Well Known...and Not So Much

This you have probably heard of:

The following, I would venture to guess, is much less well known. 

A Rabbit in Thyme

You just never know around here.

Scattery

I wanted to say regarding the previous posts that the thoughts I shared were largely influenced by what I read in Tim Keller's book.  Not much original material, as far as talking about the parable Jesus told so long ago.  I'm grateful that I don't have to come up with original material in the Bible study arena...I'm content to learn from the greats who have gone/go before me!

I'd love to hear what others are reading.  I asked this before and got a small number of answers.  I have a couple of things here that I would like to tackle, some old books that I never read when I was younger.  Michaela chose a bunch of books at the library today that are easy reads for her, but she likes them.  So I took A Wrinkle in Time and tossed it on top of her pile; I thought we could read it together.  Can you believe I've never read that?!  It doesn't seem possible to me.  But there's time, I'm still young. 

Hey!  Thirty-five is young!  Just ignore those gray hairs.  (Seriously, they used to be only just above my ears, and you could only see them when my hair was up in a ponytail.  Now, they are everywhere, on top, underneath, around the back; they are also striped, wiry, or straight.  I never know what to expect when I look in the mirror!)

Lessons in Prodigal, Part II

I am a perfectionist.  I want everything I do to be perfectly done.  Did you know that being a perfectionist and being a quitter often go together?  There are many people out there who expect perfection from themselves and when they don't measure up to that standard, they just quit.  It seems like a better alternative to failing,  even though there is failure in it.  But this all-or-nothing mindset leads to behavior that doesn't make sense.

Crazy people don't have to make sense, see?  They can behave in contradictory ways.  It's a rule.  And I follow the rules.  (Like I said before, sometimes.)

It might come as a surprise that I haven't done things perfectly often (or ever); in fact, I can't think of any examples of my perfectionist tendency winning out.  Therefore, the all-or-nothing has kicked in repeatedly and I have shifted my gears, heading into reverse.  If you would imagine for a moment the loud and terribly obnoxious BEEEEP-BEEEEP-BEEEEP that you hear when a large truck is backing up...that could be my theme song.

Speaking of shifting gears...I feel that I need to take a minute here to share some things that I haven't given up on in my life.  I don't want to drag everyone down to the depths with all this talk of quitting. 

For starters, I have been married for twelve years, and like in most marriages there have been great times and hard times.  In spite of the hard times, our marriage is something that Mike and I are both committed to for the long haul, even though there have been moments (or longer) when we have driven each other insane (although, to be fair, I was already there, he just didn't know it).  Marriage is hard.  I believe that there are a handful of folks who marry someone and it ends up being an out-of-the-ordinary fairy-tale-like story.  For the most part, though, I think that it's tough.  And good.  I'm here till the end.

Also, I am a parent; I would think most parents out there would agree that there are days when it would be so much easier to give up.  Leave it all, get on a jet plane, head to a tropical island and toss back fruity drinks all day.  I am not going to do that (I might just hang around here and toss back the fruity drinks.  Or the soda).  I won't lie, there have been times when I wanted to get out of our house and go I-don't-know-where for I-don't-know-how-long.  But in the end, I love my kids, and the greatest miracle of all is that they love me.  And I stay.

There have been times when I wanted to quit writing on this blog, because I'm not sure if it's a good thing for me to do.  I end up spending a lot of time on the computer; I obsess think about what others think of my writing (please know that that is NOT a poorly hidden attempt to get accolades-just the truth.  I mean, I'm just telling you what I think about, not that I want the truth from you rather than accolades if they're not true.  Oh, never mind.); I am often unsure about what has motivated me to write some things.  Mostly, I want to make people laugh (I'm guessing the last post was particularly successful there, no?), but I also like to share the real stuff that's there inside me, otherwise I feel like I'm a faker.  It's not all happy and honey-sweet here.  But though I'm tempted to stop writing, I never do.  I decide that the reasons for writing (at least so far) outweigh the reasons for not writing. 

