Written for the “Worship and the Arts for the Child in All of Us” portion of tomorrow’s church service.
Based on Matthew 14.
A Little Fish
I am a fish from the Sea of Galilee.
I am a small fish, ten inches long and a weight of only half a pound. I am the smallest in my school. My brothers and sisters are much larger than I am. Faster, too, even though we were all born at the very same time. I’m not fast at all, and I can’t always keep up with the other fish in my school. I am usually left straggling at the very back, unprotected and vulnerable to anything in the Sea that might hurt me.
My brothers and sisters tell me I’m useless. Too small to be any good.
All my life I thought they were right – that I’d never be worth anything.
Until today.
My family has lived in this Sea for a long time, for generations and generations.
It’s been a quiet life, mostly. For generations, we have shared this sea with the fishermen. They are good to us, only fishing for what they need to feed their own families. They never take more of us than they need. And that’s good, I guess. I understand it. Circle of life and all that.
Because I’m so slow, I always guessed I’d be a part of the Circle of Life sooner rather than later.
And I was, because today I was caught by a little boy.
I am slower than most fish, but I am usually fast enough to hide when I see a net coming my way, but today I was distracted.
I saw a man on a boat today. Not a fisherman – he didn’t have a net or a pole with him. That was strange, so I stopped following my brothers and sisters and watched him for awhile. He didn’t do anything – he wasn’t moving much at all. He was just sitting there, quietly watching the gentle waves as they rocked against his boat.
I saw him sit up quickly, and I looked to see what he was looking at – a large crowd had gathered on the shore. I watched as the man sighed, then smiled, and began to row towards the crowd.
As I watched him row away, I felt the net of the little boy circle around me.
Caught.
After the boy caught me, he wrapped me up in a piece of parchment and tucked me into his bag. After awhile, he took me down to where the crowd was, and I could hear a man talking. I could see, just barely from my place in the boy’s bag that the man was the same man I’d seen sitting so strangely quiet in the boat this morning.
There were thousands of people in the crowd, and they were hungry.
“We will feed them,” the man said. ‘With what?’ I wondered.
Some of the people with him began asking the people in the crowd if they had any food they could offer, and the little boy who caught me reached into his bag and handed me to them.
I’m so little, I thought. I can’t feed all these people. I’m not enough. I’ve never been enough.
The men who took me put me in a basket with another fish and five loaves of bread. I could tell by the way they looked at each other that they knew I wouldn’t be enough, too.
But they handed me to the man and he held us up, giving thanks for all that God had provided. While he gave thanks, I prayed that God would forgive me for not having enough to give.
The basket I was in with the other fish and the bread was passed around the crowd, and every time a new hand took the basket, I held my breath and waited to be used up. But I found that, even as each person took their fill, I still had more to give.
I still had so much more to give.
Even after the basket had been passed around to all five thousand people, there was still so much left of me still to give. Twelve baskets full were left! God had transformed me into something so much greater than I ever dreamed I could be just twenty-four hours ago.
I never thought I’d be worth much to anybody – I was so small I would have fed only the smallest child a meager meal. But God made me much more than that.
I fed five thousand people today.
Are You The One Who Is To Come, Or Shall We Look For Another?
A Sermon Preached by
Lauren Evans at
Six Mile Run Reformed Church
on December 12, 2010
Matthew 11: 2-11
Dank.
Cold.
Damp in the way that curls up inside you and chills you to the point that you are quite certain you’ve forgotten what warmth feels like.
John the Baptist sat in such a prison as he penned his message for Jesus, likely stripped of what little he had to his name, which, as scripture tells us, was hardly more than a robe of coarse camel hair… and possibly the remnants of locusts and honey left in his beard from his last breakfast as a free man.
Not the mental image one would conjure up when picturing the herald marking the coming of the Messiah. Likely not exactly what John’s mother Elizabeth had pictured when, though she had been barren all her life, she was told that she was to bear a son, a son that, according to Luke chapter 1, was supposed to bring with him “joy and gladness… for he will be great in the sight of the Lord.”1
Likely not exactly what John the Baptist himself had pictured for his life, either.
