Unchanging

From way back in the corner of my closet, I unearthed it yesterday. I had been cleaning, sorting out the things that I use and the things that I don't, to get ready for this upcoming new year.

It's shabby looking and the title page is torn off of this notebook that has travelled the continents.

My Grandmother first gave it to my Dad, many years ago when he was young.

It encompasses three generations of handwriting:

My Grandmother's handwriting

My Dad's handwriting

And then it merges, between my Dad and I:

I was given it mere months before I turned twelve, and not very long after my baptism. As I flipped through the study of Romans that I had completed from where my Dad had left off, it was amazing to see myself as a little child again, writing these thoughts down that are foundational to who I am today.

But the most precious part came when I flipped towards the back.

There, I had started a spiritual journal, and it was amazing to see what He was already doing through such a small child as I was.

And as I read of hours spent digging in His Word, of meetings between my Dad and I to study it together, of church groups joined, of convictions to witness to my African friends, of moments when I felt like everything was good, and moments when I was numb, I was amazed. Simply amazed at how He had started working in me at the age of 12.

But age is no limit. He worked great things when I was small, and He works them still. I wonder at the childlike faith that I did not realize at the time was so precious and foundational.

As I flip to the end, my eyes catch words, and they bring back memories long hidden.

Memories of my naivety regarding the seriousness of my sister's illness. Of hastily said good-byes on the very little chance that we would have to leave. Of days spent in limbo until my future was flipped.

It only took two days.

It brings back the bewilderment and the utter displacement that I felt.

And as I sat there, looking at those words, and reading on to see what else I had written, it struck me.

He's never changed.

Not once.

He was good before, and He was good after...

But it has taken me so very long to see that He was good at that moment, when my future was changed.

He truly does *work* for the good of those who love him.... even when we can't see it at the time.

And His purpose never wavers.

He Is Good.

And as I face an uncertain year, filled with diplomas, decisions about summer and college, figuring out finances, leaving a family, and everything else that graduating entails, this promise remains true.

He is unchanging... and HE IS GOOD.

A Whole New World

I remember that night... wondering why I had ever gotten myself into such a fix. Entering the door, writing information down, singing and then dancing.

And then it was over.

Until I saw the list on line. And I can't describe the mile-wide smile that split my face. My parents can tell you how I danced down the hallway.

I grew up without a lot of opportunities. And for so long... I have let that define me.

I never thought that I would have a flair for performing. But that thought has grown into a boundary that I haven't let myself cross... until now.

Now there's this.

A whole new world... and I sure don't know what I'm digging myself into. But maybe I don't want to...

Then, meeting there together tonight, watching the videos that made me glad that I had tried out, talking to friends who I'll get to know even better through all of this.

And thinking... maybe, just maybe... I am also one of those artsy-fartsy people.

Fluid Joy

I remember the very first time I saw it... as mine. As something belonging to me... that I could own.

Mr. J opened the case, and I caught a glimpse of gleaming silver, and I remembered all the other people I had known who could play the flute. And I was scared. Scared of trying something new. I didn't think that I was musical, besides being able to sing.

But the shine of the silver, and the velvet of the case was only the beginning.

He tenderly extricated the pieces, pushed them into one another and played a simple scale.

And I was hooked.

That sound... like liquid silver moving through the atmosphere to reach a listener's ear with a message of pure beauty.

Yes, he was a master, but I knew that I wanted to be able to do that.

And I learned to. It took work, but under his gentle hand, my fingers started moving faster, my eyes recognized the notes more quickly, and my tone came more smoothly.

Soon, I felt confident. I owned the sound that I could make on the instrument. I felt like I had mastered it to some degree.

And then I saw the Senior High Band playing, and learned that the next year, I would have to learn to improv.

My heart sank. I started to dread.

But I trusted him when he said that I would pick it up, that it wouldn't really be that hard at all.

He was right.

I remember the first time I closed my eyes and improved off of a blues scale... one note with different rhythms.

And I was hooked.

Besides writing, being musical is one of the ways that I express myself, and I had never realized the invisible boundaries I had formerly felt myself acquiescing to.

But now those boundaries were gone, and I felt free. Sometimes, when I get tired of playing the same songs over and over for practice time, I still just play a song I make up.

It's just like poetry.

It's fluid joy to hear a flute played well.

And for so long, that joy has been missing. It hasn't only been with the absence of Mr. J, although that does contribute.

It has to do with life getting busier and busier and my priorities looking elsewhere. Soon, Band practice became more of a duty than a joy.

It didn't help when I got braces and couldn't play until my mouth had learned how to readjust my embouchure.

But as I played Christmas carols tonight, and sang a trio with my father and sister, that joy came springing back. We have more complicated pieces to work on now, and I find myself returning to my love of my instrument.

I think it has to do with my viewpoint as well. I'm starting to return to seeing the little as significant, and the looming as little. And I play... for fun.

To hear a simple C, and at the same time physically hear the sound of fluid joy.

Paths

It was a cold day, and at last I had to tell her that we couldn't take the bike.

And we stood there, surrounded by coats and hats, as I tried to make her see that the snow was deep and her mother was tired, and there was only one way.

