Dear Fourteen-Year-Old Me

I’ve been reading through my old journals, and I want to tell myself a few things:

Dear fourteen-year-old me,

You don't know me yet, since I won't exist for ten more years. To me, those ten years feel like a lifetime. 

You might not recognize me right away; I've changed considerably. In fact, you’re probably horrified by the person I’ve become. You probably see me as shockingly liberal, though perhaps moderate-conservative would be a better descriptor. You no doubt think I'll be a bad influence on you, but rest assured - I don't think I've permanently damaged anybody by influencing them.

The truth is that as I’ve grown up, I’ve opened my heart and my mind to the Bible and closed them to the extra stuff that’s so important to you. You're still so very young, and you know nothing more than the small, narrow world around you.

Oh, I’ve offended you; that wasn’t my intention. I still haven’t outgrown my bluntness, I’m afraid.

However, my point still stands: you don’t know as much as you think you know. It's true that you're a compulsive researcher; and it’s good that you're willing to seek out opposite viewpoints to the ones you hold. That will challenge your mind like very little else will. You just don't realize that there are opinions and facts out there that never come up in your little world of rigid, two-dimensional morality.

In your view, everything is sure and certain; everything has a moral edge so sharp you could cut your finger on it. That’s not how it works. There isn’t a dichotomy of good and evil; good is still good and evil is still evil, but there are myriads of ways they can overlap. Just because something isn't wrong doesn't make it right. Just because something isn't ideal doesn't make it bad. The right thing with faulty justification might still cause heartache. The right argument with the wrong motive will still push people away. The wrong belief for a good reason doesn't make it right. The decision you honestly thought was right turning out to be wrong because you didn’t have all the facts doesn't mean you sinned. There is more to righteousness than rules.

Your opinions on some things will change entirely. That’s a good thing, too. Time has a curious way of uncovering different facets of an issue. For instance, your insistence on never owning an iPod because it is inherently sinful will age rather badly in the future. Your belief that the King James Bible is the only one that’s not part of some demonic agenda will fare badly, too, as you do your research. So will your conviction that any music other than hymns is of the Devil. 

Your judgment of morality based on appearances will transform as well, as you find out that Godliness has more to do with the heart than with unyielding behavioral rules, and modesty has more to do with an attitude than clothes. You’ll meet people who are more modest in short shorts than others are in those dreadful things you call culottes*.

These are some superficial examples. The main thing that I want to say to you, dear little fourteen-year-old me, is that changing doesn’t mean you’re falling away from the faith. Oh, no! You’re finding your faith, faith in a God who loves this broken world like he loves you – with all he is. Find a different translation of the Bible, and read through it. Let God be God, and don’t try to explain away the uncomfortable facets of his nature. Find comfort in an uncomfortable God, who doesn’t have to conform to your ideas of what a god should be to still be God.

Read through the Mosaic Law and get a firmer understanding of the love and care underlying every interaction God has with his people - better than you’ve ever gotten from your narrow reading of the Gospels - and start from there. Throw out the old, legalistic teaching (as much as you can) and find what the text says. Get the historical background for it all. It will help.

You will not lose your faith, I promise you. Instead, you will rediscover the God you have faith in. And he is a good God, never fear. He is a far greater God than you ever realized. He is a more loving God than you ever knew. He is terrible in his goodness, wise in his anger, and right in his love. He is an active God, not withholding his love from those you see as unlikely and unlovely candidates, for you were – and I am still – unlikely and unlovely as well. He is an unrelenting, unstoppable God. He is the God who the world desperately needs.

The God you think you know resembles him, to be sure, but He is infinitely better.

This is what I want to tell you, little me.

That you’re wrong, about so many things, and only time can show you that. 

That you're right, about so many things, but you lack the compassion and gentleness to make a difference with it.

That the world is less scary than you know, and far more broken than you can ever guess. That it's your part to go out into it and do something about that.

That tolerance doesn't have to mean acceptance and approbation. It can mean the knowledge that with that person's background and circumstances, your life and choices would be no different, because you are no different from them without the mercy of Christ.

That the 'goodness of God leads to repentance' not because, as you think, it might guilt people into acknowledging him, but because thankfulness and gratitude to a good God might lead to wanting to know him.

That you’ll keep on changing, that you’ll keep on stumbling forward the best you can, that life is good outside your bubble. 

That you, and I, have so much more to learn, and good people to learn it with.


Sincerely,


Your future self

*Also, if a reader has managed to avoid experience with the specific type of culottes I mean, here's a photo:

(Also, think about it, Little Me: if you’re climbing a tree, are culottes - long, flowing, to the ground, and VERY wide at the bottom - or pants more modest? “Culottes!” you say, and I don’t say anything, because I have the benefit of knowing that someday you will change your mind. It will take years, and traveling to a different country, but it will happen.)

