Uncategorized

Where it’s at (Michindoh Post 1)

ckirgissLeave a comment
[This post is the first in a series in which I reflect on spending a month at camp for Wyldlife (middle schoolers) and YoungLives (teen moms). You can follow the series by subscribing to this blog. All posts will be categorized as ‘Michindoh 2013’.]
 

Yesterday (June 8) 350+ middle school students and their leaders pulled into a beautiful and sacred space known as Michindoh, located in the mitten state, specifically the lower mid-palm region. It would be cooler to say “in the thumb” or “on the ring finger.” But we are where we are, which is the lower mid-palm region. I would argue that in real life, the lower mid-palm region is where it’s at.

So what if it can’t point, can’t oppose, can’t wear a ring, can’t snap, can’t tap, or any of those other things that fingers and thumbs do.

Without the lower mid-palm region providing a place from which fingers and thumbs can do their business by connecting them to the arm to the shoulder to the body to the brain that tells them what to do, fingers and thumbs would be entirely pointless, really.

Michindoh – like every other camp run by God-loving Jesus-following folk – is nothing more than a place from which those who are the hands and feet (or fingers and thumbs) of Jesus can do their business, which is loving God and following Jesus among (in this case) middle schoolers and teen moms in the hopes that they see something about the Christian life that is so utterly attractive, appealing, and sweet they can’t help but notice.

If it were by our own power that God-loving and Jesus-following folk hoped to reflect an utterly attractive, appealing, and sweet life with Christ, all would be lost (which, in fact, is exactly what all God-loving and Jesus-following folk once were). For there is nothing about the inherent essence of anyone that could ever possibly accomplish such a thing. On our own, we are appalling, repellant, and (I suspect) as far from being a sweet aroma as the east is from the west.

But with the Spirit’s presence drenching our souls in His love, grace, forgiveness, and re-creation, suddenly (miraculously, undeservedly, assuredly) the beautifully attractive, appealing, and sweet Jesus can shine through – even if just a tiny bit – into a world that is far too dark and much too broken.

That’s why we are here, joyfully settled into this lower mid-palm region of the kingdom, working together to be the fingers and thumbs of a hand that will (by God’s grace) point people to the face and feet of Jesus. Should they choose to look, in His face they will see his endless love for them reflected in His eyes. Should they embrace that love, at His feet they will fall in sweet surrender to the God-man who gave up everything in order to give new life.

I cannot image being any other place doing any other thing for any other reason – being in the lower mid-palm region of the hand of Jesus is really that big of a deal.

Week 1, night 1, 8:29 p.m. (Photo: CKirgiss)
Week 1, night 1, 8:29 p.m. (Photo: CKirgiss)
Week 1, night 1, 8:37 p.m. Let's do this. (Photo: CKirgiss)
Week 1, night 1, 8:37 p.m. Let’s do this. (Photo: CKirgiss)

Miniature miracles

ckirgiss1 Comment

During the past five weeks, this blog has been silent for all kinds of reasons. Important reasons. Significant reasons. Meaningful reasons.

Reasons that amount to less-than-piffle in the grand scheme of the grand universe, a grandness that is often best realized in the most un-grand of places during the most un-grand of times, say, the lawn’s border bushes at 9:07 on a Sunday morning.

Morning dew (Photo: CKirgiss)
Webbed dew (Photo: CKirgiss)
Webbed dew (Photo: CKirgiss)
Webbed dew (Photo: CKirgiss)

During the past five weeks, I finished a dissertation. Defended a dissertation. Was hooded by an esteemed academic.

. . . while each morning, the dew fell to the ground, landing on leaf and rock and web alike, a miniature miracle reflecting God’s power, creativity, and joy.

All of which had absolutely nothing to do with my significant, important, and meaningful things.

Not even the tiniest bit.

What manner of grace is this that God would (does) allow a world full of supremely legit, significant, important, and meaningful folk enjoy, revel in, and (if all goes well) be humbled by the drops with which he paints the morning ground in a dazzling splendor of diamond dew?

What manner, indeed.

The silence brought on by significant, important, and meaningful busyness (whether we like it or not) does nothing more than reveal the empty spaces and confused graces of our lives.

The silence embodied in God’s elegant, astounding, and breathtaking creation (if we allow it) fills our empty spaces with unspeakable joy and boundless hope.

Of these two silences, the world esteems the first and disdains the second.

I choose the second.

 

 

 

May Day Lessons (one day late)

ckirgiss1 Comment

May Day rarely registers on my radar screen. Especially if I’m drowning in something I call #deathbydissertation.

