What is a voice?
ink dripping from the tip of a pen
falling together
scattered across a page
What is hope?
sentences written in secret
words laced together into dreams
And a dream?
a new reality
woven together by the spirit
wrapped tightly around the light
truth that floods out from the heart
What is truth?
water, light, and fire
bleeding through the weave of dreams
straining to show the world
Thursday, September 27, 2018
Saturday, September 15, 2018
pieces of a Lifesong - 6
There are pieces of my story which occurred over my college years that are important to mention, but I will only touch on them briefly here. Freshman year I lost a friendship with someone that I had been very close to for years, and it was painful enough that I felt absolutely broken by it. I didn't truly start to heal from that separation until I met the man who would become my husband (I'll call him 'John' from here on). The timing in which I met John (in relation to my broken friendship) already felt a lot like God had planned it out, but the way in which I met him was also so unlikely that there is no doubt in my mind we were meant to meet; at the time that we met, we lived 3000 miles apart. I knew John for a year, and it wasn't until I felt truly secure in his permanence in my life that my cat, who I had found as a child and had raised from a kitten, came to the end of her life.
I managed to leave for home a week earlier than the semester's end, and to be there to say goodbye, but it still left a larger hole in my heart than I had ever imagined the loss of a pet could. The entire time that I was saying goodbye, I truly felt as if she had held on to this world long enough to make sure I had someone else to care for me emotionally. Now that John had settled into my life, she could move on; it was this determination that lead to me wondering about Guardian Angels, and their place in our lives. I wondered, if we were meant to have an army to protect us, couldn't it be possible for just one to take a physical form, and to care for us the way that a loving pet does? My cat's passing made me certain that was the case, and she has held the western quarter of my medicine wheel - for emotions - ever since.
After college, I wanted to find a church home again. My mother's attendance to church had fallen after I'd started college as well, and I convinced her to come along with me to find one. John had moved across the country by now, but was currently attending a live-in education program (Job Corps) nearby, and wasn't able to come home every weekend to join the search. The two of us essentially became 'church hoppers' for some time, but my criteria was simple enough - find a church that made me feel the Spirit the same way I had at Camp Fireside. Find a church with life.
It was more difficult than I had anticipated. I was non-denominational at the time so we had plenty of options, but some felt quiet and unresponsive the way that the one I had grown up in had, and when we finally found some that did feel filled with life enough to take a closer look...the structure of the church felt off. It's difficult to explain what I mean if you haven't experienced it; there was life in the churches, but also a strange undertone of something other than God's presence. For example, one of the churches that we visited was planning on setting up other locations in the state, but only the founder of the church was allowed to preach. It was strictly forbidden for anyone, even other pastors of the church, to give sermons; and as a member, giving a percentage of your income was mandatory. We moved on though, and eventually did find a church that felt like home. There was even a band for worship songs that played guitars and drums! I remember arriving for our first service as the music was already playing, and feeling the drum-beat filling the air around me, moving up through the soles of my feet and into my heart. It was life, it was community, and it was Spirit all around.
Even then, I did not stay at that church permanently. We attended for quite some time, all throughout the time that I held my first post-college job, and well into my second. The first was a cashier position at Macy's in a local city, which was enough to pay my looming student loans - but just barely, and with hours of travel to get to the job each day that left little time for even sleeping. My second job seemed like a dream! I was hired as assistant manager at a bookstore in another nearby city; the drive was long, but it was everything I had wanted in a job! Until it wasn't. The people that owned the store, the customers, workers, and the atmosphere were all wonderful; but I wasn't there for even a full year when money began getting tighter for me than it should have been. I realized that I was missing paychecks, and had been (while being in denial about it) for some time. There is always more to the story, but here you only must know that I cared for the owners, and the store, and I still don't believe that there was any ill-intent on their part. I processed the situation (on my own, and with the store owner) for weeks, and the stress built up exponentially over that time. It reached the point where I was physically ill, over-exhausted and sick to my stomach, over the stress and anxiety.
One weekend, I went to church and wept during service, praying to God for the strength to have the conversation that was looming over my coming Monday. I couldn't afford to stay at the bookstore with my current paycheck trend, and I knew I was going to have to tell the owner that I was leaving. I had hardly slept or eaten for days, and I had finally reached that penultimate moment that many Christians are familiar with - I gave up. I prayed at church, I cried, and I gave up all control of the situation to place it in God's hands. If I was meant to stay at the bookstore, He would see to it; if I wasn't...well, I was meant to be somewhere else. After church I felt more peace than I had in weeks, and despite the fact that I was still terrified when it came time to speak with the bookstore owner, I never lost faith that the entire situation was part of God's plan. I didn't lose faith when I was unable to find another job, or when my unemployment was nearly reaching the limit of payments. I kept my faith, and my trust, as I settled for a paid-volunteer position with Americorps at a local elementary school, and as I eventually found my way to a job that had me moving away from home for the first time since college.
This chapter of my story might seem like a bit of a side-track, I admit; but my experience here taught me a lesson. I had always had faith in God and His plan, but this was the first time in my life that I had to truly give everything up, and place it all in His hands. Over the years, through and after college, I've unfortunately developed quite the relationship with anxiety. It's an issue that I still struggle with daily, but one of the greatest helps I have in dealing with this is in reminding myself that everything - everything - is part of His plan. The struggles that you deal with now are the lessons for your future; His plan isn't always easy to handle, but He is always there with you through it. All you have to do is call out for Him, and hold on.
Hold on.
I managed to leave for home a week earlier than the semester's end, and to be there to say goodbye, but it still left a larger hole in my heart than I had ever imagined the loss of a pet could. The entire time that I was saying goodbye, I truly felt as if she had held on to this world long enough to make sure I had someone else to care for me emotionally. Now that John had settled into my life, she could move on; it was this determination that lead to me wondering about Guardian Angels, and their place in our lives. I wondered, if we were meant to have an army to protect us, couldn't it be possible for just one to take a physical form, and to care for us the way that a loving pet does? My cat's passing made me certain that was the case, and she has held the western quarter of my medicine wheel - for emotions - ever since.
