Thoughts on Coffee

I’m addicted to coffee.

Or rather the combination of coffee, cream and sugar. Iced Vanilla Coffee with Cream, Large, to be exact. (I refuse to say Venti. It’s too hard to remember, and besides, I don’t speak Italian.)

Of course, coffee is one of the more acceptable addictions. It doesn’t impair my ability to drive or make decisions or cause me to be mean or miss out on obligations and promises. It does, however, take up a ridiculous amount of my brain space — planning when I will have my next cup. Dreaming of it. Setting my day by it.

Today I am drinking my favorite drink at Starbucks, and I have been thinking about this drink for several days now. WHAT??!?!!? Doesn’t that sound crazy? How could 16 ounces of liquid rule so much of my world? (I desperately wanted to order the 24 ounce, but refrained.)

I go back and forth, wishing I could drink as much coffee as I wanted to without feeling guilty. And sometimes I feel like “I should be able to drink coffee without worrying about it, damn it!”

(I don’t’ really say “Damn it!,” but that’s essentially the emotion behind it.)

But there are a couple practical factors that should limit my intake, like the fact that too much will contribute to gaining weight. I am one of those lucky ones who never really had to worry about that, but as I get older, it is a little harder to keep those extra five pounds off, and I’m sure if I drank unlimited amounts of coffee (with sugar), I’d struggle even more. Another factor that limits my intake is fertility. Both caffeine and sugar aren’t good for it, and we would still like to have one more child if we can. And finally, coffee can get expensive if you’re stopping at Starbucks every day.

Aside from the practical factors, the spiritual one is a million times more important — my need to comfort myself and put something that should be a small blessing in my day on such a pedestal in my life.

I don’t desire God the way I desire coffee.

(My eyes well up with tears as I write that. Putting it on paper makes it feel more real.)

So, do I give coffee up entirely? If I was an alcoholic, the best thing to do would be to give up alcohol entirely…

Here’s what I’m trying today. I wrote a coffee liturgy – basically a prayer of thankfulness to practice each time I enjoy coffee. I’m hoping that by acknowledging my need for God and thanking him for the gift He has given in simple pleasures of our taste buds and the positive things it does in our brain, will help me put Him back on the pedestal over my coffee.

I know that with any addiction, God doesn’t usually give radical deliverance from it. One of the best talks I heard about it (from Sharon Hersh) was that God is way more likely to use our addictions to remind us that we are in continual need of dependence on him.

And so, today I am trying to be mindful of His goodness to provide good gifts, and to work to keep the importance of the Giver far above the gift itself. I really don’t know if this is just a clever, sinful attempt to justify drinking coffee. And it may be. That's why I think this will be a long-term battle in my life, until that glorious day when I meet Christ face-to-face. That’s why one aspect of this is to work to be satisfied with the one cup and not be gluttonous about it (a little bit of C.S. Lewis there for you). We'll see how it goes.

I welcome your thoughts (Liturgy below).

Coffee Liturgy for the Ritual of Morning Coffee

Father, as I hold this cup of coffee in my hands, waiting to taste that first delightful sip on my tongue,

I thank you.

[Breathe deeply]

I thank you for this gift of flavors and the good feelings it releases in my brain.

[Breathe deeply]

May I be satisfied with your provision of this cup.

[Breathe deeply]

May I remember that You are the one my heart longs for and this cup can never substitute for your presence in my life.

[Breathe deeply]

May each sip remind me of your goodness to provide simple pleasures to your children.

[Breathe deeply]

Father, I thank you.

Stop Settling for Prince Charming

That’s right. Let me say it again. Stop settling for Prince Charming.

Now before you groan and think that I’m about to explain how you don’t need Prince Charming because Jesus is the ultimate Prince Charming, you can rest at ease and keep reading. I do love Jesus, but that is most definitely not my point.

Here’s my point in a nutshell. Prince Charming doesn’t exist. He’s unavailable. But we settle for a life of only dreaming about a man who will meet and fulfill everything we ever dreamed of without us having to do any work at all. We miss all of the real men in front of us—men who are actually available, and, if we’re willing to risk it, able to provide us so much more love and fulfillment then Prince Charming ever can.

