I'm telling you, I have never reaped so much joy from a social event as when I have to force myself to attend against my will.
Lately - perhaps because I've been writing more and therefore spending a lot of time growing things in the garden of my mind - engaging socially with people has been draining. I spend my time at work chatting with customers; when I leave, the idea of chatting further feels overwhelmingly tedious.
There are a select few people in my inner-circle who are exempt from these moods. Jeremiah my husband, my little doggies, and the folks we cook dinner with throughout the week (stomach defeats whiny mood, always).
I've made a point the past couple days to involve myself in social activities after work. Simple things, like pizza at our friends' house or beers with another couple. Particularly, things involving people who aren't in my "inner circle." I've been leaving work feeling like the art of making small talk has been lost to me, and ready to dive into a book with headphones and ice cream. Instead, when opportunities for social gathering have presented themselves, I've accepted them.
It's been a little painful, all this acceptance.
But the more time I spend in conversation, hanging out with people, the less anti-social I feel. A weird tingle is generated from my bellybutton to my lips in these social gatherings. I find myself smiling, laughing even. I'm not sure what to call this tingle, but I'm pretty sure it's happiness or something. Maybe even joy. (That said, I value alone time. Thrive from it and need it. We're talking about balance, here; I'm not suggesting forgo alone time.)
Some Mormon Missionaries came to my door recently. They were rather nice, took my trash out for me and even conceded when I told them they could pray for me if I could pray for them. In trying to convince me I needed to go to church, the concept of Communion was presented.
"I do that all the time," I explained.
"Well, the thing about Communion is that it's about the right mindset. It's the blood and body of Christ; someone in authority needs to bless the bread and wine," they explained.
Two thoughts occurred to me. One, I expressed: "I think you're right. Really, it's about Jesus. When we focus on him, our mindset is aligned with his. And ya know, in the Bible Jesus says 'All the authority of heaven and earth is mine; I give it to you.' So, I've got all the authority I could possibly need. And so do you." (Authority examples: Matthew 10:8 and 28:18, Luke 10:19)
Perhaps friends are like spiders that help keep the
garden of our minds pest free. Photo by: Josiah McLain
The second thought, I didn't recall until I began this post. "The Last Supper," from which Christianity has derived the communion ritual, was definitely about Jesus. But it wasn't Jesus alone, it was Jesus surrounded by his friends. It was a social gathering; a shared experience.
We don't need bread and wine to have communion, though they are convenient symbols. We need each other.
I have a hunch our Oppressors would do anything in their power to keep us from communing - giving and receiving life - with our friends and Jesus. Without communion, we who are rivers at our healthiest, dry up into deserts.
While our moods are strong, we are stronger. The longer we go without breaking out of a bad mood, the harder it might be but the more enlivening the end result. It's a new struggle every time I feel an anti-socail mood coming on; it's yet to become easy to say Hmm, this mood is damaging me spiritually. I need to stop bitching and get over it. Practice, I'm hoping, makes perfect.
---
Click HERE for more posts about Communion in my heretical life.
Kingdom reality turns earthly reality inside out and backwards. “To be first, you must be last and serve everyone,” Jesus told his disciples as they argued about who was best (Mark 9:33-35).
Humility.
Humility is the key to the kingdom.
So what’s the key to humility? I can tell you, it isn’t powerlessness, as I often find myself thinking. Neither is it enslavement - doing good deeds or good work while receiving nothing of value in return. Those who follow Jesus are heirs to his kingdom. We’re world changers; the most powerful, free people on the planet. Humility doesn’t negate this truth, humility makes this truth reality.
I was working a morning shift at the coffee shack a couple weeks ago. Mornings are busy enough to require a two man team, so I worked with a co-worker named Ray. Mid-way through our shift, some friends of mine came in.
A mother (Sue) and daughter (TJ) duo, I’ve never seen my friends together sans laughter. They told me a story about a time they laid hands on Sue’s back with a group of friends. They prayer warriors gathered around Sue in the hot seat, made declarations and spoke in tongues and all was very lovely, though not particularly healing. Until TJ started laughing. Before they knew it, the laughter had spread out of control.
As the giggle fits subsided, without further ado, Sue stood, said thanks, and walked away healed.
This day at the coffee shack they were particularly bubbly. They’d been listening to a song from Dispicable Me 2 called “Happy,” they told me. As they walked in, they were still singing raucously. Ray tried without success to focus them on their drink order, shrugged and resigned them to me.