Which of us would consider having to spend the majority of our life as an ascetic, refraining from most of life’s comforts – soft clothing, a hot meal, the companionship and conversation of friends and family – to be an indicator that we are “great in the eyes of the Lord”? I think it is safe to assume that most of us, if we lacked such creature comforts, would assume that God’s blessing had taken a vacation, if not abandoned us entirely.
Before landing in jail (punishment received for speaking out against King Herod’s new wife, who happened also to be his sister-in-law), John the Baptist had, with a degree of joyful expectation, agreed to do whatever was required of the one who carved the path of the coming messiah. He preached, he promised, he baptized converts in the Jordan River, always pointing away from himself and towards the one who was still to come.
For John knew that the One Promised was sure to come, bringing salvation and joy to those who recognized and received him.
And yet…
John probably accepted the nastier parts of his job as necessary evils, worth putting up with because the payout promised to be incredible. But I suspect that there were none who would sing “Come Now Long Expected Jesus” with quite as much fervor as John the Baptist.
And from his cell in Herod’s jail, the desire for the promised savior to make his appearance and make everything better was probably stronger than ever. The Latin translation of John’s jail experience describes him as wrapped in vinculis, literally “in chains”. Captured and subdued, John the Baptizer couldn’t even continue with the job he had been given. There was no one to hear his preaching and no baptisms to be done in his prison cell.
He could take his ministry no further and the last he had seen of Jesus the Christ had been at his baptism some time before, at what felt like at this point, the distant past. He knew that Jesus had been up to something, had heard rumors of the miracles wrought from his hand and of his slowly growing following.
But it seemed to John that nothing that had been prophesied about Jesus in the Old Testament was coming to pass – the nations had not all united under the name of the Lord and the Israelites were still under the yoke of foreign law. The lion had not yet laid down with the lamb. He knew Jesus was told to be the Messiah the earth was aching for, but the world appeared unchanged to John, and he was aware that his own time on earth was rapidly running short.
Because he was one that had gained a reputation for speaking out against immoral practices, even those committed by people of great power and influence, he knew that just as easily as fetters could be clapped around his ankles, an axe-blade could be dropped upon his neck.2 Surely the one who had had lived his life in misery to prepare the way of the Lord would live to see the promises of his reign fulfilled! If Jesus was the Messiah, as John had announced, then why didn’t he do something? Why had Jesus not gotten to the business of establishing his kingdom?3
And so John the Baptist sends his message to Jesus. “Are you the One who is to come, or shall we look for another?”
‘I’ve been waiting an awfully long time,’ John seems to be saying. ‘Are you gonna do this thing, or what?’
Surely most of us are sympathetic to John the Baptist’s exasperation. After all, waiting for Jesus to come and work his wonders isn’t exactly new to us, either. The scriptures promise us that God has plans for us, plans that are for our good and not for our ill, to give us a future and a hope.4 But when we have spent the last sixteen months wandering in the harsh wilderness of joblessness, or are starting on our third year at the bottom of the transplant list, or have spent countless evenings on our knees praying for a loved one bound by chains of addiction, we may begin to wonder if we have been right to put our trust in God, or if we might not be better off looking for another, who might get done the things we expect of them.
We might wish that we had messengers of our own to send, reminding God that there’s still work to be done and not much time left in which to do it.
Advent is a time that reminds us that, while we wait in anticipation of the coming Savior, that waiting period is not always filled with joyful anticipation. Though we might believe firmly that Jesus Christ is Savior of the World, the one who redeems us and restores joy and peace to our brokenness, though we might be certain, as John the Baptist was certain, we are as likely as he is to wonder if Jesus is really the one to come or if, perhaps, we should be looking elsewhere for our help.
How blessed we are, then, that our God is not disheartened when we give in to our frustrations and voice our doubts! For Jesus did not respond to John the Baptist’s message with disappointment or anger, but by lovingly sending his followers to point out that God’s work was not yet finished but was being done!
