Living in Limbo

What a bizarre year it has been.

Actually, “bizarre” doesn’t even begin to cover it. This year has been nothing short of insane. In the “you can’t make this stuff up” sort of way. From COVID lockdowns to wildfires to elections (and, in Georgia, runoff elections… yay) to murder hornets (because why not), this year has brought with it what feels like a lifetime’s worth of challenges. So many things have changed or are in flux that sometimes it feels sometimes like the whole world has been turned upside down. Who would have ever thought that Hallmark Christmas movies featuring holiday parties would feel dated? And who would have ever imagined that movie theater chains could go out of business? And who could have predicted that toilet paper would become the American equivalent of white gold? Like I said, bizarre doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

Yet even in this weird and wacky year that is 2020, we still managed to find a new normal. In my studies of Cold War Germany, I have often thought and read about life in divided Berlin. One day, the city was open. The next day (and built over a few weeks), a wall ran through it. How strange that must have felt. Yet that division lasted for 28 years and some change. During that time, though, the Berliners managed to find their new normal. And according to the sources, this happened faster than you would think. So normal was the division and so ingrained in their minds, in fact, that by the time the the wall finally came down in 1989, the united city struggled to readjust to the new “old” normal.

Like the Berliners of the 1960s, we also have had to find an our new normal in this COVID-marked world. What makes it difficult, though, is that normal itself keeps changing, as soon as we start to find our footing. We’ve figured out how to live in this state of limbo and we’re doing it one day at a time. More often than not, life this year has felt like an algebra equation, one in which every element is a variable, and there are not enough numbers—or any numbers—to solve it with. Are we online for school, or are we not? Is it safe to travel on airplanes or not? Do we need a COVID test to go to this place, or are we okay without it? For how many days should we quarantine if we are exposed? What actually are the symptoms of COVID, and how much do asymptomatic people spread the virus? Which people can I trust to have in my “bubble”? Is it okay to hang out inside if we are wearing masks and keep at a distance? Can kids get the virus? Should we be concerned at all about the vaccine? Etc. etc.

And beyond these general virus-related questions are the questions we each face individually, Like for my sister this summer: how do you (re)plan a wedding with all the appropriate COVID precautions when these are also constantly changing? Or for me and Jim: did it make sense to take a postdoc in Berlin when it would have started in October 2020, i.e. when the second wave was projected to hit? Or what about taking a second postdoc set to begin April 2021, when depending on the state of the pandemic, this might mean not getting to see my family for an entire year? These are just a few of the tough and unexpected questions that COVID forced us to answer.

Despite all the craziness and uncertainty and unanswerable questions, we have still managed to make some pretty big decisions. In March, Jim started his own business and has been evolving and growing ever since. In April, when became clear that my university was experiencing higher than normal enrollment, I decided to take on a few online summer sections and added an extra section to my schedule in the fall. In May, Jim and I decided that renting in the city no longer made sense, and in June we bought our first house. In July, we decided to spend three weeks in Kansas with my family to help them with final wedding. And in April and again in November, after a lot of discussion, prayer, and quite a few tears, we decided that I would turn down the international postdocs. I know this was the right thing to do, even if it was one of the most challenging and counterintuitive decisions I’ve ever had to make.

In more ways than I can count, this year has been difficult, discouraging, and frustrating. I’ve cried and felt more overwhelmed in 2020 than I did when I was taking my PhD qualifying exams, and that’s saying something. But although these difficulties, discouragements, and frustrations are very real, and they are a big part of the story, they have never been the whole story.

Way back in January—oh, how that feels like a lifetime ago—I started listening to the “Bible in One Year” app created by Alpha. Hearing the Bible each day (or most days) has been one of the bright spots of this year. As usually happens for me in any “do this every day” sort of activity, I inevitably fell behind, which meant that today I listened to part of Lamentations. In this book, the prophet Jeremiah is mourning the downfall of Jerusalem, the exile of the Israelites, and the loss of all he holds dear and cares about. Jeremiah is experiencing some deep despair, and rightfully so. His whole world had fallen apart. Then in chapter 3, he says this:

‘So I say, “My splendor is gone
    and all that I had hoped from the Lord.”

¹⁹ I remember my affliction and my wandering,
    the bitterness and the gall.
²⁰ I well remember them,
    and my soul is downcast within me.
²¹ Yet this I call to mind
    and therefore I have hope:

²² Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
    for his compassions never fail.
²³ They are new every morning;
    great is your faithfulness.
²⁴ I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
    therefore I will wait for him.”’

He isn’t going to deny all his pain and suffering. He will not forget how awful things have been and still are. And he is not simply telling himself to “buck up” or “get it together” or “put on a happy face.” He will remember all the sorrow he has experienced, but he refuses to end there. He chooses to call to mind “the Lord’s great love,” and this brings him hope.

I’d be lying if I said that I enjoy living in limbo and that 2020 has been anything close to a “good” year. But while that’s true, I don’t have to let the crumminess be the whole story. Like Jeremiah, I can stay in touch with the struggles of this year, while also choosing to have hope in the Lord. And that’s my prayer for you too, whatever 2020 has brought your way.

And speaking of prayer, let’s ask God for a better 2021. Please, thank you, and amen!

Good (at) Grief

There are certain compliments you really don’t want.