(I thought I’d invented this particularly witty  and dramatic hashtag, but it turns out that approximately 36,472.8 people are also currently drowning in #deathbydissertation, which kind of weakens its snappy snarkiness. Hence my new hashtag: #mydeathbydissertationisbetterthanyourdeathbydissertation. Or maybe #worsethanyours. Comparatives can be tricky.)

But May Day takes on new significance when the delightfully precocious 3 and 6 year-olds from down the street unexpectedly knock on your front door, bob their bouncy-curled heads back and forth and say, “Hello! We’ve missed you so very much. Welcome home. We just love your dog. See my doll? She’s new. I love her. Here are some flowers for you and I drew three red hearts and a giant yellow sun and lots of green grass on the card and do you just really love these flowers!?”

Of course I do. I love them. Very much. Because there is nothing like bobbing bouncy-curled heads and fresh flowers and a homemade card (with three red hearts and a giant yellow sun and lots of green grass) to help a person remember that #deathbydisseration (even if it is worse than someone else’s) is just about the most selfishly ridiculous whine ever.

“Consider the lilies of the field (that neither toil nor spin). Welcome the little children (who inhabit the kingdom of heaven). Still your soul and remember you are loved (in spite of yourself).”

The voice may be only a whisper, but it’s always there, lingering just behind and beyond the clammer of foolish hashtags.

May Day 2013 was a good day to silence the complaints, settle the unrest, and ditch the sense of doom. #livebygrace

May Day Flowers (Photo: CKirgiss)
May Day Flowers (Photo: CKirgiss)
May Day Flowers (Photo: CKirgiss)
May Day Flowers (Photo: CKirgiss)
May Day Flowers (Photo: CKirgiss)
May Day Flowers (Photo: CKirgiss)

Easter Day-After

ckirgiss4 Comments
Photo: CKirgiss
Photo: CKirgiss (The Breath of God)

Compared to other holiday day-afters, Easter day-after is an odd post-holiday day, with vague purposes and undefined parameters.

On Halloween day-after, we pillage all the (childrens’) candy bags in search of chocolate-covered and peanut-butter-filled goodness.

On Thanksgiving day-after, we eat leftovers (because apparently we are still hungry) and prepare for a long and holy day of football.

On Christmas day-after, we make pilgrimage to the reliquary Returns and Exchanges Department. And then wage battle on Some-Assembly-Required blessings. And conclude with the fray known as Detangling All The Power Adapters.

On New Year’s day-after we enjoy a quiet cup of coffee (for various reasons) in the stillness of our homely houses wherein we slept a solid 7 or 8 hours in perfect peace and stillness (or not)  and wonder what all the fuss next door is about.

But on Easter day-after, we awake to a new week because always, always, always this day-after is a Monday which seems a serious mis-calculation. There are no candy bags (the seasonal trimming known as The Easter Basket is, for a pillager, not worth the effort.). There is no NFL (and possibly no March Madness because of Easter’s calendar fluidity). There is no commercialism mania (which is as it should be). And for a very few pathetic folk, there is no coffee.

Instead, a new week has begun. Monday morning in all its ridiculous glory has arrived. Again. Here we go. Oh joy.

But this is the day after the day that gives all days meaning. The day after the day that defines all other days. The day after the day that life truly begins. Surely it should be a day-after to define all other day-afters.

And so it is. For this is not only the day after the morning that Christ arose. It is also the day after the night that Christ breathed on his disciples, a little detail that gets very little attention or coverage.

That long-ago Sunday evening, the disciples were meeting behind locked doors because – as was so often true of them, and is so often true of us – they were afraid.

Suddenly Jesus – crucified just days before – was standing there among them. A dead-but-now-living man. A walking, talking, speaking dead-but-now-living man. A real live, present, visible, actual dead-but-now-living man.

And to those frightened, weak, shocked, terrified, bunkered-down men, He said this: Be at peace. (Much like He did when they were in a boat, on a lake, in a storm, sure beyond sure that they were going to drown. Wrong. Relax, boys. Be at peace.)

And they went from being afraid to being filled with joy when they saw Him – the Lord. Or more likely they went from being just afraid to being afraid and joyful. (This is an important detail. Too often we overlook joy when we are troubled because we assume they cannot co-exist. And too often we overlook our own and others’ trouble when we are joyful and so fail to experience life in all its fullness.)

And then – most amazing of all the amazing things that happened on the day after the day Jesus rose – he breathed on them the Holy Spirit.

God’s fullness is surely heard in the thunder, felt in the wind, and seen in the fire. But it is sometimes most evident in the gentle whisper of air that Jesus breathes on us the moment we first set eyes on His living presence and hear Him say: Be at peace. It is I. I am here. And I am Lord.

