Dear Keren,
You must forgive me for being rambly and having disconnected thoughts in this one. If you were sitting in this room with me, this would have been like one of our heart-to-hearts that go down some rabbit trail, rather than you sitting there listening to me pour my heart out the entire conversation.
Larry asked the other day if I would share the story of the influences of my ministry to the missions committee at their church. It made me stop in my tracks because it was at that moment that I realised I hadn't really thought far enough ahead to figure out how I'm going to process re-entry into the US.
I guess I had been so exhausted prior to this trip that all this meant to me at the time was a vacation. But when Larry asked how Singapore had influenced my ministry life, I realised again how much the seven years in Anderson influenced me--not because Anderson was a better environment than Singapore, but because my world views were being expanded and I was given permission to think outside the box. And Anderson had been the home that most influenced my theology and ministry.
Being back in Anderson this time made the, "Where are you from?" question even harder to answer. It was the Global Gathering after all, and most folks don't have more than five seconds to wait for the answer to that question. And how do you explain, "Well, I was born in Singapore, live and work in Auckland, New Zealand. Those places are both where I'm from, but home for me is Anderson, Indiana--at least, at this point in my life"?
Getting off the plane in Portland, I knew to expect that things would be different now. I've done the re-entry thing enough times in the last nine years to know that. But seeing Judy in what would have been the driver's side of the car in New Zealand made me go, "Wait, I knew things were going to be different, but I didn't think it would be THAT different that Judy would be driving now."
I should have known then that as much as I can acknowledge that things are going to be different, I'm not going to fully understand just how different until I experience it all over again.
Like how there's now this strange addition on I-69 with a special exit ramp for Noblesville and Fishers to accommodate the population growth in those areas. Or why Qdoba and Panda Express have to have such bright store signs on Scatterfield as opposed to the old, rundown operations that used to occupy that space. And then there are the familiar quirks that stick around that make me smile. Like Anderson city water that shouldn't be consumed. Or the wider driving lanes and parking spots, AND the potholes.
The high-energy of the Global Gathering hadn't given me much time to think about re-entry. All I knew was, I was visiting Anderson to hang out with old friends, connect with churches and folks that have been supporting my ministry in New Zealand, and clearing out the rest of my stuff that had lived here the last two years. Two weeks wasn't going to be enough, but I was determined to make the most of it.
Kristin once said to me a few years ago as I was processing your passing that I shouldn't try to over-rationalize everything and give myself permission to feel as well. Jen told me it was ok to give myself permission to grieve having left Anderson. I thought I had been doing that in small doses enough to give myself space to breathe.
But it isn't until all the dear friends leave after the annual Mecca pilgrimage and you're driving around town back to the old haunts that it hits you. The ability to navigate around town makes it feel like it's still home, but it really isn't anymore--at least, not by real world definitions. I don't have a house, car or job here, and I really am only a visitor. I may still have a few boxes of very nerdy books and some momentos, but otherwise, I live out of a suitcase.
So today I made myself stop. In the breaks between the storms today, I took the few minutes to hang out at your tree. Not because I still live in the time of your passing six years ago, or because it's any special occasion. No, it's simply learning to visit with old friends while realising that things change over time.
I found myself telling Mike the other day, that as much as I tell people I was born in Singapore, it really is Anderson that I find myself most comfortable and at home in--at least at this point in my life. In the last few years, going back to Singapore hasn't felt like a home-going anymore. Sure, I go back to visit family and friends, but there are now too many new shopping malls I don't recognise, and lifestyle patterns that I'm finding harder and harder to follow.
And maybe someday Anderson will feel like that. Even this time, things have changed. The weather remains predictably unpredictable, but parts of the city look different, just as friendships have also changed. For some, distance has brought about a stronger bond; others have been hurt by the proximity. All the same, when we find ourselves in the same room, it's like no time had passed in between.
Today I went out and got boxes to start packing up the rest of my material life in Anderson. It's time to let go a little bit more and move on a little bit more. All the same, we hold on to people, and we carry their hearts, and hope that they would do the same.
Arthur says your tree grows; that it's a tree of remembrance.
As Chuck from Elizabethtown says, "Life and death right next door to each other."
A part of me died with you nearly six years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of adventure.
A part of me died with my existential crisis some four years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a sense of awe for the God of grace.
A part of me died with the things that got ugly two years ago, but it made room for and gave life to a desperate desire for reconciliation and Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.
