Processing the Gospel
My small group just began the 9-week study “The Gospel-Centered Life” by World Harvest Mission. I’ve gone through the 36 week version of this study (Gospel Transformation) twice, once as a learner and once as the teacher. I’ve also taught another small version of it called “Living in Light of the Gospel Story.” These are some of my favorite studies, as well as some of the best reformed explanations of the gospel I’ve ever encountered without ignoring one great aspect of the person: the heart. All too often, reformed theology shoots for the head and forgets that we are holistic people. These studies balance both in a great way.
There were some tears during the first lesson, as one group member was recounting a painful experience she had in the church many years ago that has since stunted her growth in the Lord. When I asked her if she’s had the chance to really grieve it, she said she said. She said many many tears were shed over the experience.
I’m not a “fix-it” kind of small group leader… I prefer to guide the discussion, but help people get there themselves. So I wasn’t going to go into counseling mode. But I did say this “Sometimes we can grieve something without really processing it. So maybe this study can help you process the experience and we, as your small group, can support you in that.” Now, as a teacher, I regularly say stuff without realizing exactly what I’ve said. I’m sure some of it is the Holy Spirit and some of it is just me spouting off. But one of the other groups members needed to sit in that for a while. “Dang. That’s true. You really can grieve something without really processing it. What made you say it that way?” he asked.
“Therapy,” was my quick and dirty answer. See, once upon a time I was the processor and not the griever. I would analyze, pick apart, grow through the experience… all without ever grieving what I lost because of it. This woman was doing the opposite. And this was preventing her from moving forward in a number of ways, including in her spiritual maturity. Since the experience involved a bible study were she was the leader, the idea of doing more bible study (in the same way) was unthinkable to her. I’ve watched her, in the last 10 months, be emotionally removed from the conversation and from the previous studies, each time we met. But the questions asked in lesson one of “The Gospel-Centered Life” forced her out of that. She was finally letting the gospel process her.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I do what I do. This is why I pursue discipleship and education in the church. This is why I love getting to teach people in all seasons of life, all in different places in their walk with Christ. I do it because I get to see the joy and the pain of God working in someone’s heart. I get to see the gospel process someone’s heart. And I get to let it process mine, too. I can’t think of anything cooler.
Chaos and My Teachable Moment
… And Ashton’s meltdown began.
Being the One Waited For
I stepped off the airplane and moved down the ramp with my luggage. I flew into Grand Island, NE this time, a small town with an even smaller airport. As I walked toward the single gate, I see my dad right in front, looking and waiting for me to get there. He hugs me, grabs my luggage away from me and we head out to the car.
After we’re buckled in and on the road, his cell rings. He answers and I hear my brother’s voice say “Has she landed yet?” I laugh at the tone of his voice. Our plane was 30 minutes late, but I knew Randy was impatient for my arrival. He’s always been that way.
After a few minutes, my dad hangs up the phone and tells me that Randy has prepared a vehicle for me to drive for the week if I need it; being from a family of farmers we rarely have a shortage of extra pick ups and SUVs around. He asked if I wanted to pick it up on the way or if Randy should take it up to the house. I told him we could simply stop by the shop to pick it up to save him a trip. (After all, it is a 12 mile drive.)
Dad and I made our way through town with Mom’s list of things to do before we came home on the dashboard in front of me. We stopped at my brother’s bank (he’s a fancy VP there) and dropped off some cookies for his co-workers. I needed to stop at Walgreens to get the liquids that wouldn’t fit into my quart-size bag on the flight. Lunch stop at Valentino’s (my favorite pizza!) and we were finally on our way home.
I realized something I’ve never thought about before: Jesus is not the only one people wait for during the Advent season. I was someone my family had waited for, too. All the preparations had been made, from the flight pickup, to the car, to the sheets on the guest bed being cleaned. I hadn’t been home since last Christmas. In some ways, it felt like it had been forever. In others, it felt like I never left.
As we get older, move away from home and establish a life separate from our families, coming “home” feels different. I waited for it, desperately homesick, needing a break from ministry and from Arizona. I needed a break from people needing me, and I needed to be in a place where I could just be me, and not the one others expect me to be. I am blessed that my family gets that. They get me. They even made preparations for me and waited for me.
Not everyone gets that. How blessed am I?
The Hush of Advent
I’m teaching a two-part series on Advent on the 11 and 18th of this month, so I’ve been studying, writing, and researching about the history of advent, the scriptures associated with advent, and how the church practices (or often, doesn’t) it. I write a lot of curriculum. It’s part of my job; it’s what I love and a big part of what I am called to do. But this one has been tough. I’ve had a hard time motivating myself to get it organized. I’m put it off in lieu of other things. I have not been able to sit down and write this one easily. And it took me a while to understand why.