I barged into their happy parade, took their orders, and they waited in the window across from the espresso machine chatting and giggling merrily. Perhaps 20 minutes after they left, a woman in plaid came in and stood in the same window, waiting to be helped.
“How are you doing today?” Ray asked, while I busily pulled shots and steamed milk.
The woman in plaid paused, scrunched up her face in confusion for a moment, then answered, “Literally two seconds ago, until you asked me that, I was feeling really irritated like I was having a terrible day. But suddenly I feel really, really good. Thanks!”
I want to utilize this post to speak to a specific group of people: Customer Servants. Those of us in the customer service industry often feel abused, demeaned, and pretty pissed off about it. Those of us who makes tips can easily find ourselves measuring our worth by the amount of money people are willing to put in our jars. Some days, despite our best efforts, we feel utterly worthless.
I’ve written about customer service in the past. It’s a common topic for me to share on The Daily Heretic because I believe in Jesus’s commission to “go out” (Matthew 10:8). So strongly, I’ve shaped my life around it and chosen to make my everyday a mission. Most days, I find myself at work. To recap, I am a barista and my husband works at Trader Joe’s. And so, customer service.
A day of customer service can leave me feeling a sense of hopelessness unlike any other work I’ve ever done. It’s so easy to notice the flaws in the people I interact with - ingratitude, pride, narcissism, ignorance. By the end of the day, I feel completely justified being fed up and miserable. After all, I’ve spent hours laboring to cater to the whims of wealthy people who don’t deserve it. I could be in Africa, or India, or Haiti serving people starving and dying. They’d be grateful, right?
My friends Sue and TJ brought a cloud of kingdom joy into my coffee bungalow so thick it stuck around after they left. The woman in plaid stood within it totally unable to access it, until Ray unlocked the door with humility. That very simple “How are you doing today?” - a question we in customer service ask thousands of time in a week - was all it took to unlock the kingdom at hand and instantly change the course of the plaid woman’s day.
A few months ago I had a dream about a sushi feast being served to demons (if I find the dream, I'll link it here). Since that dream, I’ve started to notice that the negative feelings I occasionally have toward customers were feeding the demons they were carrying in with them. Whenever I noticed myself slipping into anger (or annoyance or impatience) I started to simply say “I don’t feed demons,” and that was enough to re-engage my spirit with the Kingdom and end the feast.
The trick isn’t ending the feast. That’s easy. The moment I engage with Jesus, the feast is over. The trick is recognizing that a feast is happening.
Following the dream, I realized my mood toward a person often shifted the moment they stepped out of their car. I’d watch them walk in, and a steady stream of reasons justifying my bitterness about serving them coursed through my mind. By the time they came in, I’d force myself to smile knowing full-well they didn’t deserve even common courtesy.
Until I recognized this, my job was very difficult to enjoy for the entirety of a day. It was thanks to the customers who took care to beam their light and love my direction that I’ve kept my job as long as I have.
After a period of weeks doing my best to diligently declare “I don’t feed demons,” the practice became second nature. Now when I notice a shift as someone steps out of their car, I begin asking Jesus what he likes about them. Sometimes, asking that question feels like pulling teeth. I seriously don’t want to hear it.
But even if I want to ignore Him, I declare “I don’t feed demons” and make myself ask them “How are you doing today?” By the time this person I deigned to smile at minutes ago leaves, we’ve had a meaningful and worthwhile interaction and I feel good. Like, joy of Jesus good. It wasn’t until I watched Ray unlock the joy of the kingdom with that same question, that I began to recognize the power I wield as a humble servant.
If you’re not relating to this, please at least don’t think I’m a rotten person you never want to get your coffee from. I should clarify, I don’t go through this with every person I serve. Gracious that would be tedious. Though I serve about 70 people per shift, it takes only few badly handled or unrecognized demonic encounters to really ruin my day. I’m describing those select few, not the vast majority.
The problem with an unrecognized demon encounter when you’re serving people, is they’re simultaneously unrecognized Jesus encounters. Jesus said “When you serve the least of these, you serve me” (Matthew 25:31-46).
Criteria for favorite posts:
Made me ask, do I believe this?
Reminded me of productive, community building conversations.
After re-reading, I had new questions.
Did you read any of these posts? Did they make you ask questions, throw your pen across the room, laugh until you pee? I would not one bit mind feedback; let me know what you're interested it. Maybe we have similar interests. Maybe God is talking to us about the same things. Like, wow.