Of Tea Breaks and Driving

A while back, I had made the decision to get our car close to our hotel, because "it would save us an hour of travel to Heathrow to pick it up, and I have detailed directions to get out of London."

Yeah, right. Never do that.

When we actually got to London, we decided that it would be awesome to leave our luggage at the hotel, pick up the car, drive back to our hotel, have breakfast, check out, get our stuff in the car, and then leave London.

Again, never do that.

All went well until we left the parking garage to return to our hotel. It would have been fine, even then, had the way back to our hotel not been one-way streets all pointing in the wrong direction. But they were one-way streets, and so we had to go round the other way. This also would have been fine, had we not somehow ended up in the other direction of where we wanted to go.

And if the check-engine light had not gone on.

So, there we were, at the mercy of traffic lights and one-way streets, still getting used to the fact that right was our left and left was our right. An hour later, after much effort and several arguments, we arrived back at the car hire place, explained the situation, and exchanged our Ford Focus - which Joy was terrified of hurting or crashing - for a Mercedes Benz. Oh, if that isn't irony, I don't know what is.

At this point, I called our hotel using Budget's phone, explained the situation, and begged about half an hour's leniency on checking out. Silly me, I figured that an hour and a half would be plenty of time to return to our hotel (which was still only three blocks away), especially since the nice lady at the desk had given me directions and marked it on our map.

Well, it wasn't enough time. We tried our hardest to get out of that awful city, but nothing would work. Finally we just turned down a little street and parked in the "you will be towed if you do not have a permit" area. Then I got out, looked around, spotted two men in a doorway, and went to ask for directions.

They were deep in conversation, but as I approached (saying, of course, how terribly sorry I was to trouble them, but might I bother them for a bit of directions?), they stopped talking and the one left in his car. How I envied the easy way he drove off! But the other looked at my map, turned it every which way until he figured out where we were, and said,

"You just need to go straight from here. Straight, straight, straight. You don't turn left; you don't turn right. Just straight, straight, straight." (Sounds like the Christian life!) While I was processing this startling bit of information, he said, "I'm going that way anyway. You follow me."

What were the odds? Well, our doors locked, and we could always just gun the engine and get out of whatever trap he led us into. So, with not a whole lot of trepidation - we were far too tired for that - we followed him. He brought us very close to the hotel, waved us on - "Straight, straight, straight!" - and we never saw him or his van again.

We parked a little ways from our hotel - Joy absolutely refused to go any farther, which made me unreasonably miffed. My mom and I went to collect our bags and check out. The guy at the front desk was glad to hear that we no longer had car trouble, but he was horrified to hear that we were still actually driving.

Well, what else could we do? We didn't want to rely on trains, especially with the threat of a national railway strike.

It took a bit for us to actually leave London. The roads were dreadfully narrow, and absolutely everyone drove like maniacs. Motorcycles especially tended to think that no rules applied to them. But we didn't get horribly turned around anymore, and we successfully left London behind us. We left our schedule two hours behind us, too, but it didn't really matter at this point.

After Joy had been driving for about four hours straight, almost ending up at Heathrow due to a confusing construction configuration, our car told us to take a tea break.

That's right; our car had a screen pop up. It even had a little picture of a steaming cup of tea.

Our car was a bit more commanding than this one.

At that point, we knew full well that we were in England.

We stopped by Stonehenge on the way to Bath. By this, of course, I mean that we were in stop-and-go traffic by Stonehenge on the way to Bath, and had an excellent view of an overappreciated tourist attraction. (By the way, I understand and support the need for conservation. But so many people know about Stonehenge, and I prefer to support conservation on a less-known place. Compare the amount of people at Stonehenge with the amount of people at Castlerigg Stone Circle, and you'll see why we went to the one and not to the other.)


We had to skip Nether Wallop, a little town we'd planned on seeing, but that didn't matter. After all, we were driving through some of the prettiest little towns I've ever seen. Joy, it is true, didn't like the sharp turns or the steep hills or any of the myriads of roundabouts (traffic circles) that we encountered on our way to Bath, but even she was able to see and enjoy some of the towns.

 

We arrived at Bath at about 4:00, thinking that everything closed at 5. Lo and behold, they were open until 9 pm. So we didn't have to worry about taking too long. I still wanted to get to Oxford, but we managed to enjoy Bath plenty. When my mom went to England, technology was non-existent and all the various interactive displays were not there. So she really enjoyed seeing all the reconstructions. I, myself, just enjoyed all the history. I had already read everything I could about Rome in sixth grade, I think, so I knew well how the baths worked.


We tasted the water, of course, and were just as unimpressed as I thought we would be, but in the opposite direction. It was not even nasty; it just tasted like lukewarm Chicago tap water. (Maybe we could set up a spa in our back yard and convince everyone that it's the fountain of youth...)