I settled for Prince Charming for a long time—33 years to be exact. For me Prince Charming came in the form of various guys (some good, some not so much) that I dreamed would one day sweep me off my feet. These guys were dashing and handsome, funny and smart, but they were unavailable to me. Some were just unavailable in general. Others were not capable of emotional connection because they were so self-absorbed. Most of them had no interest in me at all. I had imaginary relationships with many of these guys. I would talk to them in my head and they would respond lovingly. And to be honest, it was safe to like these guys. They didn’t like me, so I never had to actually deal with a real relationship where you have to be honest about what you like and don’t like. You have to express your needs and be willing to be vulnerable and stay connected to someone who isn’t always perfect and who turns you off sometimes because he’s got bad breath or doesn’t anticipate your desires without you sharing them out loud.

No, it’s way easier to settle for Prince Charming who you don’t have to risk your heart with and learn how to love when you don’t feel like it. Prince Charming doesn’t have different opinions from you that you have to work through, and he certainly knows how to match and not embarrass you in public.

For years I overlooked the guys who actually did like me. Something in me would almost be turned off at a guy who liked me and treated me well. It’s as if I was too afraid of intimacy with a real available person, so I went running to Prince Charming who I never had to risk with, and I convinced myself that I didn’t really like the guys who actually pursued me.

I’m not married yet, but I suspect that married women settle for Prince Charming too. Things get messy and hard with your own imperfect husbands, and the idea of entrusting your heart to him, tenderly calling him to godly manhood, or opening up to him about what scares you is too hard. So you pull away into your own world and dream of Prince Charming—whether it’s an imaginary guy or just a “better” version of your husband, without interacting with the man that’s right in front of you. It’s too scary because there’s a chance to get hurt. A chance the real guy will fail to meet your needs or worse yet, reject you. But the possibility of a truly connected relationship full of joy and pain is greater than what you’ll ever have with Prince Charming.

As a single gal for three more months, I’ve had to wrestle with the fact that my fiancé is not Prince Charming. Sometimes I get annoyed at him and don’t feel like opening up to him. This would worry me when we were dating, and I thought it meant I needed to break up with him. My married friends helped me realize that this was normal (Who knew? Thanks to Hollywood and our romanticized idea of blissful relationships that don’t require any work or sacrifice). My boyfriend (now fiancé) was a good guy who loved Jesus and adored me, and the fact that I didn’t always feel crazy about him didn’t mean that I needed to pack my bags. I needed to wait it out and to risk being honest with him about how I felt—something I had never tried with another man before. Oddly enough, he handled it with a tender strength and consistency that was safe and restful. It didn’t scare him, and it brought us closer together little by little. I was actually experiencing what it means to be flawed and open in relationship with him. To choose intimacy and connection when all I wanted to do was hide and pull into myself. I can hardly believe that God has given me this man to grow in relationship with. I’m scared for the times when I don’t feel in love with him anymore and I wonder what in the world I was thinking, but I hope that, more often than not, I choose relationship and intimacy in the midst of my fear.

So my advice… stop settling for Prince Charming. He’s not going to come riding in on a white horse. In fact, Jesus didn’t even come riding in on a white horse. He was a real man, one who probably smelled funny, wasn’t the most handsome, and who didn’t have tons of money or come from the greatest of backgrounds. He didn’t do what everyone was expecting Him to do. No, he actually wanted a relationship with His disciples and the people around Him—one of intimacy. Peter in particular had to accept the relationship Christ offered him—especially after he had denied Him three times. He had to look Christ in the eye again and step out of his own shame to enter back into relationship with Him. And this surrender is often the first step to healing with our spouses as well.

The man of your dreams doesn’t exist (thank goodness), so stop settling for him. Because your husband might very well exist (whether you’re married to him yet or not). And no, he’s not perfect like Jesus, but he’s way more worth the messy, glorious parts of relationship with than Prince Charming will ever be.

p.s. I suspect these principals can also apply to men and their pursuit of the perfect Sleeping Beauty, a fairy tale character who cannot compare to a real woman who bares the image her Creator. So guys, please don’t settle for Sleeping Beauty either. She requires nothing from you and, in turn, can’t even begin to give you what a true woman has the potential to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Perfect Marshmallow

Here it is folks, a picture of the best marshmallow I've ever tasted.

Apple Cinamon

Toasted

Yumminess

And made by a guy in red pants.

Does it get much better than that?

Well, unless you took a strawberry-flavoured marshmallow and dipped it in chocolate fondue, and rolled it in crushed graham cracker crumbs. That might possibly be the best marshmallow I've ever tasted...

