Secret Pinboards

I am not yet on Pinterest. Well, I have an account, but I don't pin anything. It seems too intimidating, and Facebook alone wastes a lot of my time. But I know  a lot of people who really enjoy it, and I've definitely benefited from the crafts, recipes, jokes, and inspiring sayings my friends pin and use. When I have to cook for myself, I'll probably use Pinterest for the recipes. As of right now, my recipe repertoire is somewhere between the number of pieces of Halloween candy I have left in my stash and the number of classes I'm enrolled in. Which is to say, not many. 

Anyway, my friend Amanda has started talking about secret pinboards-- places where you can pin and nobody sees your pinnings. Ironically enough, she shares some of the things she's pinned on those boards. Some might say it's a contradiction. But I think it's the right way to live.

We have to share the secret things on our inner pinboards, the places we pin quiet hopes, deep disappointments, dreams we don't yet know how to articulate expect for an inexplicable feeling those dreams define who we are. Of course, we shouldn't share everything on the inner inboard; we don't want to overwhelm  people by oversharing. And some of the pins might hurt people's feelings, and others don't really belong on the inner pinboard so much as they belong on the "Things I've Thought About That Don't Define Me" board.

But the point is, a lot of the things on the secret pinboard deserve to be shared with at least some people, and they're far more interesting than the mundane things we tack to our outer pinboards, the way we present ourselves to the external world. I've learned that's something I need to work on. I need to keep asking people, gently, with love, about the things on their secret pinboards, and share more about what's on mine. That's the way Amanda's been doing it. I should follow her example. That's the way you get to know people. The way you build friendships that are meant to last a lifetime, not just a Marine Corps tour, and not just a college career.

So anybody who's reading this, ask me about my secret pinboard. And I'll try to ask you about yours. 

Faceplant

I presented at Truman's Philosophy and Religion Conference. I was really excited about the resume booster and the chance to be a real scholar, presenting my scaling of the academic heights. I practiced. I made a PowerPoint. I got up early to put on a blouse and makeup (that never happens except for Sunday morning!)
I clickity-clacked my way in brown leather heels over to the presentation room, greeted professors with a tight-lipped smile, and daintily ate a complementary bagel. An attractive, tweed-blazer clad student from Missouri Western got up before the podium. 
He's cute, he looks professional, but MO Western? Truman is way better! How good of a presentation is this going to be?
Thirty seconds into the presentation, and the answer became apparent: Very. He sounded like a professor, full of philosophical theories that soared way above anything I'd ever heard of. 
After what seemed like a long time but no time at all, it was my turn to set up my presentation while everyone else chatted and headed for the buffet table. And so began Calamity #1. In my exhaustion the night before, I accidentally downloaded my paper to the flash drive instead of the PowerPoint. Well, because I hadn't brought any notes, because I never speak with notes, there was no way I was going to be able to give this speech. No way.
Trembling, I went up to the conference coordinator. "Um, my flash drive is saying my file is corrupted," I lied, voice strained with forced calm. "I don't know what happened."
Just then, the next presenter, equally attractive and snazzily dressed, walked in. "Uh, hello. I'm having some technological difficulties and I'm wondering if you'd mind switching with me."
"No problem," he replied with a toothy grin.
Trying to smile back, I nodded and half-walked, half-jogged in my heels back to my room and downloaded the PowerPoint. It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay, I kept telling myself. 
Finally I made it back to the presentation room, in time to hear an extremely intelligent sounding presentation combining the story of Abraham sacrificing Isaac with feminism, semiotics, and psychoanalysis. "Of course, there's really no objective reality in this story, no white bearded god in the sky telling Abraham what to do and making everything all right in the end," the presenter said as a kind of aside, as if this were obvious. But I know the God of Abraham is real. I talk to him every day. I sing his praises every Thursday and Sunday. 
And then, it was my turn. After a minor calamity of the projector briefly not working, the computer finally projected my PowerPoint. I grinned. It was going to be okay!
And so I began to give my presentation. I heard my voice fill the room, slightly trembling, anxious. I've never liked the sound of my own voice, and hearing it reverberating around the room was a little frightening. As I kept talking, it was easier to continue, as long as I blocked out the fact that my presentation was so much more simple and informal compared to everyone else's. Finally, thankfully, the thing was over. 
"Any questions?" I asked.
The hand of one of my philosophy professors shot up into the air. And that was the beginning of Calamity #2. 
"Yes?" I asked, hoping for a softball. 
I don't remember exactly what she said, and I don't want to. I just know she shot right through my argument, tore it in two. Well, not all of my argument, but a good 20% of it. I tried to argue back politely, even though I wasn't convincing myself.
"No, no," she said sharply. "No. You're wrong. I can help you go back and fix this paper. But this is wrong."
She said this in front of everyone: all the philosophy and religion professors from Truman, faculty from other schools, Attractive Snazzily Dressed Egghead Male Philosophy Presenters, two friends who came, a couple students in my classes, some freshmen logic students. Everyone. Everyone. 
Luckily, there were more questions, most of them much easier to answer. Although at one point a professor and a student started talking to each other and ignoring me, and I didn't know how to break in.
"David," one of my favorite religion professors said, "let Jessica talk, please."
I was embarrassed but grateful to have control again of the session. I gave what seemed to me like a satisfactory answer. A student tried to jump in, but the conference coordinator announced that we were out of time. 
Thank God! I thought. I ejected my flash drive, grabbed my purse, and walked quickly past the professor who shot my presentation. Luckily, she was too engrossed in conversation to talk to me. The way I felt at that moment, I didn't want to talk to anyone. 
I thought I was a scholar. This conference proved that I am not. I am a college student, and a pretty good one at that. But I'm not an academic, and probably never will be. Learning that really hurt. 
But here's the thing.
Jesus still loves me.
My family and friends still love me.
I am still going to have communion at church (today, now that it's after 1 AM).
I will still graduate from Truman. 
And God still has a place for me in his kingdom, given me gifts and graces by which I can contribute to his church.
But I'm still upset. I guess it's high time I accept that I will never be an academic, that I'm not as intelligent as I wish I were, and that in God's kingdom, intelligence is nice, but not really worth all that much. Just like Attractive Male Philosopher who said the story of Abraham isn't really about God because there is no God. In the eyes of the world, A.M.P. said something intelligent. In the eyes of God, A.M.P. is missing out on grace. 
Grace is more important than intelligence. I long ago traded my dreams of Yale, theology, musty books, critical acclaim, for something bigger. 
Let me, God, hold babies before you, lift the dead up to you, bring your good news to the poor. 
I would rather live inside the church than write about it. Not that I'm judging any academics; I admire their passion, their smarts. But God did not give that to me.
Instead, through this awkward conference experience, I have learned about what I am and am not. I learned that it's important to try new things, and know that failure isn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things, because the grand scheme of things is held by God. 
I'm okay. Yeah, maybe I got Augustine all wrong. But, by God's grace, I haven't gotten Jesus all wrong. In God's eyes, that's what counts. 

