Why do I feel as if I am being broken . . . . and reformed?
This evening I realized that I am afraid, possibly more frightened than I have ever been in my life, yet I have no desire to bolt. I'm not even frozen in place. I am excited. Energized. Alive. In a way I have never been before. I look about me with eyes that see more than walls and buildings, roads and pavements, cars and people. I see life. I see potential. I see the future with my waking eyes, as if it were printed on the lenses of a pair of glasses. It isn't rosy. It's real. But it's still amazing. Unbelievable. Unfathomable. Inspiring.
I'm holding my breath. My head spinning. My heart pounding. My eyes filled with tears. When did life become so beautiful? When did I learn to see it? When did fear cease to be an impediment? Why is my soul broken, yet beautifully whole?
Is this what it means? His strength is made perfect in my weakness. Faith is the evidence of things unseen. Perhaps it is faith that has covered my eyes with new lenses. Perhaps it is the very brokenness of my soul that gives room for divine strength.
In the midst of the chaos. In the midst of a world with no guarantees. I can no longer say of my future that it is 'full of uncertainty' because I am no longer uncertain. I have been shorn of my doubt. I stand before the Lord, in the beauty of his holiness, with nothing to offer but my brokenness.
And he smiles at me. . . . because now, at last, he can use me. Finally I am ready to receive the gifts he is eager to give. I have a taste, the wonder of the plan of God on my tongue.
I want more.
30 August, 2008
22 August, 2008
Fears, Future and Expectation
My new artist of interest released his second CD this week. The first track is entitled "Give Me Your Eyes." The singer ponders the crowds of people we pass by every day: "all these people, going somewhere, why have I never cared?" The crux of the song is the singer's prayer "Give me your eyes for just one second/ Give me your eyes so I can see/ Everything that I've been missing/ Give me your love for humanity/ Give me your arms for the broken hearted . . ." Just now, as I listened to the lyrics, my eyes filled with tears, as I thought of the people I have seen on the streets of Cardiff. From the man by the side of the alley with a blanket and a battered umbrella, trying to shelter from the rain to the scores of professionals that I pass on Queen Street every time I go into the city centre. Sometimes I just stand and watch: the passersby, the street performers, the rugby or football supporters on their way to a game, the mothers with small children. What are they thinking? Why are they here? What do they want out of life? Do they enjoy performing on the street? Why are they homeless? Does that mother love her child? Why do they smoke? The questions multiply as I watch and wonder. Somehow I have a heart for these people, but only in a small way.
That was when it hit me, for weeks I have been struggling with loneliness and fear. I identified the fear with my apprehension that I will not be allowed to remain in Wales after the expiration of my visa at the end of January. I fear above all things that I will not be allowed to stay where my heart is. Perhaps this is my greatest fear, but it has a twin. I also fear what will happen when I pass the end of January, when I'm issued that next visa, when my future seriously begins. Because at that point I will be given challenges and asked to do things that I would have declared impossible even six months ago. Testing, strengthening, 'well done. . . I will put you in charge of many things' - the words that I have dreaded, and yet they are the words that I am striving to hear.
My struggles in the past weeks have also been in the area of over-analysis, something that will not astonish anyone who knows me well. Having been made aware that I will be put on the preaching rota for this coming year, I have struggled to see past my ambivalence: is this something I want to do or not? When I said this to Graham yesterday, he looked confused. "When I accepted that I was called, I just did it. I didn't analyze it." It was an effective way of telling me that I was chasing my tail, even if that wasn't what he set out to say. As I was thinking last night, mulling over my conversation with Graham, a phrase popped into my mind. Perhaps I just need to accept that I have accepted it. Maybe my analysis is looking for something that isn't there, because I have changed, but it happened so suddenly that I didn't realize it.
That wasn't the only thing that was accomplished by the conversation with my pastor yesterday. Toward the end of our time together, I realized something: the prospect is exciting, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. The future might be daunting, it might be frightening, it will change me and it will challenge me, but. . . wow, I can't wait!