To walk.

And it took awhile to make her see the sense in all of it. Her kindergarten brain trying to take in my logic. But she got it, she understood. And as she signed for "mother", pointed at me, and then wrapped her arms around herself, my heart melted.

She wanted to go see my mother... to hug her.

To be enveloped in the embrace of someone who's taken her in with a smile, no matter the inconvenience or the bustle. My mother... who is now just like her own. And so, as we bundled up, pulling on fleecy pants, adjusting coats, wrapping scarfs, and grabbing hats and mitts, I braced myself.

It's a long climb to my house from where hers is. She lives near main street, and I live closer to the hills. But that light in her eyes as she asked if my mother would be home, and as I answered that I didn't know, was enough. Enough to face wind that cut through layers, ice patches that required maneuvering, and walking slowly.

Because she has a limp, this loved one of mine. She shuffles as she walks, and scars trace her body from surgeries, but it only makes the walk even more an act of love.

And as we come up to that one light in town, she pulls me forward, remembering with that brilliantly exact mind of hers how to get to my house. She has a nack for remembering, for knowing exactly how to get to each of her loved one's houses, but she was following the route that we normally took on the bike, and not the one that was the easiest to walk.

And so I tugged back, trying to use my weight to my advantage, because we almost weigh the same. And she followed.... reluctantly.

She kept on pointing  to the direction that she was used to taking, the one that was known, and as we walked down a different sidewalk, she would pause and try and make me understand that we were going the wrong way. And I would calm her down, assuring her that I did really know where I was going.

And as I said those words... they reminded me of Another.

He says those same words to me these days: "Don't worry... I know where we're going."

And I pull and tug and point, saying, "I know what's best. Can't you see? This is how it's supposed to work out!"

I shuffle, I move slowly. He is capable of going so much faster than me.

But He waits... patiently.

And as she and I turned that corner and started walking up the hill that I traverse every day to school, we started going in the direction that she wanted, and she started to relax.

We finally arrived at our destination, and as I pulled off those boots, scarfs, mittens, hats, coats, sweaters, and other layers that we had put on, it was brought to my mind once again.

This year, with everyone asking what my future is looking like leaves me struggling to find peace. I squirm, feeling as if I should have a satisfactory answer, but having none. I have ideas, but I also have the distinct impression that He likes to blow those ideas out of the water with the ones that He has in store for me.

And I know that I won't understand. I'll want to take the conventional route, to do it the easy way. But I'll have to struggle, to stumble, to shuffle, to wonder why He's taking me in a direction so opposite to what I had planned.

And then I'll understand, when we finally turn that corner, and when we reach that place, wherever it may be.

But He does know my way. And I hope that I will remember... and go more willingly.

Until It Hurts

Growing up overseas, many things in life were seen with a different view than they are here. Say, food, for an example. You were not safe eating anything unless there was some plantains, or another kind of starch sitting nearby, in order to cool your tongue once you figured out just how many pepe peppers they had put in this time. Another thing: the host always takes the first bite. Not for politeness' sake, but instead to prove to you that they haven't poisoned anything. Such was the reality I grew up with.

As I look back now, these lessons, which taught me to take a different view of life than most, are so important and influence so much more of my actions than I thought that they did. The biggest one is money.

I never thought that we were poor. In fact, to everyone around us, we were the "rich white people." I was fed, clothed, got some gifts for Christmas and birthdays, and was loved. What else did I need?

Nothing... but that's not what culture over here tells me now. It says: "Store up, you never know when you might need it!" or "Splurge... you're worth it!" And with these voices inside of my head, I find it harder to adhere to the things that I learned about money while growing up, which were: always save, always tithe, always give away freely.

Often, people would come to the door, wanting some cash to supposedly take someone to the hospital, or buy some important medicine, or the taxi cab fare in town to see some relatives. And my parents gave. Not all the time, especially when someone was a notorious drunk,etc., but even when there was some doubt about the legitimacy of the cause, they gave. And they weren't always paid back (although, there were often repayments in fruit or chickens, etc.). The thing is... they knew that when they gave the money.

I think the biggest thing that has changed between Cameroonian culture and the North American culture is the importance that is placed on money. Because money really only holds the importance that you give it. Overseas, money is often seen as a means to an end, such as feeding the family, expanding the farm, paying for an education. But here? Too often, money is an end in and of itself.

And how that has affected me comes to show now... when I have money.

I am so thankful for my job... for how much it's not a job. And as I receive a pay cheque, I'm so glad that I can easily tithe. But give away? No.... what about college? I mean... debt is a no-no, so I've got to save. But there again... the means to an end. When I'm saving money to feel secure, money becomes my security, the end, instead of the means. But when I give away? It goes freely, to accomplish whatever can be bought or given with it.

And it leaves me struggling with how to give and how to save.

 But I am reminded about the *widow's mite*.

Might the secret be not to give as much as I can, but instead, to give until it's not the extra, but the necessary? To give until it hurts? To have a pinch because of generosity? Because that's when money has no importance, no hold on me, except the ability to help others in whatever way that it can.

This Christmas, can you give until it hurts?