After college, I wanted to find a church home again. My mother's attendance to church had fallen after I'd started college as well, and I convinced her to come along with me to find one. John had moved across the country by now, but was currently attending a live-in education program (Job Corps) nearby, and wasn't able to come home every weekend to join the search. The two of us essentially became 'church hoppers' for some time, but my criteria was simple enough - find a church that made me feel the Spirit the same way I had at Camp Fireside. Find a church with life.
It was more difficult than I had anticipated. I was non-denominational at the time so we had plenty of options, but some felt quiet and unresponsive the way that the one I had grown up in had, and when we finally found some that did feel filled with life enough to take a closer look...the structure of the church felt off. It's difficult to explain what I mean if you haven't experienced it; there was life in the churches, but also a strange undertone of something other than God's presence. For example, one of the churches that we visited was planning on setting up other locations in the state, but only the founder of the church was allowed to preach. It was strictly forbidden for anyone, even other pastors of the church, to give sermons; and as a member, giving a percentage of your income was mandatory. We moved on though, and eventually did find a church that felt like home. There was even a band for worship songs that played guitars and drums! I remember arriving for our first service as the music was already playing, and feeling the drum-beat filling the air around me, moving up through the soles of my feet and into my heart. It was life, it was community, and it was Spirit all around.
Even then, I did not stay at that church permanently. We attended for quite some time, all throughout the time that I held my first post-college job, and well into my second. The first was a cashier position at Macy's in a local city, which was enough to pay my looming student loans - but just barely, and with hours of travel to get to the job each day that left little time for even sleeping. My second job seemed like a dream! I was hired as assistant manager at a bookstore in another nearby city; the drive was long, but it was everything I had wanted in a job! Until it wasn't. The people that owned the store, the customers, workers, and the atmosphere were all wonderful; but I wasn't there for even a full year when money began getting tighter for me than it should have been. I realized that I was missing paychecks, and had been (while being in denial about it) for some time. There is always more to the story, but here you only must know that I cared for the owners, and the store, and I still don't believe that there was any ill-intent on their part. I processed the situation (on my own, and with the store owner) for weeks, and the stress built up exponentially over that time. It reached the point where I was physically ill, over-exhausted and sick to my stomach, over the stress and anxiety.
One weekend, I went to church and wept during service, praying to God for the strength to have the conversation that was looming over my coming Monday. I couldn't afford to stay at the bookstore with my current paycheck trend, and I knew I was going to have to tell the owner that I was leaving. I had hardly slept or eaten for days, and I had finally reached that penultimate moment that many Christians are familiar with - I gave up. I prayed at church, I cried, and I gave up all control of the situation to place it in God's hands. If I was meant to stay at the bookstore, He would see to it; if I wasn't...well, I was meant to be somewhere else. After church I felt more peace than I had in weeks, and despite the fact that I was still terrified when it came time to speak with the bookstore owner, I never lost faith that the entire situation was part of God's plan. I didn't lose faith when I was unable to find another job, or when my unemployment was nearly reaching the limit of payments. I kept my faith, and my trust, as I settled for a paid-volunteer position with Americorps at a local elementary school, and as I eventually found my way to a job that had me moving away from home for the first time since college.
This chapter of my story might seem like a bit of a side-track, I admit; but my experience here taught me a lesson. I had always had faith in God and His plan, but this was the first time in my life that I had to truly give everything up, and place it all in His hands. Over the years, through and after college, I've unfortunately developed quite the relationship with anxiety. It's an issue that I still struggle with daily, but one of the greatest helps I have in dealing with this is in reminding myself that everything - everything - is part of His plan. The struggles that you deal with now are the lessons for your future; His plan isn't always easy to handle, but He is always there with you through it. All you have to do is call out for Him, and hold on.
Hold on.
Saturday, May 12, 2018
pieces of a Lifesong - 5
...heartbeat of the drum.
To truly continue this story of my own journey, I need to take you back in time once more, back before college and once again into my high school years - but not to a story about high school. If you've read the about section of my blog, you've read my mention of my Native ancestry. I wasn't raised in a tribal community, and as I go forward in this story I want to make it clear to my readers that I am not an expert on anything related to the tribes that I mention. I only have for you what I have learned myself, through life and experience, and through the way those experiences have mixed into my own journey. Nothing I say on this subject is intended to offend anyone - so please, if it comes across that way, do let me know! As I'm sure you'll come to find in reading this part of my story, I am always looking for ways to learn more about my Native ancestry, and I welcome any lessons that someone more experienced in that area might want to offer.
With that made clear, let's dive back into this story of mine.
With that made clear, let's dive back into this story of mine.
When I was in high school, my Mother started to do research into our family tree. Specifically, she began to research my (maternal) Grandpa's side; it was something Grandpa had always mentioned to her, and as a present to him she wanted to find out where his Native roots would lead. We were all terribly excited about the start of this journey (my Mother, Grandpa, myself, and even my Grandma as well - though her family came almost entirely from Ireland!). A cousin of ours on my Grandpa's side was invested in the research as well; he and my Mother worked together, and it wasn't long before they managed to find the start of the trail that would lead back to our ancestors.
Somehow growing up I had never heard mention of this Native ancestry until this research came up, and I was instantly fascinated by this new piece of my history. I had always felt a strong love for the outdoors, for wildlife (all, and some more strongly than others), and even found an interest in Native Americans through local pow-wows before the news of my family came about. Now that I knew that Native Americans and their lives were a part of me, I wanted to know more. With my love for Christ and his teachings growing stronger in high school, however, I also found myself wanting to make sure that I kept Him fully entwined in this search into my ancestral past. As my Mother began her search to find our genetic lineage, I felt my own goals solidifying. I wanted to learn more about this Native part to my blood and spirit - and I wanted to make certain that I kept Christ woven firmly through this search. I had heard Native beliefs referenced with paganism at various times in the past, and as excited as I was to learn more about this world I knew that I could only continue the journey so long as Christ was present.
