him, “Follow Me!” ²⁰Peter, turning around, saw the disciple whom Jesus loved following them; the one who also had leaned back on His bosom at the supper and said, “Lord, who is the one who betrays You?” 21 So Peter seeing him said to Jesus, “Lord, and what about this man?” ²²Jesus said to him, “If I want him to remain until I come, what is that to you? You follow Me!”

When one envies, one buys into the world’s valuation, and God’s rate of exchange is rarely the same as that. The truth is that whether I have ten dollars to put back at the end of the month, or ten thousand, the one who takes care of me is God. Whether I live in a one room efficiency apartment, or a twenty five bedroom estate, the one who takes care of me is God. Whether I am single, or have a spouse and five beautiful children, the one who takes care of me is God. None of those circumstances limit the work that I can do for my Lord, although the most likely to interfere with my willingness to do so are the things that the world prizes. If I have affluence and social markers that set me up above someone else, I am more apt to believe that I have achieved these things by my own merits instead of God’s grace, just as the more comfortable I am, the more likely I am to be lulled to sleep. There is great value in being uncomfortable.

So at the end of all this, what I recognize is that . . . God can use all things for his glory, and that is what should give me pleasure. Not seeking the things of the world and pouting when I don’t find them. Or worse still, complaining that someone else has them. God works all things together for good for them that love him and are called according to his purpose. And I will be satisfied.

I recieved an email from my ex-fiance today to the effect of how he spent his holidays. Oh, to be sure, loves,  that information was sought and not offered. Regardless, apparently he spent his Christmas and New Year in Uganda on a mission trip. Also he mentioned a few months ago he has plans to shave his head for Bible money.

My first instinct is an eye roll, followed by some pretty lameass bitterness. Because he’s doing it, the mission work, the tough stuff of bringing hope to people he’d have never known otherwise but through this purpose. But moreso, because he’s doing it and telling about it. Because he’s always telling about it and it seems sometime that it’s about the work he’s doing and not the work He’s doing. But I have to check myself, because the point of the matter is that he is doing  it, and God’s work deserves to be done no matter who it is, right?  Genesis 50:20, right? “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good in order to bring about this present result, to preserve many people alive.” (Obviously, I don’t think Simon is intending the gospel as evil, but you get the idea.) (I think.) And so I have to fall on the mercy of God and ask Him to forgive me for being such a jerk (AGAIN) and thank Him for the glory He is using Simon to bring to Himself.

But it brings up an issue that must be guarded against, and something that I must remind myself to be vigilant in. The reason I felt bitter about this mission trip is that . . . I think it can be tempting when working to bring glory to God, to want somehow to share in that glory . . . even to the point of halfsies. One can think to oneself, Look at all this great stuff I’m doing . . . and aren’t I wonderful to do it so selflessly? And for God, to boot!

And though the work done is a blessing to those who are ministered to, I wonder if the person being used as a vessel gets much benefit.Isn’t it my job to be moved by God and blessed in such a way that His work is made visible to all the world? Doesn’t this little light of mine need to be fanned, because God works through me and not because of me? Isn’t it my job to be blessed by growing in faith and by overcoming the obstacles of following my Lord, even if I don’t get credit? Especially when I don’t.

There’s another side to these missions to Far Far Away. It’s also the matter of . . . going to the ends of the Earth to serve people when there are plenty of people to serve wherever one finds themselves. It’s self-gratifying, and it’s the easy way out. My sister was kind enough and just in her admonishing of me about this very thing a couple of years ago. Thank God for her wisdom. Of course we should preach the gospel in all the world, and we should be willing to do it whenever and wherever we are called. We should be willing to go. But we who think it would be so wonderful to travel across the world to do some saving must be even more mindful that we do it in all humility, because the people we tell will try to convince us we are amazing for doing it, and we are not. We are vessels. We may be the ones God chose to send, but He could have sent anyone. And much moreso, the ailing neighbor, the discouraged stranger, the long standing enemy, these are people we are called to minister to as well.

So, Lord, let me not be in such a rush to go to halfway across the globe when I am planted where I am at this moment for a reason, and everywhere is where there’s work to be done.

Continue reading January 6th, 2010

When we arrived in London it was six in the morning back home. Add to that the fact that Kris and I hadn’t slept a wink on the Transatlantic flight and that I was unlucky enough to have come down with the flu the Monday before we departed the States on Thursday, and you have a pretty good idea of how I was feeling. Kris took pity on me; I smoked and breathed deeply,reminded again of the particular smell of the UK: a strange and iconoclastic mixture of sea air and car exhaust. Afterward, we navigated through a pretty convincing transportation scam and finally made it to the train that took us from Heathrow to the Underground. We rode in giddy delight toward Cockfosters.

We entered Camdentown heavy-laden with our forty pound camping backpacks, and in my case, an oversized purse. There was a crush of people at the turnstyles while just outside in the subway entrance, a long thick row of hipsters looked over and past us as if bored. They lounged though standing, resting on their elbows which were in turn resting on a thick chain slung through a row of iron posts. The street was busy with traffic and colorful signs posted on the small hardlooking storefronts that ran up and down, an endless seeming row of cellphone stores and 99 pence shops mixed in with tattoo parlours and nightclubs that had yet to open because it was not yet two in the afternoon.

