Just Telling

29 Jan 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Death, God, Heaven, Moody Bible Institute, Sovereign, Worship

I suppose part of the reason that I gave you pictures last night instead of words is because I’m sorely tempted to wrap the intensely varied spread of emotions and experiences that have been crammed into this campus over the past four days into a seven paragraph sermonette on a neatly defined aspect of God’s character and plan for our lives.

I’m obsessed with wrapping the unwieldy and just generally real life experiences that I live and witness into clean, tidy lessons with a moral and a fairy tale ending. It’s good, and I’ve gotten good at it, but it’s a vast majority of life that cannot be packaged clean and tied with a bow, and I’m too tired to try to pretend that I can do that tonight.

Because Nelle came into the room last night, in the brief moments between when I had brushed my teeth, and before I clicked off my lamp and climbed into bed. The Roommate in her tall bed behind me, I had taken a deep drink of water from my cherished cup when I noticed a head in the cracked door, staring expectantly at me. Had my mouth not been full of water, I would have screamed. As it was, my heart jumped and the would-be scream came out wet and warbly and the water I had been drinking ended up mostly on The Roommate’s arms. Ever apologetic, Nelle made amends profusely, as I alternately laughed, listened to my heart pounding, and spot dried The Roommate with my hand towel.

And then Tuesday morning, President’s Chapel is a memorial service for our fellow student, now three days worshipping the King face to face in Heaven. Songs and Scripture and memories and praising the sovereign God who knew exactly how many days Micah would have here with us. I didn’t know him, but my mother’s prayed years for a tender heart that mourns with those who mourn, and service ended, we walk in silence to our next classes, I’m so thankful for friends who carry tissues.

It’s such a real life we live, and joy is real and suffering is real and I’m not looking for answers and deep connections tonight.

I’m just… telling.

~Natalia

No Reason to Leave

27 Jan 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Chicago, Church, College, Death, God, Hurt, Moody Bible Institute, Need, Train, Trust

I didn’t want to go to church this morning. I woke up to my phone under me and my Bible still open next to my pillow and my first conscious thought was that I didn’t want to go to church. But it’s really not an option, so I got up and got dressed and I like to think that I was quiet, and for once it was her alarm that woke The Roommate up, not my scuffling around the room. I brushed my hair and putting my little notebook in my purse, wrapped a scarf around my neck, pulled on my coat, and went downstairs. And I went to church.

But the feeling I woke up to settled stronger in my heart and I stepped fast down the sidewalk to the train stop and I suddenly realize that I’m scared.

Because I’m three blocks from Michigan Avenue but who’s going to be out at 9am on a Sunday morning? I can count the people I pass from school to the train on one hand. Because someone’s discarded Starbucks cup rolls back and forth in the wind, the spilled contents splashed dirty brown on the already filthy piles of snow. Because the train’s underground and the urine smell is strong today and I’ve never noticed how much garbage lies heaped down there on the tracks.

And yesterday on the train back from a lunch date with The Roommate, I sat at one end of the train car and halfway back to school this train car full of people headed deeper into downtown for an enjoyable Saturday afternoon is struck silent by one man in the corner. I looked at him, I listened to him, but he dropped to his knees as telling became pleading and it seems so ludicrous that I took time to think that it’s illegal to solicit on the CTA. But he’s not soliciting anything, he’s absolutely begging and he says he can’t go on living the way he is, and my cheeks are prickling with emotion I can’t name and I got off the train with my head down and carried my shame all the way back to school, where I put my sweatpants on and crawled into bed.

And I was so relieved to be back in the safe nest of my bed, my room, my dorm, my school.

But The Roommate texts me not two hours later because a freshman from this school, a young man whose sister lived just around the corner last year, has died. And Moody was never a perfect place, never a safe haven, but any illusions that I had come crashing down and I’m frozen in my bed with my computer on my lap, mechanically typing out a paper, but I can hear sobbing in the hallway and the same prickling crawls up my face and suffering is so uncomfortably close.

And I woke up this morning and my first thought was to stay here. I didn’t want to ride the train because you know who else rides the train? Broken people who need Jesus. Broken people who fall to their knees and beg because they can’t keep living this way. And I balked at the dirty in the streets and the dark selfishness of my own heart, the black terror of distrusting Christ, is something I’ll never be able to hide from.

And I don’t have answers and I wished last night that I was little again, when I had much more faith in the world, and much less exposure to the raw pain of a broken earth.

