can I see an I.D.?

dear rory,

who am I? and what am I doing here?

oh, I know who I have been. I have been everything that has led up to this moment in my history...

I was the firstborn. I was the big sister. I was born and raised in Small-suburb, Illinois. I grew up in a home where having an abundance of teasing and laughter was more important than being rich. at the age of five, I was already dreaming that I would become a missionary or a teacher in some far away country. I was the girl who couldn't help but laugh at the other girls and their silly crushes and pointless drama at public school. and for that reason, I was the girl who wasn't very "cool". I was the second-grader who wrote out a card for my teacher explaining how she could be saved from her sins and go to heaven. I was the third-grader who showed up to school crying so hard, my mom had to come pick me up on multiple occasions. I was the fourth grader who was thrilled to be home-schooled. and then not so thrilled when I realized my friends thought home-schoolers were weird. I was the one who wasn't excited about leaving the church I had grown up in. and then I was the one who was just as, if not more, excited than anyone. I was the girl who learned so much and made so many new friends and re-met so many old friends that I thought I would burst from happiness. I was the girl who experienced so many sparkling memories and endless adventures that I realized what a good, sheltered life God had given me. and in these last two years, I was the girl who lost a sibling, who spent many weeks sick in bed and then in the hospital, who began to doubt God's plan, who was reminded of how amazing our Creator is, who graduated after thirteen years of school, who has another sister on the way, who became closer to one best friend and fell in love with the other, who missed out on one missions trip but then experienced a different one that melted my heart.

that is my story. it's not very thrilling. but it's made me who I am.

and that reminds me...

who am I? and what am I doing here?

it's so easy to forget.

***

intimidating-looking stranger: "oh, you've graduated high-school? where are you going to college?"

me: "umm... well... umm..."

*why can't I just answer the question?*

me: "umm... well... I'm not going to college this year. I'm staying home and helping my family out and waiting on the Lord to see what he wants me to do."

intimidating-looking stranger staring as though I've just slapped them in the face: "Really?!"

me: "psshhh. no. I'm just kidding. I'm gonna get my business degree........... and then I'm actually planning on running away to join the circus and become an elephant rider. maybe if I'm lucky, I'll even meet a nice lion tamer with a mustache the size of Texas. we can get married, have fifty children, and raise them all to become acrobats. after that, we can retire and open a home for abused lemurs. and then we can spend the remainder of our lives teaching them how to make gourmet ratatouille."

***

it really doesn't matter what I make up as long as I say that I'm going to go to college. as long as I am going to college, I have an identity. and as long as I have an identity, my life is going well.

don't get me wrong. I am not against college in the slightest way. I just don't feel like God is calling me to college right now. and it is sad that so many people think that college is what ultimately defines a person.

but that reminds me... if I am not called to be at school right now...

who am I? and what am I doing here?

***

as a kid I read about missionaries with wide-eyes.

they risk their lives. they experience more wild adventures than anyone else. they live in the deepest jungles and on the remotest islands and share the Gospel. they help spiritually and physically sick people who would die otherwise. and then they come home and share all their awesome stories.

how much cooler could a person get?

I wanted to be one of them.

but as I grew, I realized that that dream was just *slightly* (okay, maybe *mostly*) self-centered. I mean, the idea of being a missionary is a wonderful, selfless thing. but I was kind of going in on it for the fame and glory and adventure side.

and about that time, I learned an important lesson: we can be missionaries right here in our own neighborhood. there are a lot of broken people all around us right now.

so..... BAM! I was gonna feed the hungry. I was gonna clothe the naked. I was gonna stop abortion. I was going to phone the President and give him a few ideas I had to help stop poverty. I was gonna adopt a million children. I was gonna give clean water to kids in Africa. I was gonna knit scarves and blankets until my fingers bled and then go downtown and use my bloody stump arms to distribute my work. I was gonna win the lottery and donate every last dime. I was gonna work in a soup kitchen. I was gonna be superwoman.

and this time, I was going to do it with selfless motives. my heart was ready. I didn't even care if people knew what I did. I just had to do it.

and I had to do it all.

and that's where all the juice in my energizer machine suddenly spluttered. how on earth was I supposed to do it ALL?

 ***
rewind two years from today.

it was dark and I watched the headlights play on the street ahead of us. your mom was driving. we had just finished watching "Slumdog Millionaire" and my heart was still hurting as I thought about what a terrible life kids have in the slums of India. it's filthy dirty. it's empty and lonely. they're sold into sex-trafficking if they're girls. they become part of Mafia-type gangs if they're boys.

quietly I said, "I wish there was some way I could help everyone at once."

your mom smiled at me through the rear-view mirror. "dear," she said, "God calls different people to help in different ways. if you get depressed over not being able to help everyone, you are going to feel as though the whole world is on your shoulders, and it's not. it's on God's shoulders. you only have to do what God is calling you to do."