“You have a face for radio” or “she’s got a great personality” are the first that come to mind. I remember receiving one in middle school when my sister told me (in complete seriousness), “It doesn’t matter what anyone else says, Steffi; I think you’re great.” Similarly, my dad told me that, in the army, you don’t want your annual report to say, “he/she takes criticism well.” After all, it’s better to avoid criticism by doing things correctly the first time.

Over the last two months, I have added another less-than-ideal compliment to my list: being “good at grieving.” And based on the number of times I’ve received this compliment, it would seem that I am. I’m not saying that, if grieving were a sport, I could go pro. But I apparently have a shot at the minor leagues.

What does it mean to “grieve well”?, you ask. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. But if I had to wager, I would say that it might involve A LOT of the following: crying, taking walks around my neighborhood, listening to hymns on repeat, and talking the ears off of those family members and friends who don’t mind hearing the same things over and over again.

I’d also guess that grieving well means embracing whatever you are feeling in a given moment, no matter how unpleasant or unwanted that emotion may be. It means sleeping a bit later than usual, and then needing an extra hour in the morning to muster up the courage to face the day. It means being honest when you aren’t doing well, and then taking the steps to take care of yourself. But most of all, I’ve found that grieving isn’t just puffy-eyed crying (although that’s certainly part of it). No, being good at grieving means being okay with not being okay–and then giving yourself the grace to be angry, sad, or upset until you’re ready to feel okay again.

Grieving isn’t fun, even if you’re apparently “good” at it. Because let’s be real; we’d all rather avoid the loss in the first place. If I could rewind to 10.5 weeks ago, before things fell apart and prevent that from happening, I would. Once I realized that there would be no rewind or do-over, then I just wanted this process to be over. I so badly wanted a shortcut through this suckiness. But deep down, I knew that, just as there had been no detour around this situation, there would be no shortcut through it. The only way to emerge on the other side (if there really was another side) was to put my head down and trudge through it. And then trudge, and trudge some more.

It hasn’t been an easy journey, and there were days when my sadness felt like a permanent rain cloud, or like a lead apron from the dentist’s office had camped out on my heart. I couldn’t picture being happy again, let alone feeling moderately okay. Could the wounds inside me, still so deep and raw, possibly ever heal?

The pain isn’t fully gone yet, but it’s gradually becoming less intense. And while I’m not yet “better”, I am on the way to getting there. And as I look back over my shoulder at that darkness, here are few things I see. (*Caveat: Although grief is a universal process, people grieve in different ways. So feel free to take or leave my takeaways as you see fit.)

1. Let yourself cry.
2. Don’t grieve alone; open up and let people carry the pain with you.
3. But while people can grieve with you, they cannot do it for you. Only you can go through the grieving process for yourself.
4. Time is your friend. It won’t necessarily “heal all wounds”, but it can make your pain less acute.
5. Grief is more cyclical (and circular) than linear.
6. You may never get answers to your questions. And even if you do get them, they likely will not satisfy you in the way that you hoped. This is a hard truth, but there is freedom in accepting it.
7. Though it may feel impossible, you will get through this season, and you will somehow know Jesus better for having experienced it.

That’s my current (still incomplete) list. I’m sure it will continue to grow as I journey further down this path. But I thought I would share it with you in the meantime because maybe you, too, are walking through a season of pain. If you are, please know that I am sorry. Keep hanging in there. And if you aren’t grieving but you know someone who is, maybe this list can provide some (meager) insight for helping them.

In the meantime, keep trudging, my friend. Someday, by God’s grace, the sun will fully shine again.

Heavy Holidays

Christmas Market at Breitscheidplatz, Berlin.

Hollywood lies.

I’m not talking about Disney princesses and Prince Charmings. My frustration is at an even more basic level of expectation versus reality. You see, according to Hollywood, bad things happen in dark and empty alleyways. And according to Hollywood, sad scenes almost exclusively take place in the rain. But if the music is in major key and the setting is bright and cheery, then, according to Hollywood, the scene should be happy. And so it follows that, according to Hollywood, German Christmas markets should be among the happiest and safest places on earth.

But the events of Monday night in Berlin laughed in the face of this cinematic logic. Because while people were chatting, shopping, and enjoying life, the unthinkable happened. Evil—heartless, senseless, and unspeakable evil—revved the engine, jumped the curb, and left death and carnage in its wake.

Two days later, my heart is aching and my insides still feel numb. Because not only am I upset by the blatant cruelty of this tragedy–I mean, how could someone attack a Christmas market?–but this hits unbelievably close to home. You see, I lived in Berlin on and off for almost a year, and in the process, this city became like home. I care deeply about the people there, and the fact that someone would murder them is nauseating. And that they would hijack the truck of a delivery man from Poland–another country I have come to love–is as infuriating as it is heartbreaking.

But I’m also upset on another, perhaps more jarring level: last year, I stood in that very Christmas market with my best friend, chatting, shopping, and enjoying life. After a late lunch at the KaDeWe, we headed down to this market, where we sipped Gluehwein, bought souvenirs, and marveled at the colorful stars for sale. Out of all the Christmas markets I frequented last winter, the one at Breitscheidplatz was by far my favorite. With its massive Christmas tree next to the glowing-blue stained glass Gedaechtniskirche, this market felt particularly magical. That this very same place became the site of such senseless violence and that the people who died there were just like me is a lot to take in. If my research year had fallen just a little later, I could have been there on Monday night with them. One of those 12 dead or 48 injured could have been me.

