They will know we are Christians by our...

Today I went to the Baptist church in Grantham. Now, I've been to lots of Baptist churches; I'm quite familiar. Too familiar. I've spent lots of time in churches that were either too legalistic or too materialistic. There is no perfect church; I'm aware of this.

Disenchantment with Christian culture in general seems to have marked these last few years for me. It has also posed lots of questions. What would Jesus do? Really, what would He do? Probably wear less Christian t-shirts, for one thing. 

And then there's the "Christian nation" that I call home. A nation in which politics and religion seem to be far too intertwined. Or maybe that's just religion and right-wing conservatism. 

Church-goers debate which political party Jesus would be affiliated with. Um, hello? Jesus didn't come to earth to be our political savior. I'm pretty sure we found that out a long time ago, and yet, Christians, still believing that America is a puritanical nation, are trying to force non-Christians to follow the ways of Christ by making laws that enforce them. If Jesus came to earth in 2010, I'm pretty sure that burning the Qur'an, preventing the development of an Islamic cultural center, and keeping homosexuals from getting married wouldn't be at the top of his to-do list. There's a big difference between seeking and saving that which is lost and spreading hate under the guise of upholding moral standards.

I've said all of this to say that I really enjoyed church today. The overall message between the songs and sermon was that there are people in the world who are hurting, and as Christians, we need to do something about it. And the songs focused on--get this--our interactions with other people in relation to Jesus. I guess I just always assumed that Christianity was about potlucks and bake-sales. Who knew?

So many of the worship songs I've heard in the U.S. seem to be about warm-fuzzy feelings and turn the focus inward to such an extent that it's hard to leave the worship service without being incredibly self-involved. And if I wanted to be self-involved, I would just write a blog. But seriously, there are people out there hurting, and I'm not really sure what the best way is for us to help them, but I doubt it has anything to do with burning their religious books or forcing them to live as someone who has received Christ.

This is all so much more difficult than it sounds.

God is love. And love is hard.

-Here are some things to ponder.-


Beauty for brokenness
Hope for despair
Lord, in your suffering
This is our prayer
Bread for the children
Justice, joy, peace
Sunrise to sunset
Your kingdom increase!

Shelter for fragile lives
Cures for their ills
Work for the craftsman
Trade for their skills
Land for the dispossessed
Rights for the weak
Voices to plead the cause
Of those who can't speak

God of the poor
Friend of the weak
Give us compassion we pray
Melt our cold hearts
Let tears fall like rain
Come, change our love
From a spark to a flame

Refuge from cruel wars
Havens from fear
Cities for sanctuary
Freedoms to share
Peace to the killing-fields
Scorched earth to green
Christ for the bitterness
His cross for the pain

Rest for the ravaged earth
Oceans and streams
Plundered and poisoned
Our future, our dreams
Lord, end our madness
Carelessness, greed
Make us content with
The things that we need

Lighten our darkness
Breathe on this flame
Until your justice
Burns brightly again
Until the nations
Learn of your ways
Seek your salvation
And bring you their praise

Graham Kendrick
Copyright © 1993 Make Way Music,
www.grahamkendrick.co.uk

Tea Party Jesus - a thought-provoking look at politics and religion in America

15 Weeks and Some Poetry

I finally cried--really cried--when I went to visit Nick the week before I left for England. I had written him some poetry before I drove up to see him. This, whether you realize it or not, is huge. I don't write poems for/about just anyone, much less read those poems aloud. Reading my own work to someone is a nerve-wracking, heart-on-my-sleeve sort of thing to do. It's so intimate, for lack of a better term.

I read these poems to Nick. And I cried. In mid-sentence. Several times. Then he read them, and then he cried. And then we cried. And he held me, and I didn't bother letting go for a long time. It felt good; it felt refreshing. It felt intimate.