Yep, I'm pretty sure that's my favorite.

Or both favorites.

Yes, both favorites.

Get your own at wondermade.com

(Photo is from http://www.flickr.com/photos/creativemorningsorlando/8190142231/in/set-72157632026253352 )

"Use Your Words, Honey"

I feel like the English language is slipping from my mind--like I'm losing my words.

I hear people like my mom and one of our VP's at work talk, and they use such descriptive well-placed words. Words that I know the meaning of, but that I forgot even existed. Words that I would never remember to use in a sentence.

I love the use of a well-placed word. Which is perhaps why I love witty humor more than anything--the art of using words creatively. (Just listen to the dialogue from my favorite movie, "An Ideal Husband." Every time I watch it, I'm hanging on almost every phrase in pure joy. Props to Oscar Wilde)

A similar thing happens with my emotions. I only have a few words to describe the typical emotions I experience--fine, frustrated, annoyed, hurt, uncertain, thoughtful, tired, quite, goofy, witty, and giddy. That's it really, the only words I ever really use to describe how I'm feeling. (Well, and often I don't actually now how I'm feeling, but that's another blog post...)

But there are so many other really cool, descriptive words out there, ones that don't get used very much.

persnickity
agregate
distain
entitled
capricious
nafarious
clandestine
juxtapose
sentinel
mileu
postulate
aberrant
abscond
egregious

I spend my days trying to write as simply as possible and to not use "big" words. Society as a whole doesn't use "big" words much either. And I realize that they are all slipping from my memory.

I don't want to lose my words and just use a generic term instead of something more specific. Why say "anger" when "distain" "contempt" or "rage" is much more accurate? It's like I'm only painting with a few colors on my pallet. I'm missing all the shades and nuances of color. It's not about trying to sound pretencious or snobby by using "big" words, it's more about an appreciation for language and using it well.

"A word fittly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver"

So anyway, how do I retain the English language and not lose so many delightful words? Perhaps I can find a way to do a "word of the day" or some sort of vocab memory. Not sure.

But those are my thoughts for the day, unstructured as they may be...

Instilling a Heart for Giving

“What’s the name of this country?” eight-year-old Alyssa asked as she pointed to a picture of girls her own age in a charitable gift catalog.

“Afghanistan,” her grandmother answered.

“Is it really cold there?”

“Well, in some places it’s really cold.”

“What do they need scarves for? Is it because of the cold?”

Alyssa loves scarves and has a lot of them herself. Her questions gave her grandmother, Pat Penrose, the opportunity to explain the predicament of girls in Afghanistan and their need for scarves.

Having grown up frugally herself, Pat is thankful that her three grandchildren are well taken care of, but wants to make sure they appreciate their blessings. “I did not feel that they really understood the way the majority of the world lives,” she explains.

Pat’s sister and brother in law, Susan and Dennis Malone, have been a major influence in Pat’s life. When the Malones began serving as literacy workers with Wycliffe over thirty years ago, Pat and her husband began supporting them financially. When her husband died in 2008, Pat found herself able to expand her support of Wycliffe and other Christian ministries. It was then that she decided to leave her entire IRA to charity—with Wycliffe receiving a major portion.

Wanting to get her grandchildren involved in giving, Pat set up a donor-advised fund with the Wycliffe Foundation. She calls it the Penrose Intergenerational Charity Fund, and it’s been a great way to teach them how to care for others who don’t have even their basic needs met.

“I asked them if they would like to be on the board of directors, and of course that was pretty intriguing for them. I told them we were going to use the fund to help other people and I wanted them to help me decide where the money should go.”

Pat started with a charitable gift catalog, asking her grandchildren to look through it and select the projects that interested them most. Her twenty-one-year-old grandson (a business major) thought that micro-lending was the best solution, while her fifteen-year-old granddaughter considered local projects a priority. The process has started many conversations about poverty and its effects on children throughout the world. And between all three grandchildren, it seems they want to support almost every project.

“My job, as I see it, is to raise their awareness, to talk honestly, to share with them my deep convictions, and then to let the Holy Spirit do the rest,” she explains.

 - By Angela Nelson

Run-on Sentences

Today we played the run-on sentence game, where I was given a topic, and then had to write a long sentence in relation to that topic. Here are my sentences. Perhaps one day, I’ll come up with a more serious blog post that will leave the reader with something more than bewilderment…. but not today.

