Rising in the Midst of Pain

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I trace the zigzag of sorrowful eyes, darting from ground to eyes to hands, sustaining eye contact and then dropping low to the sidewalk, like the worn-out rhythm of a melancholy jazz tune, sustained notes of sadness melding into hope, because we are called to the greatest hope.

"There are some who would have Christ cheap. They would have Him without the cross. But the price will not come down.” – Samuel Rutherford

We are only whole with the restorative power of the gospel. We must lay aside every distraction and snare in our pursuit of “the unsearchable riches of Christ.” (Eph 3:8) In following Christ and enduring the intense suffering of this life, there is a long, narrow, and difficult road ahead. 

The gospel is worth suffering for and fighting for. Truth is valuable, and truth is costly.

Are you willing to surrender all? Will you live a crucified life for the sake of that truth? Surrendering all is not futile. It is leaving all behind for something greater, something infinitely worthy of wholehearted pursuit. It means fulfillment and purpose found in denying self and focusing on increasing glory given to Christ.

How can Paul say he is content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, calamities (2 Cor. 12:10), all for the sake of Christ?

When the Almighty Creator of the universe calls you by name, redeems you, and seals you for all eternity, it gives pain great purpose. He calls us to a living hope that will not put us to shame, and we can have unwavering confidence in His promises. We glory in weakness, because He is our strength.

We rely on our sure foundation and proclaim Him as the only one worthy of praise – Christ Jesus our Savior. It is in the fiery tempest when we truly see that He is faithful from everlasting to everlasting. We are undeserving recipients of His grace, and we magnify Him in uniquely kaleidoscopic ways through our pain.

We are struck down, but not destroyed. We are never defeated by the darkest forces of sorrow, because Christ is victorious.

We rise. And we fall. But we will indeed rise, just as He rose victoriously from the grave, and we too will rise to be with Him. Now we rise continually, with the cadence of a meaningful life focused on eternity, pressing on toward the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.

Our hope is sure. When we totter on the edge of sorrow and anxiety, we can be steadied, knowing "in every change, He faithful will remain."

We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair (2 Cor. 4:8). Despair has no hold on those for whom Christ died.

We rise in His strength alone. We take our stand beneath the cross, knowing we will rise to eternity, to dwell with Him forever.

Soaring on Toy Wings

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When I was quite young, I loved to climb to the top of the stairs and toss bright pink and green parachuted figures off the landing. I sent toy soldiers sailing on parachutes of soaring dreams and imagined how exciting it would be to jump off on my own someday. It seems like it was the very next day when the tears of my mother soaked through my shirt collar as she pressed her face to my neck. She didn't want me to go. Go back to college after spring break. Go and get married. Go and go and go. And suddenly, I was frightened. I didn't want to go either. I wanted to stay in the safe cocoon of my mother's embrace. I wanted to toss the toy parachutes off the stair landing again and again, believing for even a brief moment that they were flying. I wanted to sneak around the corner of my childhood bedroom door once more to try and catch my toy stegosaurus conversing with toy Woody.

But they never did converse. I was convinced that I'd one day stumble across their subversive gossip about the other toys. I believed they had words worth hearing and stories worth listening to. I still do.

Maybe I'm not ready to enter the adult pool at the beach-side resort I always stayed at when I was younger. The resort with the too-green grass and the playground that shrunk in both its size and appeal. Maybe I still feel like a child. Am I still a child? I never quite lost the wide-eyed wonder that seems to be sacrificed on the altar of adulthood concerns – taxes and paychecks and “what are you doing after college?”

I really haven't travelled as far in my maturity as I'd like to think. I sometimes revisit the hazy land of loneliness, where I met Alex and Televega so long ago. I remember when my go-to companions were imaginary. At least they have a harder time stabbing your back. My mother would ask who I was talking to and my three-year-old response was "nothing." Thus, my closest imaginary friend, Nothing, was born–an Asian girl with long black hair and a quiet smile. My Japanese roommate looks like Nothing. But a real friend is far better than Nothing.