It wasn't until my Mother found a relatively local tribe that was willing to let us join that I would find an opportunity to learn how God was woven into the spiritual beliefs of the Natives. We weren't related to the tribe that allowed us to join, but they were small and looking for members; our genealogy showed that we were related to a tribe, and they accepted that as enough. This tribe would be the first Native home that my family found in this search for our history. The people were very welcoming, and happy to answer the questions that we had. My mother's were about the more physical aspect of Native life (gardening, shelters, and crafts), and while I was interested in those subjects as well I found myself filled to spilling with questions about spirituality.
Do the Natives worship God the Father? Is the belief in the environment's spirits a belief in idols, or are they like angelic beings? What about the belief that ancestors are watching over us? How are names chosen, or gifted? And so, so many more that I am afraid I cannot remember.
Unfortunately, with this first tribe, many of the questions I had went unanswered. After some years the tribe would prove to have a falling out, with political drama pulling it apart and eventually leaving us once more without a real Native 'home.' Some of the members kept in touch with us, and when they formed a Drum of their own my mother was invited to join - and so my family found a Drum instead of a Tribe. While it was (and still is) somewhat of a disappointment to not be a true tribe member, joining the Drum was in many ways just as heartening.
Still, my journey to find a way to connect my Native ancestry with my Christian beliefs fell into much the same pace that my journey to find a Church home had. Slow, steady - and essentially on my own.
Do the Natives worship God the Father? Is the belief in the environment's spirits a belief in idols, or are they like angelic beings? What about the belief that ancestors are watching over us? How are names chosen, or gifted? And so, so many more that I am afraid I cannot remember.
Unfortunately, with this first tribe, many of the questions I had went unanswered. After some years the tribe would prove to have a falling out, with political drama pulling it apart and eventually leaving us once more without a real Native 'home.' Some of the members kept in touch with us, and when they formed a Drum of their own my mother was invited to join - and so my family found a Drum instead of a Tribe. While it was (and still is) somewhat of a disappointment to not be a true tribe member, joining the Drum was in many ways just as heartening.
Still, my journey to find a way to connect my Native ancestry with my Christian beliefs fell into much the same pace that my journey to find a Church home had. Slow, steady - and essentially on my own.
By the time I was in College I had at least found a spiritual balance. My journey to find a connection to my ancestry had woven itself irremovably into my journey of Faith. When I went to pow-wows with my mother's drum I did not join the creation of the music, but I did dance in the circle. When I danced to the drum, even without knowing the meaning of the words, the feel of the drumbeat coursing up through my feet and into my heart was strong, powerful, and just as fiery as the way I felt when Spirit coursed through me.
"Creator" was God, one in the same, of that I could be certain. I heard stories of the spirits of the land - Coyote, Eagle, Wolf, Thunderbird, and so many more - and I wondered if these 'spirits' of the land couldn't be God's angels, sent to reach a world that Jesus' word had yet to touch? I learned of the aspects of my own spirit, how different creatures could represent different pieces of myself, and I thought - couldn't a Guardian Angel (which the bible tells us we have many) take the form of a creature that would make you comforted to see them? Couldn't they take a visible form that would allow our human minds to process their presence easier? Couldn't our own spirit have a similar form?
My own journey brought me to the symbol of the medicine wheel, because it was a symbol of a Healer, and because of it's similarity to the symbol of a cross (a Celtic cross, specifically). Each quarter of the wheel is connected to a part of your spirit - the black quarter, west, for the spirit; the yellow quarter, east, for the emotions and heart; the red quarter, south, for the mind; and the white quarter, north, for the body or the physical aspect of your spirit. When I learned about the medicine wheel, a part of me knew then that I would find a piece of my spirit to fill each quarter - a spiritual guide for each aspect, or a Guardian Angel of some kind.
My own journey brought me to the symbol of the medicine wheel, because it was a symbol of a Healer, and because of it's similarity to the symbol of a cross (a Celtic cross, specifically). Each quarter of the wheel is connected to a part of your spirit - the black quarter, west, for the spirit; the yellow quarter, east, for the emotions and heart; the red quarter, south, for the mind; and the white quarter, north, for the body or the physical aspect of your spirit. When I learned about the medicine wheel, a part of me knew then that I would find a piece of my spirit to fill each quarter - a spiritual guide for each aspect, or a Guardian Angel of some kind.
The north was easy - I had felt a connection to the wolf since I was small, and often had dreams where I was a wolf, or could be one at will. Since I can remember, my dreams have been one of two kinds: fantastical and unrealistic, a story in my own mind - or incredibly real, and distinctly sharp in my memory. The east quarter of my medicine wheel came soon enough in the form of the latter kind of dream, the real and sharp kind, early in my college career. I was riding a fire-bathed chestnut mare at breakneck speed across an emerald hillside. There was nothing around us but green mountains, nothing between us as I held tightly to her mane, and nothing that would take us apart. I felt His presence clearly in the dream as well, quiet but strong, and it was the combination of the two that left me sure when I woke that the mare was somehow connected to my spirit.
I'm sure some of you might think this is silly; I'm afraid many of you have already stopped reading. I haven't really spoken about a lot of this with anyone before, but I feel a strong need to share it as a part of the story that I'm telling. I hope if you have made it this far, that you'll continue on this journey with me. It may feel scattered, even fractured, but...well, doesn't life often feel that way as you live it? It all comes together, I promise - and it is all part of the journey that leads me closer to God even today.
Friday, April 6, 2018
resurgence
I haven't been writing for months now.