Topic 1: A rock star that’s scared of loud noises

As he gazed down in disgust at the mosh pit of gyrating college students too drunk to have any clue whether or not he was actually singing or whether his ’58 limited edition Gibson really had all five strings in tack, he realized with terror that his least favorite part of the concert was coming up and that he would have to endure the screeching sound of the pyrotechnic explosions which hid his escape into the trap door under his feet so that he could run down the ten foot tunnel, up the fifty-step staircase, and re-appear in the scaffolding above the crowd in order to bungee jump inches above their heads just as the last few lines of the song brought everything to an all too sensory-overloaded climax.

Topic 2: What’s a clown doing here?

The crowd was a mixture of half-asleep men and teary-eyed woman who eagerly watched as John and Mary stumbled happily through their vows with the patient help of Father George until everything was brought to an abrupt stop at the entry of an all too enthusiastic clown dressed in purple polka dots and honking the horn of his 5-foot unicycle as he rode down the aisle to the tune of Yankee Doodle and threw candy out into the audience, an act that succeeded to get the attention of all the men who had previously been dreaming of perfecting their  golf swing and scaring the two babies in the back row who immediately started screaming until their frantic mothers hastily gathered them up to take them outside so that they would not disturb John and Mary who hadn’t quite recovered from the shock of the unexpected wedding guest and were trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or just skip to the kiss that they’d been perfecting for quite some time.

Anecdotes

Three anecdotes about cooking in Kenya that I wrote for the Wycliffe Cookbook.

Dish Washing

Free-range chickens are a nuisance—especially in the midst of a campground out in the Kenyan bush. I’m not sure why my team set up our tents and cooking supplies next to a chicken coup, but that was the way it was. As the last person to select my bed in the tent, I ended up sleeping with my head just feet away from the coup where the chickens slept. Early in the morning they would begin their squawking, and I would snuggle deeper into my sleeping bag in an unsuccessful attempt to block out the noise. Once the chickens were let out in the morning, it was impossible to keep them away from our dish-washing basins and portable gas stovetop. And so, we were always shooing them away as we tried to cook, secretly wishing that one of them would decide to take a bath in our pot of boiling water. We decided they were cannibals when they feasted on our scrambled egg crumbs, and one of the guys even set up a trap with the wash tubs to catch an unsuspecting chicken. Try as we may, it was impossible to “train” the chickens to stay away, as they seem to have zero short-term memory, so we learned to laugh and took lots of pictures of them “cleaning” our dirty dishes for us.

Long rice

The Maasai people aren’t scared of much. They live extremely hard lives out in the bush of Kenya. One summer, I was living in camping-like conditions among the Maasai. We had no refrigeration and could only cook using a portable gas stove top. One of our staples was spaghetti—noodles with tomato sauce, onions, garlic, and Italian spices. One day, one of our team members overheard a Maasai lady talking about how Americans didn’t like to drink their curdled sour milk. It was true—we were terrified of being served sour milk instead of the more customary chai drink. And we soon learned that she felt the same way about our spaghetti—the thought of eating it made her want to run from the room. To the Maasai, this strange “long rice” looks a lot like worms.

Bush Cookies

While living out in the Kenyan bush one summer, my team and I had to survive with no refrigeration and a portable gas stove top. As Americans, our sweet tooth was deprived, and we craved baked goods or chocolate of any sort. One day, we discovered that we could make cookie dough using our staple supplies, and then fry little cookie patties in the pan over the gas burner. It was heaven on earth. I perfected the skill on a later trip back to Kenya when I was leading a team of college interns, expanding the idea to include frying up oatmeal cookie dough along with apple slices to make apple crisp. Our Kenyan translator, Jackson, especially loved it and made up a song entitled “I love bush cookies” to the tune of “Where is Thumpkin?”  I found that bush cookies were the perfect solution to getting the team to engage in a book discussion or just finishing up a long, hard day.