"I know," I sighed. "I just feel like there are so many options. and all I know is, I don't want to just live my life for myself. I want to help others."

then your mom said something that shook me:

"be what He has called you to be TODAY, and leave the rest to Him. He knows what He is doing."

***

right now, I am looking at that conversation in my journal. as soon as I got home that night two years ago, I wrote it all down so that I would never forget her words.

but I have amnesia.

so once again, I have been asking myself...

who am I? what am I doing here?

and by "here" I mean "now".

I know what I should be doing. I know who I should be.

I am a daughter of the King and I should be striving to be more like my Father every single minute of every single day.

okay, but time out.

is it really too much to ask that I be something AWESOMELY INCREDIBLE in the world's eyes AND be more like Christ? I mean... come on.

Colossians 3:1 "If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth."

okay... well, can I at least have a detailed road-map of my entire life? that would make spending these slower, harder days of trying to be more like Christ and waiting for His direction easier.

Proverbs 3:5-6 "Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your path straight."

so... who am I?
Galatians 2:20 "I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me."

what am I doing here?

I am learning (very slowly and painfully) to say good-bye to the old self. I am learning that who I truly am is not what I have done or wanted to become or what I still want to do. who I am isn't what the world says or doesn't say I am. my identity is in Christ alone. my calling is to be more like Him.

obviously, I still have a personality. the things I like to do and eat, and even my hopes and dreams make me unique. just like yours make you unique. as one friend put it "I am unique, just like everyone else."

and being unique is good...we're not called to be robots. but as Christians, we should be striving to be more like God. and we should find our identity in Him. because the things of this world will pass away. yes, we can enjoy them and I believe God wants us to. but ultimately, the success we have or don't have will disappear. the money we make will be spent. the degrees we earn will rot, the houses we build will fall, and the fame we gather will be forgotten.

even though it may sound childish, I want to be like Jesus.

and the last time I checked, being like Jesus was a lot harder than going to the jungle or going to college or even saving the world.

it's not something easy. it's not something that I always *like* telling other people. sometimes, I would rather have a list of accomplishments and goals and successes.

but then I ask myself...

who am I without my Savior? what would I do without Him?

and that's when I truly have an identity crisis.

love,
muffin

ps- please forgive me for rambling. and please don't think I am being preachy. I still have so much more to learn. and re-learn. and re-learn. and re-learn. and re-learn...

ER

hello, muffin.

I missed two IV starts today. they should have been fine: the first was a 36-year-old man with veins you could see from across the room. he looked me straight in the eye & gave me a big, relaxed smile when I asked to start his IV; somehow, that unnerved me more than anything. the other patient was experiencing a possible heart attack. his face was bunched up in pain as I set up my supplies. I couldn't feel his vein, but I could see it faintly traced beneath his olive skin. both times I slipped the needle in & felt my heart drop when the little red flash didn't appear. the nurse silently took over, giving no further indication of my failure. but I felt it.

in post-conference, the other students eagerly asked what I did in the ER. I gave a brief report & admitted that I missed two IVs. "Both of them?" their eyes said incredulously. but they were quick to reassure me. everyone has to learn somehow. it's okay. it's no big deal. let it roll off. 

God gives us what we need. I needed a little humbling today. 

highlight of my day: being assigned to watch a patient's 4-year-old daughter, who spoke only Spanish. but that was alright, because we both spoke the language of Peekaboo, Fishy Faces, & Listen-To-Kristen's-Heart-With-Her-Stethoscope. she was my shy little friend: no questions asked. when it was just me & her, I didn't have to worry about looking grown-up and official. [I dislike acting like more than I am, but I stubbornly insist on trying anyway. let.it.go.]

as I did my 0945 charting, it hit me like a thunderbolt. 11 September. September 11th; 9/11. today. I looked around the ER with new eyes, wondering what it would be like to see its halls transformed by chaos and unbelievable reports from the field. trauma patients pouring in through the paramedic bay, trauma alerts sounding over the intercom, each room a scene of tragedy happening in real-time. what would it be like? what was it like? 

I can't even imagine. God help the people whose memories are forever stamped with that scene. may He bring them the comfort that can only come from His presence.

can you feel that? that's your heart beating against your ribs. it's your lungs expanding in perfect harmony. 

it's a gift. 

always,

rory

the shining city

dear muffin,

I don't have much to share today. just a thought. 