On the Meyer’s Briggs personality test, I am an INFJ. When I first tested for this in seminary, I was borderline N/S and F/T. Then when I had to do my family genogram (http://www.genopro.com/genogram/) for my Marriage and Family Counseling class, I discovered something very interesting. I had my immediate family all take the Meyers Briggs and the rest of my family all tested as S’s and as T’s. My counseling professor (Dr. Zink) told me this is why I am on the borderline of both N and F, saying that I was probably naturally an N and F, but my environment (i.e. family) forced me into acting more like an S and a T. (Then, of course, I recall how Dr. Zink told me those were the two that are the hardest to be different from your family. Story of my life – once a black sheep, always a black sheep.)
What does this have to do with Advent? Weirdly enough, snow.
Those of you who’ve read my blog for a while know the love affair I have with snow. It’s God’s cruel joke that he called me to a church in southern Arizona, because of how much I love snow. I love that after the beautiful fall colors fade to brown, snow blankets the earth with sparkly white jewels than shine in the sun. Snow settles the earth down, because people don’t like to drive in the snow (it’s dangerous). They don’t go outside (because it’s too cold). Snow makes the word stop. So it should be with my heart and Advent.
I think there is some beauty with Advent being the start of the church calendar and it’s a season of waiting. “Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him;” – Ps. 37:7
We are called to wait for the revealing of God’s will in our everyday life. The season of Advent is about celebrating the second coming of Jesus, which hasn’t come yet. So we wait. Advent is not part of Christmas. It’s preparation for Christmas. It’s preparation for his arrival. Because I’m introverted, I prepare in a “put my head down” kind of way. I’d much rather be in my head, think it all through, then carefully work through it outside myself. I don’t always get that luxury, but that is my preferred way of functioning.
This is where I am making the connection – the “S” side of me (the sensing side, which prefers experience over intuition, the concrete over the subjective.) In other words, the things which use our 5 senses: touch, smell, site, hear, taste. For me, seeing snow sends me inside… it makes me quit and reflective. Snow does, in many ways, represent a kind of death for me. The bugs die, the plants die, the grass dies. My environment of snow is a way the sensing side of me triggered my heart and mind to become reflective. Snow is a way the world is hushed.
But here in Arizona, the season of Advent is when you go outside. It’s 70 and beautiful. The sun shines, it’s finally comfortable weather after 6 months of 100 degree temps. This is not the time southern Arizona calms down. This is the time it comes alive. Winter visitors come in droves, traffic picks up, tons of bicyclists hit the road. This is not a quiet time for Arizona. And my brain, after years of living in the snow in December, is wired to shut down this time of year. And I realized this is always helped me celebrate Advent properly.
So this season of Advent feels very strange to me. My first winter here I had so much on my plate at work that I barely got through the season and survived. This year, I was in a position where I could delegate more work, and therefore, have more time to focus on the things in my gifting and strengths. And here I am… struggling with one of my strengths. All because there is no snow.
Ok, well not “all”. I’m pretty sure I have some fault in this. I need to figure out another way to quiet myself. I should, anyway, even if I do live in a place where it snows. Snow just made it easier for me. Now I’ve just got to do some hard work.
Homesick
I found myself caught off-guard tonight as I looked at a photo my friend Jim posted on facebook of his new baby boy. The next photo was one of him, his wife and he now oldest son, sweet, smiling and happy. I began to tear up.
Three people my second year in St. Louis changed me, and he was one of them. Not because of anything in particular he did, but because of a shared experience we had. These three people mean the world to me, and yet our shared experience was just that: a shared experience. We haven’t really been in touch since I moved to Arizona… just a few emails and some ichating, and the occasion twitter convo.
I long to be back in that experience with them.
I recognized the feeling. The feeling of homesickness. The feeling of love, protection and support you get from being around those who understand you. I know that’s rare for many people, and perhaps even a bit more so for me. I’ve lived a somewhat transient lifestyle. From Nebraska to Kansas to Colorado back to Nebraska to Missouri to Arizona. Probably somewhat unusual for someone my age. Right now, I don’t really have a place I can call home. But I find my home in the people who changed me, the people who get me… and as I ponder this more and more, I’m realizing it’s the people who don’t demand things from me, but just love me and support me for who I am.
Sure that a lot of this is coming from where I am at in my life right now, I can’t help but feel self-indulgent and kind of like a baby. When I was growing up I pretty much consistently demanded and expected to get my way. Thankfully, my parents rarely gave in to me, determined not to spoil me. I still was, to an extent. I lacked for nothing. But I didn’t always get my way so I do feel somewhat grounded in my life. But God also wired me to care for people, and I often do that instead of care for myself. One of the ways I was cared for while in St. Louis was having this shared experience with these three people. I miss them desperately. And I’m in the process of trying to understand if it’s because I just miss them… or because the burden of ministry work is getting to me and I need to step away and take a vacation. But I worry that taking a vacation would just result in me thinking about work the whole time. BUt I know that I long to be back in community with those three people, who made a class project so much less painful than it could’ve been, because they loved me for who I was, valued my input and made the pain of the final presentation (a story in and of itself) endurable.
Am I homesick for my old life? Am I homesick for support? I hate that I can’t figure out why I feel homesick. Because that means I can’t solve this problem. Without knowing the root I’m require to just sit here and grieve. And I don’t even know what I’m grieving!
Help me understand, Lord. Help me understand.
Stephanie Nelson 