Bubba “Armadillo” Gaspareaux

We did a writer’s exercise today at work, where we made up a name, passed in on to the next person, and then had to write a sketch about the name we were given. Here’s what I did with the name Mary picked out for me:

Bubba “Armadillo” Gaspareaux

He never really understood how he came to be called Bubba. His real name was James. James Dillon Gaspareaux, but ever since his baby brother Samuel could start talking—and boy could he talk—James’s real name was forever forgotten by everyone but his patient, loving mother. Sammy was never able to say James very well, so when he started saying “Bubba” one day, that’s what all the aunts, uncles, and cousins immediately adopted as well, and they always said it in that obnoxious baby voice that James couldn’t stand. There wasn’t a whole lot James could do about it, and he wasn’t about to complain and make it worse. Everyone had always loved Samuel from the day he was born and “just popped right out with the cutest baby face you ever had seen.” James was pretty sure that some would claim his baby brother was born with wings and a halo the way they doted over him all the time. He himself had long been forgotten as the favored child of the family. His curly red hair, freckles, and glasses embodied the face that only a mother could love. And thankfully she did. His mother was the nicest person he figured he would ever know. She would let him curl up in her lap after a long day, even though he was a bit old for that sort of thing by now. But she didn’t care. She would sing to him and read him stories about the old west where cowboys and Indians ruled the day. He always wanted to be a cowboy with a real horse, leather chaps, and a bandana to keep the dust out of his face while he rode off into the sunset. His favorite book was about a cowboy who had earned the nickname “Armadillo” and so, that’s what his mother had nicknamed him since it sounded much like his middle name “Dillon.” It was her special little name for him, and he loved it. No one else knew about it, and he liked it that way.

Movie Critique

Recently I’ve watched two different movies with the same theme: The Backup Plan and The Switch.

The Backup Plan, starring Jennifer Lopez, starts off with her getting artificially inseminated, only to walk out of the doctor’s office to meet a tall, dark handsome stranger on the street. They start dating, and she eventually has to reveal that she is pregnant. Throughout the movie he tries to decide if he really wants to stay with her since he has no interest in kids, and she struggles with actually letting someone in to her life when she has been used to doing everything on her own. In the end, they both get over their struggles, and he proposes.

The Switch stars Jennifer Aniston, whose best friend is Jason Bateman. She decides to get inseminated, and in a drunken stupor, he ends up switching the “sample” to his own unbeknownst to anyone (including himself who doesn’t remember a thing). She moves away to raise her child near her parents, and later returns when the boy is seven. As they re-develop their friendship, Bateman slowly discovers that the boy is his son, and then goes through a long process to decide that he does want to be his father and admit the truth and his love for Jennifer. The movie ends in marriage and suggests “happily ever after.”

These movies speak volumes for today’s society—women are unable to find a husband, so they decide to do it on their own and take matters into their own hands. The man is a little slow and immature, but finally kicks into gear and does the man thing.

I have been trying to decide if the underlying message about these movies is actually hopeful, and I’m on the fence about it. While I am tired of the “powerful women/ weak man” themes of our media, I am grateful that both of these movies end with the theme that men and women are good for each other, and that both are needed for a good home. The Switch especially illustrates this in showing Jennifer’s son as longing for a dad. Could it be that our feminist culture is realizing that women can’t do it on their own, and can we actually applaud a man for doing what he was made to do, rather than condemn him for it? On the other hand, perhaps these movies celebrate too much of the women doing it on their own, and that she ultimately rescues the man? Not sure… thoughts?

It reminds me of one final movie whose ending I really enjoyed—Tangled. In the end, the girl tries to give up her freedom for the guy, but he doesn’t let her, and he sacrifices his life for her freedom. Beautiful. Both acts are self-less.

In the end, the curse has damaged us all, and we have a long journey through our various struggles as we grow into the men and women that God meant for us to be. But oh, how beautiful it is to see those victories.

“Every child of God defeats this evil world by trusting Christ to bring the victory.” – 1 John 5:4

Prayer Answered

Twenty-one years ago, a Bibleless Peoples Prayer Project (BPPP) partner began praying for a Muslim group in West Africa. For three years she prayed, with no obvious results.

Finally, in 1993, a man named Dalmar* accepted Christ through the testimony of a local believer.

After that, it was another fourteen years of silence. Although Dalmar continued to follow Christ, no one else in his community seemed interested.

Although he was alone in his faith, Dalmar didn’t give up. Instead, he helped a missionary couple with linguistic research, and then went to seminary for training. There, he met his wife, and in 2005, they started working on a Bible translation so others in his community could more clearly understand the message about Jesus. Through their testimony, Dalmar’s cousin accepted Christ.