The resurrection changes everything for us. Absolutely. But even more so does the day-after breath.

Because of the first, we know He is alive. Because of the second, we know He is here. Breathing onto us. Breathing into us. Breathed onto us. Breathed into us.

Today marks the day we are filled with His breath because he began breathing again after he had breathed His last for lost and sorry sinners into whom He long ago breathed the very breath of life.

Easter day-after (even though a Monday) is a day to live. A day to shout. A day to sing. A day to dance. A day to breathe the Holy Spirit into our souls so deeply and fully that He spills onto the world around us where He is oh so desperately needed.

He is risen! He is risen, indeed!

and:

He is here! He is here, indeed!

[All content copyright Crystal Kirgiss]

You (and I, and we all) take God’s breath away

ckirgiss2 Comments
Photo: CKirgiss"I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart."
Photo: CKirgiss
“I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart.”

It’s a very big day. For shoppers, at least.

Black Friday. Sales. Deals. Drastic cuts. A shopping day to make one’s heart race.

All is well. (Indeed.)

Meanwhile, there is this:

Good Friday. The crucifixion. The substitution. The redemption. The superlative act of gracious, undeserved, breathtaking love.

These words I have spoken to thousands of people regarding the Creator’s love: You take God’s breath away.

You. Take. God’s. Breath. Away.

The Creator of the universe – who set the stars in place, who suspended the planets in the spheres, who ordered the species, who painted the landscape with unimaginable life – that God, that Creator, that infinite source of power, majesty, and grace – – – well, He finds us each (and oh, how can this possibly be?) breathtaking.

Indeed He does.

Utterly. Thoroughly. Completely.

What manner of love is this that He should love such as I?

And yet He does.

So then it should come as no surprise (but oh, it does – comes as a surprise that I cannot fathom or comprehend or grasp in my tiny hands) that on this day, more than 2000 years ago, He would demonstrate this endless, boundless, ceaseless love on the cross.

But He did.

Willing death.

Voluntary suffering.

Immeasurable sacrifice.

For those He finds breathtaking.

For me. For you. For us all.

We take God’s breath away. Once and for all at the cross. Each and every day in his love.

“At noon, darkness fell across the whole land until three o’clock. Then at three o’clock Jesus called out with a loud voice:
           Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachtham?
Then Jesus uttered another loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” (from Mark’s gospel)

You take God’s breath away. That is how He loves – on that day, on this day, and on every other day that will ever be.

All is well. Indeed.

YTGBA
Photo: CKirgiss
“He breathed his last…”

[All content copyright Crystal Kirgiss.]

Winter in Spring (or: This, Then, is March 2013) (or: When Narnia comes to Indiana)

ckirgissLeave a comment

So, March 20 was the first day of spring in this, the year 2013.

Ergo, yesterday – March 24 – was the fifth day of spring. As in the season the follows winter.

But there must have been some confusion because last night – the fifth evening of spring – looked like this:

Photo: CKirgiss
Photo: CKirgiss

Note, if you please, the white-covered branches. I half expected a faun to the step out from among the trees into the light of the lamp-post, holding an umbrella in one arm and carrying several brown-paper parcels in the other.

Admittedly, it was quite magical for any number of reasons. The still silence. The storybook setting. The anticipation of curling up in a warm bed under a pile of toasty blankets.

Best of all, I did not have to sneak silently back to a distant wardrobe, trusting neither tree nor bird, but rather could joyfully re-light my Christmas tree that is still standing because, well, it’s made of books and so it still is. (I find it quite impossible to contemplate a home where it is not, but of course one must prepare oneself for the possibility.)

Photo: CKirgiss
Photo: CKirgiss

Thankfully I do not live in a land where it is always winter and never Christmas. Where there is no sight of spring. Where grace and hope and love are hidden away in small and secret places.

I live in a land where winter – even if it lasts for ever so long – is always filled with the joy of Christmas and always followed by the miracle of Easter. Where grace and hope and love are free for the taking.

That is: the sun always shines, no matter how dark the wintry clouds may be. And just when it is needed most, it pierces through the air and sky and soul to shatter our little world and save our desperate hearts.

The spell, you see, is broken. The patches of green are growing bigger. The patches of snow are growing smaller. The mist has turned from white to gold. And overhead, there is blue sky between the tree tops.

Photo: CKirgiss
Photo: CKirgiss

Rest assured: underneath the deep, deep snow, springtime and new life are bursting from the ground.

All is very, very well.

(Select descriptions of both winter and spring borrowed respectfully from Narnia.)