I went to see The Chariot when they stopped at Studio Seven in Seattle during their farewell tour in November. This was a momentous occasion for my husband and I. Our first date as an official "long distance" couple was a meet up at a The Chariot show several years ago. We've seen them about five times since.
We mosh and thrash and scream, worshiping Jesus with the band. They jump off the stage onto our heads and hands. We pray with them and they invite us to eat with them after the show. We listen to their albums all year, eagerly anticipating our next joyous worship session together
This show - the final show we'd share with them - was not like the others.
More people attended this show than ever before. A beautiful sight.
As we waited and listened to the opening bands, I started imagining an earthquake and wondering what I'd do in the event one occurred in this crowded, stuffy place. Too many people, not enough doorways, I thought. But as soon as The Chariot began setting up on stage, my misgivings were forgotten.
---
Jeremiah and I spent Thanksgiving together, just us and the dogs. We cooked all the things we look forward to all year- a turkey, stuffing, rolls, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, two pies, a cake - and ate as much as we could.
Needless to say, we had ample left overs.
The following day, we boiled the leftover turkey bones and made broth. With our broth, we made turkey soup. Again, we ate as much as we could.
We had ample left overs.
Our friend Kendal (who you read about in Part 1) is a culinary artist. I am not particularly fond of seafood, and the thought of eating anything besides fish makes me squirm. But when Kendal made seafood gumbo, complete with shrimp, clams, muscles, and octopus, I ate it up. And asked for seconds.
Being rendered essentially immobile by the breaks in his leg, Kendal has been reliant on others to cook meals for him; in particular, Jen. Though I know he is grateful for every bite (he has an unparalleled gift of gratitude), I also know it can be tiring to be the person stuck cooking and cleaning every day.
It was Jeremiah's idea to pack up our abundance of soup to The Keep, where Kendal and some other friends live. We had enough to feed all four friends who were home. And thankfully, they ate the chocolate cake we brought over too.
While they ate, we shared stories from our Thanksgivings. I found my mind wandering, taking note of the number of doorways and people in sight, again wondering what I'd do if there were an earthquake. My thoughts were jolted back to the present when Kendal began to catch us up on the state of his leg. He'd just gotten X-rays and a new cast, so we were eager to hear of his progress.
Turned out, there had been no progress.
Not slight progress. Not mediocre progress.
None.
Despite all the healing I could have sworn Jesus and I were giving, after a solid month of rest and immobility, there was no visible improvement to speak of. His leg was exactly the same.
I knew what I had to do.
---
Jeremiah is a musician. Most often, he plays the guitar.
For a year, he was the guitarist and vocalist for a band called Simon the Leper. We lived in The Yellow House with Simon the Leper's drummer, Jared Bugg. The band practiced in the basement of The Yellow House, and even recorded an EP there.
Simon the Leper broke up last spring. For nearly nine months, Jeremiah has been stuck playing guitar alone in our apartment, amp turned low as possible. As of November, Jeremiah was invited into two bands almost simultaneously. In one, he plays bass. In the other, guitar.
The bands have been progressing in parallel since their respective inceptions. Both began practicing the same week. Both named themselves during their third practice.
One of those bands, "A Friend," was formed by Jared Bugg. They practice in the basement of The Yellow House, where the drummer now lives. A Friend had their first show December 17. They played at Le Voyeur, a restaurant and bar in Olympia where Simon the Leper played countless times.
Le Voyeur is kind of a dive, though they have surprisingly delicious food and an excellent beer selection. We like the venue in part because the shows happen in back, and Le Voyeur patrons can choose to come watch rather than be bombarded with something they're not in to. Also, shows there are both all ages and free.
At least, every one of the dozens of times I've been there before to watch my husband and friends play a show, it's been free.
---
Thirty seconds into The Chariot's set, while I stood at center stage close enough to touch their vocalist, Josh, I had an anxiety attack. Overwhelmed, I tried to shove my way out of the pit but was unable to budge an inch in any direction. I turned to Jeremiah in a panic. His first instinct was to boost me onto the crowd so I could surf out. He was nearly trampled in the process, though. Instead, he shoved backward through the sea of thrashing kids and pulled me to a place I felt safe.
From our safe place, we could hardly see what was happening on stage. We were separated from the worship we'd been craving, like wine-os with a new bottle and no corkscrew.