That was when it hit me, for weeks I have been struggling with loneliness and fear. I identified the fear with my apprehension that I will not be allowed to remain in Wales after the expiration of my visa at the end of January. I fear above all things that I will not be allowed to stay where my heart is. Perhaps this is my greatest fear, but it has a twin. I also fear what will happen when I pass the end of January, when I'm issued that next visa, when my future seriously begins. Because at that point I will be given challenges and asked to do things that I would have declared impossible even six months ago. Testing, strengthening, 'well done. . . I will put you in charge of many things' - the words that I have dreaded, and yet they are the words that I am striving to hear.
My struggles in the past weeks have also been in the area of over-analysis, something that will not astonish anyone who knows me well. Having been made aware that I will be put on the preaching rota for this coming year, I have struggled to see past my ambivalence: is this something I want to do or not? When I said this to Graham yesterday, he looked confused. "When I accepted that I was called, I just did it. I didn't analyze it." It was an effective way of telling me that I was chasing my tail, even if that wasn't what he set out to say. As I was thinking last night, mulling over my conversation with Graham, a phrase popped into my mind. Perhaps I just need to accept that I have accepted it. Maybe my analysis is looking for something that isn't there, because I have changed, but it happened so suddenly that I didn't realize it.
That wasn't the only thing that was accomplished by the conversation with my pastor yesterday. Toward the end of our time together, I realized something: the prospect is exciting, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. The future might be daunting, it might be frightening, it will change me and it will challenge me, but. . . wow, I can't wait!
18 August, 2008
I used to live here.
I used to live in this place. In fact, in a way, this would have been a good day. Today I'm not despairing. The truth is, at this moment, I despise myself. Foolish, isn't it? Irrational. Perpetuating the cycle that got me here in the first place. I could unpack it all. I could explain how the anger springs from hurt, how the hurt springs from loneliness and fear, how these things are routed in experiences I have had, or desires I now have, and how all of it is an exercise in futility because God can prevail in spite of my fears, loneliness, stupidity, fill-in-negative-noun-here.
This is when my brain gets the better of me. The more education I get, the more I over-think, second-guess and analyze. Never has the mantra don't think about it, just do it been more important, and rarely have I been less inclined to heed it. Plugging my ears and singing isn't helping. It doesn't make anything go away. It doesn't solve any problems. It doesn't get anything done. It only wastes time putting off the inevitable in a childish and irresponsible bid to escape from reality.
Did I mention that I despise myself?
Somehow I sense that my true self is stronger, more upright, sharper and wiser than ever before in my life, but it is lost and suffocated in the embrace of this clingy, reptilian, overwhelming 'besetting sin'. Even as I see this, I lose the power to will, the desire to know. Instead the desire to surrender overwhelms me. It is so hard to fight. Why not just give in? Of course, I know all the answers to that question, but while I retain the will not to give in, I cannot seem to find the will to stop listening, to through off this thing that is hindering me, to run with perseverance. I cannot hear. I cannot see. I cannot breathe.
Even as I cry out to God for deliverance, I wonder if I really want it. I doubt if he will really do it. I feel the inevitability that I will find myself in this place again at some point. I used to live here. In many ways, it would be so much easier to stay.
This is when my brain gets the better of me. The more education I get, the more I over-think, second-guess and analyze. Never has the mantra don't think about it, just do it been more important, and rarely have I been less inclined to heed it. Plugging my ears and singing isn't helping. It doesn't make anything go away. It doesn't solve any problems. It doesn't get anything done. It only wastes time putting off the inevitable in a childish and irresponsible bid to escape from reality.
Did I mention that I despise myself?