And, finally, there were plenty of papers that I turned in on time in college, even if I did stay up all night writing them.  And since we're on the topic of staying up all night and turning something in...let me finish the story about my lesson plan.

When I went to my professor (who was also my advisor and had counseled me throughout my entire college career-which was long, so he knew me fairly well) to tell him that I had no lesson plan to turn in, first he provided me with tissues.  I was boo-hooing like I thought I was Sami on Days of Our Lives.  I really was sad, though.  I felt so disappointed in myself, and I knew he had to be disappointed as well.  He was so compassionate and kind, though; he told me to stop freaking out (I'm not sure that he used those exact words) and he instructed me to work on it over Christmas break, turn it in upon returning, and he would mark it down one letter grade for being late which was better than getting a zero.  (I think I had a 98 in his class otherwise.)  I'm not sure why it seemed plausible to anyone involved that I could/would do something in two weeks that I hadn't done in two months, but I was so relieved and grateful.

I went to a friend's house later that night.  Three girls lived off-campus in this house and there were several of us who hung out there all the time.  They should have made us help with rent.  One of the girls said to me,"You are going to do that lesson plan!"  And it was in such a way that I felt empowered, and I said,"I am!" 

I wrote the entire thing that night; I stayed up all night and finished it.  Obviously, I didn't have all the materials I needed, but I came up with an almost complete plan for the unit, as well as a fairly well- developed philosophy of education.  (It would be funny to read now-I wonder if I would agree with what I said back then.)  (Also, I remember Mike staying up with me, so that I wasn't alone.  He encouraged me and helped me stay focused.  He was already deeply committed to me.)  I turned the lesson plan in a day late.  I can't remember my professor's reaction; I wish I could.  He probably thought I was such a fool.  Because of what was missing (while she had a lot of good stuff in her house, especially to eat, my friend did not have the college library in her back room, eh?) I received an 89; then he deducted ten points because it was late.  My grade on the assignment in the end was not so great, but I think that he told me what I had turned in was good.  This story baffles me to this day.

And since we're revisiting the past, let's head back to the public speaking class.  I took the class again the following semester, was able to give my speeches, and received a B as my final grade. 

I am a mystery to myself.  At times I feel a great deal of pressure to do what is expected of me; I do the right thing.  And if I don't do the right thing, I am overwhelmed by the weight of it.  Going back to the parable in Luke, and looking at the older son, I see myself in him, too.  He is so obedient.  He does his duty.  He expects something in return for his perfect rule-following.  He has no joy. 

You can do the right things, but for the wrong reasons.  You can do the right things, but if a situation doesn't go the way you think it should, then you are angry.  You can do the right things, but never be joyful.

I watch my kids do the right things and I can see that they are doing those things because they love their parents.  Even Eliana will throw away a piece of trash, or pick up a toy and put it away.  She does that and looks at me with such pride; she knows she just did something that pleases me, but doesn't expect anything for it.  Christian has been making his bed in the morning, and he doesn't boast about it.  Michaela watched Eliana for me recently and when I thanked her she said,"I like playing with Eliana."  They do these things because of their great love.  And they are joyful.

In Jesus' story, the younger son returns home and is not only embraced by his father, he is seen from far off and his father comes running to meet him.  He was watching for him.  He was hoping for, and expecting him.  The father throws a great party for the son who came back.  (This, by the way, is what I always assumed "prodigal" meant.  I thought it was going away, and then coming back.)  The older son is very angry with his father for not only taking the son in again, but for giving him such an extravagant homecoming celebration.  He feels cheated; he feels that he is paying unfairly for his brother's bad choices.  He is getting the short end of the stick here. 

Reading this story again, and studying it recently, has given me new insight on the older brother.  He thinks that he is living the way he is supposed to, but while he has been at home with the father, doing his duty, his heart is far off.  It is even farther than his brother's, although he had wandered to a country far away and ended up wanting to eat pig's food.  The older brother is actually worse off than the younger brother; his heart, though obedient, is empty of love.  He refuses to go in to the feast that his father has prepared.  He passes on his father's invitation to join in the festivities.  He rejects his father's love.  He cannot get past his brother's prodigal living, reckless and wasteful though it was, to see his father's prodigal love.

