Reading Backwards

Yeah, I know the proper to way to read a book is to start at the front and read straight through, cover-to-cover. That’s how I usually read. Sometimes. Mostly. Unless I get bored or the story moves too slow. Then sometimes I jump back and read the end. Knowing how a book ends helps you decide if it's worth your time to finish it. Peeking clears things up pretty quickly. If the end is right (not necessarily happy, but right - they're not the same), you know it’s worth finding out how it got there. And who did what along the way. You can read backwards till you find out what you want to know. Or you can go back to the front and read right. Either way works. Just remember, front to back is not the only way to get to the best part.

It’s funny how God can use random reading. Or maybe He directs it and it’s not random at all. God seems to pretty much do His own thing without consulting us. But sometimes nudges. I almost always read after I go to bed. Even if it’s really, really late; even when I’m really tired, I’ll usually read at least a little. Because it’s just what readers are compelled to do. We don’t have much say in the matter. I’m always reading a number of books at any given time on eclectic topics. You never know what mood you’ll be in, whether you’ll need something heavy or light. So there’s always a big stack of books by my bed. My very own Leaning Tower of Pisa. My friend said you can tell what someone’s dealing with in life by the books on their bedstand. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s an intriguing posit. I'm not telling what all's on my stack. Except Growing Up Amish. It is.

It was late last night when I went to bed. I had my reading material with me. But something nudged: “Read Growing Up Amish.” You know those nudges. The ones you don’t really want to listen to, but you do anyway, because you never know if it's God or not. If it's Him, you want to listen, so He'll keep talking. I'd already read Ira’s story back last year. I’ve read his blog for some time. That’s where I learned about his book; he talked about it on his blog as he was writing it. Told us about the journey from the very start when he was approached by a publisher about writing his story: his trepidation, his excitement, his frustration. Writing your life story is not for the faint of heart apparently. The gestation, the travail, the birthing: we blog readers watched the process from afar; listened to the heartbeats, anticipated the due date. When his book hit the press last year, he gave us opportunity to get special pre-order rates. I wasn’t much interested in reading his book. Nothing against him; I knew from his blog he was an excellent writer. I knew his story would be interesting. But the subject matter was too close to my own heart. I was in the middle of a similar journey. Walking through the pain and grief. Sorting through the debris. Reading a whole book about the same thing held little appeal. It was way too real. Too soon. Like doing surgery on the same spot as an earlier operation before the scar is healed. No, thanks. Maybe later.

But I kept reading people’s comments about it on Facebook, in Amazon reviews, hearing people talk about what they liked, what they didn’t, what they thought, whether they could identify or not. Maybe I should read it. Maybe I could handle it. So I did. Sort of gulped it down, reading very quickly without analyzing. I seldom analyze books I read; I think about the content, just not in an analytical way. I keep what is useful and let the rest float away. That's what I did with Growing up Amish. Or thought I did. I would find out later I hadn't even kept the best part. I had read enough Pathway material and other things about Amish that the cultural content of Ira’s book was pretty familiar. Old Order Amish and my culture, Old Order Mennonite, are similar in many aspects; there’s only one way to hitch up a horse. But in other areas the groups are very different. Almost like two completely different cultures. One area where they differ is prayer: Old Order Mennonites never ever use scripted prayers; whereas, according to Ira, that’s the only kind Amish use. Shunning differs too. Not all Old Order Mennonites shun. And when they do, it doesn’t involve eating at separate tables. At least the Old Order Mennonites in Virginia don’t. Others might. Old Order Mennonite shunning in Virginia is more about not socializing with those who leave; cutting them out of your life relationship wise. People practice this in varying degrees. Some not at all. There are other differences too – electricity, phones, solid versus printed clothing, for a few. And the music is quite different. At least for Virginia Old Orders who don’t use German. Our church songbooks are a mixture of classic hymns and some distinctly Old Order songs that few outside our circles sing, but nothing Gregorian chant style.