These are heavy thoughts, I know, and they have been weighing on me since I got the news on Monday afternoon. Now as I sit at home in Kansas, surrounded by all the trappings and trimmings of Christmas, I can’t help but feel the disconnect. Between the sorrow I feel on the inside and the joy I’m supposed to exude on the outside. Between the happiness that Hollywood tells me should accompany this season and the suffering that is happening around the world. Between the darkness sitting heavily upon me and the light I so badly want to believe that Jesus came to bring.

All Advent season and well before Monday happened, I have been wrestling with these thoughts. The Hollywood version of Christmas claims to be “merry and bright” and a season of endless joy. But this year, Christmas seems anything but happy. The civil war in Syria shows no signs of ending, and the remaining citizens in Aleppo are facing almost certain death. The families of terror victims across France and Belgium, as well as those who lost loved ones in the racial violence in the U.S. this summer, are still mourning. And then there are the countless families who still grieve those lost in more “normal” but no less tragic ways, such as cancer, car accidents, and suicide.

Taken together, there is a lot of darkness and sorrow in this world of ours. And during these last few weeks of Advent, I have felt the weight of it, perhaps more acutely than ever before. How are we supposed to be filled with “Christmas cheer” when so much of the world appears to be falling apart? Where is that joy that I’m supposed to be experiencing? I find myself resonating with that old Christmas hymn,

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Aleppo, Berlin, and countless individual sorrows seem to mock the idea of Christmas. But then again, isn’t that the whole point of Christmas? That into the darkest places of pain and the most broken parts of humanity, God comes to us.

Even as I write this, I know that answer feels Sunday-schooly, perhaps even a bit trite. Especially if you’ve grown up in the church, it’s easy to say things like “God came to us” without thinking about what that means. But these last few weeks, and especially these last few days, have turned such Christianese-esque indifference into a luxury I can’t afford. I am hurting, and I want answers. And even more than answers, I need to know–deep down in the painful places–that God has come and that He cares. That’s my prayer as this Advent season draws to a close, that His light would shine into this darkness of our world and this darkness that I feel, and that I would remember again the rest of that old song:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. Please.

Light shining into Darkness. Stars for sale at the Breitscheidplatz Christmas Market.

Crazy (November) Eights

I’m not particularly into politics.

This is probably not surprising to anyone who knows me even remotely well. I have what might be called a “harmony-seeking personality”, which means I prefer everyone to get along. And it would seem that politics, by definition, is built upon strife. Which means that, though I may be a hopeless extrovert, I will never be the life of any political party. Haha.

While growing up, I had occasional delusions of political grandeur or, more accurately, delusions of interest in politics. For instance, my junior year of high school, I ran for class treasurer. But despite my active campaigning—I even passed out fake coins with “vote for Steffi” stickers taped to the back—I still managed to lose… to a really popular guy… who decided to run the day before the elections. Go figure. Out of pity, the Stuco sponsor offered me a position as “at-large representative” as a consolation prize. And I’m pretty sure I showed up to more of the 6:30 a.m. meetings than the actual elected treasurer.

In college, I figured that I had left the usual “popular crowd” competition behind, and I decided to apply for a spot on the Freshman Representative Council. At orientation, I’d heard that FRC was the ticket into Oklahoma State’s student government and, more broadly, to influence on campus. As a self-proclaimed (*cough* prideful and slightly delusional *cough*) up-and-coming mover and shaker, I knew that FRC was the place for me… until I didn’t get in, that is. Oh well.

In retrospect, though, this was probably for the best because I soon began to realize that I really, really don’t like politics. I’d rather read about the debates and drama of the past than deal with political conflict in the present. Although spending a year in Germany taught me the value of cordial political discussions—seriously, debating politically charged topics with friends is a favorite German pastime—it will never be my preferred Saturday evening activity. And as a harmony-seeker and peace-keeper, I would prefer that we all just get along.

But politics, and especially this most recent election season, does not lend itself to such pie-in-the-sky niceties. I cannot remember a time in which emotions have run so high and an election has been so polarizing. It has been disheartening, discouraging and—for this conflict-avoidant and politically ambivalent grad student—downright frustrating. And yet while on the one hand I have been wanting all this to finally be over with, gosh darn it, on the other hand I have dreaded the end because neither outcome strikes me as particularly appealing. Especially in terms of cultivating a “can’t we all just get along?” cultural mentality.

And so, while I did exercise my civic-duty muscles and cast my vote last Friday, I didn’t feel awesome about my decision. In fact, although I had done my research, thought through, and prayed extensively about my, I still second-guessed my decision, even as I pressed the green “submit” button. I came home not feeling liberated, but burdened. What if I had made the “wrong” choice? No, my vote ultimately wouldn’t matter all that much on its own. But the beauty—and danger—of democracy is that enough inconsequential individual votes can tip the electoral scales. What if my vote helped to tip it the “wrong” way? What if? What if? What if?