Dalmar and his wife first translated the books of Ruth and Genesis. Normally, translators begin with one of the Gospels, but since Dalmar’s people were Muslim, it was more powerful to start from a chronological perspective.

“The story of (Genesis) sweeps away some misconceptions the Muslim people have about Christian faith,” Dalmar explains. “For instance, common Muslim people are taught since their childhood that Christians do not believe in God. But when the Muslim people read the book of Genesis… they realize that Christians do believe in God and that their God is the Creator of the World.”

This past August, Dalmar was thrilled to distribute a complete translation of Genesis around his community. Many of his neighbors eagerly started reading the stories to each other. One man was so happy that he put the copy on his head, under his turban, in order to keep it close to his mind.

“Our people loved the booklets you gave them,” said one man. “They talk about wonderful stories. What is most impressing is that these stories are written in our own language and they talk about God…. Very often, people sit together and read these stories.”

Recently, nearly one hundred families, including Dalmar’s, were suffering from hunger after a drought killed their animals. But God supplied the funds for Dalmar to purchase food and animals for these families. Afterwards, a man who used to persecute Dalmar for his faith in Christ, said, “Now I have come to realize that you (Christians) are the children of God’s kingdom. You have the eternal life.”

This act also touched Dalmar’s brother deeply. He was so moved that Christians were helping his people that he decided to accept Christ.

Twenty-one years after that first BPPP partner began praying, Dalmar’s neighbors are finally reading the Scriptures—words that are introducing them to their Savior. Currently more than twelve thousand people are part of BPPP, and similar prayers are being answered all over the world. By praying for Bibleless communities like Dalmar’s, you can play a key role in the work of Bible translation. http://www.wycliffe.org/Pray/BiblelessPeoplesPrayerProject.aspx

*For security reasons, Dalmar is a pseudonym.

Tears

Today was the first time I cried about leaving Fort Myers. It was during the communion service at church. As I accepted the bread from Pastor Stu and dipped it in the wine cup held by Dave Weinman, I was blessed to know that I could share this important sacrament with the church family that I have grown to love over the last view years. After I got back to my pew and watched people walk up one by one to receive the symbols of Christ's body and blood, I was sad to be leaving them and happy to have shared life with them. This afternoon, they blessed me with a goodbye party, and I was thankful for the love that was poured upon me. Tonight I get to hang out with the family that has become the most dear to me here—Dave, Susan, Paula, Christina, Daniel and Maddy.

In less than a week, I drive up to Orlando to begin work with Wycliffe Bible Translators. I am excited, scared and hopeful. Wycliffe is a big organization that has been around for a long time, and they are passionate about seeing the scripture translated into every language in the world. When I went through their museum several years ago, I was overwhelmed with the importance and power of God's word, and it's exciting to play a small role in helping others translate His words to those who have yet to hear the message of the Gospel.

My heart is breaking for what I am leaving behind at New Mission Systems International. So many wonderful memories haunt these buildings between Stella and Katherine streets. I have shed countless tears, laughed deeply, received love, and poured my heart and soul into these people and the ministry we have shared together.

And yet, I know the time has finally come for me to go.

There are more tears to come—tears that evidence the beauty of the relationships that God has blessed me with these last nine years, and for that, I am grateful.

Heartbeat

This is my attempt to put into words the lessons I have learned from God and my relationships at NMSI through the years. I believe these things reflect the heartbeat of Christ and the richness of the Gospel lived out in broken people.

Laughter and Tears

The world is not as it should be, yet we believe that God has called us to live life abundantly and fully. The enemy tries to deaden our desires, numb our hearts, and cause us to forget the longings in our soul that draw us to our Creator. We don’t want to ever pretend that things are fine when they’re not, and the tears that a friend sheds on our behalf are often the best medicine. For the Christian, a realistic view of sin, along with the surrender of our helplessness to fix it, is what allows us to experience deep joy and to laugh together, not at another’s expense, but in celebration of who God made us to be and in longing for our ultimate home. Christ calls us to suffer with him on the cross and also promises our fellowship in the joy that is yet to come. We hold humor and sorrow equally high, and we rejoice that, in the midst of a fallen world, we can laugh together and cherish glimpses of the future glory we will share with Christ at the marriage supper of the Lamb.

