Game Changer

It's been a long time since I've felt normal. Or like myself.

There have been brief moments (really good ones!) that I've felt it this semester, but they have been seldom. I think the closest I came was the last couple of days I spent in NI. I guess I finally felt free and non-pressured, and my fun came out.

When anxiety-ridden situations arise, my serious side comes in full force and puts my playfulness in permanent time out.

The OneThing conference was top five best decisions I've made (or others made for me) possibly in all of 2013. I only knew two of the people (there were nine in our group) well, two girls didn't want me to come at all (was told this after I was already there), and the rest didn't really know me at all.

Turned out, though, that we had a great group dynamic. The other 8 were all music majors, which meant they were all on board to sing loudly and dance in all times and in all places. In multi-part harmony.

Steve and Alec with their dream lady

There were a few awkward moments the first evening like walking into the house and being told I was sharing a bed with the one girl I'd never met or like when two of the girls made it very evident my presence was unwanted. However, the awkwardness was fleeting.

My roommate and I hit it off as though we'd known each other for all of college. And, it turns out, she knew all about me before I even got there, had seen pictures of me, too. Just didn't realize it until we got to talking (I told you my looks have changed). Then, after an, "Oh my God. You're her," she and I didn't stop talking for the next 6 hours or three nights.

We had a lot in common, she and I, and were both relieved to meet a person who "gets it." Really, so odd. The chances of the two of us specifically being put in that situation are uncommonly low. She's a sensational human. Don't think I've met anyone like her. She will be (and is) a force the devil is going to have a hard time contending with.

The conference itself was okay. Neither unbelievably lifechanging or the worst experience of my life. In many ways, it was exactly what I remember charismatic events to be:

smoke machines, laser beams, light shows. Definitely a concerty vibe. Then mix in mass chanting, dancing in the aisles, and the truly incredible talent of singing the same line over and over for over an hour, and it pretty much sums it up.

Favorite line of the conference was the (my) last evening when Francis Chan spoke. Chan, though he does recognize the Holy Spirit, is not charismatic. Many people actually resented the fact that he was a speaker because of his mainstream ways. However, he did an excellent job of connecting to us and criticizing us. The line: "I think often we fall in love with 'revival' and forget to fall in love with 'Jesus.'" Excellent. So excellent. And true. Our people like a good revival like we enjoy a good pot luck dinner. They should be plentiful and well-attended.

Every night when we'd come home, we'd all sit around in a circle and crack open my Christmas present from Kira: a book entitled "4,000 Questions to Get to Know Anyone and Everyone."

We probably logged 9 or more hours into that book, starting with the Childhood section, travelling on to the Love section and ending with the Habits section.

My two favorite questions that I answered were definition questions, asking after "Intimacy" and "Betrayal."

I'd never really given any thought to my personal definition of either, but I was really glad I was forced to.

For Intimacy, I said that it was anything which created tension. For example, silly things like playing play-doh or dancing or reading a poem you wrote aloud are intimate because there's that moment when the person you're attempting to engage in your special thing has the opportunity to laugh at you or think you're being stupid. It's a moment of brilliant opportunity. The same is true with larger things like sex (literally being naked with another person. yikes) or sharing memories or your fears concerning your character or the future or any sort of argument. Any situation in which you make a terrifying decision to reveal and share with another person something sacred or nervy to you is intimate. Even answering this question was a moment of intimacy and risk.

Betrayal comes when one person makes the conscious decision to sacrifice intimacy in favor of selfishness.

The group I shared with?

To clear up the tension about the two anti-Jamie girls, it came down to perception. They knew me by their perception of my character and not my character itself. Secondhand chatter just isn't fair, neither against me or by me. If you have concerns, go to the source or shut the frick up.
When they took the time (were stuck with me) to understand me, it turns out I wasn't what they expected, especially currently.

I don't think I've conversed or laughed that deeply for that long...possibly ever. There's a lot more I could say about it all, but I'll leave it at that.

Yeah, I shared my struggles with them and they with me, and we made each other actually engage in the discussion about them, but it was constructive and characterized by joy. The deep kind that exists even in the midst of sadness or pain. Happiness is a complacent emotion, the kind that can kill you if you hedonistically chase it. But joy? Real joy? Only beautiful paths are broken-in by joy.

We didn't do any of the prophecy rooms or such that would have been instantly set in the "soul building" category, but my soul was more fortified by those three days with those eight people than I could have even begun to think that it would or could.

I felt normal. Better than normal. I felt delighted and delighted in.

Finders Keepers

I really enjoy plans. The actually planning aspect of plans could happily be delegated to somebody else, but I do so enjoy putting plans into a schedule and following through with them.

Accordingly, I dislike being spontaneous. It's erratic and there's no sense of reason. I can't control it.

That makes my decisions of the day a little shocking. I had coffee (I think I use the term "had coffee" as a generic "spent time in a public location" term. There was no coffee involved) with my friend Layden today. Near the end of our talk, he mentioned a conference happening tomorrow and told me I should come.