It's not due to a lack of desire to write, or (I would hope) a lack of ability. It's felt...like an injury was healing, like something inside was broken, something integral to the writing process, and all I could do was let it be while I pulled myself back together.
I'm certain that I'm not the first, especially in today's world, to go on and on about how a life of student loan debt and working mindlessly through a job (many jobs, over time) that I wasn't happy in chipped away at my happiness, edged into my mind and my spirit and bogged it down with doubt and...dejection. I'm not the first, and I unfortunately won't be the last - but so, I won't go on about how I got to this place. I will only say that I was there.
I haven't been writing for months now...
In some ways that isn't true, because I have friends that I have written with - short, sometimes silly, always fun pieces of writing where our characters interact together on their adventures and through their fictional lives. I have done writing, in that I have strung together words into sentences, stacked those together into paragraphs, and utilized those paragraphs to create a comprehensive piece of writing for others to read within a writing game. I did this...in some ways to lift my spirits, but also to keep myself writing something. I could feel that something within me was broken, that the proverbial "writing muscle" inside was torn. I knew that I needed to let it heal, and these writing games were my way of making sure that when it did heal, it wouldn't be out of commission.
I haven't...really been writing...for some months now...
I remember, at some of the peaks in my writing path, how it would feel to sit and close my eyes, listening to the voices and songs that called softly but surely...to me. Called for me to listen carefully to the stories that were told on the wind, to listen for the poems that might form on the paper before me if I just sat quietly enough to hear them.
For so many months now, I...could not hear them.
I tried, oh how I tried. I sat with my eyes closed, clenching my eyes shut and gritting my teeth against the tears that fell. If I could just listen, if I could just hear those sounds on the wind once more I knew that I could write. Here I was, finally free of the weight that a "day job" hung around my neck, free once more to pursue the beauty within my spirit and around me, winding together with my soul and begging to be freed as well. Here I was, finally free...and terrified that I was deaf to them now. Anxiety clenched tightly around my heart, choking me at the faintest sign of even the smallest triggers.
And what was I supposed to do? Weeks passed, and as I learned to handle the anxiety, to recognize when a reaction was caused by it rather than my true self, I still found myself buried in it. Sounds are muffled all around you when you're buried. Voices on the distant wind are drowned out by the sound of rain against a window pane.
I haven't written anything for some months now. I've found myself seated by the window, leaning against the frame and staring out through the glass at the water falling around. I stopped trying to listen after the first month. I hadn't given up, not entirely, but I stopped trying to hear once I realized that all I could hear was rain. I was frightened that I wouldn't hear it again. I was terrified that the stories trembling within me would wither, turn to dust within my heart without ever calling out to the world, but I hadn't given up. I was hurt, but I could feel in my heart that it wasn't permanent. Even the spirit heals itself with time...
So I waited...
...one month...
...then two...
...three... .. .
It's not due to a lack of desire to write, or (I would hope) a lack of ability. It's felt...like an injury was healing, like something inside was broken, something integral to the writing process, and all I could do was let it be while I pulled myself back together.
I'm certain that I'm not the first, especially in today's world, to go on and on about how a life of student loan debt and working mindlessly through a job (many jobs, over time) that I wasn't happy in chipped away at my happiness, edged into my mind and my spirit and bogged it down with doubt and...dejection. I'm not the first, and I unfortunately won't be the last - but so, I won't go on about how I got to this place. I will only say that I was there.
I haven't been writing for months now...
In some ways that isn't true, because I have friends that I have written with - short, sometimes silly, always fun pieces of writing where our characters interact together on their adventures and through their fictional lives. I have done writing, in that I have strung together words into sentences, stacked those together into paragraphs, and utilized those paragraphs to create a comprehensive piece of writing for others to read within a writing game. I did this...in some ways to lift my spirits, but also to keep myself writing something. I could feel that something within me was broken, that the proverbial "writing muscle" inside was torn. I knew that I needed to let it heal, and these writing games were my way of making sure that when it did heal, it wouldn't be out of commission.
I haven't...really been writing...for some months now...
I remember, at some of the peaks in my writing path, how it would feel to sit and close my eyes, listening to the voices and songs that called softly but surely...to me. Called for me to listen carefully to the stories that were told on the wind, to listen for the poems that might form on the paper before me if I just sat quietly enough to hear them.
For so many months now, I...could not hear them.
I tried, oh how I tried. I sat with my eyes closed, clenching my eyes shut and gritting my teeth against the tears that fell. If I could just listen, if I could just hear those sounds on the wind once more I knew that I could write. Here I was, finally free of the weight that a "day job" hung around my neck, free once more to pursue the beauty within my spirit and around me, winding together with my soul and begging to be freed as well. Here I was, finally free...and terrified that I was deaf to them now. Anxiety clenched tightly around my heart, choking me at the faintest sign of even the smallest triggers.
And what was I supposed to do? Weeks passed, and as I learned to handle the anxiety, to recognize when a reaction was caused by it rather than my true self, I still found myself buried in it. Sounds are muffled all around you when you're buried. Voices on the distant wind are drowned out by the sound of rain against a window pane.
I haven't written anything for some months now. I've found myself seated by the window, leaning against the frame and staring out through the glass at the water falling around. I stopped trying to listen after the first month. I hadn't given up, not entirely, but I stopped trying to hear once I realized that all I could hear was rain. I was frightened that I wouldn't hear it again. I was terrified that the stories trembling within me would wither, turn to dust within my heart without ever calling out to the world, but I hadn't given up. I was hurt, but I could feel in my heart that it wasn't permanent. Even the spirit heals itself with time...
So I waited...
...one month...
...then two...
...three... .. .
. .. ...four.
A tap against the window pane,
a shadow through the curtain.
Friday, March 23, 2018
pieces of a Lifesong - 4
As I grew older, it felt...empowering, somehow, to realize more and more that I could come to my own understandings about Christianity, that I could do my own research and learn things that I might have never heard from my Mother, or even from the church that we attended. Once I was too old to attend Camp Fireside anymore, I felt a thirst that lead me on a search to once again find the kind of life and fire that I had felt in the chapel services there. The camp was so full of spirit and energy - surely there had to be real churches out there that held the same.
