Segways and Barn Drinks

My family is a bit behind the times. At least in some areas.

Especially in the TV area. We’ve never had cable or satellite television at my house. When I was really young, we just plain couldn’t afford it. The cable guy would come around once every few months and offer us free cable for one month followed by some sort of contract. My parents would always reply that, no, we weren’t interested and we didn’t want a subscription, so we shouldn’t get a month free. But then, time and time again, the cable guy would—out of the goodness of his heart—give us the free month anyway, despite my parents’ ardent protests. We would then proceed to buy boxes of VHSes in order to record every possible episode of My Little Pony. These would tide us over until the next time the kind-hearted cable guy made his rounds.

Nowadays, however, we don’t have cable TV and there is no nice cable guy to bring it to us for free. As a result, we get a grand total of nine channels: 3 local news and programming, 2 public access, 1 off-brand version of TLC, the science channel, and at least two infomercial channels. For a brief stint we even got the NASA channel, but unfortunately that has been reduced to static. We did get to watch the International Space Station Thanksgiving broadcast, though, and it made me really thankful for non-reconstituted turkey. So I guess that’s good.

I love my sisters a lot, but sometimes they do things I don’t really understand. Like sit around watching infomercials. And not once, not twice, but multiple times through the same ones. As in, they now are able to quote certain ones or finish the person’s sentences for them. It’s bizarre, really. And maybe even a little bit wrong. But I guess there isn’t much else to do in Kansas. Regardless, though, I still find it really strange. But I should probably change subjects, lest I get into further trouble with my sisters. You both know I love you, right?

Okay, so what I really want to talk to you about tonight is convenience. We live in a culture that is so wrapped up in its own comfort, that it can be a bit comical at times. Infomercials are one example of this. People who order the “Butt Buster 3000” are concerned about convenience. They don’t want to get off their butt and go to the gym, so they have a “Butt Buster” delivered to their home to make it more convenient for them. And they don’t even have to get off the couch to order it. For three easy payments of $29.99, they can get a better butt without even leaving their living room.

Or take drive-throughs as another example. You can sit in your car and get warm, hot food handed right to you. You don’t have to cook; you don’t even have to stand up. Awesome, right? And if you pay with a credit or debit card, you don’t have to count out the change or do the math. It’s all conveniently done for you with one effortless swipe. This doesn’t just go for food, either. Right here in Stillwater, Oklahoma, you can get a fountain drink or a six-pack (of Gatorade, of course! Haha) without getting out of your car. Courtesy of The Barn, “The best thing to happen to beer since ice.” A drive-through liquor store. Only in Oklahoma.

This “convenience cult” isn’t limited to the USA. In fact, when I was in Europe, I witnessed—and laughed hysterically at—the silliest example of it I’d ever seen: Segway city tours. That’s right; for a fee of 30ish Euros, you can cruise around the sites of Prague, Paris, and Rome for hours under the direction of your own personal tour guide. Caesar and Stalin would both roll over in their graves, I’m sure.

I’m sorry that this blog seems a bit cynical; I really didn’t intend for it to be. The harshness of this post is actually not directed at you. Rather, I am aiming it at myself. Yes, the culture of convenience surrounds me, and I am one of its biggest investors.

You see, a few days ago, I got slapped in the face. Not literally, of course, but in a sense it certainly felt like it. Sometimes God’s promptings or “spiritual reality checks” feel almost physical, and it did this time. On Friday afternoon, I was out and about with my youngest sister Weasel; we were running errands around town and enjoying some quality, sister-bonding time. All was well with the world, that is, until we tried to get ahold of Rascal. She and Weasel were supposed to meet some friends for dinner, and they needed me to give them a ride. But Rascal was doing some work for her athletic training class and wasn’t able to answer the phone. As a result, we couldn’t contact her, and we didn’t know when she would be ready for me to take her to the dinner or if she would be ready in time. If she wasn’t, then I would need to give her a ride separately after taking Weasel. Now, I am not nearly as popular as my college-freshmen sisters, and I had no dinner plans, which means I should have been patient and understanding, and I should have gladly and willingly taken her separately. Theoretically. But theory doesn’t always match reality. Instead, I found myself getting incredibly annoyed. Why wasn’t she answering her phone? Didn’t she know I was hungry? Didn’t she realize that I didn’t want to wait on her all evening and that I had better things to do (even though I actually didn’t)? In other words, she was slightly inconveniencing me, and I was more than slightly annoyed by it.

Then all of a sudden, my eyes opened, and I saw myself clearly for the first time. I was being a jerk. A selfish, bratty, unloving jerk. A jerk who in no way, shape, or form resembled Jesus.