Next thing I knew, I was signed up.

So, this will probably be my last post for a few days, as I will be staying in Kansas with my buddy Steve and his family for this very Charismatic conference.

A year ago, I would have thrown a fit about going to anything related to the International House of Prayer (IHOP). I grew up Assemblies of God and, therefore, charismatic, but there was a massive break between myself and my church (I may have mentioned all this before, but I am going to again. Feel free to skip).

After a very, very long period of unhappiness and hurt, I left my church at the age of 17, and spent the next few years meandering from Catholic (there was a boy involved), Presbyterian (there was a boy involved), and Methodist (there was probably a boy involved).

Among other things, my AG church just stopped feeling real to me. I stopped believing in its sincerity, and I felt personally its inconsistency, though I'm sure my own wretched attitude didn't help my likability factor. I saw the way they rejected people I loved but weren't put together, favoritized and rewarded those who were, and seemed to make church a game of conversion and numbers.

So there was that, and my brother, who I regard (especially at that time) as my spiritual role model, wrote a series of blog posts admitting to the same things I already felt unsure about. To be very frank, hearing it from Jon especially really messed me up, even though he was writing in an attempt to salvage for himself pieces of our pentecostal upbringing.

I was bitter. And I held on to that bitterness for so so so long. I even wrote a paper in college about my disbelief in the practices of IHOP, specifically taught prophecy, or "prophecy rooms."

An awful fault of mine--and one I've been working for several years to alter--is the way, once I am deeply hurt, to cut off, throw in a box, and bury everything related to the issue at hand. All the good, all the bad. It's all thrown away to be remembered no more. I've done it so many times.

That means when I "threw away" my church, I threw away the Holy Spirit as well.

Those who grew up in non-Pentecostal churches wouldn't be able to fully understand the degree to which this would impact a person.

For those 17 years, the Holy Spirit's manifestations and that church were my life.  I was there more than I wasn't there. All my major memories have to do with that church. I was throwing away an enormous part of my life and identity.

Even in my anger, though, I couldn't bring myself to a place of disbelief. I stopped praying in tongues, couldn't bring myself to lay hands or pray for anyone's healing, and never agreed to participate in any kind of spiritually led exhortation (prophecy).

But yet, something in me would erupt in anger if anyone spoke against those same gifts. I remember a particular day in Evangelical Theology class where an AG pastor was guest speaking and the girl in front of me attacked him and attacked him. I was mad with fury. But I couldn't defend him either.

The Holy Spirit in me, so hidden that I didn't remember it, was what called out telling me those attacks were wrong.

Still, I couldn't do it. Any of it.

I didn't return to the Charismatic church at all until I moved to Belfast. I wrote in support of it many blog posts ago, but it really, really bothered me at the same time. You can believe something is real but still not be able to reconcile yourself on a personal level what it looks like lived out.

Then one day, I finally understood.

All those pieces of Woodlake that broke my heart or rejected me. All those pieces that broke and rejected my best friend. All the ways I was let down, felt lied to, felt exploited by, Jesus wasn't in it. The Holy Spirit wasn't in it.

At the same time, there are things I have seen and heard and experienced which are not of this world. I have heard the voice of the Lord through the spirit language and translation of old, feeble men resound through the absolute silent sanctuary and felt the ripples of electric presence pulse through the air. I have spoken in my own spiritual language and known that what I was speaking was the truest form of my own soul. I have dreamt things that I couldn't possibly have known. I have seen healing.

That's where the Holy Spirit is.

When I got there with myself, to that place of recognizing and sorting the truth from the lies, everything changed for me. I felt like the prodigal son received back into his father's arms and home. So right. And the separation terribly long and unnecessary.

I'm still going to have moments of cynicism, thinking everything is a performance and disingenuous, but I'm never going to lose that integral part of myself again, that I know.

So, I am going to this conference. Time to spend playtime with my friends, experience Jesus with thousands of believers, and take a serious break from the monotonous, boring pattern of just trying to stay in the black with my emotional state. It's fun. Spontaneous. Different. And distraction from my circular thoughts.

The Hunger Games

How aquatic are you?
Have you ever spent an extensive amount of time treading water?

I was, at one point, a competitive (that word used loosely in my case) swimmer, and part of our strength training was water treading.

We'd gather in the deep end, chuckling to ourselves at our good luck at getting out of a "hard" workout, and for the first few minutes of treading, we were in paradise. Longer treading, though, can get you pretty worn down (for some, that moment comes when they start treading).

At that point, our coach would start to yell out variations on the form. Hands in the air, arms to the elbows, arms all the way up, arms only, each with an impossible feeling timer. By the end of that half hour or forty-five minutes, we'd be wet-sweating. Sweating in a pool is a really awkward feeling.

Treading water takes discipline, determination, and steady, steady pacing and patience with yourself.

Today, I tread water.

I woke up in a dark room on a dark morning with a dark mood.