Somehow I sense that my true self is stronger, more upright, sharper and wiser than ever before in my life, but it is lost and suffocated in the embrace of this clingy, reptilian, overwhelming 'besetting sin'. Even as I see this, I lose the power to will, the desire to know. Instead the desire to surrender overwhelms me. It is so hard to fight. Why not just give in? Of course, I know all the answers to that question, but while I retain the will not to give in, I cannot seem to find the will to stop listening, to through off this thing that is hindering me, to run with perseverance. I cannot hear. I cannot see. I cannot breathe.
Even as I cry out to God for deliverance, I wonder if I really want it. I doubt if he will really do it. I feel the inevitability that I will find myself in this place again at some point. I used to live here. In many ways, it would be so much easier to stay.
12 August, 2008
Rain. Lake. Tears.
Last Saturday afternoon, I discovered an amazing thing: you can rent movies off of iTunes! I had a suspicion this was the case, and so did a little bit of research. Indeed there are several hundred films available for rent direct to your computer. Granted, the films I particularly wanted were unavailable, but there were plenty of others to choose from. Some of them were even decent. I downloaded the necessary upgrade to iTunes and when the extraordinarily long installation was complete, I began cooking my supper of rice. So far my plan was working perfectly, I selected a film, clicked the 'rent' button, sorted out a billing issue and then got a bit of a shock. The movie began downloading alright, but underneath the downloading status bar were the words "six hours remaining." Six hours quickly became five, but after that there was little change as the status bar stubbornly refused to make any marked degree of progress.
Disgruntled, I ate my supper, watching the little status bar instead of the movie, put my dishes back in the sink, strapped on my sandals, pulled on my newest hat, and headed out into the wet summer evening. The rain, which had been falling since I woke in the morning, had eased off and the sidewalk was awash with puddles. I splashed through these with a perverse pleasure in the wetness. Unsure where I was going when I left home, I soon found myself bent on a visit to Roath Park Lake. As I neared the roundabout at the south end of the park, the rain began to spit again, I pulled up the hood on my sweatshirt and trudged on through the grey evening, past the locked gates of the garden and children's play areas, until I finally reached the northern end of the park and glimpsed the grey water of the lake through the bars of the iron fence.
I sped up, suddenly alive with the desire to get to that water. I hurried past the end of the fence, down to the lakeside path and picked my way across the wet grass to the very edge of the water. No sooner had I reached this odd, open-air refuge when the tears spilled from my eyes and I cried out to God with a pain I hadn't realized was in my heart. The water does that to me, pulls the depths of my soul out of myself and reminds me of my maker.
In time I picked my way back to the path and started out to walk around the head of the lake. I paused now and again to watch the silent swans gliding on the rain-pocked lake, to watch and listen to the two immature coots paddling about near their mother, to hear the almost imperceptible sound of the rain falling on the lake. The rain was falling in earnest now, but I let my hood fall back so I could hear better, leaving the cap to shield my face.
All told I walked for about 2.5 hours on Saturday night, returning wet, chilly and tired to my room to find the status bar had advanced far enough for me to begin my film. It was a mindless movie: The Muppets Take Manhattan. I watched. I laughed. I crawled into bed. I slept.
But I'm still wondering about the tears, the pain, the sound of the rain on the water, and what is really going on deep in my soul. I cannot see it. I cannot hear it. In many ways I can only barely feel it. But I know it is there, a change, a shift of some kind, and I know it is a beginning. Something completely new coming to birth within me and as the moments of pain draw closer together, I wonder what this advent will look like?
Disgruntled, I ate my supper, watching the little status bar instead of the movie, put my dishes back in the sink, strapped on my sandals, pulled on my newest hat, and headed out into the wet summer evening. The rain, which had been falling since I woke in the morning, had eased off and the sidewalk was awash with puddles. I splashed through these with a perverse pleasure in the wetness. Unsure where I was going when I left home, I soon found myself bent on a visit to Roath Park Lake. As I neared the roundabout at the south end of the park, the rain began to spit again, I pulled up the hood on my sweatshirt and trudged on through the grey evening, past the locked gates of the garden and children's play areas, until I finally reached the northern end of the park and glimpsed the grey water of the lake through the bars of the iron fence.