We peeked into the famed Pump Room of Jane Austen and Amazing Grace.

 

 And then we left for Oxford. Regrettably, we did get a bit turned around and lost about 45 minutes, but we still arrived in Oxford only a couple blocks from where I meant to be: the Martyrs' Memorial. We parked right across the street from the Eagle and Child, the pub which the Inklings, including C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien called "the Bird and Baby." We threaded our way through the bar crowd to take a look at the Rabbit Room, where the Inklings met.

Martyr's Memorial looks much like a sunken church spire - the stuff of Oxford legend, in fact. It honors Hugh Latimer, Nicholas Ridley, and Thomas Cranmer, martyrs of the Inquisition. These three men were burnt to death in 1555 for refusing to believe and practice "the errors of the church of Rome." They were put to death near the spot of Martyrs' Memorial by Bloody Mary.



All in all, we saw everything we really wanted to see in Oxford, though we didn't get all the time we would have wanted to spend.


And then we got to find our way to our hotel for the night. It was a little country place, called the Brasenose Arms, located in Cropredy, a small town near Banbury. We had thought we'd be able to see the statue of the fine lady upon the white horse that's mentioned in the child's nursery rhyme, but we weren't able to.

Ride a cock horse to Banbury cross,
To see a fine lady upon a white horse.
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes.

A strange thing to put on an itinerary, to be sure, but we thought that since we were in the area anyway, we might as well try.

We arrived at the Brasenose Arms 13 minutes past check-in time. I had asked for late check-in, in the event that anything happened and we needed to use it. But the place was dark and no one was up. We knocked on the door in vain. No one seemed to be there.

I broke down crying. It had been a very long day, and I had been looking forward to staying at one of the six rooms in the little country inn for quite some time. I had paid for it, planned for it, and set my heart on it. Joy suggested that we sleep in the car, which I did not want to do. But there was nothing for it, and after knocking once again, we turned toward the car.

Unbeknownst to me, my mom was reminding God that anything that happened must be for our good and His glory. Joy was reminding Him that He had always come through for us before, and she didn't see why He wasn't now. But I was struggling with trusting Him at all, and finally I just told God that I trusted Him to make a way for us before I got to the car. I then walked toward it.

"Hello?" we heard from the back of the hotel. It was the owners, key in hand, ready to let us in. They gave us our room, ensured that we were fine with it, and left us to settle in.

I broke down crying yet again. Mercy isn't always seen in such a short amount of time, but this time it was, and I was very grateful.

Mercy in the Mundane

I fully intended to write a post about yesterday – yesterday. And I fully intended to write a post about today – today. But it looks like yesterday’s post will be written today, and today’s post will be written tomorrow. 

Yesterday was a day full of God’s guidance and provision. Sometimes guidance is best seen in the little things – those things that come to fruition in a short amount of time, and there isn’t much opportunity to wonder why things happened the way they did. That doesn’t mean that little things have more guidance; it just means it’s more obvious. 

Little things happened all day yesterday. First, we woke up late – which never happens, especially out here where everything is two hours earlier than we’re used to. We had been planning on visiting the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest, but 3 hours one-way seemed a little bit much. (Even for overambitious souls like ourselves.) So we decided to stay in the Grand Canyon National Park area for the day.

Secondly, we decided to take the free shuttle bus to different lookout points farther out on the south rim. This bus line had been closed when we tried to get on it for the past few days, due to nearby lightening storms. But yesterday it was open, so naturally we visited all nine points.

Thirdly, around the third-to-last point, I started feeling sick. I don’t do well in intense light or high heat, so I was feeling faint. I had black spots encroaching on the corners of my field of vision. I had to get back on the bus right away and head back.

Fourthly, I felt better after we got on the bus, so we saw the remaining two points. When I started feeling weird again, we left.

And then everything became apparent. There were nasty lightening storms where we would have been had we gone with our original plan. So they closed and evacuated the entire West Rim, which we had just been seeing. My sickness let us see absolutely everything we wanted to, before it got dangerous to be out there.

Then it rained. It was the first big rain of the monsoon season, complete with fantastic lightening and even more impressive thunder. And we were safe, all because we had woken up a little late, and I had felt sick.

It doesn’t sound so wonderful when it’s typed out in cold, black-and-white letters, but we nonetheless saw the kindness of God very clearly yesterday, in the little things. In uncomfortable situations. In the orchestration of a day so perfect we could never have planned it that way ourselves.

Ecuador Soundtrack

There are two songs that have become the "soundtrack" of my time here in Ecuador. Oddly enough, the first was independently discovered by two other students. I believe it has become part of their "soundtrack" as well.


It's "Oceans (Where Feet May Fail)" by Hillsong United. I personally like David Wesley's version better, simply because it's more my style. I began listening to it almost non-stop when I got to O'Hare to leave the States.