John was stuck in prison and could not see beyond its damp and confining walls, but the work of Christ had already begun. Healing had begun, miraculous healings, of both body and spirit. The blind could see, the lame could walk and declared blessed were the poor and the meek, for theirs was the kingdom of God. Jesus’ response to John the Baptist’s tired question was, “Take heart, my beloved! I am at work, and my work is not yet done.”
Though he could not see for himself the miracles being performed by Christ, as a prophet, John the Baptist knew that the stories of Jesus’ works as reported to him by his disciples were signs of the coming Messiah foretold by John’s predecessors, the prophets of old.
“At that time the deaf will be able to hear words read from a scroll,” says Isaiah, “and the eyes of the blind will be able to see through deep darkness. The downtrodden will again rejoice in the Lord; the poor among mankind will take delight in the sovereign king of Israel.”5
“Then blind eyes will open, deaf ears will hear. Then the lame will leap like a deer, the mute tongue will shout for joy; for water will flow in the desert.”6
The things Jesus told John’s disciples to report to him were proof that Jesus was the Messiah John had promised, baptized, and introduced publically.7
Much of John’s frustration (understandable to us, for we have shared in it ourselves!) came from the expectation, that we also frequently share in, that God must work in the way that we anticipate, on a schedule that we name, to the end result that we desire. John the Baptist challenged Jesus in the light of his expectations – and his expectations – this is important! – his expectations weren’t bad ones to have! He expected the Messiah to come and be all that the scriptures had foretold, and he expected it to happen before his life was over. John’s question didn’t show a lack of faith on his part, but an honest and sincere desire for the Kingdom of God to arrive in all its terrible majesty.
Though perhaps we are impatient for its full and powerful arrival, we celebrate Advent together in part as a reminder that the healing work of Christ has long begun, for as it says later in Isaiah,
“[God’s people] shall return to the Lord, and he will show mercy to them, for he will freely forgive them. Indeed, my plans are not like your plans, and my deeds are not like your deeds… the promise that I make… is realized as I desire and is fulfilled as I intend.”8
And so, in that anticipation that is sometimes a heavy weight to bear, we celebrate this third week of Advent as the Week of Joy. The joy that the angel promised would be named by John the Baptist and claimed by Christ Jesus is a very real, world-upturning joy. It is the joy of a God who chose to walk incarnate upon the earth and draw us close to God’s side. It is the joy of a God who, through the life and death of Christ on the cross, rejoices with his reclaimed creation. It is the joy of a God who fulfills his promises and unwraps the chains of guilt and shame from around our weary shoulders. It is why, as we gather together in worship of this God, we stand together as the people of God and JOYFULLY proclaim,
“Hallelujah, Amen!”
—
1. Luke 1: 14-15
2. Waiting in Chains: Advent and John the Baptist, 2.
3. Jesus, John the Baptist, and the Jews, 2.
4. Jeremiah 29:11
5. Isaiah 29:18-19
6. Isaiah 35:4-6
7. Jesus, John the Baptist, and the Jews, 4.
8. Isaiah 55:7-11
I was doing some research for the daily devotional I’m writing for my youth at Delightfully Old Church* when I came across an advertisement for an upcoming Ligonier Ministries conference in Washington, D.C.
For those of you who are unaware, Ligonier Ministries is the 40-something-year-old ministry of R.C. Sproul, a Reformed theologian whom I’ve read since I was a wee, angsty teenager. Jack Bonavich, my mentor, introduced me to his writings when I was seventeen. My advisor in undergrad, a personal friend of R.C. Sproul, frequently spoke of him in his lectures. I don’t know exactly how he’d feel about me (as a woman in ministry is generally frowned upon in his particular church culture) but for the past seven or so years, I could safely say he’d feel pretty good about my theology.