Crucified Relationships
We want our lives to shout that the Gospel is true, and we want for ourselves the same thing we want for the world—to invite each other into a beautiful cosmic dance with the Trinity as Christ describes in John 17. We have found that it’s impossible to offer this to the world without continually offering it to each other, and it’s messy, just like the cross was painfully messy. We want to nail our sin, shame and fear to the Cross for the sake of others and for relationship. If we protect ourselves by hiding our shame, lashing out at others, or withholding tenderness, then we refuse to love them. We deny that the Gospel is true. We choose ourselves over others, refusing to die and risk crucifixion for their sake, and we place ourselves above God who has commanded us to love. To love people is to offer them ourselves, naked and vulnerable, and to offer them the chance of redemption. It’s what Christ did for us.

Pursuit of Redemption
We long for people of every tribe and tongue to be reconciled to God, and to experience the power of the Gospel transforming their lives. We really like the word community, and we desire to see the global Church unified under the Lordship of Christ. As each one of us is being redeemed into the people God made us to be, we ruthlessly pursue the world’s redemption in the unique ways that God made us individually whether this means using our musical talent to create worship songs that draw others to Christ, people skills to plant a church, counseling skills to show the downtrodden their value to God, or our messy pasts to help others out of similar pits. We want to be strategic, while listening to the Holy Spirit; steadfast, yet flexible; and bold, while being kind. We want to make disciples who will go on to passionately pursue the proclamation of the Gospel in their communities around the world.

Resonate

Today I am wearing a shirt that says "Resonate or Die". I don't really know what it means. I just think it looks cool, and it was free at the Catalyst Conference last week. My whole wardrobe was planned today based on the fact that my leg muscles hurt too much yesterday from my high heels, and I needed to wear comfortable shoes. So I chose tennis-shoes.

I hate tennis-shoes. They hurt my toes.

And tennis-shoes could only be warn with jeans, the combination of which could only be warn with a t-shirt...And this is where my "Resonate or Die" shirt stepped on to the stage.

It was going to be a good day.

Funny Story Number 1: Kristy and I went to lunch where she told me about a conversation Adam had been part of the day before. He and some guys were talking about some of us who worked in the office, and one of the guys heard my name and boldly declared that I was never going to get married because I was too weird and didn't know how to relate to people. Adam was, naturally, a little puzzled and tried to tell him that I wasn't so bad, but there was no persuading this guy. I was definitely a lost cause. Finally, they discovered that this guy had thought they were talking about Angela on The Office the whole time.

Whew! Glad to know my chances aren't gone yet.

Funny Story Number 2: As I was walking back to the office after taking a picture of the new NMSI trainees, I noticed Bob's convertible in the parking lot. Since it was so open, it just seemed like it needed a friend. As I looked around, I discovered the tall covered ash tray thingy (the kind where you drop the cigarettes down a big hole), and thought it was the perfect companion to the front seat. Turns out I was right. Even more funny was that Shane had seen me from distance, and, since I was wearing my t-shirt, jeans and tennis-shoes, he thought I was a teenager. So my crime stayed safely anonymous.

Until now...

My toes hurt. Tomorrow I'm going to wear flip- flops.

Gorbichoff

There comes a time in everyone's life where their mom tells them that it's getting time to get their old boxes out of the house where they once grew up. The other day, my mom casually alluded to this semi right of passage, so later that day I found myself rummaging through my old stuff to figure out what I might want to throw away. After deciding that my montrous valedictorian trophy, arrayed in gold, silver and red chords, would probably be a bit too obnoxious and Dwight Schrute-esk to addorn my NMSI desk with, I started looking through old school notebooks, and found a good read in my fifth grade journal. Here is my favorite entry, the words of which I have left in their original miss-spelled splendor. All I can say is, what normal eleven-year-old thinks this way?

Journal Entry
3-19-91

Dear Mr. Clements,
Poff! A genie appears and says, "Your wish is my comand." At first I don't know what to say, but then I decide to see if this is real or am I just dreaming. So I say make me invisible. Poff but nothing happened. I asoom that it's all a joke so I take my chemistry set to the living room. "Ahh!" screams my mom, "Angela's chemistry set it floating in mid air!" so I reliese t hat I really am invisible. I go to my room, then the genie reapears and says, "Your wish is my comand." So I say, "I want to go to Russia." Poff! I look around and I find myself in Gorbichoffs house. I hear them plotting to attack the U.S.! So I tell the genie to get me to Washington D.C. and to make me visible. Poff! I'm right outside the presidents ofice. I knock and he lets me in. I tell him about Russia's plan, so he gets all the troops ready and Russia is completly suprized and we defeat them.

