House vs. Home

This is a house. Collars are stiff and men must never loosen their ties.

I want to be at home for a while.

http://jaylynnalise.tumblr.com/

How I Enjoy Life: Playing Make-Believe

My sisters and I were make-believe queens in our early days. We had a fantastic dress-up bucket, a play McDonald's drive thru set, and that Fischer Price kitchen with the red and yellow chairs every girl I meet owned in her childhood. Our generation will be remembered for loving Jesus and playing with that miniature plastic coffee pot.

Fast-forward over a decade, and the little girl with the apron on is no longer instructing her siblings in how to properly play orphans (passion starts in infancy) or staging elaborate circus performances (yes, my parents were asked to pay admission). I live several hundred miles from home and work forty hours a week to pay the rent on the temporary abode in which I now find myself. Blessed as I am to have the job that I do, it would be utter fallacy to tell you it is my dream. I work in the inbound communications department of a ministry. This means that most of my duties involved telephone time. Ask anyone who has ever attempted to locate me on the weekend: I do not answer phones.

Because my philosophical mind over-analyzes each detail of my life, thinking about the fact that my job is so removed from my passions and interests sometimes causes me unnecessary stress. When I do not take steps to avoid the build-up of anxiety, I end up grumpy, dissatisfied, and not acting much like Jesus. During the last semester, when I had an additional 10 hours of weekly commitments at the church, I think my head nearly folded in upon itself. The bookworm pounded her fists on the inner table and wept for lack of tea in solitude. September promises a renewal of the flurry, but until then I am making the most of my open schedule by doing as little as possible with it. On the weekends, I pretend.

I pretend I work from home and have plenty of time for reading, writing, and perusing blogs written by women spend their days homemaking, creating, and reflecting. I learn much about both the delights and challenges I will face in that season, and more importantly, I glean wisdom on how to establish that lifestyle in the midst of college culture and barely-adult scrambling. I drink plenty of tea and run as few errands as possible. As much as schedules will allow, I plan my socialising for weeknights and keep the "S" days for me, Jesus, and C.S. Lewis (or whomever he sends as a stand-in).

This "pretending" is not a form of escapism. I am honoured to have the life I have been given, and any thinking that I need to "get out of it" is a misdirection from the will of God indeed. Monday through Friday, I strive toward delight in my Monday through Friday life. When I am focused on the Lord, little striving is required. I watch Him establish His kingdom in and through me every day, and it is an unspeakable joy.

Why I play make-believe on the off hours is this: I know the person I am made to be. It would be easy to lament the lack of contemplative hours in my life and pine for the "someday" when they will be granted me Monday-Friday. But I can't wait around to be the pilgrim of God's design. Either I am she, or I am not. And if I am, I shan't tarry for a permission slip before embracing the living for all I can.


How do you foster fullness in your living?

"It's Complicated"

Such is my relationship with Facebook.

We cannot seem to commit. "It's not you. It's me." Today I said again, "I need some time." And it is LOST's fault.

---


I am still sorting the balance in the mess of social networking. A few months ago, I deactivated my Facebook account and disappeared from that sphere altogether. I enjoyed the "unplugged" life. However, I had to begrudgingly admit to the selfishness of the decision, since I live hundreds of miles from most of my family and friends, and return to the chaos once more. After several weeks, I have made a compromise to leave my account active for the sake of accessibility, but to no longer frequent it on a daily basis.

Being a Facebook user leaves me drained and uninspired. I sit down at my laptop, intent on tapping out some thoughts regarding the work that God is doing in my life, but a few minutes scrolling through my news feed demotivates and distracts me. Since, ultimately, I still side with my friend Harriet in aspirations to write, write, write "when I grow up," I've realized that I must eliminate that dynamic from my life completely.

What has all this to do with LOST? Being a dutiful member of my generation, I have a few dozen friends who are faithful devotees of the show. Once a week, my social network diet consisted of inordinate amounts of references to "tonight's episode." No offense intended to you LOST fanatics, but I hated the buzz about it--for no (apparent) reason whatsoever.