If you look up the word "prodigal", you will find that a second definition is "giving or yielding profusely" or "lavishly abundant", as well as "recklessly spendthrift".  The shocking thing about this story, then, is not that the father takes the son back, but that he does so with such abandon.  He freely accepts the son back home; his son comes with the words,"If only I can be a servant in your house...," and the father stops him and reminds him that no, he is not a servant, but a son.  There is no condition for his acceptance.  Before he uttered a word of remorse or spoke any apology, the father was already running to him. 

While free for the younger son, his homecoming was not without cost.  The father turns out to be as much of a "reckless spendthrift" as his son; he gives everything for his youngest.  This party costs the father a lot of money.  It is an expensive celebration, and in the end the goods for the party come out of the older brother's part of the inheritance.  That is all that is left; the younger had squandered his share.  And the father does not hold back.

Jesus tells this story so that the religious people of the day would turn to the God who loved them.  He, like the father in the story, is inviting them to come into the feast.  He is telling them that the Father will hold nothing back, not even what rightfully belongs to the older Brother.  Jesus is telling them this story so that they will see that there is One who is willing to sacrifice for the one who does return.  He is reminding them that the Father loves His children.

I just finished reading The Prodigal God, by Tim Keller.  He is the pastor of a church in Manhatten.  And when Mike first gave this book to me I thought,"That's provocative!"  It never would have occurred to me to call God prodigal.  But as soon as I read the Introduction, particularly these sentences: "The word 'prodigal' does not mean 'wayward' but, according to Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 'recklessly spendthrift.'  It means to spend until you have nothing left," I knew where Keller was going and I was immediately hooked. 

I am left with all kinds of emotions and thoughts.  I want to love the God who is so willing to give everything for me the way He should be loved.  I want to love Him for Him, not in order to get something in return, or so that things will go my way.  Loving like that involves a great deal of surrender (like, total), and swallowing of pride.  I think that while the younger son was grateful for his loving welcome, it might have been disconcerting as well.  He must have thought, even if briefly,"What will I have to do to make up for it?  I need to pay for what I've done; I've really messed up!"  But God doesn't ask us to pay for it; Jesus willingly did that already.  We don't have to offer anything, not one perfectly done or finished thing, because it is already finished.  The older brother cannot grasp the love of the father because of his own righteousness.  Although he has lived a right life, he cannot offer those right things to the father in order to get into the party.  Our feast is at the expense of the Son of God.  He makes it possible for us to call God our Father.  He gives us what rightfully belongs to Himself.  And he does this whether we fail and quit, or we accomplish and obey.  I'm sure these things will be swimming around in my mind for a long time.  I've known what the gospel says for quite a while, yet I never cease to need to hear it, to learn it, to take it in.  It is like that feast...to enter in, to experience the goodness and love of the Lord, our Father.  Our loving Father.  Our prodigally loving Father. 

(The book is great; very thought-provoking, but even more so, heart-provoking.)

Lessons in Prodigal, Part I

I am a quitter; I give up quite easily.  I don't like to fight, whether it's a battle with the vaccumn or a battle of the wills.  One of the first things I remember quitting is the piano.  My brother started playing, and he was amazingly talented-naturally so.  I had to work.  Hard.  Since I would never play like he did (by ear), I stopped.  In college, however, the depth of my weak spirit became much clearer; I hadn't seen it quite so vividly before.

When I started college I was in the Honors program.  To remain in the Honors program you had to "successfully complete" one honors class a semester (or eight total) chosen from several options in many different areas.  There were benefits to being in the program, as well as many other opportunities outside of class or even outside of the country.  I don't remember taking any honors classes after my first semester...I just quit.  It seemed too hard.  And I gave up, just like that.