We went to our car for a smoke, trying to tell ourselves we were still part of the show... We could hear the band loud and clear anyway...
When we went back into the venue, I stood at the back of the crowd, well outside the mosh pit. Jeremiah made it to the front again, crowd surfing and thrashing to the end.
On the second day of the tournament, I watched my sister's team win another game. While them play, stepping periodically into the spirit to make the blanket of clouds recede, I noticed five or six girls with knee braces either playing, warming up, or watching. I reflected on my own knee injuries. I thought about the first time my friends and I laid hands and witnessed healing - an ACL.
I want to heal every knee I touch, I thought.
Then you’d better start touching knees, Dad replied.
Just then, as if cued by a script I wasn't given, a girl entered the gym on crutches witha familiar looking brace on her knee. She wore the colors of Blue Mountain Community College - a team well favored to win the tournament (and did, in fact, go on to do so).
Blue Mountain was cheering for Spokane from the sidelines, shouting in support of Eastern WA. The girl on crutches sat down several rows in front of me, surrounded by a boy and friends and parents.You'd better start touching knees...
After Brittany’s team won, and before I said my goodbyes, I pulled Brittany aside. “Let’s go lay hands on that girl with the crutches,” I said.
“That is the coach of Blue Mountain’s daughter,” she said. Apparently this was reason to shy away from appearing crazy in front of her.
“Do you know if she tore he ACL?”
“Yeah, she did. A week ago. And she’s still on crutches. Isn’t that weird?”
“Did your doctor give you crutches?”
“No, he told me not to baby it.” We laughed, and I made my way to the girl on crutches. By now, Blue Mountain was on their own court warming up. The girl was standing near the bleachers, bearing no weight on her left, braced leg, still surrounded by a gaggle of people.
I put my hand on her should to get her attention and said hello, trying to look friendly. “What happened to your knee?” I asked.
She smiled, trying to act like she knew me, because I was acting like I knew her. “Tore more ACL right in half,” she said.
“So do you play for Blue Mountain?”
She didn’t, she explained, but helps her dad. She tore her ACL hitting with the team during practice. While we talked, none of the surrounding gaggle paid us any attention. They turned to each other and let the girl on crutches talk with this other girl no one knew.
“We don’t know each other,” I said brightly. For a moment, relief replaced the girl’s well-masked confusion. The confusion returned quickly, though, when she realized that didn’t explain why we were talking. “I’m Kaylani, I played for your assistant coach in high school. My sister plays for Spokane. I actually need practice healing knees, oddly enough. My sister tore her ACL too, and I’ve done damage to my own. Do you want some healing?”
Two posts by Praying Medic convinced me to write Hints of Failure: Bell Rock - Revisited and Bell Rock - Healing at the Circle K. I read these posts while sitting at Barnes & Noble trying to write something for The Daily Heretic that didn't have anything to do with the stories in this series. In Revisited, Praying Medic wrote:
"As soon as I began speaking, I sensed a strong presence of God's glory being released. I saw a think cover of dark clouds in the spirit that were pierced by a shaft of light. An opening appeared in the clouds that gave way to a small hole of blue sky overhead..."
This was the first parallel with my own story that caught my attention. In Healing at Circle K, he wrote: ..."I explained all this to the lady behind the counter and we started talking about chronic pain. Like the pain she has in her knee. (Cue spooky music)." When I read this, I said "Woah! Oh my God!" rather louder than people sitting alone with headphones should speak in public. Before I had a chance to glance around embarrassedly to see if anyone noticed, Dad took me back to a dream. I was walking out on my coach and team. Flipping the lights off behind me. But my Dad wasn't following like I'd expected. You will experience the urge to abandon something I'm not ready to move on from. There's something of value here... The Hints of Failure series is being written because I read Praying Medic's stories; they broke down walls that were preventing me from listening to God.I'm not sure where the stories are going - I've not seen their ends yet. But maybe they'll break down some more walls, and we'll walk away more intimate with our Father. ---
Part 3: The Knees
My sister, Brittany, is a sophomore at Spokane Falls Community College (SFCC) and plays libero for their volleyball team.
She’s really freakin’ good.
Named regional defensive player of the week three times this season, and voted first team all conference libero and, she helped lead her team to the North West Athletic Association of Community Colleges (NWAACCs) tournament. (*This just in: She was voted MVP and broke her school's record for digs in a season. Bad ass!) The top four teams from each region met in Gresham, OR, November 21 to 24, to vie for the coveted NWAACC championship title. On the last day of the tournament, players from across the region named 1st or 2nd team all conference joined to play the “All Star” exhibition game.