This frustration actually seemed about as contradictory to me as it must have to my many comrades who know well my delight in film and media. I was uncomfortable, but I have never watched an episode of LOST that appalled or offended me. If you expect to read a list of reasons why you should not watch LOST, you best redirect yourself to Google. Perhaps that post can appear if I ever start writing "The Legalist's TV Guide."

The sense of discomfort was mirrored in my feelings about Facebook, and I was finally able to recognize the dynamic. I am not necessarily against LOST or Facebook or anything of that nature. Truthfully, I have laid clever, pop-culture traps thusfar, only ever intending to arrive at a topic I find more enthralling: the stewardship of the imagination.

My point is that I am not here as an advocate in favour of or opposing LOST or its myriad of popular counterparts because of such-and-such specific content. Here is why: At some point, I think, our maturation in God must inspire a standard for what we do or do not watch, listen to, or read that isn't strictly concerned with PG-13 versus R, "secular" versus "Christian" (we'll not touch that dissonant topic just now), or whatever other generalized distinction our culture may make. In such quibbling we hear the echoes of the "Don't handle, don't touch" credo the apostle Paul dismantled among the Colossians. That is the dogmatism of one who, ultimately, still looks for entertainment, and is merely seeking the boundaries in which to pursue the fulfillment of that compulsion.

But we are citizens of heaven caught up in such rapturous awareness of the King of kings that trite amusement holds no true pleasure for us. As such, our concern is not "What are we allowed to have?" It is instead, "How might I become more fully the establishment of the kingdom of God?" With a founding Scriptural awareness of the character and delights of our Lord, it is quite logical that the answer to that question will differ with each one of His children.

God's primary communication to us is, as we know, through His Word. He then provides us with the companionship of the Spirit, "we have the mind of Christ" being the unfathomable gift of His presence. But do we actually suppose the faculties of creative perception are carnal, unrelated to our spiritual existence? Our imaginations can, wonderfully, act as auxiliary receptors for the dialogue of eternity to our souls. In them we have the capacity to understand beauty and nobility and triumph through the narrative and the metaphorical in a way that clinical, sterile communication cannot inspire. Why else would our Saviour have put such effort into functioning as an excellent storyteller?

What I mean to say is this: When we live in communion with the Spirit, our attention need not be on what the movie is rated, to what market the book was published, or on which label the album was produced. These are the questions of children, beneficial and right in their season, but unfitting for men and women who live as image bearers of the King. As is said often in the local circles, "Love Jesus, and do what you want." It is no longer in my nature to enjoy the things which repulse God. Why am I acting as if the Spirit of God within me might suddenly become confused and desire depravity?

No, we are instead to be concerned with exposing ourselves to the things which foster hunger, stir up divine vision, and illuminate beauty. We are to find Jesus in novels, discover the nature of victory in the songs of a local band, and learn endurance through foreign film. Let's not limit ourselves to mindless grazing off a list of acceptable foods. Let's learn to prepare for our minds and our souls a feast of the unexpected, the unexplored, and the breathtaking.

I left Facebook because reading my news feed and clicking through photo albums was keeping me from developing as the contemplative communicator I am meant to be. I care not a whit about LOST because it hasn't inspired development of my pilgrimage. Conversely, I have read Ted Dekker's "Blessed Child" to the point of breaking the binding because it stimulates my resolution to live for a heavenly reality. In listening to the Bowerbirds, I dismiss materialism. I love to watch Star Wars--by it I learn of redemption, conviction, and honour. For you--who but you and your Maker knows?

God does not fear human creativity. The activity of consumption is not a matter of hastily branding every new offering as good or bad, then engorging ourselves with the good. It's about neutralizing our appetite for simple entertainment, then culling from the sea of innovation those things which propel us God-ward--constructing "in our hearts the highway to Zion." This shift is not an abolition of the original standard, but the entrance to a higher plane of joyous sanctification.


What do you watch, listen to, or read for divine shivers down your spine?