Psalm XXVI (for a Monday Morning)

ckirgissLeave a comment
Photo: CKirgiss
Photo: CKirgiss

Sometime or other, I picked up a small Book of Psalms for tens of tens of pennies. Maybe at a library sale. Maybe at a thrift store. Maybe at an estate sale. (Since then I’ve learned that it’s important – for my own sake – to document each and every book purchase on the inside front cover. “Bought in May 2006 for $1.00 at a tiny, crowded, musty fusty bookshop in southern Michigan when I was passing through.” That kind of thing.)

I picked up this particular Book of Psalms because

  1. it is leatherbound
  2. it has quirky (some might say elegant) gold-gilt type on the cover
  3. it is of a size and shape and weight that feels just right in my hands
  4. it has an intact binding
  5. it has a personalized fly-leaf noting that Aunt Lil gave it to her nephew Arthur on December 17, 1916
  6. it has a quirky (some might say historical) book stamp on the title page noting that it was once the property of Arlington Street Church, Boston
  7. it boasts 1882 as a publication date (and 1882 books are, as a general rule, good for the soul)
  8. it numbers the individual songs Romanically (which apparently is not a word, but whatever).

That last one is important. There is something mighty and majestic about “Psalm XXVI” as a title that “Psalm 26” lacks. Perhaps that’s why we say “Twenty-Second Winter Olympics,” but we write “XXII Winter Olympics.”

No matter. Whether XXVI or 26, this morning’s Psalm – as is so often the case – is best considered as a series of questions and challenges before starting yet another week of full, rich, real life.

–Have I acted with integrity and trusted the Lord without wavering?
–Have I invited the Lord to truly test the motives of my heart?
–Am I always aware of His unfailing love?
–Have I lived according to His truth?
–Do I resist going along with hypocrites?
–Do I refuse to join in with the wicked?
–Do I enter the glorious presence of God, singing with thanksgiving and telling of His wonders?
–Have I fully embraced God’s redemption and mercy so that I can (undeservedly) stand on solid ground?
–Do I publicly and joyfully praise the Lord?

Of course not. At least not to the extent that I could or should, and certainly not to the extent that He deserves.

But (oh glory!) “of course not” is not a static state of being. Rather, it is the reality from which we launch ourselves anew each and every morning straight into the loving arms of our Creator and Savior, there to be embraced just as we are. For it is only in those arms – the source of all love, forgiveness, strength, and grace – that we have any hope to live a life that can answer “yes” to the questions of Psalm XXVI. After all, it is not just “A Psalm of David” but rather “A Psalm of Us All.”

 

Of A Tiny Letter “C” (And also Jesus)

ckirgiss3 Comments
Photo: CKirgiss
Photo: CKirgiss

Every now and then, someone gives the perfect gift. Something meaningful. Something delightful. Something unexpected.

Something so perfectly suited to the receiver that it’s near impossible to put its awesomeness into words.

I got one of those gifts this Christmas. Something meaningful. Something delightful. Something unexpected.

Something so perfectly suited to me that it was near impossible to put its awesomeness into words.

So instead, I put it on. Wore it constantly. Fingered it lovingly. Glanced down at it joyfully. Slid it back and forth contentedly along its bumpy metallic chain. Enjoyed deeply its personalized kitschy awesomeness.

For three days.

Until I lost it.

Either in the Denver International Airport or somewhere near seat 27C on Flight 773.

Lost. It. Absolutely. Thoroughly. Indubitably. Tragically.

Kerthunk-went-my-heart. Over and over and over again.

That kerthunk is an achy thing indeed. Takes over your insides. Sends you into a frantic state of frenzy. Messes with your breathing. Undercuts your contented self.

So at 2:30 a.m. a few days post Christmas – after glancing in the airport restroom mirror while washing my hands and seeing a bare, broken chain slowly swinging back and forth, back and forth from where it dangled around my neck – I plunged into panic-frenzy-frantic mode and started walk-searching the entire A concourse. Up and down, up and down. Over and over and over again. Back and forth, back and forth. Every corner. Every tile. Every carpeted aisle. Every moving walkway. Every stair. Everywhere.

I begged the crew to reboard the plane of Flight 773 and search seat 27C (and also mayhap all the other seats, and the aisles, and the underseats, and the restrooms, and the galleys, and maybe even the cockpit) in search of a Scrabble-tile-sized pendant encasing a teeny-tiny “C” within its soldered glass.

Which they did.

Unsuccessfully.

While I kept walking.

Without ever finding.

Which was really just too sad for words.

The search to replace that little “C” expended more emotional energy (and actual time) over the new few weeks than was perhaps warranted.