Brittany and our Dad at NWAACCs
Brittany’s team played their last game of the season about a week before NWAACCs in Walla Walla on November 13. I stayed near my phone, expecting text updates on how the team was doing. Her team handily beat Walla Walla the first game of the match, and Brittany was playing great.
The second update read simply “Brittany hurt her knee.”
Immediately, I remembered her senior year of high school, when she tore her left ACL and meniscus mid-way through the season. “Was it her ACL? Which knee? Is she OK?”
“Not sure,” the text replied.
As with my friend Kendal in Part 1, I was stuck. I had no way of reaching Brittany and laying hands. So, with one successful spirit travel under my belt, I sat on my bed cross legged once again and asked Dad to take me to her. Again, the craving hit and I knew to put my hands on my right knee.
A few days later, an MRI confirmed Brittany’s ACL (her right one) was torn.
Halloween was a day of breakthrough. November has been a month riding that breakthrough's wave. These dreams have been teaching and influencing me throughout the ride; I've been reminded and re-taught about them daily. --- Dream 1
I was part of a group of ragged looking friends, walking through an abandoned city not unlike Olympia. We walked to the edge of the city and beyond, to an empty field surrounded by a sagging, dilapidated fence. We climbed the fence, and I noticed a single wire strung across the top. I explained to the others in my group that in days past, a painful force called electricity flowed through this wire, preventing animals from climbing over by shocking them. When we crossed over the fence, the world changed. From outside the fence, an empty field. From inside, the same field. Empty, but for a single gnarled peach tree overladen with ripe fruit. We walked cautiously across the field toward the tree. The weight of the peaches bowed the tree’s branches toward the earth. The fruit was beautiful; oranges and pinks intensified against the stark, drab landscape and dull sky. I want to eat one of those peaches. The thought struck me before I had a chance to question it. Suddenly, I knew only one thing about myself and the world around me. I knew I was going to eat a peach. My group stopped to stare at the tree with me. As though we shared the same sudden onslaught of knowledge, we lurched toward the tree together. While the others made for the tree itself and climbed into its branches in pursuit of their treasure, I found a branch so heavy with fruit it had cracked and looked close to breaking. I gave it a tug, and it came crashing down. The peaches, which had looked so perfect from just a short distance away, were mostly all over-ripe and decaying. A sharp smell hung heavy in the air - fermenting fruit piled at the base of the tree. I was alone now. Just me and my peaches. I scanned my peach cornucopia for an unblemished fruit. There were dozens and dozens more to choose from; I felt sure the odds were in my favor. The moment my eyes locked onto a pristine peach larger than my two fists combined, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around disappointed, expecting to see one of the friends I’d come with. I wanted this peach to myself. Desperately, I didn’t want to share it.
Photo from Scientific American
Instead of my friend, I found myself face to face with a rhinoceros. “Give me your lunch money, kid” he seemed to say, large black eyes and menacing horn only inches from my face. I could feel the rhino’s breath mussing up my hair, stinging my eyes. Frozen, I knew I had only one chance to respond without getting trampled. The rhino stamped his foot, losing patience. Before I decided what to do, I found myself bowing slightly and opening my arms toward the fallen branch. Where I’d felt only selfish desire to consume peaches moments before, I now felt the warmth of gracious welcoming. “Please, eat all you like. There is plenty,” I told the rhino. He exhaled, nodded his head, and stepped forward. I remained still until he rifled through the leaves and took his first bite. Unbiased, the rhino ate the peaches whether rotting or damaged. I plucked up the prized, perfect peach I found before and bit in. Juice sloshed down my chin and arms; relief and calm washed over me. Not only was the rhino not going to kill me, something told me he’d protect me from here on out. **edit: It was brought to my attention I had this dream Oct 29, and shared it the 30th, on a Facebook page called Dream & Vision Interpretation. I had totally forgotten. If you can, check the page out. It's great. Here's what I shared there (I'd also forgotten about the first part of the dream!): I had a dream... long story short, two images stuck I'd like to throw at you for some feedback:
1) A weather map on TV of the Pacific North West, being described by the weather lady. The map was covered in white swirling storm systems. Solid white, unmoving portions of the map indicated avalanche warnings. Areas with high likelihood of the most severe avalanche were shaded deep blue. Those areas included Olympia, up through Tacoma, and over to Leavenworth.