On faith and goldfish.

My housemate, K, and I are both proud owners of wonderful aquatic friends, their names being Teller and Figaro respectively. Teller makes the rounds of the house while dear Figaro stands (or rather swims) sentinel on the coffee table. They are fabulous friends both to each other and to the people who love them.

I have been in and out of work all week feeling unwell, and thus on Tuesday I arrived at the office an hour later than usual. K was already gone from the house (either longboarding or praying--I get them confused), so I hurriedly fed the fish on my way out the door. That is to say--I fed Figaro, but as I approached Teller, I saw to my dismay that he was floating aimlessly at a disquieting angle. I tapped the glass and shook the bowl, but alas, he was gone.

Now K and I have spent several months speaking life to each one of our expired fish, but to no avail. It has spawned many wonderful discussions between the two of us about faith and living in the Spirit of God, but the fish always remain dead.

So as I surveyed the woeful scene that morning, I thought sadly, "I'm going to have to tell K her fish died." I grabbed my keys and raced out the door with a passing prayer: "Jesus, please bring K's fish back to life."

To summarize, I came home that evening and he was swishing happily on K's desk.


Of course, I forgot to mention anything at all in the exhaustion and half-delirium in the days that followed. It was only last night that I suddenly recalled, "K! Your fish was dead on Tuesday!"

And thus is my tale.

We're still a bit befuddled as to why the fish had never arisen before or why my other fish, Liam, stayed dead just two days later. The facts, however, do not change: something dead came alive in our house this week.

And Jesus is outstanding.


What do you believe the Spirit of God can do?

Change for the week.

Here's a shiny little list of small ways you can foster change this week:

Recycle your old cell phone and provide trafficking victims with a lifeline: (via @Change)

Register early for the Global Forum on Human Trafficking in California this fall and receive the audio of last year's forum for free. (via @Not_for_Sale)

Ask President Obama to fight trafficking. (via @IJMHQ)

Include your front porch in the USPS Stamp Out Hunger Food Drive this Saturday, 8 May.

Join the marrow donor registry online. (via @BeTheMatch)

Change for Mother's Day

Purchase a Mend bag handmade by Ugandan women from Target.com. (via @invisichildren)

Provide 20 years of clean water by sending Mom an ecard. (via @charitywater)

Support young Russian mothers by purchasing a handmade necklace. (via @hope_chest)

Why I believe in Compassion (International)

Compassion International seems as much a part of my childhood as Lite Brite and Mr. Potato Head. (Those were great days.) My mother was the Compassion advocate at our church for years. She facilitated Compassion Sunday and, as the director of the preschool and elementary ministry, led the children in the corporate sponsorship of a Compassion child.

Sponsorship is simply something the Widmarks do. The last several years of my life have been highlighted by letters to my mother from beautiful little Grecia in South America.

Even though I have lived in Colorado Springs--headquarters to dozens of national and international ministries--for over a year, I am still particularly excited to pass the Compassion building on the way to the park or coffee shop. I shall soon be living less than five minutes from the office complex, and I relish the opportunity to be reminded in my daily passing that hope and life are yet to be ministered to hundreds and thousands of precious children around the world.

Because I pass the building so often--reading and rereading the sign that insists on "Releasing children from poverty in Jesus' name"--I have been contemplating Compassion International quite a bit of late. I asked myself, "Why exactly do I believe in Compassion?"

I believe in Compassion because I believe in the local church. The local church is truly the hope of the world. Bands of faithful disciples fostering community, contending for sanctification and mercy, are what have and ever will advance the kingdom of God--city by city, neighborhood by neighborhood, and heart by heart.

The local church is relational. It can be messy and difficult, because people are messy and difficult. One of the most simple ways our enemy can keep us from activating justice in our lives is by discouraging us with the clamor of this kingdom. It may be cliche to mention this, but we do often say within ourselves, "Ah, but I am only one person."

The beautiful reality is that being the only one of whoever you are is the human experience. It is as true of you as it has been of every other individual who has ever inhaled in this atmosphere.