Baby Boys

I love my baby brother. But if he knew I'm calling him "baby," he might try to strangle me. He's twelve, going on thirteen. I feel that he has always been a part of my life, and there is nothing he could do to make me love him less. Plenty to annoy me, yes, but I'm his big sister for life. I was seven when he was born, and I loved him instantly. I still can't believe he's nearly a teenager. Where did his babyhood go? Where is the boisterous toddler who ran everywhere, with cars and dinosaurs in tow?

But I love him still, all five foot, two inches of him: the one inch taller than me, the dark fuzz growing on his lip, the soft voice he struggles to make deeper, the big brown eyes always full of thought. 

On Sunday I was running the PowerPoint at my church. I was sitting in the sound booth, paying just enough attention to run the PowerPoint properly, since I'd already worshipped in the pews earlier that morning. Beside me sat the man running the sound. He also happens to be a leader for the boys' high school youth activities. He's a big, fierce guy with a booming voice, but kind too, with a booming laugh and propensity to joke. Between us stood two teenage boys who looked barely older than my brother. Before and during the service, they talked to their youth leader, and he talked back. From the election to sports to history, they were having a lively conversation. He told them to be quiet during the sermon, though, and they did. 

My mind was wandering to the large paper I had due which I had barely started,  but I couldn't quit thinking about, subconsciously, how much these boys respected this youth leader. And then, after the sermon ended, he clapped them both firmly, lovingly, on the shoulder.

I started crying silently. I faced the wall and wiped the tears away, trying to get a grip. What was my problem?

And then it hit me. I wished my brother were up in the sound booth. Partly so I could see him, but also so he could be loved and known by this man, every bit as masculine as our former Marine father. For these two boys up here in Kirksville, worshipping and bantering with a man in church who isn't their father is teaching them 1) that real men worship God and 2) that they are children of God who deserve the love and attention of caring adults. 

None of these guys would have thought of it that way. My brother certainly wouldn't. Ironically, if they had noticed my weeping during the offertory they would have thought, "Why are girls so emotional?" as my brother often asks. But it's true. The part about girls being emotional, and the part about men investing in boys making all the difference in the world.

As of now, my brother has no strong male leader with whom to talk politics and video games in church on Sundays, no man to clap his slowly broadening shoulders with pride and affection. Yes, he has our father, and that's important. But boys need to be shepherded by more than just a dad, and more than just a pastor. 

"Jessica's the religion junkie in the family," my brother says anytime something church related comes up. Where are the men to show him church is for more than girls or people who like to study religion? Where are the men to show him that the essence of manhood is serving Jesus Christ?

I don't know. But I love my baby boy. And I want the church to take better care of him. 

The Liturgy of Roadkill

"Carrion" is a pretty word for an ugly thing: roadkill. In my poetry class on Thursday, we read a beautiful poem by Gerard Mansley Hopkins called, "Carrion Comfort," about those times you feel hopeless, like roadkill is the best you'll ever get in life and it's God's fault. I want to write liturgy using this poem, while interweaving it with (mostly) Bible verses. I don't know if this would ever work in church. It might be too raw or too obscure. But it still seems cool. The whole time in class I kept thinking how cool this would be for liturgy. I had to get it out. So here goes:
L: Let us come before the Lord with open, honest hearts.
C: Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee.
L: For in hope we were saved.
C: Not untwist-- slack they may be-- these last strands of man in me.
L: We have this hope, sure and steadfast, the anchor of our souls.
C: Nor, most weary, cry I can no more. 
L: We can do all things through Christ who gives us strength.
C: I can, can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
L: Hope in the Lord! For you shall praise him.
C: But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me thy wring-world right foot rock?
L: Blessed be God! He has not rejected our prayers or removed his steadfast love from us. 
C: Why lean a lionlamb against me? Why scan with darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones?
L: Because of the Lord's great love, we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.
C: Why fan, O turns in tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
L: His mercies are new every morning. Great is your faithfulness!
C: Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clean?
L: And we know that in all things God works for the good of those that love him.
C: Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, hand rather.
L: You hem us in, behind and before, you lay your hand upon us.
C: Lo! I lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer. Cheer whom though?
L: Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high, I cannot attain it.
C: Cheer the Hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot-trod me?
L: He will never, ever abandon you nor forsake you.
C: Or me that fought him? O which one? Is it each one?
L: I pray that you will, together with all the saints, know what is the height and the depth and the width of his love.
C: Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
L: This is our God, forever and ever, and surely he will be our guide even to the end.
All: Amen