"This is how I felt when I held you on that mountain," he said to me. And he was right. As far as defining moments in our relationship go, this moment at his house and the time we spent on Lover's Leap last fall when we first kissed are very big, very important--at least for me. The most recent moment reminded me how much I love him and how great of a friend he is. It reminded me that we can survive these 15 weeks. I hope we do. I want that more than anything at the moment.

How about some poetry?

For Nick

When we're all grown up

we'll have a big old quilt

on a big old bed

and if you fell off and knocked your head

I would kiss it, I would kiss it right where it bled,

and I'd love you and I'd hug you

and I'd wrap my arms around you

and I'd wrap my heart around you

and I'd feel you all around me,

see you all around me

in the trees and the leaves

and the wind and the seas

and the cold and the snow

in the fire when it glows,

and you'd always be around me,

and when I'm across that sea

I would picture you right next to me

under a big old quilt on that big old bed

with that big old scar right on your head,

and I'd kiss it, and I'd kiss it,

and no matter what you said

I would love you, I would love you

until I was old and dead.

Please?

I'd like to make you dinner

but I would burn the steak,

and with the gas leak in the oven

the potatoes wouldn't bake.

I'd like to tuck you in

but the blanket is so small

that you're feet are hanging out

like you're eight-feet-tall.

I'd like to buy you a present

but I'm much too poor

to get you something fancy

to bring through our door.

I'd like to give you a kiss

but my lips are far too dry

and I know that if I kissed you

it would only make you cry.

I'd like to make a life with you,

I'm imperfect, you should know,

But if you will bear with me

I'll have lots of time to grow.

Suitcase

I wouldn't pack my shoes

if you could fit inside my suitcase,

I wouldn't have the blues

if you could fit inside my suitcase,

We could go to Rome or to Versailles

or see a foreign film that would make us cry,

Even if we couldn't understand

we'd smile knowingly and I'd hold your hand,

I'd carry our umbrella on cobblestone streets,

I'd walk with you for miles with no shoes on my feet,

The people, they would stare at us with puzzled looks

but we'd have our noses stuck in travel books,

If you could fit inside my suitcase

we could share a beer

--or a bottle of wine,

Baby, I just want you here,

So get inside my suitcase

and come with me this fall,

But if you can't fit

I'll send you letters, and I'll call,

And in those letters will be

hopes and dreams of what's to come

and love, so much love

to hold you over till I'm home,

And then I'll bring my suitcase

back into the states,

Then baby, it's just fine

if we're too poor for dinner dates,

I'll just hold you in my arms

and feel the warmth inside your bones,

It will feel so good to know

that I don't have to be alone,

So wait for me, just wait for me

keep that warmth inside those bones

just read these words and think of me

when you start to feel alone.

New Faces, New Places

"Sometimes it's all so beautiful--just this whole experience--that it makes me want to cry," I told a friend the other night while we were at the pub.  Harlaxton, though I've only been here for a few days, is more than I ever dreamed it would be. You know how sometimes you just know that something, some moment in time is so important, so formative, so memorable? I've been feeling that way at least once a day. From finding dusty secret passageways in the manor while exploring with friends, to taking pictures of the gardens and statues, to sitting at the High Table dinner in smart dress, or to walking through the forest with new friends--every moment is so beautiful.

I feel at home here--more so than I ever felt at HLG. The people are so interesting, so diverse. And the manor is quite charming. If you walk down to the basement and look up towards the ceiling at the pipes, you can see the signatures of students who lived here before. ( I was even able to find Nick's name. =) )

I don't think it would be out of line to guess that these students were never the same after they left here. Sure, it sounds like a stupid, hyperbolic thing to say, but I like to believe that it's true. I don't feel the same as I did when I left home, and I'm sure that feeling of change, of growing up, will only grow the longer I'm here.

Although, I'm stressed with classes starting, I'm expecting great things. Plus, I'm going to London this weekend, so that's pretty exciting, too. Well, cheers, all.