In significant ways though, Amish and OO Mennonites are very alike. Both groups view getting a car as the beginning of the end spiritually. Not that it is wrong for others, just for those God placed in an Old Order setting. If God put you there, leaving the setting is going against His will. And the social pressure from infancy onward that is put on everyone to remain there is similar in both settings. Likewise the psychological angst that ensues for those who don’t fit the mold and are faced with either staying and living as a misfit or leaving and disappointing the whole community. Ira’s story portrays this dilemma clearly. I thought he told his story honestly, without painting his people black or white, just saying how it was. A tale well told. From time to time, I would hear conservative people talk about his book. It always annoyed me whenever someone in the conservative setting said anything negative about it. So not everything in his book is pretty. Well, that’s truth. Not everything there is. No setting is. So let’s be honest here. I would defend his book: Ira was fair along with his honesty. I thought anyway. Maybe there were things I had missed. Maybe I should reread it. I borrowed my friend’s book again. Reread a few places. Yeah, okay, there is some stuff that could have been said more kindly. Or not at all. That is true. But still, it's an excellent portrayal of what leaving Old Order culture entails. And told with integrity. In my opinion anyway.

So I'd read Ira’s story once all the way through. And reread a few parts. Even analyzed it a little. Someone on Amazon said a better title would have been Leaving the Amish. I agreed. At first. But lately in processing my own journey, I’ve started thinking that the angst of leaving a culture is actually a lot about the growing up in it. That any story about leaving is first and foremost about the growing up. The being there. It’s in that growing up where the stuff of life, the good and the bad, gets into your heart and winds tendrils around your soul and spirit. All those memories. The bits and pieces of living. The love. The joys, the sorrows; the grief, the glad. The hard places. The happy places. The sad music. The happy music. The people. What they did; what they didn’t do. What you did; what you didn’t do. All the stuff life is about. Your heart, soul, and spirit get all wrapped up together in the growing up. It’s that tightly woven cocoon encasing everything that makes leaving so excruciating. How can a cocoon be unwound without tearing precious fiber?

I wanted to reread the whole book again sometime and really think about it. Analyze it in depth. So it lay in the stack by my bed. With many others. It sort of got lost in the pile. I was working through my own stuff. Processing. Sorting. Doing what you have to do to pry apart the grip of the past on your heart and figure out how to live in the present. Then came that nudge last night. So I picked up Growing Up Amish. "Okay, God, what do You want me to read here?" It was late. I really needed to get to sleep. I’d just read the very end of it. The best stuff’s always at the end. So I read the epilogue. Hmm. I hadn’t remembered some of this stuff. Not at all. I hadn’t known Ira had said this. So I backed up a chapter and read it. That called for more backing up. I read where he lived Amish after being converted. I hadn’t remembered that. It was getting late, but I had to find out more. I had to read about his conversion. I had obviously swallowed huge chunks in my first gulping of the story and never digested them. So what if it was late; I backed up another chapter and read some more. I kept backing up until I got to the part prior to his conversion. I had not remembered these details at all. I had not remembered Ira writing so openly and honestly about his fears. His spiritual turmoil. Of praying his first prayer. Of God’s quick answer. And the joy. The peace that followed. Of his learning to know God. Of his trying to live in his culture after his conversion. Trying to fit in while knowing God. And of it not working. No matter how much he and his people wanted it to. His feeling so alone in that knowing. And of his final leaving then. But in a whole different way this time. With peace and clarity and cleanness. And certainty. How could I have forgotten all this? This is the most significant part of the story. This is sheer beauty. And so true. Yes.

No wonder some people in his culture don’t like his story. Of course they wouldn’t. It’s backwards to what they believe. That someone would write openly about their doubts and fears. Lay on the line what actually went on both within and without. Sort carefully through everything, the good and the bad. Be open and honest about his own mistakes and failures. Look closely at it all. At everything. And then come out on the side of “No.” With clear and peaceful certainty. With no trace of rebellion. Sadness even. Deep sadness. But certainty. And peace. Deep certain peace. That's totally backwards. It takes guts and courage to be that honest about deep inner feelings and fears. About raw emotions. First of all to face them in your heart. And then to write about them. To bare one's soul to certain censure. To make yourself vulnerable in a world where silence is lauded. You just don't do that. Especially if you're a man. Certainly not in public. Unless you're on Jerry Springer's show. Or Dr. Phil's. Never if you're Amish or Mennonite. Ever. Or were. Yes, definitely backwards reading. Reading backwards gets everything out of order. It can play with your mind. Reading backwards has to be done with care. There's always the chance you'll miss something important. Something essential. Or take something out of context. You have to be very, very careful. But it is one way to get to the best part. Not the only way. Certainly not always the best way. But it can work. Truly. Especially if it’s late.