Convenience. That’s what I was basing my love on—and not just for Rascal but for everyone. Suddenly, I remembered countless instances when I failed to act lovingly, failed to be kind, failed to act like Jesus had called me to act, simply because it would have been inconvenient. I should have called that friend to check on her when I knew she was having a rough time. I should have stayed to help clean up the bleachers, so the janitors wouldn’t have to be there all night. I should have given a bigger tip to that waitress because it was obvious she was struggling to make it on her own. Time and time and time again I have fallen short. I’ve not only missed opportunities, I’ve turned up my nose and walked clear around them, like I would a mud puddle or a heap of dog doo. But people aren’t mud puddles or dog poop. They are creations of God, treasures for whom Jesus came to Earth and willingly died. But I choose not to love them because it would be too much trouble for my perfect little convenience-driven life. And that could not be more wrong.

I realize that this blog isn’t as uplifting or upbeat as normal, and I guess that’s because I am not feeling too terribly happy with myself. Coming to grips with one’s own sin is rarely an enjoyable experience. But it’s an invaluable part of our growth as believers; through discipline, God makes us more like Him.

So now that I have confessed my “inconvenient” sin to you, I propose a challenge for myself, and I would be honored if you would join me. Let’s make a choice right now, starting today, to quit loving for ourselves and our own gain. Let’s ask Jesus to help us do this thing that is so counter-intuitive, so contrary to our every inclination and nature.

Let’s love inconveniently.

Not based on what we can gain or what the other person can do for us. Not based on if we have the time in our oh-so-busy schedules. Not controlled by what we feel like doing. But simply because that’s what Jesus asks us to do. Because that’s exactly what He did for us.

Coming to Earth and being born as a baby was not convenient. Wandering around a dust-covered, dirty land without a home to call his own was not convenient. Being rejected by the people he loved and who called themselves His friends was not convenient. Being humiliated, beaten, and crucified was anything but convenient. But that didn’t stop Jesus. Because He loves us unconditionally… and inconveniently.

Will you join me in my inconvenience?

A "Bedtime" Story

Sleep and I are not friends.

I wouldn’t go as far as to say that we are enemies, but we don’t exactly get along. I don’t think it’s my fault, really. I try to reach out to sleep and get to know it. Sometimes it seems like sleep doesn’t want anything to do with me. It’s kind of hard getting rejected by a personified, inanimate concept, but I try not to take it too personally. Suffice it to say, sleep is no more than an acquaintance to me most times. We have lots of mutual friends, but I certainly wouldn’t send sleep a Christmas card or invite it out to coffee (then again, would sleep drink coffee anyway? That’s an intriguing thought.)

All goofiness aside, I seriously have a hard time sleeping. Even now as I write this, I really should be getting some shuteye. But, as usual, sleep is ding me, and I get to be wide awake while the rest of the world is dreaming of sugarplum fairies and the newest Harry Potter movie. Alas. The things I miss out on while I am wide awake.

Although I wouldn’t say that I have actual insomnia, sometimes I think I flirt with it. Despite my avoidance of caffeine and my best attempt to not do anything rigorous or stimulating before going to bed, I oftentimes experience great difficulty when falling asleep. I’ve tried all the tricks, like counting sheep or counting backwards from 100… or counting 100 sheep backwards. I read really boring chapters in my Bible, like the laws in Leviticus or the lists of names in Numbers. I sit up, lie down, roll over, walk around, but nothing seems to help. I listen to my “sleepy” playlist on my iPod, but to no avail. Sleep still gives me the cold shoulder, the silent treatment, and whatever other negative reaction you can think of. It’s frustrating and annoying, and I get really tired of it—and tired because of it. But as they say in France, “c'est la vie!” . Such is life.

Fortunately, however, this borderline insomnia is not a constant problem; it comes and goes in spurts, and I don’t have to deal with it all the time. Sometimes, in fact, I fall asleep with incredible ease… too much ease. And during my Easter break travels in Europe was one such time.

Because Austria is a Catholic country, we got three weeks off for Easter, which, in case you were wondering, was absolutely AWESOME! I spent the first week frolicking around Ireland with my friend Jodie from Canada and the last week checking out the Czech Republic (get it? Checking out? Haha) with a couple other friends. And the middle week was chock full of adventures in the original stiletto boot—Italy. My French friends Anne-So and Marie and I enjoyed our own whirlwind tour of northern Italy, starting in Pisa and visiting Rome, Florence, and Venice all within six days. Yes, it was amazing.

However, this non-stop excitement inevitably takes its toll on one’s energy level, and despite countless delicious cappuccinos and scoops of gelato along the way, one reaches a new depth of exhaustion. I found that I had plenty of energy to make it through the day as long as I was constantly moving around—walking through museums, admiring Michelangelo’s David, and taking lots of pictures. But once the night came or I stopped moving, exhaustion would hit me like an express train. And speaking of trains, it was on one such train ride that I lost my battle with fatigue.

