On The Holy Spirit

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believer, Bible study, doubt, experience, Forgotton God, Francis Chan, Holy Spirit, Jesus Christ, love, panic, prayer, salvation, small group, trinity

I don’t tend to like quote small groups studies. But I was really finding this group of people interesting and fun, so I swallowed my feelings for small groups and went to theirs, feigning eagerness to swap ignorance with these, my peers. We were reading, together, a book by Francis Chan. Good book, no doubt. We chatted about the Holy Spirit, about how we ignore Him, about how we don’t understand the Trinity so we talk Jesus-this and Jesus-that when Jesus talked Holy Spirit-this-and-that. It’s all messed up so we tried to make sense of some of it. It was as all small groups for me have ever been, a below-average life experience, but one thing gave me pause. Well, two things did.

The one was this question Chan asked in the book, “When’s the last time you saw the Holy Spirit work?” And I wasn’t worried when I read it.  I’m a Bible-believing follower of Jesus Christ.  This is no problem.  It’s the “gimmie” question on the mid-term exam.  It’s the golf ball you can sneeze into the hole, it’s so close to in.  It’s the–  Then I realized…I didn’t know.  I didn’t know the last time I saw the Spirit work.  I couldn’t remember the last time I saw the Spirit work.  Oh my gosh.  I hadn’t seen the Spirit work.  Panic.

The other kind of pause was less dramatic.  In trying to understand how we “see” the Spirit at work in our immediate lives, I was posing this question to these pseudo-friends of mine: Can you give me an example of experiential knowledge of the Spirit in your life? They spoke only in generalities when they answered and so I gave a story about how I felt my heart changed over time in praying for the salvation of my friends.

I was thinking of two whilst I spoke and told them how I’ve prayed for years the same prayer that ebbs and flows as the days roll on, just adjusting it’s dialect but always begging my God for the same result. When I used to pray, I believed that God would. I’ve always believed that He is able. I experienced the way He saved me from a life not unlike each of theirs, so it’s not a matter of not believing. But over time, little details change, huge shifts take place, my perspective grows and my heart is transformed. I don’t know how it happens, but I believe that God will in a new way now.

I know with an overwhelming confidence that, though these men are still in unlove with my Savior, that God is doing something. I pray the same prayer, still, but with a fresh kind of assurance. My point was that, I think the Spirit has shifted me. This is my experienctial knowledge.

Without realizing it, I had seen the Spirit work. A man across the group said my name to break the silence. Linda… He’s a quiet kind of guy, which is cute. From what you just shared with us, you have seen the Spirit work.

They startled me, his words.  They nudged me with an elbow and I was just dozing off. Oh yes, I had! I sure had seen the Holy Spirit of this Living God work in my life.

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Cash Back

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bank, cash, Chicago, grocery store, Michigan, money, moving, purchase, self-esteem, shopping, store

My bank is a pen-just-barely-touches-the-paper kind of dot, a little, tiny bloop of black ink through a double bifocal lens, through a microscope eyepiece, the fat one, that makes the very smallest things bigger. It’s hardly half a pixel on a map of the galaxy. Some days, it seems that no money is inside that bank but mine.

None of this mattered until I moved away, because this inconsequential bank of mine is around the corner from my parent’s home. When I left the house, I could stop at the bank and no time, no effort was lost.  I just carried right on.

But, you see, the way I live now is different.  I’ve crossed state lines twice since my last trip to the bank.  I’ve eyed and ignored a dozen zip codes on my way here. What a player. Inevitably, there is no sign of my bank for miles. I have money, a few dollars I guess, but I can’t get to the bank to toss it in there.  There is one way, I found out recently–I could ask for “cash back.”

Cash back is this unfortunate situation of mental gymnastics. For one, I was once told that swiping my card at the checkout and masquerading as a credit card was preferable. Maybe it earns more points or helps my credit rating, I can never remember, nor do I care. But because of this old advice, I push cancel for credit whenever I use my quote debit card. The problem here is that when I want cash back, so I don’t have to hold onto all this money all the time like a stripper, I’m backed into a corner. I have to press credit; they make me.

Okay, so I lose a few points or I can never buy a house. No big deal. But, a minute ago my self-esteem was soaring. I came in with a list of four items, which I wrote while walking from the car to the front door of the store. I came to the checkout with seven items, but couldn’t find the hummus, so only four of which weren’t on my list. Since we’re still working with single digits, this was a successful trip. My total was somewhere around twenty-five dollars. Bonus.

But, now, because of this bank debacle, I ask for cash back. Not much, just enough in case we go out to eat this week and I want to try and function like a real-life adult, not allowing some exceedingly generous and endlessly loving family to buy my meal (again). So, I take twenty-five dollars in cash.  It seems to be enough, not too much.

My receipt prints out and the total is fifty dollars and some change. Disappointment sets in. Cash back has just ruined my shopping trip. I had done so well. Only slightly more than twenty-five dollars and I was out the door and hadn’t spent my life savings at the grocery store. But, fifty! Oh goodness, fifty!  Now, I spent fifty dollars which is at least twenty too much and I’m dragging my plastic bags behind me out the door, my cash back depression scampering close behind.