I think about when I informed my baby brother that "the morning dove gave birth to chicks." My imagination was kindled with thoughts of a “morning dove” – a nearly celestial creature that glows like the sun when it coos. It was only later that I found out that the doves are actually mourning, moaning. I mourn over the loss of the blindingly bright morning doves. Somehow my mom caught a recording of my awe-filled little voice instructing my brother and kept it. That solemnity was mimicry of adult action, and it is strange living on the other side of time, smiling benevolently down at other little adult mimickers.

I am an adult, but I am still an adult mimicker. Walking through a crowded grocery store, I may look intent on my task, but I am really as bewildered as a five-year-old. I want to cling to the side of my mother's shopping cart as if it's my saving grace, looking up at the figure I knew would always be taller and stronger than me. But now I'm clinging to my own shopping cart, steering nervously, just as I steer nervously through life, looking for her hand to hold in the most embarrassingly timid of ways. I'm returning a phone call at work, and I'd rather lean on my mom's arm as she dials the number for me. Instead, I leave a voicemail for Curtis, the brash RV park owner, who for all I know is gone fishing – or wishing for his mom's presence as much as I am for mine.

"I don't want you to go," she chokes out during that fated end of spring break, drawing deep breaths between sobs. It's a terrifying thing, hearing your mother cry. It's even more terrifying to be the cause. Reverse the years, I want to yell at God. Make me six again.

I'm not six. I am far closer to twenty-six. What a paralyzing thought. Who am I? I'm a dependent on federal paperwork and independent in real time. I'm a daughter, and I'm a woman. Daughterhood seems more appealing than womanhood sometimes. There is a sad, tired feeling that sweeps over me, and I just want to crawl one hundred miles down the coast of California and into my mother's embrace.

When she visited me, I couldn't let her out of my sight. She was there, in my college dorm room, and I was so afraid she'd disappear. Feeling her hold me on the dorm bed was the strangest experience of the school year. An odd reconciliation between being a daughter and an independent woman. The little girl is also a college student. How can I be both at once?

I am moving forward, sailing on the winds of possibility. I am still a daughter, yes, and often a fearful one, but I know that I am not alone. I am soaring on toy wings, followed by an invisible fleet of parachuting soldiers and ghostly friends and luminous morning doves.

At the end of my flight path, she stands. Her arms are outstretched. Always waiting.

Anticipation

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The leaves tremble in anticipation of the night, closely preceded by a reigning misty fog.

I tremble in anticipation of approaching darkness, perceiving that my fears lurk in the descending drizzle.

I see you everywhere. Even the tree branches drifting outside my window seem to hold traces of your presence.

He is present, even when you are not. He is eternal, even though you are not.

He is ours, but we are not each other's.

I crumble in anticipation of impending separation, a tearing away of old affections and distancing of lingering love.

He is here, even when you aren't.

He is consolation, peace, joy, hope.

He is faithful, always good, and we are His.

He is my all in all. Only Him. May my eyes be fixed on what is eternal. Father, I need You.

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December 2015

How I Almost Never Existed

This year marks the 100th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide, when 1.5 million Armenians were systematically killed.

Although other members of my family were killed, my great-great-grandmother and her children survived, and without their survival – a few drops escaping from the ocean of 1.5 million dead souls – I would have never existed. This is one of the many stories of their resilience:

In the Armenian wilderness, my 25-year-old great-great-grandmother holds her two-year-old little girl in her arms. Three other children cling to her, terrified.

Once a wealthy aristocrat, she is now desolate. Her home has been ransacked and husband slaughtered — she is forging a path for her four children against all hope.

That absence of hope materializes as a Turkish soldier storms on horseback behind her and snatches her daughter out of her arms, a scene straight out of an Armenian mother’s worst nightmare.

Falling to her knees, my great-great-grandmother cries out, begging God to save her little girl, fearing the Turk’s intent to kill. Prayers pour out of her like rain. Her little girl—my great-grandmother—cries with the same terror.

The soldier becomes a pinprick on the horizon. All hope is lost. In the careless flick of a trigger, I cease to exist and my family disappears with me. Everything I know vanishes like an elaborate illusion. 

But God works a miracle.

The pinprick grows larger and larger until the soldier returns. Irritated by the crying toddler, he releases my great-grandmother and rides away. My surroundings sharpen back into focus. 

I’m alive. 