And there’s so very much that I don’t understand, and the human, selfish desire to hide from the fresh, broken, utterly uncomfortable pain that rubs raw everywhere that I turn is so strong. But I think somewhere I’ve heard a command that I trust Christ, and I’ve read before that His grace is sufficient, and I have to believe that He has a plan in everything.

And I hold to trusting Him, because if I don’t, well then, there’s really no reason to leave this dorm.

~Natalia

Not Earned

24 Sep 2012 2 Comments

by nataliaria in College, Death, God, Grace

He stands just on the other side of the table, hands clutched comfortably in front of him. Conscious of his presence, our conversation continues. We’re not ignoring him; we know his patterns, his methods, and we continue our discussion.

Moments pass and he speaks. A teacher standing amidst five students in our group. Take a step back and there are twenty-five of us in this class. But right now, in this conversation, there is one teacher and five students.

Alright, let’s see your discussion prep work! He announces. Our conversation stops instantaneously, and there is a momentary pause. We’re all a little behind on the reading, and I’m the only one who did discussion prep; a pen and ink doodle drawn with scribbled lines on the back of a notebook page.

My self-satisfied contentment at having worked doesn’t last long. Seconds later, he’s talking about the reading and I raise my hand, I confess; I didn’t do all the reading.

He looks up at the other four; how many of you finished the book? His face is calm and serious, and no one raises their hand. The reading slipped, we did other assignments, other things, and now we’re caught. Completely caught and no way to get out.

We sit, five students with no homework to show for their reading, looking up at the one instructor who holds complete control over the class’s gradebook. We sit and listen.

So, when I mark this homework down, is it listed as complete or incomplete?

Look down, look away. He’s serious and ominous and the guilt for not doing what was so clearly expected of me, the guilt for letting down a teacher who I hold in such high regard, gnaws at me.

But the question hangs in the air and we mumble answers, avoiding eye contact.

Incomplete… We squeak it out.

He knows what he’s talking about and that we can do nothing. He’s speaking of a zero for this assignment; exactly what we deserve for not completing with the expectations we knew he had set. It’s a zero.

I am going to give you full credit for this assignment.

Ears perked, we look up, expectantly. There’s a stipulation, a second chance. There has to be. We didn’t get it right the first time, but with a little leeway and a little rush on our part, now we’re able to earn it back. Extra work. Late work. We can make it up; we can do this.

I will not accept any work from you.

If it wasn’t heartbreaking, it might be funny. He’s told us that we’ll get 100% for this assignment, an assignment we haven’t even completed sufficiently, and now we don’t even have to make up the work we missed.

He’s telling us wonderfully good news and yet I can feel hot tears beginning to swim just under my eyelids.

Because he’s given the gift of a perfect grade, but he’s also completely taken away any chance I had to earn the good grade. This is grace in action, grace in the classroom, and it’s knocked my sinful perception of the world to the ground.

Yellow chalk scuffles across the board and he steps to the side so we can read.

Grace is humiliating, embarrassing, perplexing.

Maybe it sounds like a little thing, but the grace I’ve just experienced is straight out of the Bible, and it cuts my heart with a cold shock. Shock not because I receive grace; I’ve heard of that, I’m know that. Shock because I cannot, I am forbidden to, do anything that earns this grace.

This grace, experienced in a classroom, but initiated by the Lord of All, is true grace. This grace looks at me and says, I see you as you are. Incomplete. Chaotic. Steeped in sin and dragging around 20 years of poor choices and mistakes. I see that and I choose to give you a perfect score. I choose to die for you, love you no matter what, and when you die, I promise to bring you to Heaven.

I know that story. I know that story and I’ve even added a part of my own. I see this grace, receive this grace, and I turn around and get to work. Work to meet expectations. Work to make people happy. Work to make God proud.

I work and scurry and work some more because I like it that way.

It makes me feel like I’m earning my salvation. Makes me feel like I’m earning grace.

But I don’t earn grace. I never will. I’ll never earn the grace He pours out on me day after day. The truth of the statement knocks my knees out from under me in praise; it cuts my heart of guilt and a hard-hearted legalism that longs to say that I had some part in my salvation.

But I didn’t. I’m completely humbled, completely stripped of prideful pretenses. Because I see now how truly incapable I am of earning this grace.

~ Natalia

Welcome to Kenya

13 Mar 2012 5 Comments

by nataliaria in Africa, Death, Kiddos

The sun is still rising, and its bright, white rays poke through the front windshield and land on your lap. On the other side of the windshield, in front of you, the Kenyan landscape stretches for miles in every direction. Green trees and grass, strong brown dirt, and houses made out of mud, brick, and corrugated metal roofs.