Anne-So, Marie, and I had already visited Pisa, Rome, and Florence and were heading to Venice, which was our last stop of our Italian adventure. When we planned our trip, we wanted to save as much money as possible, like true college students. We discovered that one way would be to cut out a night’s hostel stay and to take a train at night instead. Note that I didn’t say “night train.” Night trains are fancy, expensive trains with sleeper cars and places to rest. Our train from Florence to Venice was a regular train that just so happened to be at night. Specifically, this train departed at 1:42 a.m. and was scheduled to arrive at 5:26 a.m.

Needless to say, by the time our departure rolled around, we were beyond exhausted, and all we wanted to do was pass out. Much to our chagrin, however, this train was not the ideal environment for such slumber. You see, “train at night” in Italy is actually code for “homeless shelter.” This train was jam-packed with downtrodden, sketchy-looking old men with nowhere else to sleep that night. Super. Even better, because Anne-So and Marie had booked their tickets separately from mine, our assigned seats were in different parts of the train. Luckily, when I found my compartment, I discovered that there was a family with a dad, a son, and a daughter in addition to a couple homeless men, so I felt somewhat safer (nevermind that this family looked like it belonged in The Godfather.)

Due to my unbelievable exhaustion and against my better judgment, I soon fell fast asleep. Like, *snap*. I was gone. The train lulled me into a state of oblivion, into the abyss that comes only after going a million miles a minute for way-the-hey too long. I had crossed the border into La-la Land, and unless they revoked my visa, I wouldn’t be coming back for awhile.

Then suddenly, from the fuzziest, haziest parts of my subconscious, I heard something. It was distant, barely audible, like something from a dream. Struggling through the swamp into which my brain had wandered, I sought to decipher what they were saying. Whatever it was, it seemed important. If only I could just hear it…

“St…. St…. ….. you…”

“Steffi!... Steffi! Where are you?!”

Oh my gosh! It’s Anne-So and Marie! Immediately, groggily, I jolted awake from my slumber. Frantically, I shook off the fog that had descended on my mind and remembered where I was and what was happening. The sketchy mafia family was gone. The homeless men had disappeared. The train had stopped moving. And the only noise was from my friends desperately yelling my name. We were in Venice, and I was all alone on the train.

In a daze, I grabbed my duffel and backpack and wandered to the door of the train, took the steps, and stumbled onto the platform. Moments later Anne-So and Marie overwhelmed me with hugs and exclamations of relief. They were so worried that they had lost me and that the train was going to leave with me onboard. So they had run up and down the length of the train calling my name, hoping that I would hear them and come out. And luckily—thank the Lord!... literally---it worked. Otherwise, who knows where I might have ended up. And that would have been terrible.

The other night when I couldn’t fall asleep, I decided to take a break from the unclean-food section of Leviticus (as enthralling as it is) and venture over to Psalms instead. I found myself reading Psalm 121, which has been one of my favorites for a long time now. As I was reading it this time, I couldn’t help thinking of my train ride to Venice and what happened. The Psalm is relatively short, but in the interest of space (and your precious time), I will only share the really relevant verses.

“3 He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;
4 indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.”

God doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t slumber. He’s always awake watching over us and taking care of us. 100% of the time. No exceptions. Take a moment and think about this. That means when you can’t sleep at night because you are worried about something, when you are crying your eyes out at 2 a.m. because your heart is breaking, when you are up really early and driving to work, God is awake. And not only is He awake, but He is watching over you. Isn’t that amazing? He never shuts His eyes, turns away, or even blinks. No, He keeps His close, loving, protective heavenly gaze on us, and He won’t let us stumble or fall. And that, my friends, is pretty darn cool.

So I thought about these verses in light of my Venetian train ride, and I realized that my friends showed me a vivid picture of what God does for us. They hadn’t slept during that entire midnight ride; they knew what was going on. And they weren’t going to let anything happen to me. They were looking out for me, they had my back, and they were wide awake even when my consciousness had long since skipped town. No, they weren’t exactly like God; they were not omniscient and they didn’t know my exact location. But they did know that I was on that train, and they weren’t going to let me get away. In the same way, God watches over us too, and He doesn’t sleep... so that we can.

A God who loves us and cares for us all the time without ceasing or resting, a God who won’t ever let us go—that, I believe, is a dream come true. And speaking of dreams, it’s time for me to call it a night.

Sleep well! Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz……..

Food for Thought...

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Try saying that five times fast.