I did not want to get out of bed or pray or move. However, I needed to do all three of those things regardless of how I felt toward them.

I went with the "keep moving" choice (in regards to my previous post), forcing myself to push against the oppressiveness of...shoot, I don't even know what. Against my spirit's antagonizer.

Thus, The Hunger Games.

Distract your hungry spirit through making daily tasks a game.
And, because my fridge is still bursting with random need-to-be-used fruits and veggies, it was hunger games in that respect as well.

Apple cinnamon oat muffins. I did an alteration of their original recipe to include the oats, two extra cups of apples, and a couple other oddities. They yielded two dozen muffins and a small loaf of bread, and didn't even make a dent in my apple-achian mountain. 

 Next to conquer was Carrot Kingdom. Jansie sent me her favorite carrot soup recipe, which I doubled, cut down, and added to. My editions were basmati rice and oregano and subtracted the heavy cream. Oh my goodness, it is good stuff. Pour some into a mug and hold in your hands on a cold day. Healthy, warm, delicious, and different.

For dinner, I used up a head and a half of my wee lettuces to put together a salad. For my real food, though, I sauteed more mushrooms (gave up and froze the rest of them. There's only so many mushrooms one girl can consume) with a yellow onion and little capsule thing of garlic. Then, after I set those aside (Lainey doesn't like mushrooms), I browned some Irish beef (ground beef here is called minced beef) with Italian seasoning and fresh Thyme, added some bolognese sauce we had around, the rest of the can of tomato paste from this morning's soup, and 8 small tomatoes I found on the counter. Booyah. Dinner.

For dinner, I was joined by Elaine. She may not have come out of her room at all, but I went and got her because I figured (rightly) that she wouldn't have eaten otherwise. Or would eat a bagel at 2am. And I'd made sure that nothing in our meal was against her healthcode.

Mostly we sat in silence (which I am coming to both understand and be comfortable with), while I focused on looking pleasant and ready but not anxious to talk.

When she's tired, she just spouts off random bits of information and thoughts, and I've learned that she's really not going for a response, so I listen and wait for more.

She was feeling pensive and share-y about Nelson Mandella's death and the struggle of her friends back in Africa, says that on sleepy days, her mind is halfrica, half here and half there. Her concern and heart and knowledge of the people there is quite admirable.

Dessert was more apples. Apple crisp this time. The easiest ever recipe. Took all of 5 minutes to prep and 40 minutes to bake. Just enough time to sit down with some good Seamus Heaney poetry.

Bubbly, gooey, and hot fresh from the oven, oozing over vanilla bean ice cream and washed down with a glass of milk.

Yes, I was eating it on my puzzle. It was my nest for study and leisure today.

Please note the mini-heater that I keep by me. I tote it about the house with me when I change rooms. This picture actually captures pretty accurately everything I did today. Cute.

I never did come out of my weightedness of the morning. But I also didn't let it define the day for me nor how I behaved in all the hours before I go to bed again and hopefully sleep this off.

It's treading water, taking patience and measuredness.

Parts of the exercise or day are exhausting, parts are strenuous but not undoable, but all of it inevitable. You're not allowed to drown or quit practice (it would need to be in that order) any more than you can realistically quit a bad day.

It's like the back of our horribly "scripture out of context" team t-shirts said back then, "1 Corinthians 9:27: 'I beat my body into submission, bringing it under complete control, to keep myself from being disqualified after having called others to the contest.'"

Spirit and the Spirit of God within us is stronger than the body, stronger than the mind.

The Spirit of Newness

Welcome to Belfast City Vineyard church, a lovely place for Jesus worshipers conveniently located a mere .6 miles away from my front door.

I've been plotting attendance at this church since I visited last summer. I don't know what denomination to call it, since it doesn't seem to fit with any I know. It's got worship like JBU, sermon style like First Presbyterian, and the presence of the Holy Spirit like Woodlake Assembly. Except also not.

I have found that in the States, there are many kind of churches, but there seem, to me, to be two distinct groups: those who emphasize the Holy Spirit and those who don't. It's perhaps because I grew up very, very charismatic that I notice the difference so strongly, but it's true.

Either the church is ALL about the power and gifts of the Holy Spirit (healing, tongues, etc) or they attempt, in a holy manner, to pretend as though he doesn't exist. Either way, I've only experienced the trinity extremely out of whack.

This church (judgement based off more than just today) is different. They seem to me to have been mentally blank slated and straight read through the New Testament and decided to live and believe accordingly. The church doesn't push the Spirit, try to convince people of His power, or try to hide it, it's just straightforward about His existence. It's very refreshing.

Additionally, since I do not have independent transportation for the first time since I turned 16, I walk to church. Good Jesus time, I tell ya what.

So, after not attending church for an entire summer, I am now reengaging. It's super awkward, I am unbelievably shy (did not talk to a single person aside from my one chat with "Kathy" during mingle time. Hate mingle time.), and breaking into a new community will be hard by myself, but I've a feeling that such experiences will occur with some frequence in my near future.