I’ve mentioned before on here the conservative theological background I come from. I have been a 5-Point Calvinist for much of my adult Christian life (ignoring the fact that TULIP is a poor reflection of deeper Reformed theology). I love the concept of the Five Solas (Sola Scriptura, Sola Fide, Sola Gratia, Sola Christe, Soli Deo Gloria – only scripture, only faith, only grace, only Christ, all for the glory of God, respectively) that for a long time I considered having them tattooed somewhere on my person. I’ve read Calvin and Luther and turned my nose up at Wesley. Except for the whole “I have boobs and would like to teach in the church” thing, I’ve been on pretty much the same page as R.C. Sproul and his ilk (Robert Godfrey, Mike Horton, etc) for much of my Christian life.
Things are different, though, now that I’ve completed my first year of seminary and am starting my second. As I read through the description of the lectures, I felt myself responding noticeably different to them than I would have in the midst of my undergraduate degree. To start with, I rather quickly picked up on the fact that there were discounts available for “Pastors” and “Pastor’s Wives” as well as seminary students (thankfully, this had no gender stipulation). This is not shocking – the conference is being held by a representative of a tradition that will not even entertain the idea of a woman in ordained ministry.
And three years ago, such a designation would not have bothered me. And now, after dropping almost $100 for registration, I’m suddenly worried that I might end up lying about where I’m studying and what I’m planning to become simply to avoid potential ridicule and judgment. I handled it relatively well in undergrad (after all, being the only pre-seminary female theology major, and a PCUSA member to boot, at an LCMS university is not for those of thinner skin) but am out of practice after a year at a seminary where women are celebrated.
But the gender issues are not the only source of my confliction. (Side note – I positively HATE IT when gender issues are a source of my confliction.) I am curious and a bit nervous to see how I will receive the lectures at the conference. I went to a similar conference my first year of undergrad and sucked up every word spoken, eager and thirsty. The thrill of excitement I felt upon discovering the conference and the lineup of speakers dissipated as I realized that the woman I’ve become no longer wholly agrees with their definition of Christianity.
I have always been a strange amalgamation of “conservative” Orthodox theology and social liberalism. Princeton has forced me to see “liberalism” as a valid part of the body of Christ with something important to add to the universal journey. Perhaps this nervousness is from the anticipation of discomfort from “conservative” muscles that haven’t been stretched in quite awhile. I don’t know the source, exactly. But the nervousness? She is there.
*300-year-old church where I attend and will be starting my first church internship on September 12th.
—-
“That is enough,” he replied. – Luke 22:38b
Today is Holy Thursday. Maundy Thursday. The night when Jesus took the bread and the cup and said, “Take, eat, this is my body and my blood, broken and poured out for you.”
I have a leg of lamb cooking in my crock pot in the basement of my dormitory. Tonight, after the church services are over, five of us will gather in a tiny apartment around a slightly unstable wooden table and participate in the Seder. We are Christians, Gentiles. This is part of our history and tradition only because we have been grafted into the family of God by the salvific work of Christ, who adopted us as children, as co-heirs. We will eat the lamb and taste the bitter herbs. We will drink the kosher wine and speak Hebrew from the Haggadah. Together we will remember God’s faithfulness to his people in the Exodus from Egypt.
We will celebrate the Passover and we will weep on Good Friday and rejoice on Easter morning, for the work of God done a little under 2000 years ago was enough to save the world.
I got word today that my father did not get the job offer he was expecting to get. He is currently employed but is miserable and unsure of how much longer his company will continue his employment. After weeks of interviews, after being flown across the country to meet with the company, he got word that they were hiring someone else. The job that he thought would help secure his personal happiness and our family’s financial security will not be coming.
I expected to feel fear and trepidation at this news. I am sad for it, yes. But I am not fearful. For those who know me, being fearless when it comes to finances is not something I’m particularly familiar with. And yet, as I got off the phone with my mother who could not conceal her tears from me even from a distance of 3,000 miles, I felt no fear.
“I can’t believe that God is going to provide,” she told me. “I just can’t.”
I told her that I had enough faith for us both and shocked myself when I discovered that was true. God will provide for my family as he has provided for us since the very beginning. We hope that provision includes a new job that arrives in the nick of time that pays well and makes my father happy to do the work, but provision may not look like that.