I sped up, suddenly alive with the desire to get to that water. I hurried past the end of the fence, down to the lakeside path and picked my way across the wet grass to the very edge of the water. No sooner had I reached this odd, open-air refuge when the tears spilled from my eyes and I cried out to God with a pain I hadn't realized was in my heart. The water does that to me, pulls the depths of my soul out of myself and reminds me of my maker.
In time I picked my way back to the path and started out to walk around the head of the lake. I paused now and again to watch the silent swans gliding on the rain-pocked lake, to watch and listen to the two immature coots paddling about near their mother, to hear the almost imperceptible sound of the rain falling on the lake. The rain was falling in earnest now, but I let my hood fall back so I could hear better, leaving the cap to shield my face.
All told I walked for about 2.5 hours on Saturday night, returning wet, chilly and tired to my room to find the status bar had advanced far enough for me to begin my film. It was a mindless movie: The Muppets Take Manhattan. I watched. I laughed. I crawled into bed. I slept.
But I'm still wondering about the tears, the pain, the sound of the rain on the water, and what is really going on deep in my soul. I cannot see it. I cannot hear it. In many ways I can only barely feel it. But I know it is there, a change, a shift of some kind, and I know it is a beginning. Something completely new coming to birth within me and as the moments of pain draw closer together, I wonder what this advent will look like?
31 July, 2008
Healing Rain
She placed her hands on me and prayed. She put a shawl over my head and anointed me with oil. Through her I was surrounded by the love and the peace of God.
Then I remembered the last time I was anointed with oil. I remembered holding hands in a circle of prayer, kneeling on the tiles and sharing my heart with brothers and sisters in Christ. I remembered his hands on my shoulders, a kiss of blessing on top of my head. It was January 2005, but I still remember.
These things were done in the context of healing. Hands imposed. Prayers offered. Oil applied. Love spilling out over all things. Here we find the Spirit - in acknowledging that we are weak, that we are hurting, that we need help, we need healing.
As I listen to the rain on the roof above my head and the occasional passing car in the street outside, I remember these two encounters - the first only days ago, a private conversation and prayer time; the second over three years since, in the context of a church gathered to worship. Yet each fed and affirmed me in a way that rarely happens. In a way I desperately need. Each reminded me of my value, my place, the Father's love - for me.
The limits of my emotional stamina have been severely tested in recent weeks, yet I do not break. I cannot give up, but today I have been drifting, unable to settle, to work, to face my fears. Like Hermione, I find myself trying to grasp the truth that "everything's going to change now, isn't it?" But when I hear the firm answer, "yes," I can't seem to own it, to accept it, even to understand it.
My faith seems to vary in strength with dizzying rapidity. Sunday night, believing fully in face of insurmountable odds. Tuesday, faith ebbing away in the face of facts. Thursday, faith gives way to more practical concerns, and I work away on the assumption that all rests in God's hands. Monday my faith soars heavenwards again, reaching even the heights of certainty, but Tuesday comes and then Wednesday, and suddenly I am terribly confused and frightened, and my faith is once again slipping into the realms of intellect. That is, I return to a place where I believe God holds all things and will deliver me, but only because I know I believed that four days ago, and I seem to remember that many people have also spoken to me words of encouragement on that theme.
This endless, wet, grey day is starting to slip into night. The rain has ceased pattering for the moment, but will doubtless start up again at some point. The 'hot' sunny days of the weekend have slipped away, or rather been washed away in a spate of true 'Welsh' weather. Perhaps my fears and doubts will be washed away by the rain as well. I can forget the hot discomfort of uncertainties and problems in the cooling comfort of God's rain of grace. I can remember the oil of anointing, the kiss of blessing, the prayer of faith and the words of encouragement. Then I will be able to move again.