These thoughts and questions pestered me the entire way home, like a repeated needle prick or a sharp rock in my shoe, welling up into anxiety-filled doubt. And that’s when I heard it, that nagging little whisper I’ve learned to pay attention to, the one that redirects me when I most need it. “Where do you seek your peace, Steffi?”, it seemed to ask. “Who do you think is in control?” and even more pointedly, “Will you choose to trust Me?”

I’d heard a similar set of questions in a different context two years before. I was in my third year of graduate school, prepping almost nonstop for my PhD qualifying exams. For the months leading up to it, I was absolutely convinced of my impending failure. And as my starting date drew mercilessly nearer, my anxious thoughts became all but unbearable. Yes, I knew that God was in control; He wouldn’t abandon me, and He would carry me through. But I still couldn’t shake the nagging fear that my efforts wouldn’t be enough. No, God would not let me down or fail me, but I was still part of the equation. Which meant that I could still screw it up, and I could still find a way to fail. I had learned to trust God in a general sense, but I struggled to have faith in the face of my own real and potential frailty.

At some point in that pre-exams process, though, I made a conscious decision to trust God and to believe in His provision despite my own inadequacies. Coming to this realization was difficult—in some ways, even more difficult than the exams themselves—but it remains one of the most valuable spiritual lessons I have ever learned. We serve a God who is sovereign over and faithful in the midst of our messes, both potential and realized. His purposes succeed, and His plans play out despite our mistakes and our lack of faith. While our actions matter and do have real consequences, we cannot mess up or thwart His plan.

Two years ago, I learned this lesson in a very confined, personal, and finite situation. While the stakes felt high (and to an extent they were; if I failed I theoretically could have been kicked out of graduate school), the outcome would ultimately be quite contained, and its effects would be limited to me. In contrast, this election is a big deal with far-reaching impacts. The decisions made by our government in the next four years will undoubtedly affect our country and the world for generations to come. And yet despite the wider scope and different circumstances, I think the fundamental questions facing us remain consistent: Where are we putting our hope? From what do we seek our peace? And who do we believe to be in control?

It’s 11:20 p.m. on election night. I haven’t checked for updates all evening because I prefer right now not to know. But even in my state of self-imposed ignorance, I remain convinced of this: whatever happens, however this absolutely crazy, polarizing, and disheartening election plays out, the sun will come up tomorrow, and God will still be in control. And so with that, my fellow Americans, I am going to bed.

… after I take a couple Advil. Goodnight.

 

Obligatory voting selfie. Don’t let the smile fool you; I was not happy.

 

The Sting

Dr. Harrist taking us to visit the Amnesty International Headquarters (London, 2008).

I found out Sunday on Facebook.

I was procrastinating on some work, per usual, by scrolling through my Newsfeed when I saw that one of my OSU professors had been tagged in a photo. As I read the accompanying caption, my heart sank. After 5+ years of fighting, Dr. Steve Harrist, professor of Educational Psychology and one of the kindest and most patient people I have ever met, had lost his battle with leukemia.

I didn’t study Educational Psychology, but I had the good fortune of taking a summer course with Dr. Harrist after my freshman year. Although the class only lasted two weeks, the final project extended well into the fall, with each student writing an original research paper. Because I was only a sophomore, I had never written a substantial college-level research paper. And so, even though summer had long since ended, my visits to Dr. Harrist’s office continued, as he patiently guided me through the process of brainstorming a project, asking good questions, sorting through sources, and articulating my findings. With his help, I later applied for a Wentz research grant to fund a follow-up study, which I would then complete with a history professor during my junior year. When I look back on my college career and think about my trajectory into graduate school, Dr. Harrist’s class stands out. Because even though he wasn’t a history professor, he taught me how to ask valuable questions and discover the answers.

Unfortunately, I didn’t keep up with Dr. Harrist very well the last few years. I knew his cancer had relapsed, but I had no idea how sick he was until he was already gone. And now my heart hurts. For his wife, for his kids, for his extended family, and all his friends. For his students, for his colleagues, and for all the countless other people whose lives this kind man touched. I am sad, and I am angry. Because Dr. Harrist was an incredible person, and he of all people should have lived a long and happy life. But he didn’t, and that feels wrong. So very, very wrong.

And although I’m not an expert on death and grief, I would hazard to guess that loss always feels that way, at least to an extent. Even when people live to old age and die peacefully in their sleep, we who are left behind still feel the injustice and tragedy of it. My mother’s parents passed away several years ago, both at fairly old ages and having lived fairly happy lives. But that knowledge, though helpful, falls short in comforting me. Because even though they both died long ago, I still miss them. My heart aches because they are not here, and I feel like they should be.

I’m fortunate in that, apart from my Nana and Opa, death has largely not left its mark on my family or my close circle of friends. But I don’t have to look very far to find friends or acquaintances for whom this is not the case. Since my cohort began grad school three years ago, 2 of our 7 students have lost their fathers. In my Kansas neighborhood, two children died tragically in freak accidents in 2013. I can name several people who have lost children, siblings, or parents in head-on collisions. The list goes on, and it will only continue to grow. Because as much as it sucks, death truly is a part of life on this earth. And, try as we might, there’s nothing we can ultimately do to prevent it.