I'd like to show you a city. standing at its center, you wouldn't guess it was an important place. the streets are dusty and strewn with stones easily kicked up by passing horse carts. people shuffle by with burdens on their back, multi-colored scarves wrapping their heads against the sun's heat. street vendors line the narrow market, shouting above the hubbub. dirty children dart in and out of the crowd, knocking against elbows & laughing. women draw water & carry stones & mix mortar; men straighten their backs and squint up at the sky. a wall is being built, and everyone in the city is lending a hand. it's hot & dusty & full of hard work, but I love this place. perhaps that's because I've lived here all my life.

if you rise above the city & view it from the sky, you'll be surprised to notice how sprawling it is. small buildings cover miles in every direction; miles & years. patchwork farms, wooden houses, and the occasional stone structure stretch past the horizon. the higher you rise, the less you see the dust. instead, noise & confusion dim to a distant hum, and the sun makes the city glow like a flame. it is warm, familiar, and safe, full of friends & grapes & summer nights & happy hearts. it is home.

welcome to the city: welcome to Christendom. 

Deuteronomy 6:10-12: "so it shall be, when the Lord your God brings you into the land of which He swore to your fathers, to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to give you large and beautiful cities which you did not build, houses full of all good things, which you did not fill, hewn-out wells which you did not dig, vineyards and olive trees which you did not plant—when you have eaten and are full—  then beware, lest you forget the Lord who brought you out of the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage."

others laid the streets & planted the gardens. the wall was in place long before I was old enough to notice it. see that bookstore, lined with the wisdom of ages? inside you'll find the labor of augustine, luther, spurgeon, ten boom, lewis, rushdooney, bahnsen, macdonald. the stone steps leading to the front door are old but steady: they were tyndale's life work. there is a museum raised by churchill near an old wooden bridge carefully constructed under washington's hand. 

I live in this beautiful city which I did not build. my house, the work of others, is full of good things which I did not gather. I have eaten & am full of joy; I benefit from the protection of the city's walls. it is easy to forget my house of bondage. truth is, I can't even remember it to begin with; I was given citizenship in this city before I was old enough to know what that meant. 

but I sure am glad to live here. see that patch of packed dirt? that's my garden. don't laugh. if you look closely, you'll see a sprout. 

maybe someday it will grow to be an apple tree.

& maybe that tree will produce my great-great-granddaughter's favorite apples in the city, the city which she did not build. maybe she will munch on an apple while she tinkers with a building design. maybe her little brother will shoot the core from a catapult he built. 

yep. this city is an exciting place to be. now if you'll excuse me... my dirt-patch needs weeding. 

always,

rory

unspoken

dear rory,

I was in the middle of writing an entirely different letter to you, when I made the mistake of looking out my window… so now you get this long, rather pointless story instead. aren't you glad I have a short attention span?

***

so there’s this neighbor of ours.

she hasn’t aged in twelve years.

she has silvery hair that falls an inch beneath her chin, her shoulders are slightly hunched, she walks in quick, short steps (yet somehow manages to move slowly), and her eyes... well… they’re distant.

I’ve only seen her a handful of times during our long encampment here in this neighborhood, but at the moment she is standing on my driveway.

I don’t even know her name.

the first time I saw her, she was watching as her son joined me on my mad-dash-bicycle race up and down and around and around the cul-de-sac. I was the fastest of the fast (not to mention the humblest of the humble)- especially when my arch-rival neighbor/best friend, Danny, wasn’t there.

but one day, with his mother watching from the corner, this new kid joined me. Chris. that was his name. and he was faster than any biker I'd ever seen.

Danny and I were typical kids. we both worshipped AND hated anyone faster or bigger or stronger than us. we thought they were cool, but they were also a threat if you know what I mean. we used to just sit out in Danny’s front yard with our bare feet stretched into the grass, licking our dripping popsicles, staring Chris down as he rode his bike in huge circles. if he looked our way, my conflicting jealousy and admiration would melt into a smile- there was something I didn’t understand about him and it made me curious. but Danny would make a face and confidently boast his own speed to me. after all, this was OUR cul-de-sac. not to mention that looking back, I’m pretty sure he considered me HIS girlfriend (even though I considered him just a dorky neighbor boy)… and he was just as jealous as any seven-year-old boy could be for his eight-year-old girlfriend.

In consequence, I don’t remember Danny ever riding bikes with Chris. but sometimes, I would overcome my shyness and join him.

I honestly don’t know how I learned his name. I can’t remember him speaking one word to me. ever. usually, I would spot him through my front window, rush out to the garage, and then casually sit on my bike at the end of the driveway studying my nails till he slowed up before me.

acting like I hadn’t even noticed him before, I would suddenly glance up and give him my cheesiest gap-toothed smile. he would smile back in his quiet way. he was tall and skinny. his eyes were almost as pale as his skin. his hair was the definition of sandy blonde… sometimes it looked so sandy, I wondered if he were a merman with real ocean sand mixed in with his hair. he was quite a few inches taller and several years older than me, but he needed a friend. a quiet friend.