The women who came before me were resilient; they were survivors. When they were spared, it ensured that I could write this 100 years later. That is not something I can easily dismiss. I cannot carry on with the mundane without understanding that I wouldn’t have the ability to experience it without the survival of that frightened yet determined 25-year-old mother and her children.

I don’t take my existence for granted. I am so thankful for the chance to live – to live fully, vibrantly, and without reservations.

I am not the product of random occurrences, and I refuse to be told that I am. I am part of something vastly greater than myself. God spared both my Armenian ancestors and me for a reason. And in that I find comfort.

I Am Afraid of Commitment

I am afraid of commitment. There, I said it.

It took me far too long to admit it, but commitment terrifies me. The persistent paralysis induced by an active fear of committing to anyone or anything prevents me from truly living.

• This fear prevents me from pursuing what I love — namely, writing: writing on this blog and writing to challenge myself in the pursuit of excellence. I fear falling short of the insurmountable expectations I have set in place for myself, and I fear falling short of the expectations of others. That fear is unimaginably crippling.

• This fear prevents me from experiencing healthy relationships. Beneath my ferocious loyalty to the people around me lies a fight or flight instinct that either tempts suspicion towards the motives or legitimacy of interpersonal relationships or tempts me to flee any and all emotional attachment before it destroys me.

I have come to realize that there is risk involved in anything worth pursuing. I fear relinquishing my grip because it means risking criticism, heartache, and vulnerability.

Commitment is a scary thought because I recognize my own weakness and it frightens me. Despite this, the essence of a life well-lived is understanding there will always be unpredictability, messiness, and inevitable suffering, and still choosing to move forward.

It is only when I embrace vulnerability and let go of my imaginary grip of control that I find true freedom from fear. I used to think that my attempts at planning the entirety of my future were freeing. Attempting complete and utter control over all aspects of life is not an expression of freedom.

The key to escaping fear is a trust in something outside of yourself — a trust in the sovereignty and goodness of God. Freedom is found in Christ, and with that assurance, fear is nowhere on my radar — is it on yours?

Live In The Moment

In the spirit of the New Year, I have a resolution. It's pretty simple, it's kind of cliche, but here we go: live in the moment. It may seem overrated and overstated, but in the sacred words of Ferris Bueller:

It may come as a shock to some, but time is constantly ticking by. You're getting older and you're hopefully getting wiser. Life is happening, as it does, and it's growing shorter. I'm sure you've heard the old adage, "Wherever you are, be all there." The challenge is actually living that way. Human nature seems to hunger for the supposed stability of the future. We are always waiting for the next thrill, something that we think will finally bring us contentment, because the moment you're living right now is desperately lacking.

Common mistakes:

X 1) Living in the past. Your experiences can weigh on you as much as the weight of the future. Regrets are abundant and nostalgia can be a vicious slave-master.

X 2) Living in the future. The next year holds many opportunities and terrors and adventures and soon-to-be-made memories. Anxiety can be paralyzing. That's not to say that you shouldn't have a healthy awareness of your future, or always be looking forward, but don't let that prevent you from fully living where you are right now.

✓ 3) Living in the moment. Easier said than done. Easier slapped on a hipster photo blog than carried out in real life. Time is fleeting and contentment is elusive. So wherever you are, be all there. Recognize the everyday beauty surrounding you. And be surprised by the surreal contentment that follows.

The Under-appreciation of Nature

I've recently returned to a childlike frame of mind in regards to nature. I sometimes feel so inexplicably overwhelmed by the pure beauty of God's creation that I feel like approaching strangers and marveling, “Dude, can you believe that wind is actually, you know, a thing? Like, you can feel it, but can't see it?” To which my hapless victim would give me an uneasy smile and maybe offer a gracious, “uh, that's nice...” before clearing out pronto. Ways to become more appreciative and aware of the wonders of nature:

Stargaze. Seriously. Go look at the stars tonight. Tilt your head back, wait for your eyes to adjust, and drink it in. Offer up your problems to the celestial bodies and contemplate on how vastly unconcerned they are. Your earthly, world-shattering, human-to-human troubles? It's fascinating and almost relieving how minuscule your little soul and it's heartache is in the grand scheme of the universe. Perspective is everything, and you can gain a lot by simply watching the stars and reveling in the goodness of a God who places those stars in the sky each night.