When I started High School, I found a way out of attending weekly church services by volunteering at a local animal shelter on Sundays. I still attended for the big holidays, and would still occasionally find myself going with my Mother on a day when the shelter was closed for some reason, but for the most part I had begun my own "solo" journey with Christ. The strength of my beliefs didn't falter, though. I met friends in High School with all different beliefs: some atheists and agnostics, some Catholic, some Jehovah Witness, and even some who were beginning to explore Wicca. Conversations with my Catholic friend (we'll refer to her as Gale, for convenience) were fascinating to me, because somehow even with my father's family being Catholic I realized I had learned so little about that denomination, and it was amazing to me how different it sounded from what I had perceived of that Church. Conversations with my Jehovah Witness friend were fascinating in their own way, because while most of the time everything was fairly casual, every so often she would make a statement or ask a question that would bring about an answer within me that felt so strong; it was those moments which assured me that, even though I wasn't attending any actual church services, I was still following a strong Christian path.
The strength of that conviction within me was reassuring when I moved on to college. I was moving onto campus hours from home, and still being without a driver's license meant that I would have very little access to off-campus transportation. I thought - briefly - about finding a church to attend while in college, but the difficulty in getting there combined with my...dejected level of motivation, and ultimately my decision was made. Why bother going to a church, where I wasn't likely to find that fire or spirit within the walls? I had more luck feeling the life that I'd found at Camp Fireside while listening to Christian Rock music, and found that the messages within the songs I heard were just as guiding and uplifting as some sermons I had sat through. So my 'church' for each week became woven into my daily life. I would listen to Christian music, and pray daily. At one point I even tried to keep a journal that I would write 'letters' to God in, discussing thoughts, thanking for small gifts, and praying for friends and family. There would be brief moments where I found myself wondering if I was 'doing enough,' but they passed comfortably enough. I was strong in my beliefs, and I felt no worry over if I was straying down a misguided path. Why did I need to go to a physical church anyway, if the men and women preaching to those who attended were just people, like the rest of us? I could talk to Jesus and God without their help.
Even though my church attendance dissipated while I there, College helped to strengthen my faith in other ways. I had friends there that weren't Christian, one in particular who had barely grown up learning anything about Christianity - or at least, barely anything truthful. This friend in particular helped me learn how to talk to others about my faith, how to help them learn what had kept my faith strong, and tell them the good news there was to share. I will never forget the expression on her face during the first conversation I remember as being a breakthrough with her. I can't recall the words precisely, but I know she was telling me about how she had always been wary of organized religion because she didn't want to have to judge people. I admitted that there were some "rules" that had to be learned to follow the faith accordingly, but I also told her about the biggest, most important rule that Christianity had to offer.
"Rule number one," I told her, feeling the strength of conviction and faith thread through my voice, and watching as it captured her attention. "Love. Love everyone."
She cried. I didn't quite cry, but between the energy and life and fire running through my chest and the tears running down her face I came very close to it. That was her rule, she told me. She tried to live her life by that rule all the time. She'd never known that about Christianity. From that moment on, she was even more interested in the conversations that we had. I never tried to "convert" her, but she was so open to the spiritual discussion that the topic came up often. Today, I don't speak with her quite as much as I had hoped I could continue to, but in the years to come (even after college) this conversation continued between us. As I learned more about my own Christian journey, she always learned more through me - and I still pray that her journey will eventually lead her to the Light.
College wasn't filled with church technically for me, but the discussion that I had - with that friend, and with others - about Jesus and spirituality over the years that I attended strengthened my faith in ways that I don't think a church ever could. After graduation I did find myself wanting to find a church to attend, but the joy of college graduation was laced together with the stress of student loans and entering the workforce, and my journey continued into territory that made me ever grateful for the strength of spirit that I had gathered with me before that time.
When I started High School, I found a way out of attending weekly church services by volunteering at a local animal shelter on Sundays. I still attended for the big holidays, and would still occasionally find myself going with my Mother on a day when the shelter was closed for some reason, but for the most part I had begun my own "solo" journey with Christ. The strength of my beliefs didn't falter, though. I met friends in High School with all different beliefs: some atheists and agnostics, some Catholic, some Jehovah Witness, and even some who were beginning to explore Wicca. Conversations with my Catholic friend (we'll refer to her as Gale, for convenience) were fascinating to me, because somehow even with my father's family being Catholic I realized I had learned so little about that denomination, and it was amazing to me how different it sounded from what I had perceived of that Church. Conversations with my Jehovah Witness friend were fascinating in their own way, because while most of the time everything was fairly casual, every so often she would make a statement or ask a question that would bring about an answer within me that felt so strong; it was those moments which assured me that, even though I wasn't attending any actual church services, I was still following a strong Christian path.
The strength of that conviction within me was reassuring when I moved on to college. I was moving onto campus hours from home, and still being without a driver's license meant that I would have very little access to off-campus transportation. I thought - briefly - about finding a church to attend while in college, but the difficulty in getting there combined with my...dejected level of motivation, and ultimately my decision was made. Why bother going to a church, where I wasn't likely to find that fire or spirit within the walls? I had more luck feeling the life that I'd found at Camp Fireside while listening to Christian Rock music, and found that the messages within the songs I heard were just as guiding and uplifting as some sermons I had sat through. So my 'church' for each week became woven into my daily life. I would listen to Christian music, and pray daily. At one point I even tried to keep a journal that I would write 'letters' to God in, discussing thoughts, thanking for small gifts, and praying for friends and family. There would be brief moments where I found myself wondering if I was 'doing enough,' but they passed comfortably enough. I was strong in my beliefs, and I felt no worry over if I was straying down a misguided path. Why did I need to go to a physical church anyway, if the men and women preaching to those who attended were just people, like the rest of us? I could talk to Jesus and God without their help.