But even though death has become normal in this “circle of life”, death was not part of God’s original plan. And I think that’s why naturally feel so angry, confused, and broken by death when it touches those around us—we know deep down that this isn’t right; this isn’t how things are supposed to be. Jesus even experienced this when his dear friend Lazarus died. If you’ve hung around the Bible trivia circuit long enough, this story probably makes you think of the shortest verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” But if you’re like me until recently, you probably never noticed that, before Jesus wept, he became livid. Most English Bibles translate this as “moved” or “deeply troubled”, but the more accurate translation is that He “snorted with anger”, like a war horse charging into battle. Yes, Jesus wept, but He wasn’t just sad. He was ticked. Death was not part of how His Father’s good creation was supposed to operate. Jesus not only knew in the sense that He is God and knows everything, but He acutely felt it when He lost His friend—even though He would bring Lazarus back to life just a few minutes later.

So if the world isn’t as it should be, why doesn’t God just fix it right now? I don’t have a good answer. The problem of evil and suffering is complicated, and theologians have spent thousands of pages and (literally) tons of ink to try to explain it. And while I too have attempted to tackle this question before, my reason for writing today is different. You see, I’ve been thinking about these questions a lot lately, not just because of Dr. Harrist’s passing, but also because of Easter. Let me explain.

In Atlanta, I attend an Anglican Church, and we follow the liturgical calendar. That’s Christianese for saying that we have special names for different times of the year or “seasons” in the church. For instance, during February and March, we were in Lent. Right now, we’re in Pentecost. And for the 50 days before Pentecost, we were celebrating Easter. And during Easter, we talked a lot about the Resurrection of Jesus and what this means for us as Christians and for the rest of the world. In the process, I ended up reading a book by NT Wright called Surprised by Hope.

While I don’t know if I would recommend this book from a pleasure-reading standpoint (Dr. Wright’s writing can be a bit dense at times), the former Bishop of Durham has helped me to rethink the idea of heaven and resurrection. Using a lot of Scripture as well as information about orthodox Judaism and first-century paganism, Wright argues that Jesus’ physical, bodily resurrection not only happened, but was a complete game-changer. By coming back to life, Jesus inaugurated a whole new world, a whole new type of existence in which God’s future Kingdom is already begun here in the present. And moreover, just as Jesus was raised to life—physically, literally, bodily raised to life—so too will we be raised. Although I don’t know how this will work or what it will look like, I do know this: death is not the end of our story. Paul refers to the resurrected Jesus as “the first fruit”, the beginning or the down payment on this new world He is creating. And someday, though I have no idea when, God will finish what He started with Jesus 2,000 years ago. He will raise all believers to new, unending, and perfected physical life, in which we will never experience pain, decay, or death again.

That’s why Paul proclaims boldly that death will be “swallowed up in victory” and asks provocatively, “Death, where is your sting?” Yes, death does sting very painfully for those facing it and those touched by it. But its victory is only temporary, for as John Donne so perfectly wrote,

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou thinkst thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me
[…]
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die!

For those who are in Christ, this is our hope. Yes, death is horrible, tragic, and heartbreaking, but it is not our end. For those of us who know Christ will also be raised with Him into a new world and a wholly remade creation. And in this place, He will “wipe away every tear from our eyes, and death shall be no more.” So while we grieve, suffer from, and mourn over the loss of those we love, we do not have to lose hope. For as bleak and tragic as this world may be and our lives may become, our story will not end in sorrow. The hero will win, and the happy ending—or according to CS Lewis, the “happy beginning”—will be ours through Jesus Christ, who already defeated death. Amen.

Friday the (February) 13th

Aren’t they adorable?
(Photo by David Guenther, http://tinyurl.com/l2wtq62. CC-A-NC-SA)

As you may have noticed, today is Friday the 13^th. Which in any other month would be associated with nightmares of ghouls, haunted houses, and other “normal” paranormal happenings. But this Friday the 13^th elicits a wholly different—and, for many of us, far more frightening—set of fears: the fear of being single forever. Because this Friday the 13^th happens to be the day before Valentine’s Day.

Ahh, Valentine’s Day. A favorite holiday of greeting card companies, chocolate retailers, and the people who make those cheesy magnetic “kissing” teddy bears. And for those lucky folks with a special someone, it’s the perfect day for a romantic dinner at a fancy restaurant (provided you remembered to make a reservation) and giving each other greeting cards, chocolate, and matching magnetic teddy bears. But if you’re not among the “fortunate few” in a relationship, you don’t have to be alone in your loneliness. Netflix is ready with a  weekend’s  lifetime’s supply of sappy chick flicks, you can still buy yourself chocolate, and if your misery loves company, you can even curl up on the couch with your trusty old non-magnetic teddy bear.

Yes, I realize that this probably sounds rather cynical. And lately that’s exactly what I’ve been whenever I think about relationships, love, and dating. For instance, I normally love country music; now I change stations if Blake Shelton, Thompson Square, or some pre-pop Taylor Swift comes on. My go-to movies are usually chick flicks; now I can’t stand them. And when I walk through the grocery store and see a cute little kissing teddy bear, I can bearly (pun and spelling error intended) resist the urge to stick it to a metal door in the frozen-food section.

But while I am exaggerating (and I would never harm an innocent teddy bear), my cynicism toward dating is real. And last week after I’d angrily switched off the country radio station yet again, I found myself wondering where this cynicism was coming from. I’m not normally a cynical person, which meant there had to be a reason why. So I went on a quest (ie, a run on an indoor track) to find out. Boy, was I surprised by what I found.