Obviously, that’s just a bunch of gibberish, the result of my drumming my fingers over a series of keys as I try to figure out what to write. Or rather, how to begin. I already know basically what I would like to say, but coming up with an interesting, eye-catching, attention-grabbing introduction is always a challenge. And today, it seems pretty clear that I am failing miserably at it. But you are apparently still reading, so I guess I must be doing something right.

You see, I knew when I started this post that I wanted to talk about Thanksgiving. But if you attended a public or private school in the American educational system at any point in your academic career, you’ve already heard all there is to know about Thanksgiving: The Pilgrims held its inaugural celebration in 1621 to show their gratitude and joy at surviving the devastating first year in Massachusetts Bay. The Native Americans brought along deer and other food to the feast; they ate together and enjoyed God’s blessings. Then 142 years later, during the height of the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln made this tradition into an official American holiday in his Thanksgiving Proclamation on October 3, 1863. Today this holiday is enjoyed across the country as people consume ungodly amounts of turkey, stuffing, and pumpkin pie while watching back-to-back-to-back games of football. Thus, Thanksgiving is a truly American holiday.

All that being said, I really do like Thanksgiving. Although it’s not my favorite holiday by any means (Independence Day holds that honor), I certainly love everything it entails: getting together with family, eating lots of delicious food (and pretending that my dad’s annual “I wave my hand and thereby remove all calories from this food” so-called magic trick actually works), and pausing to reflect on all of life’s blessings. All in all, Thanksgiving is good, and I am thankful for it. Really, I am.

But just like coming up with a creative introduction, figuring out something insightful and meaningful to say about Thanksgiving is rather challenging. Just like all the fun historical facts about Thanksgiving (fun for me as a history major, at least), you already know all the important things about this holiday: being thankful for God’s innumerable, undeserved blessings and reaching out to those who are less fortunate. I could go on and on about how important these are, and though it would be worthwhile and you might gain something from it, I might lose the attention that I worked so hard with my gibberish to gain. And so, I am going to forego the discussion of the usual Thanksgiving themes to try a different approach. I’m not sure how it will turn out, so humor me for a minute. Or a few minutes, rather. You know how I ramble.

Okay, here goes…

How about we thank God for simply being God?

Yes, that seems really basic or maybe even a bit counterintuitive, but work with me here. Have you ever taken a moment and thought about Who God is and what that really means? And if you have ever taken that moment, when was the last time you did? To be entirely honest, this is not an activity that occurs to me often and, when it does, I doubt that I usually act upon it. So how about you and I, right now, on this Thanksgiving holiday, pause for a second to reflect on who God is and then express gratitude for it. Are you with me? Good. Let’s continue.

So we want to thank God for God. But what exactly does that mean? Well, seeing that I am just an amateur, wanna-be theologian, I don’t have an expert strategy or game plan for making that happen. But I do have one possible way to go about it.

I’ve blogged about my mom a few times, but she really doesn’t appear in my writing as often as she deserves. So today is her lucky day. Mama, you are getting your own official shout-out. Hope you like it! :) Among her many admirable—and sometimes slightly idiosyncratic—tendencies is my mother’s propensity for garage-saling. She truly has a knack for finding the best bargains at the lowest prices, all in the neighbor’s front yard. As they say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Or in this case, a “woman’s treasure,” and that woman is my mother.

Last summer (during peak garage-sale season), my mom purchased what I believe to be one of the best investments. For the negligible price of one dollar, she bought a framed collection of the Hebrew names of God with their English translations. Each one is used at least one place in the Bible by God Himself or people writing about Him. Cool, eh?

As I said, I am not an expert on God, but I believe that if we really want to appreciate Who God is and have true, sincere gratitude for what He has done for us, then we first have to know who He is. That means having a grasp on His character and nature. And I think that God gives us a glimpse of that via His names. Once you read them, you’ll have a better idea of what I mean. Here they are:

Yahweh: LORD Jehovah
El Shaddai: The All-Sufficient One
Jehovah-Nissi: The LORD is my Banner
Jehovah-Jireh: The LORD will Provide
Jehovah-Shalom: The LORD is Peace
El Elyon: The Most High God
Jehovah-Tsidkenu: The LORD our Righteousness
Jehovah-Rapha: The LORD that Healeth
Adonai: Lord
El Olam: The Everlasting God
Jehovah Sabaoth: The LORD of Hosts
Jehovah-Mekod-Dishkem: The LORD who sanctifies
Jehovah-Shammah: The LORD is There
Elohim: Creator
Jehovah-Raah: The LORD is my Shepherd

Wow.

If you’re anything like me, it’s hard to read that list without being blown away. And if you weren’t blown away on the first reading, take a second to read it through one or two more times and really think about it. Or better yet, read it aloud. Then see how you feel.