Angela Nelson

Cheryl

You know how when it's raining, and you need to go somewhere but you don't want to get wet? You try to wait it out to see if it's going to stop, but as the time rolls on and it doesn't let up, you have to eventually run out in the midst of it anyway? That happened to me today. I got wet. I suspect there's a theological application in there somewhere. It's been raining a lot lately.

I have no intentions for all my blog posts to be melancholy. I much prefer my charming wit anyway. But I thought it would be good to explain one of the reasons for my tears lately. The death of my friend Cheryl prompted this recent wave of writing for me. Here is what I typed a month ago when she died.

August 8

I found out today that my friend Cheryl was one of the aid workers killed in Afghanistan a few days ago. Cheryl had mentioned the opportunity to go on this medical trip in her last month’s correspondence. How tragic to discover its ending. The story of her death is all over the news and Hillary Clinton has spoken out against the culprits for this atrocious act. Never would I have thought that my dear friend Cheryl’s life, or death rather, would be known throughout the world. What must have been going through her head as they were ambushed. Was she scared? Was she peaceful? Did she feel Jesus with her, holding her as she went down? It all seems so surreal—like a bad dream. Stuff like this doesn’t happen to people we actually know.

Cheryl was one of those people who you can’t think of a single thing negative to say about even if you tried, and there are very few people who fit into that category. We lived in the same house together for about six months at a time that was incredibly life-shaping for me, and watching Cheryl’s life played a huge role in some of the changes God did in me that year. Cheryl was full of life, laughter, deep faith and humility. I don’t really have the words to describe her accurately. We spent Christmas 2001 together on the farm. We had to wait to go home to our families that year because someone had to stay behind to do the chores. I’ll never forget how peaceful that Christmas was. We woke up together, did chores, sipped coffee, ate our homemade biscotti and exchanged the gifts that were under our illegally chopped down Florida Slash Pine. I don’t remember what I gave her—a journal, perhaps—but she gave me a cookbook that I still have entitled “A Little Meat Goes a Long Way”. I pulled it out today just so I could see her handwriting. She had written on the inside cover “just one more step towards being ‘ready’!” which was our way of referring to skills generally thought needed for marriage. We also attempted to make a dish for a potluck dinner that afternoon. Since we only had cucumbers on the farm, we consulted the Mennonite cookbook and found a recipe for cucumber salad. Unfortunately, our cucumber salad was really more like cucumber soup. Needless to say, it really didn’t get eaten and neither of us ever got married.

The last time I saw Cheryl was a few years ago when she was in town for a conference. We got to spend nearly a whole day together. Even though we hadn’t been keeping in touch with our daily lives, we picked up right back where we left off and talked passionately and deeply about everything God had been doing in our lives the last few years—about singleness and missions and our friends and about God. I don’t remember details of our conversation, just that we were at Starbucks and that it was amazing to see her again. It’s moments like those that are the most beautiful to me in life, and I think of them as “communion”. Getting to enjoy God and weep together with a dear brother or sister is one of the sweetest gifts that I think God gives to us, and Cheryl was a person who God allowed me to share in Him together with. She was also a fellow lover of pumpkin icecream, and I remember late night runs to get a pint of heaven at the 136—an icecream shop so small that we knew it only by the numbers in its address. I think God Himself might have enjoyed some pumpkin icecream after he created the world…and I imagine that He and Cheryl are enjoying it together right now.

Thank you God for my dear friend who loved you and the people you gave her to serve. Thank you for using her to dramatically shape who I am today and for the communion that we got to share together with you.

Words

Would you believe that "Where have all the cowboys gone" was already taken as a blog name? Hence, my need to break the rules of grammar and add a preposition to the end of my title. Shane helped me in this big decision and then promptly played Paula Cole's song for inspiration. I've never blogged before, but I do journal and occasionally even write poetry. If I'm doing either, it often means that I am sad. An old college boyfriend is to blame for nearly half my poetry (thanks Billy). These days have been a bit more sad than others, and the words have been flowing from my fingers in an attempt to ease the pain in my heart. I feel like all that I can cling to is the name of Jesus. I can't even think anything intelligent about Him or about any of His qualities—just His name. Somehow that in itself has been comforting enough....