The people of God expected the Messiah to arrive on a mighty steed, full of strength and fury and power. Instead, they received a carpenter born out of wedlock and in a manger, a Messiah who would die, scandalous and cursed upon a tree.
The disciples did not expect Jesus to die. For that matter, they did not particularly expect that he would rise again three days later. But he did die, and he did rise, and though it came in a form that none expected or would have ever wished for, mercy came.
And it was enough.
—
Filed under: Uncategorized
I’d previously decided that I didn’t wish to review this past year – mostly because it was pretty painful towards the end and I didn’t wish to dwell on it. But I like having these sort of things as a barometer. Markings of where I’ve been. So here goes.
1. What did you do in 2009 that you’d never done before?
Moved away from home. Crossed the second half of the country by myself. Stayed in hotel rooms alone.
2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I didn’t bother making any last year. I’m terrible at keeping them.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Dave and Becca had Audrey Kate Bonavich, a sweet little girl already growing into her philosopher’s scowl.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
No. Bad news was received, but God can still heal. Bold prayers are still breathed.
5. What places did you visit?
In order: Yosemite, CA. Tucson, AZ. El Paso, TX. Austin, TX. Dallas, TX. Lonoke, AK. A town I’ve already forgotten in Tennessee. Blacksburg, VA. Bernville, PA. Boston, Massachusetts.
6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
Self-discipline. And maybe a little more cash.
7. What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
February 11th – I was accepted, after a second try, into Princeton Theological Seminary.
August 9th – Found out that Dave had cancer.
August 30th – I drove away from California for good.
October 10th – Somewhere around this date I fell in love (too quickly) with my now ex-boyfriend.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Moving on to the next stage of my life – new state, new school, new people, new life.
9. What was your biggest failure?
Dropping the ball entirely at the end of the semester, regardless of the reasons behind it.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I had an ear infection at the beginning of the year and tonsillitis in the late fall. Heartsick intermittently throughout the year as well.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Probably my Macbook, though I kind of want to say my crochet hooks.
12. Where did most of your money go?
Room and board. Textbooks. And the WaWa (late night sandwich/coffee/Mountain Dew runs).
13. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Getting into Princeton – I screamed so loud when I got my electronic notification that I terrified my roommate into thinking something horrible had attacked me in my bedroom.
14. What song will always remind you of 2009?
Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas. Possibly Styx’s Renegade.
15. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder?
Maybe slightly happier. Life prospects look different now than they did then.
b) thinner or fatter?
About 30lbs thinner. Still got a lot more to go.
c) richer or poorer?
Pretty much exactly the same.
16. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Writing. Crafting. Taking pictures. Laughing. Going on long walks. Kissing.
17. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Hiding in my room. Putzing on the internet.
18. How did you spend Christmas?
The celebration: with my immediate family. The official day: by myself at a beach in Balboa.
19. Did you fall in love in 2009?
Yes.
20. What was your favorite TV program?
Favorite new show was Glee, though Supernatural held the tip-toppiest slot.
21. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
No. I generally don’t hate people.
22. What was the best book you read?
Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. Quickly followed by Home (same author) and Widow for One Year by John Irving.
23. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Josh Garrels. Closest I get to listening to “Christian” music.
24. What did you want and get?
A new life.
25. What did you want and not get?
A new self.
26. What was your favorite film of this year?
I’m trying to think of the movies I saw this year… I almost never watch movies. Either Iron Man or The Dark Knight, probably. Weird. Both of those are superhero movies.
27. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I had a small party at my apartment with some of my closest friends. I turned 24.
28. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
The completion of a more tangible project.
29. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?
Comfortable. California business-casual. Eventually inappropriate for new climate and snobbier clothing standards.
30. What kept you sane?
Crocheting, reading, small furry bunnies and an extraordinarily geeky internet fandom.
31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Jensen Ackles. Mrowr.
32. What political issue stirred you the most?
I was relatively apathetic this past year. Prop 8 in California probably stirred me the most, but was that in 2008?
33. Who did you miss?
Jack. The people back home.