It was warmer outside than I’d thought it would be. I found myself regretting that I’d worn a hoodie . There was a thin layer of lived in sweat that had accumulated over the Atlantic Ocean which made finding our hostel, and a shower, seem even more imparative than it would have been otherwise. We turned left out of the station and walked and walked and walked. Soon enough, we found it: St. Christopher’s, a youthful looking business that boasted a polychromatic sign, keylock entry, and bar on the first floor.

After checking in, we trudged up to Number 4, a ten bunk bed room on the second floor. As soon as Kris and I were showered, we laid down for the few precious moments of a nap we has been salivating about on our walk. The excitement of Europe got to Kristen before me, mostly because I was deathly, and we woke at four. We dressed and hopped on the Underground to downtown London to see the sights before a Band of Skulls show Kris had bought tickets for a couple of weeks prior and which I was dreading because the sweet lullaby of a good night’s sleep was drowning out all other noise.

Kris led the way. We walked down to Piccadilly Circus, which was overwhelmed as I’m told is usual by pedestrian traffic and brightly lit signs, theatres and swanky looking boutiques and restaurants, and planned to indulge ourselves in some deliciously and Britishly bland cuisine. I smiled to myself at the sun lazily sinking over the city. Suddenly, an inspiration: Yogurt!

When I went to school overseas near Belfast, I had begun a passionate, longing relationship with Mueller’s corner yogurt. Sadly, when I was once again on American soil, I realized that I couldn’t find it anywhere and our tryst cooled. In time, I learned to put aside my pining and be satisfied with what my local dairy section had to offer.  But here I was in London, and I found myself eager to look up my ex and see if it still had the good stuff I craved. And, oh man, did it.

After Kris and I raided the closest SPAR shop, we found ourselves at Trafalgar Square. The BeeGees were running through my head like the blue lit water in the fountain we sat on. We tossed our rubbish in the bin and went for a visit with Big Ben and the Thames. Red double decker buses pushed their way through traffic next to us. The night settled in like a weary traveler in front of a fire, ready for a cup of tea and a place to rest his feet.

So I made the mistake last night of saying in front of Erik, as determined a boy as determined boys can BE, that I needed to start writing every day if I ever want to stop sucking at it. But today, I had the brilliant realization that I never blathered on and on about my overseas travel and it would be a pretty awesome Gimme Idea to start with. As an added bonus, I’m going to try to post some of my little videos from the trip to YouTube and post them here so everyone can see what a freak I am in person. That said, let’s get started.

These are all from our last few moments on this side of the Pond. Get ready, get set! London is tomorrow!

P.S. I realize that this isn’t a lot of writing for today, but the idea is there, you know? It’s an introduction. It COUNTS.

Diet Coke is addictive. Also, apparently, it punctures little holes in your brain. And my dad is pretty adamant that aspartame will make you stupid and blind. Confession time? I’ve been drinking it by the gallon for years.

And that’s not the worst of it: I’m a dirty rotten smoker as well.

So I was talking to Trasy at work today while she was exposing the evils of diet soda, the medical model, and the flesh tearing consumption of meat and I decided . . . At least I’m almost certain I have? Yes, I’ve decided to take it to heart.

But I brought six cans with me to work to refresh myself throughout the day so I said I would give it up tomorrow when all this delicious fizzy wonderment had met it’s digestive fate.  I mentioned this to Trasy, yet she remained unmoved. And the question came up, Why would you want to continue doing something that you know is bad for you? Even for a little while?

This has a much broader scope, probably. And it seems all the more pertinent that this conversation took place at the DV shelter. These women here could recite pages of well founded accusations against they’re abusers by the time they arrive. They know what’s wrong; That’s why they come here. And yet, two months later, the guy wasn’t really so bad, or he’s sorry, or there’s a new someone who seems too good to be true and probably is who just wants to take care of them by treating them like his own personal property or punching bag.  Why do people  keep doing what they know is bad for them? Even for a little while?

It’s like that long term crazy spell I went through with Mark. It was obvious to everyone-it was obvious to me!-and yet I bent to his apologies, I made him up in my mind to be much more that he was, and I decided to believe that he was what he said and not what he did. Did I think it wouldn’t catch up to me? Did I think if I designed a pretty picture behind my squeezed eyelids, that it would remain when they opened?

Maybe so. Or maybe it’s just easier to go along, even if you don’t like what you get.

I want to make the brave choice, not the easy one. I want to make the brave choice, not the flashy one. I want to make the brave choice in all things, and maybe these are all pieces of the same puzzle of dissatisfaction.

I think of Erik, who is so disciplined, who stretches to exceed expectations all day after getting barely any sleep. Who works hard and gives of himself in such kind and generous ways, without exception. Who is made up entirely of lean muscle and sleeps easily and is selfless with his time and energy. And I think, That’s beautiful. I think, There but by the disappointment of God go I.

So I need to suck it up.