Then I remembered the last time I was anointed with oil. I remembered holding hands in a circle of prayer, kneeling on the tiles and sharing my heart with brothers and sisters in Christ. I remembered his hands on my shoulders, a kiss of blessing on top of my head. It was January 2005, but I still remember.
These things were done in the context of healing. Hands imposed. Prayers offered. Oil applied. Love spilling out over all things. Here we find the Spirit - in acknowledging that we are weak, that we are hurting, that we need help, we need healing.
As I listen to the rain on the roof above my head and the occasional passing car in the street outside, I remember these two encounters - the first only days ago, a private conversation and prayer time; the second over three years since, in the context of a church gathered to worship. Yet each fed and affirmed me in a way that rarely happens. In a way I desperately need. Each reminded me of my value, my place, the Father's love - for me.
The limits of my emotional stamina have been severely tested in recent weeks, yet I do not break. I cannot give up, but today I have been drifting, unable to settle, to work, to face my fears. Like Hermione, I find myself trying to grasp the truth that "everything's going to change now, isn't it?" But when I hear the firm answer, "yes," I can't seem to own it, to accept it, even to understand it.
My faith seems to vary in strength with dizzying rapidity. Sunday night, believing fully in face of insurmountable odds. Tuesday, faith ebbing away in the face of facts. Thursday, faith gives way to more practical concerns, and I work away on the assumption that all rests in God's hands. Monday my faith soars heavenwards again, reaching even the heights of certainty, but Tuesday comes and then Wednesday, and suddenly I am terribly confused and frightened, and my faith is once again slipping into the realms of intellect. That is, I return to a place where I believe God holds all things and will deliver me, but only because I know I believed that four days ago, and I seem to remember that many people have also spoken to me words of encouragement on that theme.
This endless, wet, grey day is starting to slip into night. The rain has ceased pattering for the moment, but will doubtless start up again at some point. The 'hot' sunny days of the weekend have slipped away, or rather been washed away in a spate of true 'Welsh' weather. Perhaps my fears and doubts will be washed away by the rain as well. I can forget the hot discomfort of uncertainties and problems in the cooling comfort of God's rain of grace. I can remember the oil of anointing, the kiss of blessing, the prayer of faith and the words of encouragement. Then I will be able to move again.
30 July, 2008
Five Fingers
I'm sure there's a smashing blog entry in me somewhere. I've been wanting to post for some days now, perhaps almost a week, but I was out of town without my computer over the weekend and I haven't gotten used to typing on these foreign keyboards (where, among other changes @ is switched with "). So here I am, listening to Brandon Heath on myspace and wondering why I never found out before how good his songs are. He reminds me of Chris Rice, and now I am trying to talk myself in to purchasing a CD or two of his. I think I like music too much.
When I worked for the great music retail giant - Music and Arts Centers (detect the irony? Good) - every year around this time we would be gearing up for the big money maker: Rental Season. Forget Black Friday and the Christmas rush, nothing compared to the busyness and sales of Rental Season. Mangers were expected to work 60 hours a week, full-time employees could have as much over time (at time and a half pay rate) as they wanted, and every store (there were about 50 at that time) was desperate to be in the top ten. Well, at least every store manager had that aim. The average employee was less chuffed about the whole thing, but we all knew what was coming in August: Rental Season training. Firstly, this included memorizing the phone script a process which generally took place early on one or two Saturday mornings and involved several very sleepy employees taking turns answering the manager's "ring, ring" and the question "do you rent instruments?" I still immediately think "yes we do! What school does your child attend?" and then cringe. The second big push for Rental Season training was the Five Fingers. These are add-on items that the company says every child should have with their rental instrument: damage coverage (free repairs in case you run over the instrument with your car), music stand, name tag (all the other flute cases look just the same as yours), care kit (you want to clean out all that spit, right?), and the appropriate book for their school band. Thus we were expected to talk the poor parents who had called up to discover that we rented flutes for $25 a month, with an initial payment of $15, to walk out the door with items totally over $70 (or more, depending on the instrument). I always hated this, and blatantly didn't do as I was supposed to do if there wasn't anyone looking over my shoulder, but then I never was a good salesperson - my aim was to sell people what they wanted, or what they needed, always keeping in mind what they could afford to buy. I guess the management didn't mind too much, they were sorry to see me leave after four years.