Every available seat in the van is taken; you and two others up front, and seven in the back. Six of the backseat passengers are living and breathing. A seventh passenger lies on the floor, silent, a green sheet draped over her body.

The full van bumps heavily over deep ruts in the red dirt road, even as the man at the wheel does his best to drive gently, carefully. The van is quiet, but it won’t be for long. The van turns off the dirt road and begins bumping and pounding along a narrower, sloping road. People along the road catch sigh of the van and they know where it’s going and what you’re bringing; the strips of red fabric tied to the rearview mirrors give it all away.

Suddenly, as the van slows down a couple yards away from a small cluster of houses, one of the backseat passengers lets out a wail. Her mourning cry is taken up by a second passenger, and as the van slides gently to a halt, cries can be heard rising from all around the van.

The back doors are opened, and six people scramble solemnly down, stepping resolutely onto the packed dirt. The seventh passenger is carefully handed down, three men working to support her body. She’s carried to one of the small buildings, and there they leave her.

Tens of people, their mourning cry ringing across the Kenyan forest, push into the building. You’re outside and you’re not sure why they want to be inside. To touch her? To see her? To say goodbye to her?

It’s not long before you follow the three men that you’re working with back up the hill to the waiting van. You watch as they take their gloves off and wad them up with the green sheet, placing the bundle under the backseat. The wailing of mourning Kenyans can still be heard as the van makes its bumping way back up the road.

Welcome to Kenya.

Six hours later, it’s the last stop of the day. You’ve been bumping and sliding up and down dirt roads, visiting people in their homes, all day. The sun, which long since reached its zenith, is beginning to slide back down the far side of the distant hills.

You’re alone in the van, the three guys having gotten out to visit one last patient. From your perch in the backseat, you can see five little Kenyan children standing several yards away. They see you, too. You wave and smile, grinning as they tentatively smile back at you.

One little guy, probably about seven years old, is less shy than the others, and he steps close to the van. Mizungu! Mizungu! He shouts gleefully, his teeth shining brilliantly against the dark of his face.

White, white.

You are white. Sticking your white head out the window, you can see that the little yeller is now very close to the van, and has been joined by three other young ones. Yards away, on the other side of a sparse layer of pokey bushes, the original group of children has doubled in number. Your white presence is gathering a crowd of curious little ones.

The back door of the van is slightly open, and a little hand reaching into the crack draws your attention. No, better not come in. Here; I’ll come down. You climb out of the van and sit on the tailgate. Twelve children stand in front of you, mixing calls of Mizungu! with fits of giggling over the apparent hilarity of the whole situation.

Your original little buddy steps closer to you, and you grin at him, waiting to see what he’ll do. He takes another step, his bright, dark eyes glittering mischievously. Suddenly, you stand up and take a little step towards him. Shouts of surprise and shrieks of laughter erupt from the gathered crowd, now numbering fifteen, and the little guy darts away.

But, seconds later, he’s back, daring you to come forward. You do, and the game continues for a couple minutes; he steps forward, you step forward, he scurries back. Over and over. And still, curious children gather round. Tired of the stepping game, you sit back down on the tailgate and extend your hand. A second or two passes while the children survey you, then one brave little one jumps forward and slaps your hand. You laugh. He giggles, too.

Then it’s all over. Little girls with fuzzy black hair and shy, toothy grins want to give you a high five. Older boys drag their little brothers up and force them to slap your hand, then slap your extended hand themselves when their brother come away from the ordeal unscathed.

Now brave, the group of twenty children begin calling out the only English phrase they know; How are you? How are you, how are you, how are you? You parrot it back to them, they laugh. Then one of them answers; I am fine. She announces, and you incorporate that into your conversation.

Round and round you go, slapping hands. How are you? I am fine. Do it all over again. And your original little friend is climbing on the spare tire of the back of the van, and a lanky little girl has worked up the courage to stroke your white arm with her little brown hand, and someone’s brought their baby brother, dragging his chubby body over and setting him down in the midst of the gather children.

And then the men are back, and you’re yelling goodbye and patting little round heads and everyone is yelling right back, and someone, probably the first little guy, gets a little too excited and slaps you on the leg. And you’re back in the van, and it takes two guys to shoo away all the kids, while the third slowly, slowly backs the van up. And as you drive away, you can still see the crowd of little ones through the back window, and you wave and they wave until you turn and you can’t see anymore.