God is awe-striking. He is so worthy of all the glory, honor, and praise—of everything. Yet in our day-to-day life, it’s so easy to forget about Him, about Who He really is. How do we manage to overlook the most significant Being in the universe? I don’t have an answer to that question because, to tell the truth, I do it the most often. As backwards and confused and messed up as it is, I do it all the time. But right now, starting with today, I am going to try to change that. And what more appropriate day to do that than on Thanksgiving?

I challenge you today to join me. In the midst of all the turkey-eating and general face-stuffing, take a moment and reflect on what God has done for you and, moreover, on who He is. And when that moment of reflection is up, take a second moment and thank Him—truly thank Him from the bottom of your gravy-covered heart—for Who He is. I have a feeling that you’ll be glad you did.

And with that, I wish you a very “Flusavfnjb3e Ghrfunvetuhgveen,” which is gibberish for “Happy Thanksgiving!” God bless. ;)

When in Rome...

I love my parents an awful lot.

They are absolutely amazing, they take such good care of me and my sisters, and they just plain great. I am so grateful for them, and since Thanksgiving is around the corner, I felt that it would be appropriate to express that gratitude in a blog. So, Mama and Papa, here is a shout-out just for you. Thanks for being so incredible.

Although my parents did many sacrificial and loving things for me and my sisters as we were growing up, one major decision of theirs stands out to me, and for it I am truly thankful. Somehow or another, by pinching their pennies (and much larger denominations of cash), they managed to send my sisters and me to a private Christian school to ensure that we would receive the best possible education. Because of their generosity, I am a shamelessly full-fledged nerd. Thanks, Mama and Papa. I mean that.

Now here I need to make a note about the type of education I was so blessed to experience. It wasn’t just any old private Christian school. No, it was a classical Christian school. This had a variety of implications (all of which destined me to my current state of nerddom): grammar training, logic classes, and—most importantly for this story—Latin.

We have already established this multiple times over, but I still feel as if it is worth repeating: I am a nerd. I am 100%, through and through, without a doubt, unashamedly nerdy. And it can be traced back to my elementary school days in my Latin class. For some reason, I fell in love with Latin. Call me a forensic linguist, but I had a blast poking around the carcass of this dead language. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that I even asked for and obtained special permission from the principal to take my Latin textbook home with me over the summer, so I could study more. I spent days on end—no lie—copying down conjugations of verbs. Sick, but true. And so, I developed a bizarre infatuation with Latin. As they say, when in Kansas, do as the Romans do. ;)

But then I went to high school and decided to suspend my pursuit of Latin in order to learn another language. In case you don’t know this, Latin, though unquestionably deceased, left behind several grandchildren. These are the Romance languages (don’t you just love them? Haha), and they are as follows: Spanish, French, Italian, Portuguese, and Romanian. So, having learned Latin for five consecutive years, one of these related languages would have been a logical choice to study, right? One would think.

But no. I decided to take German instead, and I’m pretty sure that the Latin language rolled over in its grave. Haha. Pun very much intended. Anyway, so I took three years worth of high school German and returned to Latin during my senior year (Darn budget cuts took away my school’s German program. Grrr.) Then I came to the university, where I currently study history and German, and I love it.

Having studied abroad for six months, I think I really appreciate the importance and value of learning a second (or third) language. There are countless benefits that come with it, including a heightened sense of cultural awareness, the ability to befriend people from different countries, having people think you are cooler than you are…. Haha. But one of the unexpected perks for me has come in my faith walk. Let me explain.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a fascination for words. As I have gotten older, I have become increasingly aware of their power. Each word is so intricate and carries with it such weight. How one phrases something and which words one chooses can completely alter a sentence’s meaning. Take for example the sentences “The room is cramped” versus “The room is cozy.” Both convey the image of a small, closed-in space, but the former produces a negative image and the latter a pleasant one.

Having learned two additional languages, I have an even greater appreciation for the power and meaning of words and, moreover, what they can teach us about God. My most recent favorite example can be found with the word “compassion.”

The root of the English word “compassion” comes from the Latin. “Com” is Latin for “together” and “pati” is Latin for suffer. So the English word compassion literally means “to suffer together.” Cool, eh? But wait! It gets cooler! The German word for compassion is “Mitleid”, which translates literally as “with suffering” or “suffering with.”

Whoa.

Let’s stop and dissect that for a moment (Don’t worry, not like the frogs in 7th-grade biology. Bleck). This means that compassion is not a passive emotion, a feeling that you can just shake off and forget about. On the contrary, compassion hurts. It means taking on someone else’s pain as your own and feeling it with them. Yikes. But maybe this is just something that got lost (or gained, rather) in translation. Maybe we aren’t supposed to literally feel the pain of those around us. Let’s see what the Bible says about it.