Well, so much for my trip down memory lane. I was thinking of those days just now, not because of the time of year, but because the Five Fingers suddenly seems appropriate to my life at the moment. I have found myself holding up my hand and ticking off the five things in at least two conversations recently, and both times I remembered my former managers drilling the Five Fingers into new rental recruits. My five fingers are not a selling gimmick. Rather they are the core passions or callings in my life. In each area I have seen God at work, and in every contemplation of my future life, each one must find a place. This is one of the reasons life seems so complicated for me. I cannot single-mindedly pursue one item or calling or area of passion without the palpable sense that some neglected part of me is shriveling up and dying.
My first, and oldest, passion was music. As a child I discovered this talent. As a teenager I developed it, studying piano and voice. I finally graduated with a BA in Applied Music. My musical skills were much enhanced by my time at Bluefield, but I never wanted to get involved in the cut-throat world of professional music - at least not for more than a few minutes.
The next passion I stumbled into was academic theology: the complicated process of asking questions, searching for answers, learning to think 'theologically' and 'philosophically' (yes, they are different things: I learned the first from Tarmo and the second from Jeff), and realizing that to question a belief was not to reject it and to be in fellowship with a someone who held differing theological views than I was an asset not a threat. My head began to spin with ideas and question while my heart began to swell with the possibilities they represented. I decided to be an academic.
Then I came to Wales. It isn't English, and anyone who is Welsh or English (having lived in Wales) will tell you this. Wales is unique, and by no means perfect, but the first thought I had when I had arrived at my destination was "I'm home." And whatever the imperfections, needs and problems of Wales, my passion for this country and its people has grown, not shrunk in the past 10.5 months. Whatever happens, my calling is here, and I will fight to stay here.
This past May I stumbled into another calling: the calling to ministry. I have spent the last three months or so coming to terms with that calling and the radical re-ordering of my theology, psychology, attitude and self-awareness that it has entailed, but that journey has served to underscore the sense of call rather than the reverse.
Now, if you are keeping count, you will see that I have listed four out of five items. I leave the fifth for last for a couple of reasons. In a way, it is the thumb, it differs from the others, even opposes it in some way. This is my passion for home, husband and family. Chronologically it comes only a few years after I realized my gift for music, and that passion has journeyed with me through all the years since, struggling for supremacy as I have identified these other areas of calling and gifting. It looms large in my minds eye as a question mark: how can I possibly give myself to all these things, and still be the wife, the mother, I always wanted to be?
While I can get involved in a choir, play the piano in church, study at the University, work out bureaucratic red tape with regard to Visas, and apply to the local Association for ministerial training, I have much less control over the 'thumb'. But when I envision my future, I know that something will be missing if each of these five do not have a place somewhere. Each one has been affirmed, and I have been encouraged to persevere in each. I know the names of each of the fingers, but what will the hand look like?