I suppose a more accurate term is sleepy face, but I’m having no luck in making that a reality. The sleepiness I mean. Or the face too, I guess, really.

Ahh the joy of pointless words.

So I did in fact go to Europe, and I did also in fact return which I’m even more excited about. Or maybe not. How romantic it would be to be stranded somewhere on the Continent for the rest of all time . . . and yet, I think to myself, What would I do without Paintball Blast ice cream? But more on that later.

I can’t sleep. This is probably the worst time in the world to write a blog, but what else am I going to do? Erik’s upstairs sleeping it off in my room so there’s no way I can dance party myself out of my insomnia in there. I tried to be responsible and go to bed on time, especially considerate of the fact that I have to work all day tomorrow. But to no avail. I laid in the dark for a while, came down and talked to Bridget and Kris till even they gave up and went to bed, laid in the dark some more, accidentally woke up the previously mentioned sleepover friend, then came downstairs to try to occupy myself with computing. I checked out Facebook at three in the morning. Yes, this is what my life has become.

. . .

I’m sorry you wasted your time reading this.

I am surfing the web to surf some foreign couch via the freeloader’s delight website known as www.couchsurfing.com. A pretty cool gig actually, and the people that my roommie Bridget has had usurping her couch space have always been groovy to the max. Here’s the real problem, and it’s a mathmatical one so get your thinking caps on (you can also feel free to use a graphing calculator for those who are trying to get their money’s worth from Geometry class).  Here goes: I leave the first of October. It is now the twenty fifth of September.  I don’t at present have any confirmations for sleepovers in foreign cities. Therefore, I am .  . . ???

Yes, it’s a word problem but I will use the numerical equivalents if that will help.

1 Oct – 25 Sept = 5 days

5 days + 0 leads for accomodation = :(

I’ve sent out two emails.

I know it’s easy to get discouraged when nothing seems to be happening, and even moreso when you really haven’t put forth enough effort to deserve things going your way. I am a procrastinator, I won’t lie. But, in my (weak) defense, I will say that part of the reason that it’s taken me so long to get on the ball is that I’m pretty sure the people that I would want to stay with (i.e. quadroplegic investment bankers with locks on the door who have no reason to or ability to follow through with stabbing me in the middle of the night) are totally not the people that Kristen wants to stay with (as in, hip young cool kids that like to listen to live music and raise a few).  What to do, what to do . . .

At this point, the answer has become: get in wherever you can. Wish me luck. And perhaps if I’m fortunate on a more grand scale, all this impassioned desperation will make me more prolific in the future. (Sorry for being somewhat AWOL of late . . . )

Apparently Billy Childish is actually a somewhat famous-ish singer/poet or something like that. At least, I guess, famous enough to be on YouTube although I guess that doesn’t really leave out anyone with a digital cameral of some sort. I digress. At any rate, I didn’t know  who he was when I went to see him in Belfast in 2001. I’m pretty sure one of my friends got the idea. I wish I could remember where it was exactly, the name of the venue or street or something, but I do remember it was in this sort of dingy intimate little room that was somehow part of a cafe? Maybe? He had this intense British accent and said all his “th”s as “f”s. As in, “It skehed me neawly dah deaf,” when he introduced a song.

At some point in the night, he recited this poem that I thought was truly mantra worthy. Something about being Billy Childish, the doer of something, the doer of other things. As you can tell, I’ve committed it impecably to memory. I did however write my own version of it: “I am Marianne, Writer of Prose, Drinker of Vodka, Kisser of Boys.” (It was . . . sort of true at the time.) But all this blathering on is really just a thinly veiled procrastination because what I really would like to say, which is: I still feel pretty childish.

I’m twenty nine years old, and I can barely make myself believe it. And it isn’t as though nothing has been happening in those years. There have been great joys and losses, hopes and acheivements-I mean, there have been acheivements, I’m almost certain. And yet . . . I wear a blonde wigs around for kicks sometimes. I collect glittery stickers, have lamps in the shapes of butterflies and daisies, and, I must admit, sometimes I can’t help but laugh at grown ups. I enjoy blazingly bright colors and purposefully refuse to get ones that match, expecially when it comes to home decor. Am I stunted or something? Is this how everyone feels in the days before they get married, start inching up the corporate ladder, produce offspring?

Is that what separates us from the adults? Is age something that you can measure by looking around and taking stock of the number of children you have or people you supervise? Is it something else?

I’ve embarrassed myself. And the worst part of it is that no one else agrees. It’s bad enough to do something stupid, or shameful, or stupidly shameful, without having to defend your idiotic and/or reprehensible action to everyone who finds out about it. Because then you feel crazy as well as disappointed in yourself.

Sigh.

I made a choice. I made a choice and it was a bad one but the reality is that it was a choice. This wasn’t the old Compulsion coming out again. Praise the Lord that He’s healed me from that.  And yet, apparently my flesh is enough of a salesman that it can get its way without it. I did it because I wanted to.

The Bible says to resist the devil and he will flee from you. But I haven’t been resisting him. I’ve been writing him love notes and keeping him steadily supplied with homebaked cookies. Uck.

I need to get my flesh in order. I will do it. I will, Lord help me.