And the second, a lifelong favorite, but one that has become infinitely more precious here: Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us. There's something inexplicably calming about being able to sit in the pitch dark and play that old hymn on the piano just as badly as I do at home.

Anyway, these two have been a help to me, and I hope they might be a help to you as well.

Two Weeks

It's 7:09 in the morning on a beautifully cold Saturday in Chicago. I will be leaving for O'Hare airport around this time in two weeks to go to Ecuador. (A mere two weeks! Imagine the pressure! AAAAAAHHHHHH!)

I still don't know what family I'm staying with in Cuenca. This is coming from a girl who, though random on paper and computer screen, likes to have her life semi-together. She likes to know what's going on. If she doesn't know what's going on, she at least wants to really know the people who are currently in the same boat of uncertainty that she is.

I've lived with a level of uncertainty all my life. Everyone has, I think. I just have had rather high levels over the past few years, and I have grown to love knowing what I'm doing in life--at least, in the next semester. And now I have to retrain my mind, my focus, my mindset, my entire mental program, in order to see things through an Ecuadorian mindset.

I've realized that my unconsciously westernized viewpoint is diametrically opposed to what I will find in Ecuador. In some parts of South America, it is a saying (or, at least, a mindset) that the past is before us, the future behind. That's so counter-intuitive to a person like me. I know that I can see the past (because I lived it), but I've always thought of the future as in front of me. They're right, though: you can't see the future. You can only see the past, and therefore, it is the past, not the future, that is before you.

And that, my friend, will take a bit of mind calisthenics to understand. 

How Caviar Relates to Plane Tickets

It's official.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Mainly excited, I suppose, but most assuredly terrified as well. Will I forget everything I ever knew about Spanish and forget how to say the simplest of things? Will my host family be able to understand me amid all the uh's and um's? Will my gaffes be ludicrously awful? (Let it be known that I hate feeling like an idiot, regardless of the fact that it happens a lot.)

Already homesick, to a point, which is a weird feeling. I mean, honestly, how can you miss your mom already when you kiss her good-bye every morning and good-night every night? How can you miss whispering about your day with your sister, while doing that very thing?

Wondering why I ever thought it would be a good idea to go to a country where kidnappings and other freaky things are spoken of casually as things to be very aware of. How dumb am I?! Will I be safe? Will I even have the street smarts to know if I'm not?

Wondering if my church will be recognizable when I return. It's not like I want it to stay the same way; I don't. But I wonder if Jonas and Katya and Adeleide (the cutest kids in the world, by the way) will have forgotten me by the time I get back. I wonder if some wonderful people will come, and I'll miss a couple months of knowing them.

These aren't horrible problems to have. They're first-world problems, just as much as a shortage of the best caviar is a first-world problem. That is to say, they're not life-threatening or dire.

But you'll notice that 1 Peter 5:7 says to cast all our cares on God. Not most. Not just the really important ones. All of them. Which includes plane tickets and bus trips and twisted tongues and homesickness and, yes, even potential embarrassment.

As silly as all that is.

Faith and Yellow Fever

I've been told that it's important to have immunizations before leaving for Ecuador, and take medication while I'm there.

"But," they say, "the malaria medicine is a little tricky." "You have to be careful about the malaria medicine, because it might make you bleed internally." "One of the medicines makes you really sick, if you don't take the one that's once a week." "It's best to take it every day, or it'll cause problems." "Honestly, I don't remember which ones I took."

Talk about conflicting agreement. 

Then there are the immunizations. "Oh," say they, "you'll want the typhoid vaccine, especially if you're working around children." "Tetanus! Oh, yes. Tetanus is important. You have to have the tetanus vaccine." Don't get them started on hepatitis vaccines. A, B, and C...they're all important. 

But it's OK to skip the yellow fever vaccine, because we'll only be around droning, blood-sucking, disease-carrying, ginormous creatures known as jungle insects for a small part of the trip, and it's a really expensive vaccine. I'm a college sophomore getting ready to go out of the country for the first time in my life, and you're telling me I don't need the yellow fever vaccine ONLY BECAUSE IT'S EXPENSIVE!?

Talk about scary. 

But really, they do know best. They've been there before. They know what's important and what's not, based on my prospective (non)future in South America. They really do care about my safety and well-being, and if they honestly thought I'd catch yellow fever from being in the jungle for a couple days, they'd make the vaccine mandatory (I hope). I just have to trust that they know best.

And isn't that the way it's supposed to be with God? He's been everywhere we could possibly be: 

"Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me." (Psalm 139:8-10, KJV.)

He knows what's important and what's not, based on my future where he sends me:

 "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope." (Jer. 29:11)

He cares about my safety and well-being:

"But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?" (Matt. 6:30)

And I can trust in that.