When I worked for the great music retail giant - Music and Arts Centers (detect the irony? Good) - every year around this time we would be gearing up for the big money maker: Rental Season. Forget Black Friday and the Christmas rush, nothing compared to the busyness and sales of Rental Season. Mangers were expected to work 60 hours a week, full-time employees could have as much over time (at time and a half pay rate) as they wanted, and every store (there were about 50 at that time) was desperate to be in the top ten. Well, at least every store manager had that aim. The average employee was less chuffed about the whole thing, but we all knew what was coming in August: Rental Season training. Firstly, this included memorizing the phone script a process which generally took place early on one or two Saturday mornings and involved several very sleepy employees taking turns answering the manager's "ring, ring" and the question "do you rent instruments?" I still immediately think "yes we do! What school does your child attend?" and then cringe. The second big push for Rental Season training was the Five Fingers. These are add-on items that the company says every child should have with their rental instrument: damage coverage (free repairs in case you run over the instrument with your car), music stand, name tag (all the other flute cases look just the same as yours), care kit (you want to clean out all that spit, right?), and the appropriate book for their school band. Thus we were expected to talk the poor parents who had called up to discover that we rented flutes for $25 a month, with an initial payment of $15, to walk out the door with items totally over $70 (or more, depending on the instrument). I always hated this, and blatantly didn't do as I was supposed to do if there wasn't anyone looking over my shoulder, but then I never was a good salesperson - my aim was to sell people what they wanted, or what they needed, always keeping in mind what they could afford to buy. I guess the management didn't mind too much, they were sorry to see me leave after four years.
Well, so much for my trip down memory lane. I was thinking of those days just now, not because of the time of year, but because the Five Fingers suddenly seems appropriate to my life at the moment. I have found myself holding up my hand and ticking off the five things in at least two conversations recently, and both times I remembered my former managers drilling the Five Fingers into new rental recruits. My five fingers are not a selling gimmick. Rather they are the core passions or callings in my life. In each area I have seen God at work, and in every contemplation of my future life, each one must find a place. This is one of the reasons life seems so complicated for me. I cannot single-mindedly pursue one item or calling or area of passion without the palpable sense that some neglected part of me is shriveling up and dying.
My first, and oldest, passion was music. As a child I discovered this talent. As a teenager I developed it, studying piano and voice. I finally graduated with a BA in Applied Music. My musical skills were much enhanced by my time at Bluefield, but I never wanted to get involved in the cut-throat world of professional music - at least not for more than a few minutes.
The next passion I stumbled into was academic theology: the complicated process of asking questions, searching for answers, learning to think 'theologically' and 'philosophically' (yes, they are different things: I learned the first from Tarmo and the second from Jeff), and realizing that to question a belief was not to reject it and to be in fellowship with a someone who held differing theological views than I was an asset not a threat. My head began to spin with ideas and question while my heart began to swell with the possibilities they represented. I decided to be an academic.
Then I came to Wales. It isn't English, and anyone who is Welsh or English (having lived in Wales) will tell you this. Wales is unique, and by no means perfect, but the first thought I had when I had arrived at my destination was "I'm home." And whatever the imperfections, needs and problems of Wales, my passion for this country and its people has grown, not shrunk in the past 10.5 months. Whatever happens, my calling is here, and I will fight to stay here.
This past May I stumbled into another calling: the calling to ministry. I have spent the last three months or so coming to terms with that calling and the radical re-ordering of my theology, psychology, attitude and self-awareness that it has entailed, but that journey has served to underscore the sense of call rather than the reverse.
Now, if you are keeping count, you will see that I have listed four out of five items. I leave the fifth for last for a couple of reasons. In a way, it is the thumb, it differs from the others, even opposes it in some way. This is my passion for home, husband and family. Chronologically it comes only a few years after I realized my gift for music, and that passion has journeyed with me through all the years since, struggling for supremacy as I have identified these other areas of calling and gifting. It looms large in my minds eye as a question mark: how can I possibly give myself to all these things, and still be the wife, the mother, I always wanted to be?
While I can get involved in a choir, play the piano in church, study at the University, work out bureaucratic red tape with regard to Visas, and apply to the local Association for ministerial training, I have much less control over the 'thumb'. But when I envision my future, I know that something will be missing if each of these five do not have a place somewhere. Each one has been affirmed, and I have been encouraged to persevere in each. I know the names of each of the fingers, but what will the hand look like?
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