Why I don't like the title of this blog

"Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day..."

-Emerson in "Self-Reliance"

I adore this quote. I am one who changes my mind frequently... the more I learn the more I change my mind... which is confusing to most.

In a world where being "wishy washy" and a "flip flopper" is the sign of weak character, I think the opposite. If I realize I'm wrong, isn't it better to change than to continue on foolishly for the sake of consistency?

I've been trying to find a good way to "disagree with myself" about the title of this blog for quite some time now... yet I only now have found words to explain.
 
"Be Still and Know..." comes from that famous verse, "Be still and know that I am God."

It's a great verse. A great passage. It's plastered all over Christian art, peaceful landscapes, and watercolor paintings, reminding the viewer to slow down, find peace without worrying, allowing God the proper place of control. What could possibly be wrong with that? It sounds so peaceful, so encouraging, so beautiful.

Well. It's only half the verse.

But most people never hear the other half. Because we like it the way the first half sounds. It's about me. It's about me relaxing and letting God "do His thing."

What's the second half?

"I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."

So what?

Part of "knowing He is God" means understanding (on the human scale, with our finite minds) who God is... his heart for the whole world. His glory is not just on a "me and God" scale but also a "whole world" scale.

Why is this uncomfortable? Why isn't this written in loopy letters on the pictures of awesome sunsets or trickling waterfalls?

Because God has a heart for the nations, and so often we don't. I don't. My culture is comfortable. It's enough for me to know God. But no. God cares about every nation. Every tribe. Every culture. So I should too.

He will be exalted among the nations. Heaven is not a one-dimensional culture made up of people exactly like me. Heaven will be a multi-colored, multi-cultural celebration of the God of Nations.

It seems like my whole life I've been missing this.

And now, here, in the middle of Hungary at an international school where students speak all sorts of languages, I'm beginning to catch a glimpse.

The thing is... I've grown up between cultures. I've been wrestling with my identity. In some ways, student teaching in Hungary has caused me to go on a journey of "finding myself" as cliche as that may sound. I've been frustrated with my cultural background. Frustrated at my "everywhere and nowhere" homes. Saddened by losing close relationships due to my cultural differences. But that's what happens when I focus on the negatives.

I can see this in-betweenness as an asset, or as a burden.

And once again, in a moment of frustration, I felt the Lord speak to my heart:

You're my image bearer. Don't you see... I have created you in my image to love cultures just like I love cultures. To be in-between cultures like I am in-between cultures. So that you can understand people like most can't.

So. While I'm not necessarily going to change the title of this blog, I do want my readers to know that the "..." implies the whole verse:

knowing that God is a God of Nations who calls His people to love the Nations like He does... in order to bring Him glory in every nation, every language, every culture.



 

The Vineyard

I am a seeker of metaphors.

I adore connections in unlikely places, and connecting tangible experiences to intangible ideas.

Yesterday we went out to the family vineyard to tend to the overgrown vines and prune them before they really took off growing. The sun was shining gloriously as we packed up clothes for all potential weather and drove the hour and a half to Lake Balaton where the vineyard is.

Despite the fact that it has been rainy and cold here for the past three weeks, little purple violets dotted the grass, and the whole hillside was resounding with birdsongs, as the pleasant smell of blossoms wafted in the air.

After some original cleaning out of the wine cellar, we got to work. We soon realized that none of us were experts in trimming or pruning grape vines, so after discussing it for quite some time and calling a few experts, we began snipping.

The wooded vines were growing in every-which-way. These branches seemed healthy, full of buds and life.

While it made sense to me to remove the dead vines, it seemed cruel to snip off those that were growing well. The vines leaked pure, quivering droplets of liquid from a green inside at the place where we cut them back... how could this possibly be good for these plants?

By the end, the ones we had pruned looked absolutely dead and hopeless... nubs on a dying, flaky vine.

The more I worked, the warm spring sun shining brightly in my eyes, the more I felt like I, too, was that vine. And the more I chopped and snipped and clipped, the more I began to feel panicky. What if this isn't helping and it kills off all potential fruit it would have borne? What if all that remains, even in the harvest season is hopeless nubs, dark and knotty against the blue sky?

Suddenly, the metaphor in John 15 lay open before me as my hands gripped the rough, brittle bark of the "mother branch" and touched the smooth, new wood of the growing sprouts. Those that bear fruit must be cut back in order to bear more fruit.

It doesn't make much sense to me. But the experts know this is what you do. So I keep clipping.