Spiritual Progression

I wonder if the parable of the sower shows a progression in one's spiritual life. At first we hear the Word and don't understand it so it doesn't mean anything to us. Then later we may reach the place where we do understand it and we are excited and happy and want to live these truths. But we lack the maturity and willingness to actually put what we know into practice and our enthusiasm wanes. And we go back to living as we had before. As life progresses we pay more attention to the Word. We understand more of it, we are more mature, and our desire to truly live it increases. But now our life intervenes: we are busy or have developed other habits and interests that distract us and keep us from following the Gospel as we understand it. We allow the good to crowd out the best. It is too challenging to put forth the energy needed to overcome these sins that so easily beset us. And, besides, our life is comfortable as it is. But God keeps wooing us. And we find ourselves discontent on a deep level that makes the formerly satisfying things no longer enough. We search deeper for that which truly satisfies our spirit. We plead with God for wisdom and help. For the will to do His will. And God in His great mercy answers our heart cry. And finally the seed grows in fertile soil. And brings forth a hundredfold.

Stark Truth?

Today our Bible team was critiquing objectives to send to our curriculum writer. We were examining the Word to see what lessons it held. The parable of the wise virgins. The parable of the talents. The final judgement. Three lessons in one chapter of Matthew. Separate yet connected. The wise virgins whose oil could not be shared with those who had none because no human can give another person the Holy Spirit or a relationship with God. Each person is responsible for working out his own salvation, for buying his own oil.

And every person is given talents to use as desired. Some have more than others. But all have some. Enough with which to serve God. To produce fruit. The result of using one's gifts is that more is given along with the privilege of entering the joy of our Master. The consequence of hiding one's talent, of being slothful is to be cast into outer darkness.

On the heels of the parable of the talents, Christ tells about the separation when world will be judged. The criteria for inheriting the kingdom of heaven is feeding the hungry, giving those who thirst a drink, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and those in prison. "If you do these to the least of these my brothers, you do it unto Me." Concise, clear statements.

The Bible scholar on our team said that, unlike Luke, Matthew connected his parables. That there is a continuation of thought. So I am pondering: is developing a relationship with God (getting oil for our lamp) the impetus needed for developing/using our gifts to their full capacity? Does using our talents mean doing those things that are required for inheriting the kingdom of heaven? If so, it's pretty black and white.

Owning Thoughts

Recently a friend was talking about not understanding the blindness of a certain group of people and their viewpoints. Wondering why thinking people thought the things they did. And why she couldn't get it; wondering what they saw that she didn't. My response was that when one's parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, etc. espouse certain views, you develop a way of thinking that is difficult to change even when you want to. Where do our thoughts and the thoughts of our "great cloud of witnesses" begin and end? Which of our thoughts do we own? Which ones belong to our friends, our family, our co-workers, the authors we read? How much of what we think rises from within? How much from without? Are they a collage of all we've ever learned? A composite whole of who we are that changes daily, hourly as we imbibe from life's chalice.

Lent: a clearing season

My interest in Lent started a number of years ago. My friend Luanne who has a weekly column in our local paper wrote about her observance of Lent and its value in one's life by imposing discipline in areas that need tending. At that point of my life I was a reading addict -- my leisure time was consumed with reading at the expense of other things in my life. Sometimes I would use it as a form of escape; other times simply as a preferred form of entertainment. Night after night I would read voraciously. Luanne's column on Lent inspired me to do a reading fast. I limited myself to reading whatever I needed for daily purposes, the Bible, and her weekly column. I don't remember the details of what ensued for me, only a sense of its having been a good thing and something I wanted to do again.

In the years since, I have practiced Lent in varying degrees. Usually it has been an effort to discipline an area of my life that has gotten out of balance. It has provided incentive for restoring equilibrum. Some years, my Lenten practice has been more fulfilling than others. I think I am learning more about how to use it as a tool for deepening my walk with God. It's as if I were first a toddler and had to learn how to walk, and each successive year finds me at a new place and better skilled at doing this. Hopefully, it means I am growing spiritually, and each new year finds me closer to the One Whom I desire to draw closer to.

