The ship is a very strange place. Something about it - someone, rather – has this amazing ability to take a pickax to the most vulnerable places in your heart and bring them to light. I've seen it on several different occasions, when people are forced, usually very much against their will, to face their deepest hurts and most diseased beliefs about themselves and about God. It's not like counseling, where a person asks sensitive questions and gently probes through your past; God knows your past already and he already knows exactly what your issues are.
Tonight I opened one of my journals and, for some reason, flipped to the very back, where I've tucked a few things away for safekeeping and (rare) rereading. One of the things I have hidden away back there is a sort of worksheet that we did during the first few weeks of the camp I worked at a few summers ago. Our speaker had created, on a single sheet of paper, a very detailed template for us to fill in which painted a clear picture of our perceived identies. It began with your parents and their perception of you, then went on to include your personality type, then your deepest hurts and, more importantly, the messages they communicated to you about your identity. Then it allowed space to list your attempts to change and your coping strategies when those attempts failed. The description sounds very clinical, but when I open that sheet of paper, I see straight inside my own living heart.
When I came to the ship, one of the things I was actually kind of looking forward to (in a sick way) was coming to a deeper understanding of my weaknesses. Pride is not a nice thing to deal with, especially if it is based on a lie. We have the capacity to lie to ourselves and convince ourselves of positive qualities we don't have, and then use those lies to inflate our egos. It's an amazing thing.
I have come to a deeper understanding of my weaknesses – oh, I have. It's amazing how Jesus' teachings are so simple when you're not actually living by them . . . when you start to actually do some of the things he said, you realize, maybe for the first time, that actually you can't. You're incapable of it. I've seen things in myself – dark things, terrible things – that I wasn't even aware of before. Most likely they've been glaringly obvious to those around me all along, but that's not the same as them being obvious to me.
I'm forever trying to put myself on a pedestal that I don't deserve, and inevitably, my self-idol will fall and shatter. And when that happens, let me say that it does not feel so nice. However . . . I'm also realizing that a person's understanding of their own wickedness must not surpass their understanding of God's grace.
Actually, that's more the point of this post. Maybe it's more an admission of sorts, to say that I've been having identity struggles. That handwritten paper shows a heart that has not been completely repaired yet. When I consider my present struggles and various parts of my history, all they say to me is that I am wicked and unwanted. But as our camp speaker explained about a flawed perceived-identity, “You came by it honest, but that doesn't make it true.”
There is a truth that is higher than my weariness with myself. There is a truth that really does give me hope. The truth is that there is a God who sees all my problems, who sees the depth of my depravity, and who wants me anyway. It's true that the heart is deceitful and desperately wicked. It is true. But it is more true that God created us, and even in spite of our mistakes, he still values, still wants us. Now that's amazing.
Oh The Places You'll Go . . .
Many moments from my senior year at Bryan make me smile when I remember them . . . for example, one time when I earned a room-filling laugh from Bruce, the dean of students. Unfortunately I don't remember how I phrased it that it amused him so, but I had just commented on how shocked I was to find myself in a life-stage that I didn't expect to exist for me. (Um, is that confusing? Because, I'll be honest, it was a little confusing for me to write. Anyway.)
Moment of transparency: since I was a child, the extent of my hopes and plans for my life were to go to college, get married, and raise a family. I think that was kind of my definition of adulthood, and it was the only thing I ever wanted for myself. Now, I still kind of expect that my life will eventually turn that direction, but mid-senior year, I was totally surprised when it sunk in that I wouldn't be immediately transitioning from college to marriage, and I would need to have something else to do with my life. (I feel a little ridiculous admitting this in a public place - but there's a point forthcoming.)
It was actually quite hard for me to give up those expectations and open myself up for something different - something totally different. First there was my interest in working in Germany, then the missions conference at school where the ships were suggested to me . . . and now here I am, living on a big white ship on the other side of the world.
Tonight I've been listening to Caedmon's Call, and they have this one song about the everyday sacredness of motherhood, and I realized that while I like it and agree with its message, it really doesn't resonate with me at all. Most of my friends are married and thinking about families (I've been in seven weddings! Miss 27 Dresses herself!!), but I'm just really not there at all. Sure, I still want to get married eventually, but finally I seem to have lost the mentality that suggests that marriage is what I "should" be focused on right now. It's not.
My focus is right here. My focus is on introducing the ship to the world. On learning how to be a "little Christ". On building relationships and investing in people who I will never see again (and I'll be honest, that part sucks sometimes). My focus is on being a light in some very dark places, and on having a life of service - a life worth living. And I'm very content with that. Ship life is nowhere near as glamorous as it sounds (seriously) and there are many . . . unique challenges of life on board. But it's a huge privilege, and I'm happy with it.
This is not the life I expected - or the life I wanted. But you know what? It's good.
Moment of transparency: since I was a child, the extent of my hopes and plans for my life were to go to college, get married, and raise a family. I think that was kind of my definition of adulthood, and it was the only thing I ever wanted for myself. Now, I still kind of expect that my life will eventually turn that direction, but mid-senior year, I was totally surprised when it sunk in that I wouldn't be immediately transitioning from college to marriage, and I would need to have something else to do with my life. (I feel a little ridiculous admitting this in a public place - but there's a point forthcoming.)
It was actually quite hard for me to give up those expectations and open myself up for something different - something totally different. First there was my interest in working in Germany, then the missions conference at school where the ships were suggested to me . . . and now here I am, living on a big white ship on the other side of the world.
Tonight I've been listening to Caedmon's Call, and they have this one song about the everyday sacredness of motherhood, and I realized that while I like it and agree with its message, it really doesn't resonate with me at all. Most of my friends are married and thinking about families (I've been in seven weddings! Miss 27 Dresses herself!!), but I'm just really not there at all. Sure, I still want to get married eventually, but finally I seem to have lost the mentality that suggests that marriage is what I "should" be focused on right now. It's not.
My focus is right here. My focus is on introducing the ship to the world. On learning how to be a "little Christ". On building relationships and investing in people who I will never see again (and I'll be honest, that part sucks sometimes). My focus is on being a light in some very dark places, and on having a life of service - a life worth living. And I'm very content with that. Ship life is nowhere near as glamorous as it sounds (seriously) and there are many . . . unique challenges of life on board. But it's a huge privilege, and I'm happy with it.
This is not the life I expected - or the life I wanted. But you know what? It's good.