But I loved it. And missed it. And wanted it to be hanging from around my neck where it belonged.

So today when a long-awaited replacement – made by the original artisan – arrived in a teeny-tiny package from way down South, well, it was a very happy day indeed.

Because what was lost is now found. Remade actually. Into a new thing altogether. Straight from its creator’s hands.

And where was once an empty chain, there is now a new letter “C.”

Safely home at last.

I – who have so keenly felt the kerthunked-heart sorrow of a lost little pendant that I did not make and that had been mine for only a few short days – will never doubt the Almighty’s kerthunked-heart sorrow for lost little me. Or His infinite love. Or his unceasing search. Or his miraculous remaking into a new thing altogether. Straight from my Creator’s hands.

And where was once an empty soul, there is now a new forgiven me.

Safely home at last.

[This moment of breathtaking (and undeserved love) brought to you by the little letter “C.”]

 

Things I learned while laid out with the flu

ckirgiss4 Comments

(or is it “laid up with the flu”…?)

1. It is, in fact, possible to be sicker than one’s spouse. In run-of-the-mill illness contexts (and contests, which much of marriage is), one is never sicker than one’s spouse, no matter how sick one is, and regardless of which one you are – the really sick one or the other really sicker one. But when laid out with the flu, one is by default sicker than one’s spouse (and one’s children and one’s friends and maybe one’s entire circle of acquaintances), unless one’s spouse is also laid out with the flu, in which case you are both winners. Or losers, as the case may be.

2. Fevers are hallucinogenic. Not being personally familiar with the hallucinogenic qualities of other substances, I can’t speak to the relative quality of flu’s hallucinogenicness. But its quality is really a moot point when one is in a comatose (and also victorious) state of being sicker than one’s spouse.

3. Based on their cumulative-use consistency, tissues are most likely made out of tree-bark. I checked the label to confirm this. I see that the packaging is made from recycled paper; that the tissues themselves are touted as “kind” and “pampering” and “indulgent” (the truth of which ranks right up there with one’s spouse being sicker than oneself when one’s spouse doesn’t have flu), and that these particular tissues are made in the USA from both domestic and imported material. Meaning domestic and imported tree-bark. I also see that the design of this particular tissue box is “Ogee Birch.” My point exactly.

4. One can live without snacking every hour-and-a-half. In fact, one can live without eating anything at all for one, two, even three days. But seriously…snacklessness isn’t fatal…?

5. It’s possible to be more exhausted than one was after giving birth. Naturally. For 16 hours. With no drugs. Who knew?

6. It’s possible to be more achy (I can only assume the relative intensity, mind you) than one would be after a super-extreme-turbo-full-body workout. Which isn’t a good reason to actually do a super-extreme-turbo-full-body workout – “because it’s not as bad as the flu.” Please.

7. It’s possible to live without reading a single page (let alone a whole book) for one, two, even three days. It’s not possible to live well, but it’s possible to live.

8. It’s possible to be so out of things that one doesn’t really notice or mind the taste of throat lozenges. At all. I mean, really?

9. It’s possible to be so not-one’s-self that the world’s greatest candy tastes worse than tree-bark, worse than dirt, worse than something that died and then rolled in something else that died and so now stinks like something that double died.

10. If one can seriously imagine life without Peanut Butter M&Ms … if one’s been bookless for days … if one has contemplated having another child because “it wouldn’t be so very much work” … if one has considered engaging in a legitimate full-body workout because “really, how bad could it be?” … if one’s nasal vicinity resembles shredded tree-bark … well then, one wins.

One is definitely sicker than one’s spouse.

One is finally number one.

Drag oneself out of bed and let the party begin.

Superbowl lessons

ckirgiss7 Comments

Here’s what I learned while watching the Superbowl last night (besides the fact that if and when the world’s power goes out, we are all going to be babbling fools):

1. Soldiers and farmers deserve our admiration and respect.

2. Modesty and decency will get you nowhere.

3. A man’s courage and coolness increase exponentially based on the speed of his car.

4. Men in general behave like children.

5. Goats in general are smarter than men.

6. Women want a cellphone that matches her skin tone.

7. Little boys want only to be an astronaut.

8. Little girls want only to be a princess.

9. Being top-dog, whether you’re 6 or 60, is what matters most.

10. In the end, it’s all about sex. And beer.

I learned this while watching the game with my faithful, smart, wise husband of 27 years.

I learned this while sipping on a tall diet A&W.

I learned this while reminiscing about my humble, gracious, giving grandparents.

Today I am learning how to clear my head of all the things I learned last night because, except for the thing about soldiers and farmers, it was all a bunch of rot.