Even though my church attendance dissipated while I there, College helped to strengthen my faith in other ways. I had friends there that weren't Christian, one in particular who had barely grown up learning anything about Christianity - or at least, barely anything truthful. This friend in particular helped me learn how to talk to others about my faith, how to help them learn what had kept my faith strong, and tell them the good news there was to share. I will never forget the expression on her face during the first conversation I remember as being a breakthrough with her. I can't recall the words precisely, but I know she was telling me about how she had always been wary of organized religion because she didn't want to have to judge people. I admitted that there were some "rules" that had to be learned to follow the faith accordingly, but I also told her about the biggest, most important rule that Christianity had to offer.
"Rule number one," I told her, feeling the strength of conviction and faith thread through my voice, and watching as it captured her attention. "Love. Love everyone."
She cried. I didn't quite cry, but between the energy and life and fire running through my chest and the tears running down her face I came very close to it. That was her rule, she told me. She tried to live her life by that rule all the time. She'd never known that about Christianity. From that moment on, she was even more interested in the conversations that we had. I never tried to "convert" her, but she was so open to the spiritual discussion that the topic came up often. Today, I don't speak with her quite as much as I had hoped I could continue to, but in the years to come (even after college) this conversation continued between us. As I learned more about my own Christian journey, she always learned more through me - and I still pray that her journey will eventually lead her to the Light.
College wasn't filled with church technically for me, but the discussion that I had - with that friend, and with others - about Jesus and spirituality over the years that I attended strengthened my faith in ways that I don't think a church ever could. After graduation I did find myself wanting to find a church to attend, but the joy of college graduation was laced together with the stress of student loans and entering the workforce, and my journey continued into territory that made me ever grateful for the strength of spirit that I had gathered with me before that time.
Friday, March 16, 2018
pieces of a Lifesong - 3
Camp Fireside was amazing.
A week-long summer camp filled with children, pre-teens, and adults of all ages where we lived together in (separate boy and girl) cabins, attended chapel every morning and evening, played games, and participated in so many fun camp sports and activities - all while learning more about the Christian faith. It wasn't just a protestant camp either; children from all denominations of Christianity were welcome. We were children, though, so differences in how we worshiped back home weren't nearly as important to us as the fact that we all did.
At this point in my life I didn't know much about Catholicism. My father's side of the family was Catholic, but I can't remember them talking about it very much - about God, yes, but not about the differences in our churches.
As for Camp Fireside, I know what you must be thinking - church twice a day? How could that possibly have been the basis of a camp that groups of children enjoyed attending? But church at Camp Fireside was unlike any of the churches around at the time. It was music, and fun, and laughter, and joy. Their building itself was only an un-insulated wooden structure with screens stapled to the windows, wooden benches for pews, a small raised platform at the front, and an overhead projector that had seen many a better day in the past. The music was played by an entire band at the front of the room, set up on the raised platform - a guitar, a drum set, singers, and even the occasional ukulele! The songs were upbeat and interactive, and all about our Savior and the stories within the bible.
It was fun, but it wasn't even really about the fun. The entire camp was filled with Christians, and everyone was gathered into this chapel twice a day, everyone was excited and happy to be there - and ecstatic to be worshiping God. There was a life in this place, a strength of Spirit that I had never experienced outside of Camp Fireside. It was a fire, the sort of fire that you always hear those big TV preachers talking about to the audience that's falling to their knees in tears. It was a feeling that, once I had outgrown the camp, I continued to search for in every church I attended as I went through the next years of my life.
And it was at this Camp Fireside that I had one of the most memorable moments of my own Christian journey.
You see, every week at the camp the chapel services were set up in a pattern. There was usually a sort of 'guest speaker' for the week, some pastor or preacher that was there for some time during the summer, they always had a plan to help the campers really understand what it meant to accept Jesus as your Savior, and it always came together for one particularly emotional service every Thursday evening.
This camp was still in my childhood, so I unfortunately do not have very detailed memories to share with you of all the sermons that I heard, but I do remember one week in particular that really struck something in my heart. All week long, this guest speaker had been focusing on inviting people up to the front to share their stories of salvation, the story of how they came to find God. Each evening chapel he would end with sharing a story that he'd been told in the past that was particularly strong, and then he would invite others to come share theirs. Then, on Thursday, he shared his own.
I don't remember his entire story, but I vividly remember how it came to an end - because the emotions it held sounded exactly like my own every summer during Vacation Bible School. He said that each year he would attend a summer program, and would go up to the front to accept Jesus as his Savior, and each year he felt no different. He explained how it felt when, as a young teen, he finally realized it was because he hadn't felt the acceptance, he'd said the words but hadn't truly meant it - not because he didn't truly believe, but because he hadn't yet grown enough or had enough experience to understand the importance of the moment. He went on to explain how he had locked himself in his bedroom that night, and had sat on his bed alone to do it again; his eyes glossed over with tears as he described to us the feeling that each person going up that week had shared as well, the rush and the feeling of love and power that came over them as they reached out to Jesus with their hearts and spirits.
This had not been my first year at Camp Fireside by any means; in fact, I believe it was one of my last. I had been through Thursday chapel before, and I had never found myself in tears until this evening. The guest speaker went on to invite a few others up to share their story, and then invited anyone who wanted to, to come up to the front to pray with him and accept Jesus as their Savior. I didn't go up, but as everyone dipped their heads to pray along with the speaker, I closed my eyes, dropped my head, and sent out a silent prayer of my own.