In the Bible, eight different Hebrew words are used to express compassion. Rather than diving into all of these, though, in the interest of time and space (and your wavering attention span), I will only look at one. And to change things up, I won’t even talk about a Hebrew one; I’ll discuss a Greek word (Betcha didn’t see that one coming, huh?) ;)

This word is Splagchnizomaito. (Try saying that five times fast! Or better yet, say it randomly in public and count how many people say “Gesundheit!” because they thought you sneezed!) All humor aside, this word has a very serious meaning: “to be moved as to one's bowels, hence to be moved with compassion, have compassion (for the bowels were thought to be the seat of love and pity.” This word is used multiple times in the Gospels to describe Jesus’ feeling toward people. For example, “Seeing the people, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed and dispirited like sheep without a shepherd.” (Matthew 9:36). Or “Moved with compassion, Jesus touched their eyes; and immediately they regained their sight and followed Him.” (Matthew 20:34). Thus, one could also say, “Seeing the people, Jesus had bowels for them” (emphasis added), which means that Jesus felt their pain in the core of his emotional being. Incidentally, the Greeks believed this so-called emotional core was in one’s bowels. Go ahead,; take a moment to laugh about that because I am about to become very serious. Hahahahahaaha. Are you done now? …. Good.

So what can we take away from this brief Greek language lesson? Jesus felt other people’s pain when He walked on the earth, and I believe it’s safe to say that He feels the pain of His people today, right down in the core of his heavenly, immortal gut. But He doesn’t just stop there; He doesn’t merely feel pity in the form of an irritable bowel. Rather, He takes action. In Matthew 9:37-38, He told His disciples to pray for God to send out “workers into His harvest field” in order to reach the lost. In Matthew 20:34, he touches them and heals their blindness. Jesus knew that simply feeling for someone was not enough; He was “moved with compassion” and chose to help.

Even though the Latin-based word compassion and the German word Mitleid don’t sound nearly as cool as the Greek word, the idea remains the same. God calls us to identify with and share in the suffering of others. But He doesn’t want a passive pity; rather, he desires for us to do something about it. This doesn’t have to be earth-shatteringly large. It can be something as small as listening to someone vent after they have had a bad day, or offering a hug to a stranger simply because they looked like they needed one. Or it can be educating yourself on the sufferings of oppressed people around the world and then educating others about human trafficking. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s something we can do on our own. Luckily, the God of all compassion who actively experiences our pain is here to help us. If we ask Him, He will fill our hearts—and bowels—with more compassion than we will know what to do with. And then He will help us do something with it anyway.

So that’s my prayer for you this week: that God would teach you more about true compassion, and then help you to live it out, whether you’re Oklahoma, Kansas, Paris… or Rome. ;)

Raining (Cats) and Dogs

I’m really thankful that I’m not a dog.

Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing personal against dogs. I have no bone to pick with them, so to speak (Pun intended). I just think that if I were a dog, life would be a little less enjoyable in some crucial ways. For instance, I wouldn’t be able to eat chocolate. How tragic! Or even if I could eat chocolate, I wouldn’t have the opposing thumbs to be able to open the wrapper. Also, if I were a dog, I would have to wear a collar. And with my luck, my so-called "best friend" wouldn't give me any old collar; no, I'd probably be stuck with an electric collar. Based on my slow learning curve as a human being, I am fairly certain that I would be shocked a lot--and I mean A LOT--of times before I would finally learn my lesson. I may not be an old dog, but it can still be hard to teach me new tricks.

But the absolute worst part—hands down, no question—of dogdom, in my opinion is simple: colorblindness. Call me strange, but I really love colors. Specifically, bright colors. Lots and lots of bright colors. And if I were a dog, I wouldn’t be able to distinguish between or appreciate those bright colors, or any colors at all. That would be very, very sad. I mean, have you ever heard of an exciting shade of gray? Or have you ever pondered what it would be like to sit at an OSU football game and shout “GRAY!!!!... POWER!!!”? It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it? No, not at all. Why? Because gray is lame, gray is boring, gray needs to go away and hide because gray doesn’t have any friends. Except for dogs. Which is why I don’t want to be one.

And missing out on sea of orange at Oklahoma State football game, though terrible, pales in comparison to this: Colorblind dogs can’t see rainbows. Awful, isn’t it? As you probably know, dogs have super sensitive auditory faculties, which means that they hear things really, really well. Although I’ve never personally owned a dog (my dad is allergic), dog owners have told me stories of their canine best friends hiding under the bed for dear life because they are mortally afraid of thunderstorms.

Now, I haven’t seen too many rainbows in my life, but they tend to come after violent storms. But if I were a dog, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy—let alone see—the rainbow. I would just remember whimpering in a corner, praying that heaven is one gigantic leash-free park.