My second year I took a Public Speaking course.  It was, I believe, a choice among several in order to fulfill a particular core requirement (Humanities, maybe?); it made sense since I wanted to teach.  The assignments started out simple-introduce someone else in the class after an interview; a how-to speech.  The first one must have gone fine, because I don't remember it.  The second one I also don't remember.  In fact, it is the not remembering AT ALL what I was supposed to say as I stood before that class that made it one of the worst moments of my life.  I froze.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to die.  I felt so humiliated and angry.  I left the classroom, from that spot in front of the blackboard, and never went back (I'm not sure how I got my bag).  I may have said something like,"I'm sorry," but then I left the room. 

Later I went to the instructor's office and told him that I couldn't return, I couldn't face those students again.  I requested that he give me a failing grade, but said I would take the class again another semester (at my college if you had a failing grade and took the class over, the failing grade would be factored out of your GPA for the previous semester and only count in the semester where the grade was a passing one; it would remain on the transcript).  He said okay (I must have seemed very desperate; there was no talking me out of it). 

It may have been a bad thing, I don't know.  Recently, Mike and I were talking about that experience and relating it to some other things that are going on right now.  When I talked about how I left the class and felt as though I couldn't go back he said, kindly, "You shouldn't have done that...you should have gone back and faced the class."  He is probably right, but I couldn't have.  He went on to say,"Some time you are going to have to face the class.

During the last semester before student teaching (I was an English major, a Spanish major, and also pursued Teacher Certification, which had as many credits as a major, but wasn't one) I took my final methods course, learning how to teach high school English.   I loved it!  My professor was also my advisor and one of the people I most admired in the world.  I thought he was so smart, he was a wonderful teacher, and I loved everything he had to share with us. 

Over the couse of the entire semester we had an assignment; we were to work on a three week lesson plan, covering one unit in a literature class.  We had to create a full, 15-day lesson plan as well as turn in our philosophy of education, and any resources we would use to teach the lessons.  I'm sure I didn't begin right away, but shortly after the semester began I headed to the library and tried to come up with something.  I looked through teaching resources, I reread my notes from class, I stared at the many people who moved among the shelves of books.  For weeks I remained idealess.  I remember feeling very frustrated and stuck one night late in the semester; I was sitting with Mike in my floor, and I practically threw his laptop across the room in anger that I had nothing.  And I gave up.  I went to the professor the morning it was due to tell him I had no lesson plan to turn in.  I had no good reason for showing up empty-handed...no sickness, no family emergency.  Just fear, but of what?  It was 30% of our final grade. 

I also backed out of student teaching, and a couple of years later I dropped out of seminary.   

I studied a semester in Spain, but there was no getting out of Valencia once I arrived...so I was forced to stick that one out.

Remembering these experiences, as well as contemplating others that are not mentioned, leaves me in a strange place.  Part of me wants to laugh.  What a silly girl I am!  Part of me wants to shake my finger.  "Can't you be responsible?" I want to say.  "You ought to follow through, finish what you start!"  Part of me is sad, because the weight of all the times that there was no finishing is heavy; it is a burden, one I have placed upon myself. 

The word "prodigal" is before me these days...one of the first things many think of when they hear this word is the story Jesus told to many listeners, including the Pharisees, a story about a father and his two sons.  The younger of the sons leaves home, wastes his inheritance on wild living, and returns home hoping to be a servant in his father's house.  The other son is obedient but hard-hearted.  The father loves both.

If you look up "prodigal" you will find that one meaning is "characterized by profuse or wasteful expenditure," or "wastefully or recklessly extravagant."  I think of how often I have given up, quit, abandoned something, and it seems to me to be wasteful.  I have been wasteful and reckless where I could have been fruitful.  I have considered giving up to be acceptable, and have done so extravagantly.  This is humbling.  This is convicting. 

But as we all know (or could find out in Luke chapter 15) the story does not end with the recklessness of the younger son...

Today

Seasons change, they are meant to

And weary of one we look forward to another

Then there is a longing for what is now behind

Close your eyes and be where you are

For a moment

Time is often hard on us

But now you know that one day you will miss

All that seems to make a day a week

Memories are sweet, but taste right now what is good