For the first few laps, my mind drifted to all my friends whose smiling faces and “save the dates” cover my refrigerator door. Am I jealous of them? I wondered to myself as I rounded another lap. No, I concluded, I didn’t begrudge them their happiness; I really couldn’t be more excited for them. Having thought about my close friends, I then moved outward to my wider circle of acquaintances, sorority sisters, and Facebook friends whose engagement and wedding photos daily fill up my news feed. Okay, am I jealous of them? I wondered again. No, that wasn’t it either. As with my close friends, I’m happy for them too. So if the green-eyed monster wasn’t the source of my cynicism, then what was to blame?

I rounded yet another lap (this is a frequent occurrence on indoor tracks; they are so small!) and asked myself, Am I mad at God? After all, my undiagnosed frustration with the Almighty has caused many of my issues over the years. But after another 1/8-mile loop, I concluded that this wasn’t the case. My singleness isn’t God’s “fault”, and I wasn’t attributing to Him any blame. Okay, I thought, if I’m not jealous of my friends or mad at God, then where is this cynicism coming from?

For the next twenty minutes or so, this question played over and over again in my mind, as my feet synced up with the beats of Relient K and Superchick. Loop after loop went by, but an answer remained elusive. What was wrong? And then as I was rounding yet another itty-bitty lap, I found the answer I’d been looking for:

Somewhere along the way, I had lost hope.

It didn’t happen overnight or all of a sudden, like a balloon being popped. It was more of a slow and gradual wearing-down, like when a helium balloon loses air and inches closer to the ground over a long period of time—the cumulative effect of many years (and Valentine’s Days) spent single as more of my peers joined the “married club” without me. Doubts that began as occasional whispers became louder and more persistent, telling me that a love story wasn’t in the cards for me. I should just accept that reality and continue on with my life. Through these years of gradual attrition, I had not only quit believing that God had someone out there for me, but as a result, I had ceased to pray, to dream, to hope that this kind of future was possible for me.

Yes, I realize that this may sound a bit melodramatic, and I know that relationships aren’t the be-all-end-all-of-all. Even if I am single forever, I will still have all I need in Christ. But while I can ultimately live without a relationship, I cannot live without hope. Because hope, my friends, is a vitally important thing—arguably as essential to life as air, water, and food. Hope provides us with a reason for continuing on, even when times get hard. To paraphrase Nietzsche, hope provides the “why” so we can weather the “how”. When we lose hope, we soon after lose sight of our purpose and our meaning. And it becomes dangerously easy to fall into despair.

As I was rounding those last few laps, God pointed out to me the crack in my heart where my hope had leaked out, and despair—disguised in the toxic cloak of cynicism—had crept in. But even as He showed me my lack of hope, He offered me a renewal of it: because He gave me the desire to share life with someone, then it stands to reason that there must be someone out there with whom I can share this life. And even more importantly, I can trust that He is good and that He has my best interests in mind. For if imperfect earthly parents would never “give their kids a stone when they ask for bread”, then our perfect heavenly Father—who loves us more than we can possible fathom—must know how to give good gifts to us His children. Our job is keep hoping, believing, and asking.

Yes, I will still be single on Valentine’s Day tomorrow. And who knows? I may be single for many more Valentine’s Days after that. But if my heavenly Father loves me the way He says He does and if He indeed knows me better than I know myself, then I need keep hoping and believing that He will fulfill His plans for me—even in the relationship category

Whew, that’s enough deep thoughts for one day. I think I’m going to curl up on the couch,eat some chocolate, and watch a chick flick. Now if only I had a teddy bear… 😉

Split Seconds

(Originally Posted on October 17, 2010.)

Sometimes a split second makes all the difference.

Sunday October 10th around 9 p.m. was the time of one such split second. Jake Henry, 21, and his girlfriend of 8+ years Stephanie Conn, 22, were driving back to the University of Kansas after a day visiting their families. But they never made it to Lawrence. Instead, they were in a head-on collision with a vehicle attempting to pass from the other direction on the undivided, two-lane highway. And in a split second, three precious lives disappeared from this earth forever.

On Friday morning, I attended Jake and Stephanie’s funeral. Mrs. Henry, Jake’s mother, was my sisters’ and my high school Latin teacher, and as such is very dear to our family. Although I had never met Jake, Mrs. Henry had entertained us with enough stories about him that I knew all about him. But when we entered the church for the funeral, I didn’t know what to expect. I knew I would cry, but I didn’t realize that my life would be so impacted. Forever.

You see, Stephanie and Jake may have seemed like typical college seniors. But they were so much more than that. As middle- and high-school sweethearts, they planned to marry shortly after graduation and enjoy happily-ever-after together. They loved and honored each other, putting the other before themselves. Frugal, they were good stewards of the money they worked so hard to earn. They cared greatly for their families, putting them before everything else. Firm believers in the value of doing the right thing, they lived morally and set an example for those around them. Funny, compassionate, joyful, and kind, Stephanie and Jake were the sort of people you would want for your best friend, knowing you could always, always count on them.

But most of all, what made Jake and Stephanie so special—what made them stand out from the rest—was simple: their faith in Jesus as their Savior. And their desire to live every day for Him.

