on seminary and tunnels

I came to Seattle Pacific University because of a direct call from God. I entered seminary because of a call. Yet what I’m learning is that a call is not a guarantee. You have to cultivate a call. You have to nurture it, pluck away the weeds from around it, water it, and protect it. But it’s worth it.

I thought that because I was called that I would love every second of it. But that hasn’t been the case. It’s been hard. There have been so many times where I wanted to quit, where I thought that I wasn’t going to make it. And to a certain extent, I still do. However, what I know to be true is that I’m not doing this alone. I have a crowd of witnesses around me, encouraging me and supporting me, cheering me on.

At SPU, one of the undergraduate traditions during graduation weekend is a ceremony called Ivy Cutting. It takes place in Tiffany Loop, one of the central locations on campus. Tiffany Loop is like a town’s “Main Street”, it’s an identifying marker of the school. All the graduating seniors gather in the middle of campus—far enough away from Tiffany Loop that it is not visible. The graduates then enter the ceremony along a sidewalk that leads into the Loop. But this walk is not the solitary walk of the formal graduation ceremony. No, this walk is crowded and noisy and wonderful. You see, the sidewalk leading into the Loop is lined with every professor and staff person. As the graduates walk, the professors and staff cheer and hoot and holler. This is a moment of celebration!

Tonight I was reminded of that ceremony in a conversation with one of my professors at the end of the class. We were talking about some of my struggles in seminary. He said, “You’re too valuable. We’re not giving up on you; and we’re not letting you give up on you.” Seminary is like that entrance into Tiffany Loop at Ivy Cutting. Yeah, it might be more like crawling than walking and the path may seem more like a climb up Mt Everest than a paved path, but it is lined with professors, staff, colleagues, classmates, friends, and family.

Often we use the language of tunnels to describe the timeline of a journey. The person who just finished the last quarter of classes is at the end of the tunnel. The person in the last year of classes can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I've gotten into the habit of joking that I'm in the middle of the tunnel with no end in sight, that there doesn't even seem to be an end. But my metaphor is missing a crucial piece. My tunnel is not a lonely tunnel. I have a crowd of witnesses attesting to the fact that there is an end and that I'm not alone. I am the one who has to walk the journey, I am the active participant in my story. But I am not alone.

medicating and dashes

Why is it that we medicate the uncomfortableness? Why is that we medicate and drown, and drug instead of sitting in the awkward, and often, painful moment where every fiber in your body is telling you that something is not right? Why is it so difficult to face the fact that there is something broken in our lives?

We medicate by flipping the channel until we find a show that makes us laugh or horrified or sentimental. And the second that it is no longer giving us that "high," we flip the channel to the next "drug."

We medicate by going out every single weekend, running ourselves into the ground in order to make sure that we are doing "life" right with money and interesting hobbies and a glamorous career and a confident fashion sense and the perfect partner and the "best" kids and… When does it stop?

What has happened to quietness? To stillness? To not doing anything? To being uncomfortable? To resting?

I don't have the answers. I am caught in this cycle too. But I want out. I want to start caring about the people around me. I want to know and be known. I want to be uncomfortable at times. I want to acknowledge what is broken in my life. I want to admit that I don't have it all together, that I struggle with taking risks.

Maybe that is my whole point. Maybe what I am trying to express is that there has to be more to life than just drowning out the imperfections. 

There is this saying that on your tombstone there will be two dates on it with a dash in the middle and that the dash is our living. So, what will your "dash" look like? If the dash took on the characteristics of your living, what would it look like? Would it be long and thin? Or maybe a fat, squiggly line? Maybe a double line? Would it be a colored dash? Or a sparkly one? What about a simple black line? Whatever your living, your dash, looks like, let's not drug and drown out the entire experience. 

Just one more thought about the whole living without the medicating. I'm learning that in order to make the most of my living without medicating, I have to do less. I have to set aside time to be quiet, and still, and even be uncomfortable.

But it is worth it.

And on that note, I'm going to find some quiet.

the desert and declarations

Have you ever felt like you were alone, wandering through a lonely desert, unsure of where you're going or what your purpose is there? Have you ever felt like no matter how loud you shouted, nobody could hear you?

I have struggled a lot with feeling like that since the sickness started. So many times I have felt that not one person understood what I was dealing with. Oh sure they could read about it and understand in a small way but nobody had gone through what I was going through. I felt so very alone.

I feel like I woke up one day in the middle of a wide expansive desert, not a tree in sight nor any body of water. All I could see was dry, cracked earth reaching as far as the eye could see. I didn't have any idea how I got there or why I was there; all I knew was that I was supposed to walk and keep walking until I could somehow escape the desert. It was a very silent area - no people, no cars, no city noises, no animals, nothing except for me and the hard, cracked dirt. I couldn't call out for help, it might bring unspoken danger. I couldn't rest, if I did, then I might die for lack of wanting to get up again.

I don't know how to get out of my desert. Elle, my counselor, compared my desert to the Israelites' 40 years wandering  in the desert. Their desert was a time of cleansing, of getting rid of the impurities in the characters of each person. What was left at the end of the 40 years was a group who had faith, a faith that had endured through 40 years of wandering and waiting. I'm not sure what the purpose of my desert is. Maybe it is to purify my character, to get rid of the impurities. Or maybe it has a whole other purpose that I can't see yet. But maybe its not about knowing what the purpose is. Maybe its about being open to God's work in you, in your character, your desires, your thoughts.

"In the same way I was with Moses, I'll be with you. I won't give up on you; I won't leave you." ~ Joshua 1:5 (The Message)


Abba, I feel alone in my desert. It feels like you have given up on me, that you have left me. Thank you for reminding me that you are with me. You didn't leave Moses or the Israelites and you won't leave me. Help me to remember, when the lies that I am all alone are crowding in, that you have declared that you will never leave me. As you wish.