Landed

Wow. These past few days have flown by. Tuesday, my mom and I went to stay with Nick and his family in O'Fallon, and then Wednesday I flew out of St. Louis. I did my best to keep from bawling my eyes out when I was saying my goodbyes. (Since then, I haven't had much time to cry.) I flew into Chicago with a few friends from school, and then had an 8 hour flight to London. I sat next to a very quiet British man and was able to sleep for quite a while on the plane.

Upon landing in London and making it through the customs line, we discovered that the airline had lost Jake's luggage--and as of today, they still haven't found it. This was terrible, but also slightly funny. Plus, he was able to help carry some of our luggage as we made the trek through the airport to the bus station.

We rode the bus to our hostel and dropped off our bags. Then we went to find an ASDA (the British equivalent to Wal-Mart). We walked for a very, very long time in a light mist. Our lack of direction was obvious when we found ourselves in the middle of what seemed to be an industrial district. Jake, being the only guy, asked some local blue-collar workers for directions. We were able to walk to a Tesco, which is also a grocery store. We bought some lunch, some toiletries, towels, and I bought a hairdryer. Then we sat on some benches outside and ate. The stench wafting from the 5 of us and our dirty hair probably made passersby thing that we were homeless. But we were happy nonetheless.

After we finished eating, we made the long walk back to our hostel to see if our room was ready. We waited outside for a while before the owner asked me to come inside and pay for the room. He told me that the room we were supposed to stay in had flooded, but he was going to show us to a nicer hostel down the street. This hostel had complimentary breakfast and private bathrooms. It was also much more expensive, but the hostel owner paid the difference.

Since we were all completely exhausted, we took a nap in our room. Then some of us decided to go find some dinner. We walked Feltham looking for something good to eat and managed to find the ASDA we had been looking for earlier. We bought some drinks and then got takeout--or takeaway, as the British say--from a restaurant that served different kinds of burgers. Then we went back to the hostel and feasted and went to bed early so we could meet the Harlaxton group at the airport the next morning.

Home

Three weeks from now, I will arrive in England. Almost four months later, I will return home.

Home.

I'm not really sure what that word means anymore. Home is wherever I feel comfortable. It isn't a certain house, and, often, it's not even certain faces.

I've never really had a significant issue with homesickness. I adapt. I grow comfortable. I survive. Places become my home. The only time I remember being terribly homesick was my first night of college. My bed felt like it was made of concrete, and my roommate's bed squeaked clamorously. I cried myself to sleep and wanted to drop out of school. By the next day, I was fine—out of my comfort zone, but managing well enough. And by the next week, school was my home.

In spite of my apparent adaptability, I'm worried about this upcoming semester. Lately, I've found myself in the midst of sudden bouts of tears—full-on sobs. What if my luggage gets lost? What if I fly all the way over there and realize that I don't want to be there at all? What if I can't take the stress and work of a long-distance relationship anymore? What if the school work is too hard? What if I'm not smart enough? What if my roommate is a spaz, or worse, some sort of psycho slut? What if, what if, what if?

So what if any or all of those things happen (which I highly doubt they will)? I'll use this blog to vent my frustrations to anyone who is willing to read them (or anyone whom I force to read them). I'll grow stronger, smarter, more resilient.

And by the time I return to the U.S., England will have become my new home. Speaking of which, take a look at my new home.  Not too shabby, eh?

a cold open

A girl spending a semester navigating the streets of Europe, living out of a suitcase, and learning all about a little thing called independence. Sounds like a pretty good coming-of-age story to me. But here's the thing—the girl in the story is me. And it's only the beginning.

Are most characters in those coming-of-age stories as scared as I am right now? They always seem so courageous, or at the least, capable. I feel like a 14-year-old—and I'm almost 20. I knew womanhood would catch up to me sooner or later. I guess it's time for me to face the world—as a woman, a strong but oh-so-scared woman.

This is me, standing at the great divide between adolescence and adulthood. This is me, taking a bold step into the unknown.

This is my story.