34. Who was the best new person you met?
I’ve met some really special people in the past four months. Ranking them hardly seems necessary.
35. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009.
Wanting something to work doesn’t mean that it will, wanting someone to love you doesn’t mean that they can and discovering who you are supposed to be is far more important than becoming what you’ve always wanted to be.
36. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
Driving through the countryside, strangers wave as I go by
I finally see I’m gonna be ok.
Don’t know when I’m home again, I might just be pure light by then
True unity is one less day away.
And that’s it, folks.
Real posts coming soon. Honest.
—
An exercise in two parts.
Home. Noun.
the place where one lives; the place where one was born or reared; a place thought of as home; a household and its affairs.
Written June 23, 2009: Ontario, CA
Home. Noun.
An old oak tree in a bed of flat stones – one low branch perfect for sitting. Finding that you know all the inside jokes. Ten-year-old spots of black paint on bedroom carpet. The familiar curve of a bathtub. The constant hum of the freeway. The dog-eared pages of a book whose binding has all but worn away. A library to whom you owe two books sixteen years overdue. Being slightly more at ease. Being slightly less at ease. An empty lot with a decade-old sign declaring the future location of a church. Stepping over sleeping brothers to get at fresh eggs and pork roll on Christmas morning. Being unable to get away with anything. Being unable to be anyone new.
Written November 30, 2009: Princeton, NJ
Home. Noun.
A comfy bed at times not wide enough, at times not warm enough. The constant tapped warning of a crosswalk. Leaves crunching in abundance under your feet. Old books on a new bookshelf. A freezer that refuses to actually freeze anything. Sleeping ten feet from where a personal hero preached his very first sermon. Warm smiles greeting you from an ancient doorway. New faces who tease you about the same old things. Great debates held over trays of crappy food. Walking everywhere. Wanting to walk everywhere. The opportunity to be someone new. Discovering that you don’t know how to be.
—
I am exactly seventy days into my seminary career. That’s approximately two months and two weeks (give or take a few days on either side – don’t judge me for my math skills). I am two and a half weeks away from finals (16 days to be exact) for the long Fall term.
I have a confession to make.
For the past seventy days (give or take a few days on either side) I have been bored.
Really, really bored.
I have, in large part, done this to myself. I entered seminary with an undergraduate degree in theology. There is not a required intro survey class available to me that would not have, to some degree, had a strong element of “been there, done that” to it. During the first week of orientation, I made the decision (that would later prove to bite me hard in the butt) not to advance place out of said survey classes. On top of that, I opted to take the Survey of Medieval Church History course as well, which was on the recommended Junior schedule on the PTS website, despite having taken a class with its exact title and two classes whose materials overlapped the subject matter and time period during undergrad.
Why, oh why, did I do that to myself?
One: I wanted to take the same classes my fellow Juniors were taking, that I might further connect to my incoming class.
Two: I wanted to go easy on myself for what I imagined would be a difficult transition into life on the east coast and seminary life in general.
Three: I seriously underestimated my ability to be really freaking bored.
As a direct result of me being really bored, I have become extraordinarily boring. Something has switched off in my brain here and I am no longer actively seeking ANYTHING. I do not learn – I have ceased trying to learn.
This? This is my “I am not ok with this state of affairs” face. (I have many faces.)
So internet, I am changing things.
Be on the lookout.
An adventure has begun.
Upcoming posts on: the so-called feminization of the church, the dominance of gender issues over theological issues (ie, can we talk about something other than my uterus for once, PLEASE?), and photo-posts from my east coast explorations (of which there will be MANY).
—
I want to explain to you what this feels like, sitting in this window seat just shy of two hundred years old as rain like hail pours down onto grass and pavement and trees and splashes me through the old windowsill that I have carelessly and carefully left open.
I am wrapped in a blanket, cold and damp and warm. And happy. For the first time in a month I am.
Happy.
Here.
There is hard thunder rattling through trees far older than even this building I’m nestled in.