God called these two stellar young people home. Too soon, it would seem, especially to their families who are still reeling from the loss. Even in the epicenter of sorrow, their Heavenly Father has a purpose, and His timing is perfect. And He catches every tear that falls for Jake and Stephanie, and holds their families’ breaking hearts.

I’m sorry to be so serious. It’s hard to be upbeat when thinking about this subject. But even in the midst of this darkness, God leaves a lesson, and with it a bright ray of hope.

Stephanie and Jake have passed on to heaven, but their legacy remains. Together, they touched countless people, many of whom came to their joint visitation and funeral. They lived well, laughed often, loved much—and most importantly, pointed others to their Savior. God used their lives to make the world a better place, and His plan continues even with their deaths. Though it’s impossible to understand such a tragedy, though we can’t grasp why God would call them home so soon, He remains faithful, and He will fulfill His purpose. Because God is good, all the time. And all the time, God is good.

All that being said, I did a great deal of thinking this weekend. And my mind kept returning to the same question: What kind of legacy am I leaving?

You see, this life doesn’t last forever, as last Sunday’s accident clearly demonstrates. When we are no longer here, people will remember us for what we did, both good and bad. Our life is made up of myriad different legacies; we leave an impact wherever we are: at school, in our living situation, with our friends, with random strangers who cross our paths—in everything. Each experience is an opportunity to leave a footprint, a mark on this world. We shouldn’t just worry about a legacy when thinking about our eulogy one day; rather, we should strive every day to make a difference in the world and lives around us.

Nicole Nordeman, a Christian artist, expresses this notion well, in her song titled “Legacy”:

“I want to leave a legacy. How will they remember me? Did I choose to love? Did I point to You enough to make a mark on things? I want to leave an offering. Child of mercy and grace who blessed Your name unapologetically—to leave that kind of legacy.”

So that’s my challenge and prayer for you—and for me—today. Decide what sort of legacy you want to leave, and then start living like it. Now. Because you never know what the next split second might bring.

God bless. And please keep the Conn and Henry families in your prayers.

(This repost is dedicated to Connie Henry. Thank you for letting me use this blog to share Jake and Stephanie’s legacy. Love you and praying for you, dear friend. Psalm 34:18)

Ten Years Today

Ten years. Ten years today.

Ten years ago today I woke up earlier than usual, excited to celebrate my younger sisters’ tenth birthday. Ten years ago today my dad drove my sisters and me to school, dodging traffic and getting us there just in time. Ten years ago I sat in Mrs. Kinnan’s literature class, kidding around with my 7^th grade classmates about how many times Homer used the word “sprang” in The Illiad. Ten years ago today, I wondered why our teacher had left the room so suddenly. When she came back, we knew: Ten years ago today was the day that would change everything.

For at least 2,985 people, September 11^th became the second date on their headstone, the end of their passage here on earth. For 1,609 people, September 11^th was the day they lost their spouse or partner. For 3,501 children, September 11^th meant growing up without their mommy or daddy or both. And for countless people around the globe, September 11^th embarked them on a journey down a road of grief and pain. The Twin Towers collapsed, and the world as we knew it came crashing down with it. The collective heart of humanity broke. America wept, and the world wept with her.

September 11^th was a day of opposites, of striking juxtapositions: Fear and courage, cruelty and compassion, hate and love, good and evil, life and death, despair and hope. Since that Tuesday morning, vats of ink have been spilled as people commemorate heroes, vent their anger, and ponder the “what ifs” as they ask over and over again that eternally nagging question: Why?

Why did this happen? If God is all-powerful, if God is so good, if God is actually as loving as He claims to be, then why didn’t He stop it?

A few months ago, I found myself wrestling with these age-old questions. Then I stumbled upon a sermon entitled “Riding the Storm” by British philosopher and theologian Os Guinness. Here in his 45-minute talk, I finally found some answers that made sense. (Note: Only after listening to the sermon did I discover the date he delivered it: September 10, 2001. Coincidence? Of course not.) Here is what Guinness says…

1) “It should have been otherwise.” –God created the world in perfection and beauty. Joy, peace, love, fulfillment, and satisfaction flowed freely in Eden, as mankind lived in total harmony with their Creator. But when Adam and Eve chose to disobey and rebel against God, humanity died and the rest of creation with it. The “Fall,” as it is termed, ruined God’s plan for the world and for us, and all the brokenness we see and the pain we experience is a direct consequence of that critical day in Eden. But this is not what God intended for His creation, and it grieves Him even more acutely than it hurts us.

2) “No other god has wounds.”—Jesus died for us. He willingly endured the most humiliating, degrading and painful death known to mankind in order to save us. His blood poured out; His heart broke. Other religions may claim to have gods or a god who cares, but no other god died to save his people. Jesus understands, relates to, and feels our pain because He experienced the ultimate pain. And because of this, He hurts when we hurt; our pain is His pain.

3) “The resistance leader knows what He’s doing.”—Imagine you are living in Fascist Germany in 1941. You meet up with the leader of an underground movement to resist Hitler. He knows you are opposed to the Nazis, and he asks you to join with him in the resistance. But he warns you: “If you join me, you will have to trust me. After tonight, we will never speak again face-to-face. Sometimes you’ll see me in Nazi uniform, arresting one of our friends. But you don’t know that I am actually setting them free. Other times, I will send you messages, telling you to do something that makes no sense. And oftentimes, it will seem like we are losing and our efforts are futile. But you will have to trust me, because I am in control, and I know what I am doing.” Jesus, our Resistance Leader, says the same thing to us, and He wants us to trust Him too. He is omniscient, and He knows what He is doing, even when things make no sense.