Stupid microscopic bank, messing with my self-esteem like that.

Just Poetry

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Belief, fantasy, love, poetry, prayer, relationship, trial, writing

He said, “Thanks for the prayers,”
the man who won’t,
and doesn’t believe I should,
waste such time talking to the thin air
in my free or otherwise spent time.

He was in trial and I still believe,
neither or both of which
may have drawn us together
or are keeping us apart.

I prayed as I always do,
every morning in my mind
and every morning still far out of my life,
for a man mixed-up, moving forward.

I dream towards you,
towards me, towards making us.
Hopelessly, in fantasy.

(It’s all just poetry.)

The Penmanship That Defines Us

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checks, font, history, pencil, penmanship, signature, words, writing

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve found ways, mostly foolish, to mark my growth via penmanship. Looking back, I suppose it’s clear that, even in the early years, that pencil was practically growing out of my fat little hand.  Always writing, doodling, playing with words, even if it was just sliding the magnetic letters on the fridge around and upside down.  My penmanship has never been stable, only on temporary plateaus.  And, yet again, it’s on the move.

In grade school, I played with the presentation of my name, even on the heading of my papers in school. Striving for uniqueness and searching for identity from behind my rotund, dented, red, wire spectacle frames in middle school, I twisted my name around until it sounded like something fresh and different and “cool.” Atop my papers, teachers would see “Lin-Duh” and know that I wasn’t trying to be impossible or self-deprecating; I was only trying to distinguish myself as someone of worth and status. I wrote my name with smiley faces, with huge obnoxious dots over the “i,” with all capital letters, or with tails that swirled all over the top of the page. Sometimes my dad still calls me “Lin-Duh”, and the “Duh” trails behind him, through the kitchen, down the hall, around the corner, for years and years until I can barely hear the silent “h” any longer.

Through most of high school I doodled.  I played with ink and symbol in margins and white space.  I drew the names of boys I said I loved and my best friends that would, of course, be my best friends forever, in big, block fonts.  I added color and design, drew people and pictures in with flowery something or others and pasted it all on the fronts and backs and inside outs of my notebooks and binders.

When I began to sign checks, I panicked because my signature was inconsistent and messy.  They’d never know if it was me or my identity-stealing bank robber signing Linda A. Sullivan.  Or should I only sign L. Sullivan?  Some folks I knew signed with letters and lines, like, L scribble, S scribble.  Should I do that, too?  I practiced on sheets of paper, like girls do when they want to marry a man and they replace hers with his last name, to see how Mrs. Linda whomever would look and sound.  Fantasy.  Pages and pages of capital L’s, A’s, S’s, trying to find a tilt and size and style that looked on paper like my personality felt.

And even now, as a teacher, I’m finding myself a new font for writing on the marker board with those fat Expo markers, most of which are dry yet sit stealthily on the ledge of the board, mysteriously without ink. The CAPS LOCK seems to be working well.  It’s hard to write on the board in a straight line, CAPS or no caps, but the letters seems to stay legible when they’re all capital. 

On paper, I’m finding my hand comfortable, again, with a pencil, getting used to changes and mistakes in my lesson plan book. I enjoy the rough feel that resonates in my fingers and wrist when the pencil scrapes unwillingly against the paper, leaving graphite shavings and often, erasure crumbles behind.  I feel older as I write in cursive, like I haven’t in years.  The pace slows my words, makes me patient and I finish the “s” with dainty curvature before beginning the next word. 

My writing takes a new slant, literally, as my penmanship changes with this season and that.  This penmanship defines and redefines me.

Betrothed

Tags

betrothal, crown, Daughter of the King, Jesus, love, marriage, Savior, tattoo, wedding ring

I’ve had a tattoo around my wrist for about a year. It says “Daughter of the King” in script with a drop shadow. I also have a crown on what your typical Westerner would call the “ring finger” on my left hand. I know, gasp!  The concept behind my tattoos has to do with making clear my priorities. It has to do with asserting my betrothal to Christ, my Savior and King. He has redeemed me, claimed me, saved me. I am His.

I am His before I am the wife of any man. Before I am anything to anyone. Historically, it’s been most difficult for me to apply this truth to dating and men. But a little bit of ink under my skin says that I will wake up every morning and love first, my Lord. First, before I go about my day, before I dole out my affections elsewhere, even if it is to a godly man, even if to a husband. First, to my King.

And reminding me of this today was a story from a friend of the understanding that her two-year-old has of how Christ takes us as His bride. Read this precious dialogue between Mom and daughter.

Lakeshore Drive

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beach, change, Chicago, city, downtown, driving, friends, Lakeshore Drive, LSD, memories, moving, place, transportation, urban

Driving down Lakeshore Drive behind brake lights, swimming in the sound of car horns, I passed beaches packed with people. Places that held pieces of me.