There is glee in me. As I sit. As I stare. As I watch and listen as heavy rain falls harder, shouting, then whisper quiet.
Indecisive.
I keep getting surprised by this rain. Blindsided. Unaware until it runs down my cheeks and my shoulders and off my nose how heavy-laden it is.
It is beautiful; breathtaking. Breath-transforming as its fat raindrops take light from my lamp and explode in bright, glitttering color on the asphalt below.
I love this rain and its weighty footfalls.
I am lighter, somehow.
And today I aced my Greek quiz.
—
Filed under: seminary
I have been on the road now for 13 days – seven of those days have contained active driving. California to Tucson to El Paso to Austin to Dallas to Lonoke, Arkansas to Cookeville, Tennessee to Blacksburg, Virginia. Five days in Austin, two in Blacksburg (one of my best friends has been in the graduate program at Virginia Tech for the last year) and then back on the road tomorrow morning for Pennsylvania and finally, finally Princeton.
My truck, all packed up and ready to go - Mom and Dad’s, Southern California
Daisy Mae (my road trip mascot – a gift from a friend) and the middle of… somewhere.
Spending that kind of time alone on the road is bound to make a girl a little addle-minded. For the most part, however, I’ve really enjoyed the time I’ve had to myself. A bunch of my friends made me mixed cds to listen to on the drive – I’ve got over 23 cds of new music from close to a dozen people – that went a long way in keeping me entertained. Everything from 80s rock to opera to German pop to the Backstreet Boys (that last one was an exciting discovery – I have very little shame and rocked out openly in my truck). Beyond the music I’ve listened to David Sedaris’ audiobook memoirs (Me Talk Pretty Someday and When You Are Engulfed in Flames) and bits and pieces of the Harry Potter books. I attempted C.S. Lewis but found that, having used that soft British voice to put me to sleep in the past, his audiobooks weren’t a great choice for trying to stay awake on the road.
On the back country roads of Hutto, Texas, on my way to see an old friend from high school (and her two baby daughters!)
After much debating, I finally agreed to let my mom come with me part of the way – we parted in Austin after five days at my grandmother’s house. I spent a couple of days recording my grandmother’s memoirs onto a digital voice recorder and spent hours going through her old photographs – she had been a commissioned officer and nurse in the Navy during WWII – that’s where she met my grandfather, an injured soldier. After hours at her feet (or curled up against her side while she spoke – my grandmother is 87 years of awesome) I have begun to contemplate the possibility of serving some of my active ministry time (prior to PhD work, of course) as a Navy chaplain. It is becoming disconcertingly easy to picture myself in dress whites… but it’s just a thought. A distant possibility.
My grandmother, Mildred “Millie” King Evans, Navy officer, nurse and all around gorgeous woman.
Me and my Grammie – still stubborn, outspoken and fiercely independent at 87. She’s kind of my hero.
I was terribly homesick my first week away – my first Sunday away from church and friends was especially difficult. Today is my second Sunday away and the tug on my heart is a little less noticeable. I think that something changed when I started the second half of this trip alone. I think the part of me that has been scared and sad and lonely blended more fully in to the part of me that is ridiculously excited and anticipatory. I have been waiting for this for so long, have been waiting for Princeton and seminary for so damn long. I am less filled with dread and more filled with hunger than I was even in the months leading up to my departure.
A plague of locusts (or, you know, grasshoppers) at a gas station in Arkansas. I was there for 10 minutes and they took over my truck.
Memphis, Tennessee, after crossing the Mississippi River. Which is not, contrary to prior belief, anywhere in the vicinity of California and/or Nevada.
I am still scared. A little. But academia is where I thrive, theology is my first love and there are slightly-less-than-strangers there who are waiting to meet me so we can have real life conversations that don’t take place through a computer screen.
The Drill Field at Virginia Tech – one step closer to my new home.
So for now I trust in the Lord who is leading me down this path. I am keeping my ear inclined forward to seek Truth. I am trying to remember that to worship my own understanding is the height of folly. I am preparing myself to learn without letting go of all that I have already known.
God help me.
—