"I'm sorry," I cried, silently, to the Lord as the room followed the guest speaker's prayer around me. I knew logically that I didn't have to apologize for not having been 'truthful' all the times before, but the apology repeated itself through my mind a few more times before I could go further. I apologized, and I confessed my love for our God, and I asked Jesus to come into my heart "for real this time, forever." True to how the man at the front had explained in his own story, I felt in that moment a rush of love and power unlike anything I had experience before. I hadn't known that anything could feel stronger than the life and energy that encompassed the chapel at Camp Fireside during service, but I knew there was nothing that could feel more powerful, or amazing, than the rush that I felt in that moment - at least not in this world, not without meeting Him face to face.
From that day forward I was completely convinced that I understood what the teachings in the Protestant church meant each time I'd been told Once you've accepted Jesus into your heart, you're saved - forever. I was confident that I could not be torn from this path I had found myself on, no matter what questions I was asked to try and falter my faith, no matter what hardships I faced in my life, no matter what church I attended -
or...didn't attend.
The downside to this amazing experience, after my years at Camp Fireside were over, was that the church I attended with my mother came no-where near the level of life and energy I felt at the camp. It felt...empty. I had no reason to think that the people attending the church didn't believe, but I didn't feel...any spirit during the services there. So when I was old enough to choose for myself, I found a way to get out of attending by volunteering at a local animal shelter on Sundays. My mother was upset at first, but eventually life became busy enough that she found herself elsewhere on Sundays as well.
There was nothing in my heart that doubted my faith in Christ, I knew I was on the right path to follow Him in life and in spirit. I just...had to figure out where that path was now going to lead me.
A week-long summer camp filled with children, pre-teens, and adults of all ages where we lived together in (separate boy and girl) cabins, attended chapel every morning and evening, played games, and participated in so many fun camp sports and activities - all while learning more about the Christian faith. It wasn't just a protestant camp either; children from all denominations of Christianity were welcome. We were children, though, so differences in how we worshiped back home weren't nearly as important to us as the fact that we all did.
At this point in my life I didn't know much about Catholicism. My father's side of the family was Catholic, but I can't remember them talking about it very much - about God, yes, but not about the differences in our churches.
As for Camp Fireside, I know what you must be thinking - church twice a day? How could that possibly have been the basis of a camp that groups of children enjoyed attending? But church at Camp Fireside was unlike any of the churches around at the time. It was music, and fun, and laughter, and joy. Their building itself was only an un-insulated wooden structure with screens stapled to the windows, wooden benches for pews, a small raised platform at the front, and an overhead projector that had seen many a better day in the past. The music was played by an entire band at the front of the room, set up on the raised platform - a guitar, a drum set, singers, and even the occasional ukulele! The songs were upbeat and interactive, and all about our Savior and the stories within the bible.
It was fun, but it wasn't even really about the fun. The entire camp was filled with Christians, and everyone was gathered into this chapel twice a day, everyone was excited and happy to be there - and ecstatic to be worshiping God. There was a life in this place, a strength of Spirit that I had never experienced outside of Camp Fireside. It was a fire, the sort of fire that you always hear those big TV preachers talking about to the audience that's falling to their knees in tears. It was a feeling that, once I had outgrown the camp, I continued to search for in every church I attended as I went through the next years of my life.
And it was at this Camp Fireside that I had one of the most memorable moments of my own Christian journey.
You see, every week at the camp the chapel services were set up in a pattern. There was usually a sort of 'guest speaker' for the week, some pastor or preacher that was there for some time during the summer, they always had a plan to help the campers really understand what it meant to accept Jesus as your Savior, and it always came together for one particularly emotional service every Thursday evening.
This camp was still in my childhood, so I unfortunately do not have very detailed memories to share with you of all the sermons that I heard, but I do remember one week in particular that really struck something in my heart. All week long, this guest speaker had been focusing on inviting people up to the front to share their stories of salvation, the story of how they came to find God. Each evening chapel he would end with sharing a story that he'd been told in the past that was particularly strong, and then he would invite others to come share theirs. Then, on Thursday, he shared his own.
I don't remember his entire story, but I vividly remember how it came to an end - because the emotions it held sounded exactly like my own every summer during Vacation Bible School. He said that each year he would attend a summer program, and would go up to the front to accept Jesus as his Savior, and each year he felt no different. He explained how it felt when, as a young teen, he finally realized it was because he hadn't felt the acceptance, he'd said the words but hadn't truly meant it - not because he didn't truly believe, but because he hadn't yet grown enough or had enough experience to understand the importance of the moment. He went on to explain how he had locked himself in his bedroom that night, and had sat on his bed alone to do it again; his eyes glossed over with tears as he described to us the feeling that each person going up that week had shared as well, the rush and the feeling of love and power that came over them as they reached out to Jesus with their hearts and spirits.
This had not been my first year at Camp Fireside by any means; in fact, I believe it was one of my last. I had been through Thursday chapel before, and I had never found myself in tears until this evening. The guest speaker went on to invite a few others up to share their story, and then invited anyone who wanted to, to come up to the front to pray with him and accept Jesus as their Savior. I didn't go up, but as everyone dipped their heads to pray along with the speaker, I closed my eyes, dropped my head, and sent out a silent prayer of my own.
"I'm sorry," I cried, silently, to the Lord as the room followed the guest speaker's prayer around me. I knew logically that I didn't have to apologize for not having been 'truthful' all the times before, but the apology repeated itself through my mind a few more times before I could go further. I apologized, and I confessed my love for our God, and I asked Jesus to come into my heart "for real this time, forever." True to how the man at the front had explained in his own story, I felt in that moment a rush of love and power unlike anything I had experience before. I hadn't known that anything could feel stronger than the life and energy that encompassed the chapel at Camp Fireside during service, but I knew there was nothing that could feel more powerful, or amazing, than the rush that I felt in that moment - at least not in this world, not without meeting Him face to face.
From that day forward I was completely convinced that I understood what the teachings in the Protestant church meant each time I'd been told Once you've accepted Jesus into your heart, you're saved - forever. I was confident that I could not be torn from this path I had found myself on, no matter what questions I was asked to try and falter my faith, no matter what hardships I faced in my life, no matter what church I attended -
or...didn't attend.