Past Montrose, where we walked the harbor, talked about sailboats
Past Irving Park where I rode Steve’s bike and saved that gal’s life
Past Fullerton, Belmont, whirlyball and the bakery
Past North Ave, the hockey rink, me against you
And Oak Street, Berghoff Book Club
Then Navy Pier, where the traffic breaks free.

Harbor after harbor, there were bare legs hanging off the backs of docked boats. Sweaty t-shirts sticking to running bodies. Spray from Buckingham floating across Grant Park. Lanes ending suddenly around the bend, cars forgetting to merge, as they do. And I, waiting patiently and thinking possessively, this is my city. Which, it isn’t. I don’t live in the city limits. Not now anyway. I’m driving thirty miles South to my home in the suburbs.

But, this, this downtown and North end bustle, this sprawling cityscape, all of which we suburbanites call “downtown” anyway, is what I know and where I’ve spent years upon years. It’s where I just settled down and found a crew and got plugged in and started to love again.

And tomorrow I will leave and start again.

Time Lapsed Love

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communication, email, friendship, letters, life, love, mail, mailbox, phone, post office, tangible love, text message, words, writing

The most wonderful thing about letters is the time lapse. You walk out to the mailbox with an anticipation, however mild, for the short stack of papers that’s inevitably waiting inside when you pull down the hinged door. If your mailbox is anything like the ones where I’ve been getting my mail for the past few years, most of that paper isn’t for me. But if just one item says Miss Linda Sullivan on the front, that mild anticipation fizzes and pops like a cork out of a champagne bottle. A letter for me! Wee!

The interesting thing about the time lapse in letters, especially in a generation of immediate and technologically assisted gratification, is the concept that someone was thinking of you a few days ago, even a week ago, but not necessarily, and probably not right now.

A letter takes time to fashion. You must first decide to write it. It takes time to gather pen and paper, or fancy stickers and cardstock. Time to print pictures or make CDs. Time to send packages with pieces of clothing inside. It takes time to write—to craft words that mean something and say what you mean to say instead of saying something else. It takes time to find envelopes and buy stamps and maybe even to find the post office. It takes years to build up an address book of all the folks you like, and then they move and don’t live there anymore so it takes time to chase them around in order to write them so they know you still like them. Writing letters takes time.

And so when I open my mailbox and there’s a letter for me, I know that whoever claims the spot on that return address label took the time. Took the time to fashion something that would float around in baskets with wheels and comfortably in the bed of a white postal truck for days as it made its way from zip code to zip code, finding me. And by the time I get that letter, the time that was spent tangibly saying I love you is over. It was days ago, but I’m just getting tuned in now, standing at the mailbox. Sending letters is like constantly playing catch-up.

I find the warm feeling at the mailbox, the one that recognizes the time lapse in communication and appreciates it, more fulfilling than the vibration of my phone, alerting me to a text message or the white bar in my gmail inbox that says I have an unread email. I love those things too, and I experience mild excitement when they happen. Truly, I do (Is that sad?). But, the satisfaction of time lapsed love is far superior to me. And even a little bit more mysterious. And so, this is why I will always write letters and love receiving them.

Unstuck from Assumptions

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action, Belief, Chicago, church, community, disciple-making, discipleship, downtown, friends, friendship, group, house church, Jesus Christ, life, love, Michigan, Mozart, Rogers Park, sacrifice, social, tangible love, theology, Tuesday night, West Michigan

They’re not fair, these assumptions. These assumptions I’m carrying about making friends and settling down in this new part of town are just residue from my grief. I didn’t realize until my last couple days in Chicago how sad I was to leave this group of people who have been growing into my own community over the past several months. I drove halfway to Michigan in need of windshield wipers hanging from my eyelashes because they were behind me, these people. I was driving away from them. Their love, the direction of their thoughts, the way their actions match, it’s changing the way I think. The way folks practice Christianity, yet again, is influencing my cerebral theology.

Chicago Community in Summer 2010

These assumptions I carry, they say it doesn’t get any better than the apartment on Mozart. That’s where we’d meet on Tuesday nights. My assumptions say that Mozart is the standard, the ultimate expression of Christ’s love among others, and that even searching for something comparable is following a pirate map and finding no treasure at the end. I’ll never find anything to match. My assumptions say there will only ever be disappointment apart from Mozart.

I have to be able to see through these changes to the clarity beyond. The Mozart folks sent me a letter today. The kind where everyone writes a message and signs their name. They must have passed it around on Tuesday night, the first Tuesday that I was gone. I mean, here. Nothing in their words said specifically that I’m wrong, that I’m assuming things that will only achieve loneliness, but I know that I am. They’re on the right track, these dear friends of mine, living like Christ, transforming lives, effecting change. But they can’t be the only ones.  They just can’t be.

There are folks here who have hearts bent in the same kinds of twists and turns. I’m sure of it. There are folks here with crazy ideas that maybe [gasp!] don’t even fit into the structure of the institutional church but, yet, are Christlike to the utmost. Ideas that are wise, that are love incarnate, that are sacrificial and hard. And if I sit on these assumptions, I’ll never meet them to know. Here goes.