And I feel like that branch. I was doing fine... I was growing... I was learning. In fact, I was growing in every possible direction. And then... the snips, the clips, the pain, the oozing of tears, the frustration at feeling like I am right back where I started. To bear more fruit. Focused. Not in every direction. More fruit.

I still don't completely get it. I have not seen the "fruits" of this work, yet. All I see is the hopelessness of the nubs, contrasting the joyous blue sky. But I must trust the wine experts. Those who have seen these vines grow year after year... even after being chopped down... and know that in order to bear the most fruit, they must be pruned.

As we finished pruning, the dark rain clouds rolled in and it sprinkled lightly over the fields and vines. I ran up to sit on top of the cellar looking down onto the hillside and the distant lake... once sparkling in the sunlight, now a despondent gray.

I pondered the metaphor, I thought through my own prunings in my own life, how I feel cut back... humbled, scared, and uncertain that growth will come.... uncertain of the future. Always questioning: what will become of me? 

I whispered my questions to the wind. The rain flecked my jacket with large splotches, and my questions drifted away unanswered. I slid down from the top of the cellar through the now-wet grass and climbed in the car... the only warm place...

As I sat looking at the rain, a brilliant warmth flooded the whole side of the hill, from the top of the cellar all the way down. I heard victorious shouts of, "The sun's out! Look for a rainbow. RAINBOW! Over there!"

I scrambled out of the car and raced back up to the top of the cellar. I sat on the edge of the cement rim, dangling my feet down, drinking in the delicious scenery. A hillside of green, blossoms, and growing trees, the stubby vines below, the colorful village houses, the lake, and rising from my side of the lake, but arching fully across it and landing over the distant hills.... a rainbow.

The more I watched and exulted, the rainbow grew brighter and brighter... more and more vivid.

The wind had snatched my questions from my lips... and tossed them into the rain.... returning with the rainbow.

Faithful and True. Promise Keeper. My questions remain. But I know the one to answer them knows all things. And remains steadfast and true in all things. Even if He doesn't answer them when I want him to.

I know many people saw the rainbow yesterday. But it sure felt like it was just for me.

Homes

Technically, the word "home" shouldn't be plural. Because there really should only be one.

I have always thrown the word "home" around quite loosely... which seems odd to those who have only one definition of home. Even after spending just two nights in a hotel on the road, I call it "home" when I'm ready to turn in for the day. But just because I perhaps overuse the word "home" does not mean that I take it lightly. In fact, home is something I treasure.

When I was little, Home was an apartment building on a quiet street in Basel, Switzerland. The stairs were covered with thick, red carpeting that I loved to crawl up and down. Home was the smell of roasted chestnuts, reading Calvin and Hobbes with Dad after a bath, and singing and learning with Mom.

When we moved to Michigan, Home became the freedom of our very own garden, the curve in the sidewalk and the yellow sign we biked to with our bare feet. Home was the smell of coffee mixing with the gentle wood scent of our house and the sound of muffled voices coming from the living room in the morning. This home is deeply buried in my heart. It's where I have grown up. Where I went to school. Where I became who I am. Where my family is.

But then I moved to college. Home became the whitewashed brick walls of Alpha, the sound of ladybugs flying into the blinds, and incessant shrieks of laughter.
Each year of college this home took on a new form. Sophomore-year Home was the sound of our squeaking door that shut on its own... developing friendships, deep conversations, and long phone chats. Junior year was once again inside the brick walls of Alpha, but Home was totally different. Thick carpeting, our own lighting, and our own artwork softened the harshness and sterility of our small room. My roommate and I were in it for year two. Home was the sound of hilarity, prayer, and singing.

Senior year, my home feels more like Home than my other college homes. In an apartment surrounded by dear friends including my steady roommate... it feels like real life. real home. my own.

Summer homes are always Hungary... the big house on top of the hill with the rust-colored gate, the winding stairs to spacious rooms. The echoes of voices, the big double doors, Persian rugs, salami sandwiches, and inhaling Nagyi-hugs.

As much as I love places, smells, and sounds, Home for me has less to do with place. It's about people. Homes become defined by the people I love, and a place becomes Home when I leave a bit of my heart there. When I think back to favorite places, precious memories, I find that they are not most often tied to the place itself, but to the people I'm with. But place gives a setting where my relationships grew. Home becomes precious as people in those places become precious.

I feel so blessed to have so many Homes... places where my heart, like a starfish, has splintered and my love has grown.