All the same, we sift through the ashes of the hurt and the broken, and find the beauty to pack away in the boxes. And we carry those pieces with us--the friendships, the pieces of home, the love and grace of Creator God that shone through the ashes--and we pack those away in the boxes we carry with us to new places and new adventures.
Dear Keren, I wish we could have another one of those semi-serious conversations about living in so many parts of the world--finding home in each of these places and learning not just how to go but how to leave behind.
Dear Keren, hey, I know it'll be a while before we get to talk again. But someday we'll pick up right where we left off hey?
Love,
Me.
29 June 2013
Where We Come From: Holiness and Unity Part #3
One of the first things I had the privilege of being a part of when I arrived in Anderson last week was the unveiling and dedication of the Church of God Interpretive Center. The Interpretive Center has been the dream of outgoing (and now former) General Director of Church of God Ministries, Dr Ron Duncan for as long as he has been in the office. To see it completed and unveiled just before his retirement is, as Ms Martha, his wife, says, "a dream come true".
Dr Merle Strege, the historian of our movement and one of the brains behind the Interpretive Center, said at the unveiling that, "We, as the Church, are a story-telling people. To know where we are going as a movement, we have to tell the stories of where we came from."
And so we continue to tell our stories. Not because we should live as if D.S. Warner were still alive, or in fear that he would flip in his grave. But because we are a reformation movement, and the spirit of reformation should continue to move us forward.
So we fill the pages not simply with words that help us remember the historical events, but with acts that remind us to live out the spirit of reformation. We continue to tell stories about holiness and unity, not just as narratives to pass on to our children, but as intentional decisions to keep moving forward.
Because that's where we come from. We are people of a reformation movement, and we are people who continue living out our theology of holiness and unity.
Dr Merle Strege, the historian of our movement and one of the brains behind the Interpretive Center, said at the unveiling that, "We, as the Church, are a story-telling people. To know where we are going as a movement, we have to tell the stories of where we came from."
And so we continue to tell our stories. Not because we should live as if D.S. Warner were still alive, or in fear that he would flip in his grave. But because we are a reformation movement, and the spirit of reformation should continue to move us forward.
So we fill the pages not simply with words that help us remember the historical events, but with acts that remind us to live out the spirit of reformation. We continue to tell stories about holiness and unity, not just as narratives to pass on to our children, but as intentional decisions to keep moving forward.
Because that's where we come from. We are people of a reformation movement, and we are people who continue living out our theology of holiness and unity.
08 June 2013
On Depression
After my last post where I talked very briefly about my depressive tendencies, I had a few concerned friends ask me about it, so I thought I'd share a bit about that here.
Jenny and I used to talk about how her treatments for Crohn's sound frightening and terrible to others but they hardly faze her anymore. Not because they aren't frightening and terrible, but because this is a new normal she lives in, even if it's not the most desirable normal. My depressive tendencies are kind of like that.
Since high school days in TKGS, I've always known I had a melancholic temperament. I don't know if there was ever a specific incident that triggered my depressive tendencies, but events like the grief of moving halfway across the world, or a break-up that shook the lenses through which I saw the world made me realise that as a melancholic, I wallowed really well. I've never actually been officially diagnosed with depression, but having worked through pastoral care and counselling classes in seminary, I knew enough about depression symptoms to know I needed to be careful.
At my best, I cry, write, and then feel better. At my worst, I don't manage to get out of bed till about 10 or 11 (for a while after Keren died, it wasn't till midday), and eat half a meal a day. On one occasion, the thought crossed my mind that it wouldn't be such a terrible thing if I got in the car and crashed it on the drive home. Eventually after Keren's death, I began to realise that if grief was to become a normal part of my life, I needed to start finding healthy ways to deal with it.
So I began to make rules for emotional health. And seminary taught me to lean into community. So every time I moved into a new environment, whether it was starting a new job, starting seminary, or moving across the world, I made sure there was at least one person I told about my rules.
When I moved to Anderson, I told Melissa that when I get stressed, homesick or upset, I don't eat. In the weeks I was most homesick, she checked in to make sure I was still eating.
When Jenny started seminary, I told her that if she and I were to be friends, she needed to know that I go through these cycles and to make sure that I talk to her.
When I moved to New Zealand, Kathrin found out about my rules.
I have a list of people I text or email when things happen that could potentially lead to a spiralling down.
I force myself to make meals I enjoy.