So whatever happens—when tragedy strikes, when terror seems to have the upper hand, and when evil appears in control—we must remember the truth: our God is good and will never fail. In the past, in the present, and forevermore.

Including ten years ago today.

Small Envelope, Big Lesson

I knew the answer before I even opened the envelope. It was supposed to be 8.5×11 inches. It was supposed to be several pages thick. It was supposed to contain my contract for the Fulbright English Teaching Assistant job in Germany.

It didn’t.

No, instead it held a single-page, typed letter with these fateful words, “You have been designated as an alternate for the U.S. Student Fulbright Program. Thus you would receive an award only in the event someone withdraws.” And with those words, my future dramatically shifted, and a metaphorical door swung emphatically, suddenly—and likely permanently—shut.

Since returning last July from my exchange semester in Graz, Austria, I had planned on applying for the Fulbright. I researched my different options, talked to friends who had received the grant in previous years, and decided that an English Teaching Assistantship would be the best fit for me. Throughout the fall, I spent countless hours laboring over my application, writing, editing, and revising draft after draft of my essays. Then in January and February, I painstakingly rewrote those same essays in German, working hours on end (and likely driving my German professor crazy with all my emails). I’d never worked so hard for something in my entire life, and I had never wanted something so badly. Although I wouldn’t say that the Fulbright became an “obsession,” it did consume a significant portion of my time, energy, and thoughts. I poured my heart and soul into that application, and I wanted the Fulbright more than anything. (Pause. But hold that thought).

This last weekend, I attended an event called “Passion” in Fort Worth, Texas. Founded in 1997, Passion is a global movement to unite college students with the desire to live for Jesus and make Him known. (For more information and a much better description, check out 268generation.com). I had registered for it almost a year before, and although I was looking forward to it, I had no idea what God had in store.

The first breakthrough came on Friday night.

“How much do you love Me, Steffi?” God seemed to ask (Note: God didn’t speak to me audibly. But I knew He was talking to me. I know it probably sounds crazy, but it’s true. I promise. Even if you think I am whacky, please humor me and keep reading). “Do you love me more than your own desires, your family, your health, your dreams, your life?”

I wanted the answer to be yes. I wanted to be able to say that I loved Him more than anything. But when I looked at my life, I knew that I didn’t. (Lying to God is a bad idea, generally speaking. Just fyi.). You see, I wanted my desires to be fulfilled, I wanted my family to stay safe, I wanted to be healthy, and most of all I wanted my life to turn out according to my plan. I loved myself too much. I didn’t want to lose anything.

“How much do you love Me?” I heard Him whisper again. “Whoever wants to save His life with lose it, but whoever loses His life for My sake will find it.”

“But, Lord,” I protested, “I love my life. I like how things are going; I don’t want anything to change. I don’t want to lose things.”

“Whoever wants to save His life will lose it. How much do you love Me?”

And that’s when it hit me like a bucket of cold water on a hot summer afternoon, or better yet, like the time I accidentally touched an electric fence at my friend’s farm. (Luckily, no one dumped cold water on me at the same time; that would have been very bad). If I tried to hold onto my life with white-knuckled grip, I would definitely lose it. I wouldn’t necessarily die sooner, per se, but I wouldn’t truly enjoy my life because I would be constantly worrying about how to best preserve it. Furthermore, that meant that I loved my own life more than I loved Jesus. He wanted all of me, not just the few odds and ends I was willing to loan him. He wanted my whole heart. Nothing short of everything.

Having finally understood that truth, I bowed my head and prayed. I asked Jesus to help me to love Him more than anything else. I told Him to do whatever He needed to do to change my heart. Even if that meant losing the things that I loved or wanted the most. Including the Fulbright. “Be my one desire, Lord,” I prayed. “Do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

This afternoon at 5:03 p.m. He answered that prayer.

Yes, my heart hurts. Yes, I am extremely disappointed. I’ve broken down crying several times (and my eyelids are now puffy). I don’t think that that the reality of it has entirely sunk in yet, and I know that I’ll be sorting through many difficult emotions in the weeks and months to come. But at the same time and in the midst of all that, I have a deep sense of peace. I know beyond all shadow of doubt that my God is good, He is bigger, and that He is working out everything—including this—as He sees best. And most importantly, He is helping me love Him more than anything. That alone makes this heartache worthwhile.

After reading the letter, a Bible verse immediately came into my head. “As for me, I will always have hope. I will praise You more and more” (Psalm 71:14). It was quickly followed by lyrics of a song from Passion, “Oh, I’m running to Your arms. The riches of Your love will always be enough.” (“Forever Reign” by Kristian Stanfill). I write those words from the bottom of my heart, and I’m praying that God will help me mean them even more sincerely with every passing day. No matter what happens, I will always have hope in Jesus. Even when I am hurting, I will praise Him. Nothing on this earth can compare to Him, and His love will always be enough for me, no matter what happens. Even when the envelope is too small.