All that to say, rainbows are awesome, and I am sad that dogs don’t get to enjoy them. During my semester in Graz, I developed a special appreciation for rainbows. Let me tell you why.

If you read any of my blogs from Austria (or even some of them I have written since coming back), you will notice right away that I loved it. LOVED IT. As in, I quite literally had the time of my life, at least thus far. It was amazing, incredible, wonderful, exciting, and packed chock full of new experiences and adventures that I will remember as long as I live. But the best part was, without a doubt, all the new friends that I made—friendships I will truly cherish forever with people whom I dearly miss.

But Austria wasn’t all sunshine and roses; no, it had a few storms—both literal and figurative. At the end of May, I went through one of the worst. I had just returned from the ESN (Exchange Student Network) Summer Event, during which a group Erasmus students from all over Austria spent a weekend at a mountain lake, swimming, playing volleyball and doing what Erasmus students do best: partying. Overall, the weekend was a blast, I met some cool new people, and I got to know my close friends even better. However, as I pedaled from the train station back to my apartment, the storm clouds began to gather, both in the sky and inside my heart. I had barely made it into my third-story flat when the thunderstorm hit and the lightning started splitting the sky. As if on cue, the clouds in my heavy heart suddenly broke, and tears fell in perfect cadence with the raindrops on the roof. But why—heave—was—heave—I crying—heave? My heart, I soon realized, was breaking out of love for my friends. My soul physically hurt because I wanted them to find the hope that I have—the kind that comes only from Christ. And so, in that moment, in the midst of the overwhelming pain like nothing I had ever felt before, I started to pray, to pray from the bottom of my heart.

Gradually during this time, the storm had been dying down. As I neared the end of my praying, I felt the weirdest urge to check my Facebook. Strange, I know. When I did, I saw half a dozen updates on my news feed from my friends in Graz saying stuff like, “Check out the rainbow!” and “Wow! The rainbow is so beautiful!” When I looked out my window, which faced the city, no rainbow was in sight. Grabbing my keys, I hurried to the back of the building, which faced the other direction. And sure enough, above the Schlossberg in vibrant, untainted, breathtaking beauty were not one but TWO perfect rainbows. Two undeniable reminders of God’s unending faithfulness.

After the great flood that destroyed all of mankind except Noah and his family, God made the first rainbow, saying, “This is the sign of the covenant I am making between me and you and every living creature with you, a covenant for all generations to come: I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth. Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will remember my covenant between me and you.” (Genesis 9:12-14a).

Whenever a rainbow appears for all generations to come, God remembers His promise to us. So whenever a rainbow appears, God shows us his faithfulness. That means every single rainbow that has ever been and ever will be—including the perfectly-timed double rainbow over the Schlossberg that evening in May.

So wherever you are and whatever you are going through, whether you’re in a sunshiny meadow or just praying to survive the storm, know that God hasn’t forgotten you. Even if you can’t feel Him now, He is still with you, and He will never leave you. He has a way of turning even the darkest, rainiest, most seemingly hopeless moments into unforgettable, unbelievable, awe-inspiring rainbows.

And that, even if you’re a colorblind dog, is something to bark home about. ;)

Confessions of A Grammar Nerd

It started way back in second grade. It was love at first sight, a moment of truth, of joy, of excitement as hopes I didn’t even realize I had hoped and dreams I didn’t know I had dreamed finally, instantaneously, suddenly, out-of-the-bluedly came true.

I had discovered English grammar.

Yes, this description may be prone to hyperbole, but the heart of my message is true: I love grammar. Ever since I learned the basics of nouns, verbs, and complete sentences, I have been enjoying a long-term relationship with grammar. And I have loved just about every minute of it.

Adjectives are splendid; adverbs happily dress up the sentence. Verbs say what is being done, and nouns relay who is doing it. But I have always had—and always will have—a soft spot and a special place in my heart for prepositions.

To all of you non-grammar nuts out there, those of you whose lives are rife with comma splices and your thoughts amok with run-on sentences, let me enlighten you. Though not essential, prepositions are integral to the health of the sentence. If nouns are the dots, prepositions connect them, transforming them into a beautiful picture. Take for example the sentence “The dog eats with the cat.” What a lovely image. In this sentence, “with” is the preposition. If you take out the preposition, observe what happens: “The dog eats the cat.” You see? Two distinctly different possibilities, one the epitome of natural harmony, the other… well, goodbye Fluffy.

Also, prepositions need to be treated with respect and not abused. They are not to be left dangling haplessly at the end, like a bit of stringy pizza cheese. No, they belong in the middle of the sentence, the heart of the action.