This year has been my most satisfying Lent yet. I am redoing a book that I had done in part last year. Suasn Parsons' a clearing season provides a guide for the Lenten journey. Every week has an exercise to do throughout the week, each building on the previous. Its premise is to use Lent as a time of clearing space in our crowded lives for deeper relationship with Christ. Parsons focuses on using this time of discipline to discover natural rhythms in our life; on opening ourselves to facing the "wild beasts" in our own wilderness, like Jesus did when He was driven there by the Spirit. It is a good thing to examine one's heart to see what all is reigning there - its fears, its desires, its idols. All the things that drive our actions and control our lives but that we pay little attention to in the hurried business of living. Our hearts are full of "wild beasts" that we cater to day after day. They keep us from living the abundant life Jesus intends us to have. They devour huge chunks of our life with our hardly being aware of what is happening. They hold the kingdom of heaven at bay.

Sitting with these wild beasts in one's personal wilderness is a good experience. It helps one to become intentional about living. And at reevaluating and restructuring as needed. At seeing if the path we are on is leading us to the place we want to be. For me, this year has led to my spending more time with things that tap into my true interests and feed my spirit in deeply satisfying ways. I am doing more things that lead me to the place I want to go. I am liking it so well that I want to make this year's Lenten discipline a regular part of my life.

As we sit with the reality of ourselves and start clearing out space in our lives for God, it opens up a desire to be more like Him. Created in His image, we, like Him, have a desire to create. Being creative can take any number of forms. It may be something as simple as opening our soul to the unique beauty embodied in the personality of each person around us, the people we meet on a daily basis and hardly see. Or opening our senses to really seeing, tasting, smelling all the things our Creator has made for our pleasure. For fully grasping the beauty of every aspect of our day from each bite of food we savour to every person God brings across our path in the course of a day. Every moment of our day can become a holy moment, an encounter with Him in Whom we live and move and have our being.

My Lenten journey this year has awakened a talent that has long lain dormant. Years ago I used to do some writing: some poetry, bits and pieces of this and that. But for a long time now, I have had little interest in putting any thoughts on paper. I would rarely do it except on sporadic occasions. This was strange, because all my life I have loved words and language. I love the nuances of words and the magic they can wreak in one's heart. But there was little desire to write, despite my ability to do so. It was like a closed door that I was quite content to leave unopened.

But lately, that has changed. All of a sudden I have all sorts of things I want to write. God is probably laughing: a year or so ago, my friend Naomi asked if I blogged; "No," I replied, completely uninterested. I was pretty certain that bug would never inflict me. Ha! as if we can ever know what we will or won't do in life if we sit long enough with our Creator Who fashioned us and ever draws us to Him.

Embracing Otherness

(n) otherness, distinctness, separateness (the quality of being not alike; being distinct or different from that otherwise experienced or known)

I remember experiencing otherness at various stages of my life: as a little Mennonite girl climbing onto the public school bus; in my large family where I often retreated to a fantasy world; within my culture where fitting in was paramount to acceptance and being different was tantamount to rebellion. My otherness created a sense of loneliness that I buried deep in the recesses of my heart.

I learned to hide my otherness from the hoi polloi, to allow it to surface only in safe places. But it was always just beneath the surface, ebbing and flowing; sometimes simmering, sometimes seething. And occasionally it would erupt in a geyser of full blown Otherness. It had a mind of its own: at times it was the bane of my soul, other times it was a banquet of soul food. It made life unbearable; it made life worth living. It was capricious. And it rebelled at being squelched.

To thrive as its Creator intended, the human spirit needs to live authentically. If the truth of Christ is to make us free indeed, we must walk in truth - Christ's Truth and the truth of our own heart. Jesus said that doing this will require sacrifice; that it may mean leaving those we love. But that He will give us rest if we come to Him. Ah, rest. What one's heart longs for. What God crowned His days of creation with. What He invites us to enter.

For many years I lived in a place of unrest. My spirit longed for something more, but knew not how to find it. Gradually and gently, the Lord led me to the well of Truth. He showed me that the otherness in my spirit is from Him. That it is His way of bringing me to Him; that to fully know Him, I must embrace my otherness. That otherness is a Good Thing.

So now I am in the season of embracing my otherness, of becoming intimate with its idiosyncracies and owning them fully. It is a place of joy; it is a place of pain; it is Home. I love this place; it is where my spirit has longed to be. But the cost of living here is steep: it means not being understood. It means challenging the status quo. It means being content to live as a pilgrim and a stranger, desiring it even. Being in the world, but not of it. And, paradoxically, it means knowing Peace; Peace that passeth all understanding.

Embracing Otherness - ah! this is Sabbath. This is Rest.

It is good to be Home.