Take a walk in the neighborhood, backyard, or park. Never underestimate the power of a walk outside to calm your worrying and boost your mood. Hikes, too!

Observe wildlife. When I say wildlife, I include the random butterfly landing on a bush in your backyard. The lazy worm squirming on the sidewalk. Open yourself up to the reality that the Earth is teeming with life, both animal and human. And yes, I think there is a distinction.

Visit the ocean. I cannot stress this enough. Living close to the sea is something I took for granted the majority of my life. Don't wait until I did. Much like stargazing, being in the vicinity of the ocean is soothing and eye-opening. You can lose yourself in the glorious ambiguity of the vastness of the water. There's nothing quite like a trip to the beach and a dousing in the ocean to clear the mind and cleanse the body. Trust me.

Anne Frank, in her infamous diary, said, "The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely, or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature, and God...As long as this exists, and it certainly will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles. Oh, who knows, perhaps it won't be long before I can share this overwhelming feeling of bliss with someone who feels the way I do about it."

I couldn't have said it better myself. Nature is extremely underappreciated and sometimes simply observing various aspects of the world is an excellent way to commune with God and gain added perspective on life.

"I love you."

"I love you." Words that, given the right context, send shivers down my spine. Regardless of the identity of the speaker, my response will always be the same. Ecstatic joy, quickly followed by paralyzing skepticism. "No, you don't," my mind whispers.

To the one that carelessly breathes, "I love you:"

You don't love me. You love what you think I can give you. What is it? An ego boost? A trophy to show off to your friends? Instant physical gratification? I am merely a placeholder, fit in the same slot that you would fit any other girl into. You are not worth my time.

You don't love me. You love the qualities of yourself you see reflected in me. Let's be honest: You love yourself, but veil your narcissism by concealing it in the admiration of another human. You don't care about all my parts semblancing a whole. The only parts you care about are those of yourself you see mirrored back at you. Without that, you lose interest. You are a coward.

You don't love me. You love the idea of me. This is the most painful, darling. You have conjured up an elaborate, beautiful being without flaw. I am not she. You are blinded by the insistent murmurings that I am this creature you have shaped me into. And you can't get enough. How heartbreaking, that you would not set that image aside and try to love me for the woman that I am. I promise, love, I am as, if not more, intricate and impossibly mysterious as your hologram version of my essence. Why won't you come closer and find out?

Love. Ha. What a meaningless word...

Or is it? We, as humans, screw everything up, including the definition and action of otherwise pure words. It's our fallen natures. God is love. Flesh rejects God, flesh rejects the incandescent absolute that love is, translated to our broken human levels, where we fumble over our words and say things we don't mean and cling tightly when we know we shouldn't and burn so hot only to end up icily bereft of feeling.

Past vs. Future

Late night reflection from 7-13-13:

"Everyone has a past...and a future," voiced Jon Foreman at today's Bro-Am. "You are more than the choices that you've made/you are more than the sum of your past mistakes," the band Tenth Avenue North sings in their song "You Are More." Both statements? True.

In the past lie the dark times that we so desperately avoid but weigh so heavily on us. They overshadow the times of undeniable bliss and happiness and reveal our depth of depravity. We should always be looking to the future, hopefully, gratefully. Onward.

You are more than your past. But your past is still part of you. You are more than the fantasized about but not yet fulfilled first kiss. But you are that fantasy, the way it evolved and how it dissipated. You are more than the nauseating secrets. But those secrets create the framework for your soul.

Your past does not have to define you. Choose the parts to learn from and move on. Your essence is the sum of your experiences and dreams and the hollow potentiality that every human possesses. You are who you have been and who you are working to be. Self-discovery is a broken road, but one that every soul is destined to journey on."

Obscured Memory

It gives me great frustration that despite my efforts, my memory is never adequate. I strain until my head feels as though it will burst, trying to revisit those happier times. I may remember the words said, but the speaker, oh the speaker's face escapes me – just barely out of reach. Sometimes the blurred memory of a person's features sharpen for a split second, teasing me, since after that split second, the face is gone, and the description and shadow of the memory is all I have. The moments that do appear spontaneously provoke nostalgia and joy. "My God, a moment of bliss. Why, isn't that enough for a whole lifetime?"