I avoid alcohol unless I'm in a responsible environment with family or friends.
I schedule things early enough in the morning that I have time to wallow in bed for a while, but still eventually have to get up and get going with life.
I write and share my stories because whenever I write, I always hear Mum saying my stories have to end with the hope that I believe in and hold on to.
And I cry.
And listen to my collection of Selah's hymns and Rich Mullins' music on loop.
And pray and yell at God a lot.
Depressive tendencies probably shouldn't be normal, but they've been my normal for quite a long time now. I don't live in that state as a constant on most days because I believe in the Creator of Hope and Light. But it doesn't mean I can pretend darkness is non-existent in my life or in the world. And it isn't something that I would want to pray away because
1) it isn't something that can be simply prayed away (trust me, I tried it my first week in Anderson when my pillow got so wet from crying myself to sleep every night).
2) it keeps me in touch with what is real.
Shobek asked the other day what good does it do anyone to only have sad stories to tell the world. As I tried to answer his question, I realised then that because of my own journey, I've gained an appreciation for sadness and brokenness. Because I believe eventually there is beauty from ashes simply because of the fingerprints of the Creator all over the imperfection--even if beauty doesn't rise from ashes until we arrive at eternity.
And for that reason, even when everything is simply not ok, I eventually find my way out of the darkness.
"For darkness will not overcome the light..."
Jenny and I used to talk about how her treatments for Crohn's sound frightening and terrible to others but they hardly faze her anymore. Not because they aren't frightening and terrible, but because this is a new normal she lives in, even if it's not the most desirable normal. My depressive tendencies are kind of like that.
Since high school days in TKGS, I've always known I had a melancholic temperament. I don't know if there was ever a specific incident that triggered my depressive tendencies, but events like the grief of moving halfway across the world, or a break-up that shook the lenses through which I saw the world made me realise that as a melancholic, I wallowed really well. I've never actually been officially diagnosed with depression, but having worked through pastoral care and counselling classes in seminary, I knew enough about depression symptoms to know I needed to be careful.
At my best, I cry, write, and then feel better. At my worst, I don't manage to get out of bed till about 10 or 11 (for a while after Keren died, it wasn't till midday), and eat half a meal a day. On one occasion, the thought crossed my mind that it wouldn't be such a terrible thing if I got in the car and crashed it on the drive home. Eventually after Keren's death, I began to realise that if grief was to become a normal part of my life, I needed to start finding healthy ways to deal with it.
So I began to make rules for emotional health. And seminary taught me to lean into community. So every time I moved into a new environment, whether it was starting a new job, starting seminary, or moving across the world, I made sure there was at least one person I told about my rules.
When I moved to Anderson, I told Melissa that when I get stressed, homesick or upset, I don't eat. In the weeks I was most homesick, she checked in to make sure I was still eating.
When Jenny started seminary, I told her that if she and I were to be friends, she needed to know that I go through these cycles and to make sure that I talk to her.
When I moved to New Zealand, Kathrin found out about my rules.
I have a list of people I text or email when things happen that could potentially lead to a spiralling down.
I force myself to make meals I enjoy.
I avoid alcohol unless I'm in a responsible environment with family or friends.
I schedule things early enough in the morning that I have time to wallow in bed for a while, but still eventually have to get up and get going with life.
I write and share my stories because whenever I write, I always hear Mum saying my stories have to end with the hope that I believe in and hold on to.
And I cry.
And listen to my collection of Selah's hymns and Rich Mullins' music on loop.
And pray and yell at God a lot.
Depressive tendencies probably shouldn't be normal, but they've been my normal for quite a long time now. I don't live in that state as a constant on most days because I believe in the Creator of Hope and Light. But it doesn't mean I can pretend darkness is non-existent in my life or in the world. And it isn't something that I would want to pray away because
1) it isn't something that can be simply prayed away (trust me, I tried it my first week in Anderson when my pillow got so wet from crying myself to sleep every night).
2) it keeps me in touch with what is real.
Shobek asked the other day what good does it do anyone to only have sad stories to tell the world. As I tried to answer his question, I realised then that because of my own journey, I've gained an appreciation for sadness and brokenness. Because I believe eventually there is beauty from ashes simply because of the fingerprints of the Creator all over the imperfection--even if beauty doesn't rise from ashes until we arrive at eternity.
And for that reason, even when everything is simply not ok, I eventually find my way out of the darkness.
"For darkness will not overcome the light..."
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