I am not quiet. but around him, I somehow managed to be. in fact, I never spoke a word to him either. there was no need to. we were both kids riding bikes in circles… what could we possibly have to say about that? and besides, we were friends, and we both knew it, so we were both happy.

when we got too tired to continue, I never invited him over for ice-cream, and he never asked. his house was not actually in the cul-de-sac, but around the corner. I can still see him looking over his shoulder and giving a final faint smile, and on rare occasions a wave, as I stared my goodbye.

this mutually quiet friendship continued a few summers. sometimes the gaps between his cul-de-sac rounds were so long that Danny and I would forget he existed. and as for his mom- well, I'm pretty sure I only saw her that first day he joined me. but whenever Chris finally did show up, Danny and I would exchange glances, continue our game of basketball or superheroes, and steal looks his way whenever we could. he would smile, but say nothing. his pale eyes would look at me curiously and I felt sorry for him, but never once did that sorry-ness I felt prompt me to go speak to him. it wasn't something that even crossed my relatively friendly mind, because it wasn't something that was supposed to be done. not to Chris. I couldn't and wouldn't force him to speak.

he was a forgettable person. and one summer, I realized I hadn’t seen him in years. I doubt Danny even remembered his existence, and I probably wouldn’t have either if I hadn’t seen his mom out walking.

it was strange to see her out in the fresh air. but what was weirder was that she was parading an empty baby stroller around.

being the polite thirteen-year-old that I was, I stopped on the sidewalk and open-mouth stared. she hadn’t seen me yet, so I jumped into our pine tree and watched. she strolled along in her old-looking clothes. if she had been closer, I would feel justified in saying that she smelled like moth-balls. but that was probably my imagination. she stopped at every driveway and bent down. apparently the front page of each of our newspapers was highly fascinating to her. she continued her loop and walked back around the corner.

a few days later she showed up with her empty baby stroller at my neighbor’s garage sale. she brought a few things over and wondered if she could sell them. my neighbor said that would be fine. I don’t remember her coming back for the money she made.

at that time I wondered about Chris. what had happened to him? I didn’t know. if I could’ve, I would’ve asked that odd woman I assumed (but with my strong imagination, I sometimes romantically made up past histories for Chris and doubted) to be his mother, but she disappeared from our lives again, and so they both disappeared from my mind.

then, about two years ago, I had the weirdest dream: I was at camp playing on a playground. I was with a bunch of my friends and they were talking in dream language (you know what I mean... that babbling background noise that doesn't make an ounce of sense). I was in the middle of laughing when I saw him. he looked much older, and at first I didn’t recognize him. but he had the same sandy hair and pale colorless eyes, and he gave me the same faint smile and slowly walked over to me. just as always, I didn’t say anything. he stopped in front of me and held out his hands sort of helplessly.

then he spoke.

“will you do me a favor?” it was the first thing he had ever said to me. his voice was pale and forgettable like the rest of him.

“yes,” my dream self answered.

“will you please pray for me? every night?”

“yes,” I answered again. and in my dream he looked relieved, almost happy even.

“promise me,” he said suddenly desperate again.

“I promise.”

then the dream faded and he looked over his shoulder. I stared goodbye. as always.

when I woke up, I was shaken. I took a walk around the block that day and went slow-motion past Chris’s house. the windows were dark. I stopped on the driveway and looked at the garage wondering if there was a small bike inside and what had happened to it’s owner.

I still slow down when I walk past that house. where is my silent friend now? I haven’t forgotten the promise I made him in my dream. and though I don't pray for him every night, I pray for him whenever I can.

maybe I’m crazy for praying for someone I spoke to for the first time in a dream, but I figure praying for him can’t hurt him. even if I am being silly.

***
mom is inside now.

“what did she want?” I ask. our neighbor had been standing on the drive-way holding a huge window-screen for quite some time. I wonder if it was necessary to carry the whole screen over? or was it like the empty baby stroller... just something to make her feel less lonely?

before mom answers, I alter my question entirely; “wait, does she have a name?”

“yes she has a name,” mom laughs. but I can tell she’s already struggling to remember it. “her name is… Judy…” there's a question in mom's voice as if she's not quite sure, but she continues; “she wanted to ask dad a question about her window…”

“did she say anything about Chris?”

“yes, she did.” I think mom is surprised I remember him. “she said he’s at some technical institute or something studying engineering… or… I’m not sure what. I get the feeling he’s a genius though.”

“I would believe it,” I mumble to myself. “mom? do you think… do you think she’s all right?”

“all right?”

“yeah, like, mentally?”

“yes,” mom says, “but no!” she adds quickly. “I think something is missing...”

***
someday, if I ever see Chris again, I want to walk right up to him and break our silent spell. I wonder what he would say if he knew I’ve been praying for him all this time? if he knew that I try to keep an eye out for his mom? would he stay silent and thank me with his eyes?

then again, maybe I won’t say anything at all... maybe he just needed a quiet praying friend.

maybe some things are better left unspoken.

your friend,
muffin