Welcome to Kenya.

~Natalia

As He Sees It

17 Jul 2011 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Death, God, Sovereign

You and I see things differently. For nineteen and a half years, I have been seeing the world and the people in it from a certain perspective: my own. And you’ve been seeing it from a completely different angle: your own. We can watch the exact same thing happen, and see utterly different things. There’s nothing wrong with that; our different ways of seeing things is merely proof of what we are: unique people.

But we’re both people.

And if you and I see things differently, try to imagine how different my point of view, or your point of view, is from God’s point of view.

Oftentimes, when you and I talk, and each of us tells about our views, the way we see life and the way things look from where we sit, we can make some sense of it. I may not like what you see, but I can often understand it.

Not so much with God. I suppose sometimes He opens my eyes, or He opens your eyes, and we can see things and people as He sees them. And sometimes He enables us to see a little slice of His plan, but usually, He doesn’t.

But when a girl living across the nation, who I didn’t even know, disappears and is believed to have taken her own life, God’s point of view seems hopelessly out of reach. From where I sit, the way things look to me, it doesn’t look good. In fact, what I see does not lead me to have warm, fuzzy thoughts about God.

And that’s okay. God knows that I’m not thrilled with Him, and He can handle it. I can’t do anything to make Him love me less, and He’ll never love you less, either. But even as I wonder how He could possibly, possibly bring anything good out of this, I have to remember that He can see more than I can. A lot more. And He knows more than I do. And He has more control over the situation that I do.

I still believe that God has a plan, and I know that He is able to work everything out, but I’m having a bit of hard time understanding how He could possibly bring good out of this.

~Natalia

The Passion of the Christ

24 Apr 2011 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Church, Death, God, Love, Movies

At the Good Friday service last week, Karis and I were discussing The Passion of the Christ, since both her family and mine traditionally watch the movie on Good Friday. “What’s your favorite part?” she asked, while one of her sisters played with her hair, and the other squawked happily in the background. “Um… none of it?” I replied, not quite sure what to say. After some thought and a little more discussion, we both settled on the flashbacks as our favorite part of the movie.

Because, to be honest with you, I don’t really like The Passion of the Christ. Satan is creepy, the flogging scene is nauseating, and the crucifixion is heartbreaking. Yes, Jesus does rise again at the end of the movie, and it is sprinkled with wonderful flashbacks of Jesus’ earlier life and ministry, but 95% of the film is cruelty, blood, and gut-wrenching suffering.

But as we were watching the movie this weekend, and as Jesus is first whipped almost to death and then forced to carry His own cross, I was reminded that He was not forced to do what He did. Pilate did not rule over Jesus Christ and Jesus had the power to completely destroy the soldiers who flogged Him mercilessly. He was not coerced in any way.

Jesus chose to suffer inexplicable pain.

And He did it for me. And He did it for you.

Not in a general sort of way, but completely specific, and completely personal.

And completely undeserved.

He did all that because He loves you and me that much.

~Natalia

Life is Like That

18 Feb 2011 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Blogging, Casa Hogar, Death, God, Kiddos, Sovereign, Writing

I know that it may not always seem like it, but I normally spend time before writing considering what I am going to blog about. Yesterday was no different; I went to my old school in the morning, and briefly considered blogging about how it still smells the same, and the secretary it still very kind, and they still put jokes and news up on the big boards in the hallway of every floor.

Shortly after going to the school, I set out with Hermana Tere to my old neighborhood. Drove past our Little Pink House, visited Beatrice in the tiendita across the street, and printed some pages at the papeleria around the corner. There’s some good potential for blog post there, as well.

Then the kids came home from school, and we all heard the news. The son of a woman in the church died yesterday, and we’re going to the funeral. A day that began with waving at children through the slightly opaque glass of their classrooms ended with standing graveside, clutching the sweaty hands of the two little girls I was in charge of, as the blazing sun set behind us.

I suppose most things are like that. Life is like that. As long as we’re not God, which we never will be, life will never turn out the way we think it is going to. The way the morning goes may not be the way the evening ends, and the way the year goes may not be what the decade looks like.

And I am okay with that. I trust God to have a plan that’s bigger and better than mine, even as I know that His plan is not all roses and rainbows. But as long as He’s God, which He always will be, I trust Him to turn my days, weeks, months, and years out the way they should be.

~Natalia

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