The downside to this amazing experience, after my years at Camp Fireside were over, was that the church I attended with my mother came no-where near the level of life and energy I felt at the camp. It felt...empty. I had no reason to think that the people attending the church didn't believe, but I didn't feel...any spirit during the services there. So when I was old enough to choose for myself, I found a way to get out of attending by volunteering at a local animal shelter on Sundays. My mother was upset at first, but eventually life became busy enough that she found herself elsewhere on Sundays as well.
There was nothing in my heart that doubted my faith in Christ, I knew I was on the right path to follow Him in life and in spirit. I just...had to figure out where that path was now going to lead me.
Friday, March 9, 2018
pieces of a Lifesong - 2
My earliest memories of the church that I grew up in are pastel patches of color in my mind. I remember the pews that the church had as tall wooden walls with a door on the end which my Mother was able to lock from the outside, so I was unable to escape and run about the church. I remember that the beginning of service was filled with music and song that I was happy to sing along to, following the words projected on a screen above once I was able to read. I remember waiting as patiently as I could through the early, 'boring' part of service, and I remember excitedly dashing out of our pew when the children my age were dismissed to the back of the church for a child-geared lesson while the adults enjoyed their weekly sermon. One of the more vivid memories I have of this time is a lesson during the Christmas season, when we were read the story of Jesus' birth while we made reindeer figures out of pipe-cleaners and colorful pom-poms. When I was very young I did not particularly understand the lessons that we were being taught, at least not entirely, but I did enjoy ever moment of church.
As I grew older I moved from the younger Sunday School classes into the older lessons geared for middle and high school students, and I began to stay with my Mother in the pew during the actual sermon. The lessons that I learned as a child settled into my mind, and I began to truly appreciate the stories that the Bible held. I had questions, and the minister and Sunday School teachers always had answers for me that made sense and felt right.
What happens to someone when they die? They went to heaven, of course; they lived forever with Jesus and God the Father, and they watched over those that they had left behind on earth. How does God know when we've apologized for something that we've done wrong? You tell Him within your heart, and He can hear you no matter where you are. How do we know that we've been saved? You just accepted Jesus Christ into your heart as your savior, and your soul will be saved forever.
It all sounded so wonderful, and it was so calming to have the answers to these questions running through my mind. Sometimes more troubling questions would come up, or more confusing things. Usually the answers were just as easily found - either the teacher or minister would tell me without hesitation, or they would help me find the answer within the Bible, and assure me that all the answers I needed were within. Sometimes, though...their answers didn't feel complete, didn't sit quite right within my heart.
What happens to the people in the world who have never heard of Jesus?
"Well," they would said. "Sometimes we just don't know the answers, sometimes we will have to ask Him when we finally meet him face to face."
I remember this question in particular quite starkly, because I remember it as the first chip at my confidence in the Church that I grew up in. It seemed like such an important question, how could Jesus have not left us with an answer?
For the most part though, I found nothing but grace and happiness in the protestant church. Summers were always wonderful; the church held a 'vacation bible school' at their parish, a week long day-camp which would have fun and games, as well as bible lessons and church sermons with plenty of song. Each summer the final sermon of the week would end with a reminder that the only way for us to get to Heaven was to accept Jesus as our savior, and an invitation to the front of the church for everyone to gather and accept Him. We were taught that you only had to accept Him once, and then you were saved forever. I remember going up every year. I never felt very different afterwards, and everyone always went up together, so I always followed.
This early part of my church life was always so warm, and...well, positively bubbly. I recall learning more and more each week in Sunday School, but it wasn't until I was old enough to begin attending a summer camp (called Camp Fireside) that I can recall my religious journey really starting to evolve...
As I grew older I moved from the younger Sunday School classes into the older lessons geared for middle and high school students, and I began to stay with my Mother in the pew during the actual sermon. The lessons that I learned as a child settled into my mind, and I began to truly appreciate the stories that the Bible held. I had questions, and the minister and Sunday School teachers always had answers for me that made sense and felt right.
What happens to someone when they die? They went to heaven, of course; they lived forever with Jesus and God the Father, and they watched over those that they had left behind on earth. How does God know when we've apologized for something that we've done wrong? You tell Him within your heart, and He can hear you no matter where you are. How do we know that we've been saved? You just accepted Jesus Christ into your heart as your savior, and your soul will be saved forever.
It all sounded so wonderful, and it was so calming to have the answers to these questions running through my mind. Sometimes more troubling questions would come up, or more confusing things. Usually the answers were just as easily found - either the teacher or minister would tell me without hesitation, or they would help me find the answer within the Bible, and assure me that all the answers I needed were within. Sometimes, though...their answers didn't feel complete, didn't sit quite right within my heart.
What happens to the people in the world who have never heard of Jesus?
"Well," they would said. "Sometimes we just don't know the answers, sometimes we will have to ask Him when we finally meet him face to face."
I remember this question in particular quite starkly, because I remember it as the first chip at my confidence in the Church that I grew up in. It seemed like such an important question, how could Jesus have not left us with an answer?
For the most part though, I found nothing but grace and happiness in the protestant church. Summers were always wonderful; the church held a 'vacation bible school' at their parish, a week long day-camp which would have fun and games, as well as bible lessons and church sermons with plenty of song. Each summer the final sermon of the week would end with a reminder that the only way for us to get to Heaven was to accept Jesus as our savior, and an invitation to the front of the church for everyone to gather and accept Him. We were taught that you only had to accept Him once, and then you were saved forever. I remember going up every year. I never felt very different afterwards, and everyone always went up together, so I always followed.
This early part of my church life was always so warm, and...well, positively bubbly. I recall learning more and more each week in Sunday School, but it wasn't until I was old enough to begin attending a summer camp (called Camp Fireside) that I can recall my religious journey really starting to evolve...
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