But though there is only one Mama Widmark, there is also only one little Grecia. And if my mother commits herself to pouring her resources and prayers into Grecia's life, then poverty, need, and injustice can be forever ended in Grecia's world. It is absolutely possible for us to end poverty on the earth, and we do it by ending poverty one little world at a time.

This is why my heart smiles at the thought of Compassion. For years, faith in the one-to-one dynamic of the Church has spurred men and women to faithfully advocate the systematic overturn of impoverishment among the children of the planet. As heartbreaking and unjust as it is to see the hundreds and thousands who have been coerced into human trafficking, enslaved to addictions, or exterminated by disease and hunger, only Heaven can fully comprehend the number of children who have been rescued from these fates by gatherings of the citizens of eternity who resolutely speak out, "No more," to affliction.

This kingdom is advancing. One child at a time.

Have you sponsored a child through an organization like Compassion? Why do you do it? What have you learned?

A genesis.

Tomorrow, I shall undertake my fourth move in just over a year. I hear your murmurs of discontent at the mention of moving, but I find the process refreshing and invigorating--though I pack now with full awareness that my new "bed" room is actually a room in want of a bed. As I encounter the mixture of nostalgia and anticipation inevitable to the process of a small re-nesting, my heart is glad to be beating.

This will be the first time since I left little Clinton, Utah, that I room alone. The opportunity to imbue a space with a bit of my own personality and character is welcome. It will be nice to give my sky blue typewriter and cheerful new French art print a proper home. (I still have qualms about the cooler colour scheme that has supplanted my customary mustard yellow and brown environs. Necessity takes precedence over habit, however; I refuse to replace my meager collection of happy tchotchkes over the issue of hue.)

Throughout this relocation process, I have been struck by my unspeakable affluence. In our western micro-cosmos, it seems plain fact that an eighteen-year-old might have a closet bulging with clothing and several boxes of dog-eared publications, a shiny silver laptop and a Russian deadstock camera, a menorah and two lovely vintage suitcases, a picnic basket and a collection of loose-leaf tea and... The inventory seems endless.

I stopped at the library while driving Chandler (the golden Toyota friend) home from work. Entering the doors, I walked straight to a shelf where two volumes marked with my name awaited retrieval. I flipped through dozens of films on several shelves to find my viewing selections for the weekend. It was preposterous, really, that information and art would be literally at my fingertips after so much of history has perceived such access to be rare.

My Saturday film a few weeks ago was a 2006 documentary by the name of "God Grew Tired of Us," which follows three of the displaced Lost Boys of Sudan as they establish themselves in the United States. I confess that I have been rambling about the implications of the film ever since. I had the chance to run about Colorado Springs with my beautiful friend and colleague Ellen today, and as we were sitting over salads on our lunch break, we began to speak about the high standard of privilege with which we live.

I tend to think of other nations as "America lite." My overseas experience has been in countries like Germany--western nations whose culture more or less resembles my own. Though I understand that people in many parts of the world do not live "American" physically, I perceive them have a familiar conceptual experience of life. I assume that everyone is at least aware of refrigerators and toilets and running water, whether or not they personally have access to such commodities. Watching the young men in the film quietly deconstructed my assumptions.

I realized that, in fact, many individuals walking the face of this revolving rock live in ignorance of what I would call "creature comforts." More than that, I mentally blushed to recognize that I had the audacity to believe that this specific ignorance signified lamentable naivety. Technology and the cultural environment will never be appropriate standards by which to measure the loveliness of a soul.

Over the past several weeks and months, the Lord has unveiled my eyes to these basic truths. I invite you now to enter a conversation with me, that my exploration of justice and compassion and the rest might--in some small way--become our exploration. The words may be far from eloquent, and the insights hardly novel, but if you will take me where and as I am, I would be delighted to hold this dialogue with you.

(Not everything said here will be in such a bemused tone, I assure you. I really am in the midst of packing.)

Adieu for now, dear hearts.

Jay