Obviously, I am a tad partial to this particular part of speech. And with good reason, for prepositions, though they don’t make “the world go round”, they do let you go “around the world.” ;)

Though I am rather fond of prepositions, they tend to be forgotten and ignored. People gravitate toward the flashier parts of speech, like the adverbs and adjectives. They prefer to know who is important and what they are doing. In the gossip magazine of grammar, the prepositions are left without paparazzi.

But that’s okay! Why? Because I haven’t forgotten them! And neither has God! Why? Simple:

Our God is a God of prepositions. And God can use even the most overlooked parts of speech to reveal His glory. Let me show you how.

The English language has 54 prepositions. And almost every single one of them describes God. He is above and beyond (all of creation, time, the world), among and around (our world in which we live), before and behind (everywhere we go), beneath and below (even the deepest places to which we fall), before and after (every moment of our lives), beside and by (us every step of the way), between (us and our fears), beyond and despite (everything we do to hurt Him), in and inside (our hearts where He dwells), during (our darkest hours and purest joys). He is for and from, near and outside, over and past, through and throughout, in and into, with, within and without.

So next time you see a preposition, pause a moment and ponder the God who made them and who, just like that preposition, holds everything together.

God bless.

Split Seconds

Sometimes a split second makes all the difference.

Sunday October 10th around 9 p.m. was the time of one such split second. Jake Henry, 21, and his girlfriend of 8+ years Stephanie Conn, 22, were driving back to the University of Kansas after a day visiting their families. But they never made it to Lawrence. Instead, they were in a head-on collision with a vehicle attempting to pass from the other direction on the undivided, two-lane highway. And in a split second, three precious lives disappeared from this earth forever.

On Friday morning, I attended Jake and Stephanie’s funeral. Mrs. Henry, Jake’s mother, was my sisters’ and my high school Latin teacher, and as such is very dear to our family. Although I had never met Jake, Mrs. Henry had entertained us with enough stories about him that I knew all about him. But when we entered the church for the funeral, I didn’t know what to expect. I knew beyond all shadow of doubt that I would cry, but I didn’t realize that my life would be so impacted. Forever.

You see, Stephanie and Jake may have seemed like typical college seniors. But they were so much more than that. As middle- and high-school sweethearts, they planned to marry shortly after graduation and enjoy happily-ever-after together. They loved and honored each other, putting the other before themselves. Frugal, they were good stewards of the money they worked so hard to earn. They cared greatly for their families, putting them before everything else. Firm believers in the value of doing the right thing, they lived morally and set an example for those around them. Funny, compassionate, joyful, and kind, Stephanie and Jake were the sort of people you would want for your best friend, knowing you could always, always count on them.

But most of all, what made Jake and Stephanie so special—what made them stand out from the rest—was simple: their faith in Jesus as their Savior. And their desire to live every day for Him.

God called these two stellar young people home. Too soon, it would seem, especially to their families who are still reeling from the loss. Even in the epicenter of sorrow, their Heavenly Father has a purpose, and His timing is perfect. And He catches every tear that falls for Jake and Stephanie, and holds their families’ breaking hearts.

I’m sorry to be so serious. It’s hard to be upbeat when thinking about this subject. But even in the midst of this darkness, God leaves a lesson, and with it a bright ray of hope.

Stephanie and Jake have passed on to heaven, but their legacy remains. Together, they touched countless people, many of whom came to their joint visitation and funeral. They lived well, laughed often, loved much—and most importantly, pointed others to their Savior. God used their lives to make the world a better place, and His plan continues even with their deaths. Though it’s impossible to understand such a tragedy, though we can’t grasp why God would call them home so soon, He remains faithful, and He will fulfill His purpose. Because God is good, all the time. And all the time, God is good.

All that being said, I did a great deal of thinking this weekend. And my mind kept returning to the same question: What kind of legacy am I leaving?

You see, this life doesn’t last forever, as last Sunday’s accident clearly demonstrates. When we are no longer here, people will remember us for what we did, both good and bad. Our life is made up of myriad different legacies; we leave an impact wherever we are: at school, in our living situation, with our friends, with random strangers who cross our paths—in everything. Each experience is an opportunity to leave a footprint, a mark on this world. We shouldn’t just worry about a legacy when thinking about our eulogy one day; rather, we should strive every day to make a difference in the world and lives around us.

Nicole Nordeman, a Christian artist, expresses this notion well, in her song titled “Legacy”:

“I want to leave a legacy. How will they remember me? Did I choose to love? Did I point to You enough to make a mark on things? I want to leave an offering. Child of mercy and grace who blessed Your name unapologetically—to leave that kind of legacy.”

So that’s my challenge and prayer for you—and for me—today. Decide what sort of legacy you want to leave, and then start living like it. Now. Because you never know what the next split second might bring.

God bless. And please keep the Conn and Henry families in your prayers.