2) In a group of four or five people my age, exploring an abandoned city. We hopped a fence and found a peach tree. Large, very ripe peaches, though many were bruised and we couldn't eat them. Just as I though, what could go wrong, a huge rhinoceros walks up to me. I felt like he was threatening to steal my lunch money or beat me up. So I said, have all the peaches you want, and that seemed to please him. We all ate together.
--- Dream 2 I found myself a member of my sister Brittany’s volleyball team. We sat gathered on couches in the team room, facing my sister’s coach. In a corner behind Coach, my dad stood watching silently. “This is not a democracy,” I heard Coach saying. “My decision aren’t up for debate. If you have a problem with that, there’s the door.” I had a problem with that. For a few seconds I hesitated, hoping I wasn’t alone. But no one else moved or spoke. I stood and looked my coach in the eye, hoping she’d try and stop me. When she didn’t I walked out, turning the lights off behind me. A few paces out the door, I paused. I’d expected my dad to follow me. I turned around, waited. When it was clear he wasn’t coming, I knew I had to go back. I returned and noticed the lights were on. My dad was still in the corner, arms crossed, silent. There is something here worth witnessing, I heard. Before sitting, I apologized to my team and coach, trying to explain why I felt strongly enough to leave. “I can’t be part of this. It’s not right...” They listened politely, nodded with understanding, and said nothing to refute or encourage me. Deflated, I sat down, resolved to remain with my team despite the irrefutable objections that compelled me to leave. As Coach resumed her speech, I looked up to my dad in the corner behind her. Simultaneously, my alarm went off and woke me up. When I woke, two statements rang in my mind: 1) You’re a light in dark places; retracting light isn’t your assignment. 2) You will experience the urge to abandon something I’m not ready to move on from. --- I'll be interpreting the dreams as the series continues. Until then, feel free to use them for your own dream interpretation practice if you like! As always, thoughts, comments, and dream interpretations are welcome.
I’ve been holding back a series of stories from this blog. The response to my last post, Divine Dice, has influenced this reluctance. I’m not proud of this, but it’s true. If you’re reading this post, you are one of not very many. The majority of my posts acquire about 60 views. Two of my most read posts maxed out around 400 views. Divine Dice is at 1020 and counting. In part, the conversations surrounding Divine Dice directly questioned my salvation. "She's deceived and deceiving," many cried. At first, the series of failures I've yet to share left me feeling particularly vulnerable - not a feeling I'm familiar with. Part of me didn't want to share anything to validate those who sought to undermine the validity of my life. In response to the religious minded who wanted to correct me, people I know and look up to spoke solidarity and life over me. My fear of vulnerability was a flimsy one, and soon I found it couldn't hold up to the sheer force of identity confirming love Dad made sure was heaped upon me from every angle of my life. From friends to teachers to strangers, the encouragement was almost overwhelming. One day, after visiting my friend at our mall's M.A.C. counter and walking away sporting new red lipstick, a passing stranger stared until I'd nearly walked past. "Wow! You are so sexy!" She gasped. I'm telling you, there was no area of my life and identity flaming arrows of encouragement didn't pierce. I write when God speaks. That isn’t to say you should believe everything I write. Or that every word I write was spoken by God. But I’ve found that writing of my own accord is tedious and draining. When I simply write in response to what Dad and I are talking about, the experience is life-giving and invigorating. I’ve started several posts only to find my mind immediately drained of thought and the act of typing like shoving bamboo shoots up my nails. Thus, I’ve only typed a few paragraphs before stopping. The stories I’ve been evading pick up right where Divine Dice left off: Halloween. After each experience, I thought to myself - definitely won't be writing that one up on the blog. I've had some time to reflect and distance myself from the stings of failure (at least, what felt like failure). Dad made sure my fear of vulnerability was taken care of, and gave me a desire to write. He isn't done talking about these failures of mine. So, if I want to write, I'll have to write about them. I needed the failures in order to recognize and receive the successes and revelations I'm seeing today. Likewise, anyone readingThe Daily Heretic is going to need the same full picture.
This is no quick bandaid removal. Once I started writing, it was immediately clear this is going to take too many words for one post. Stick with me, and by the end of this series, we'll be...
Somewhere.
---
Part 1: The Leg
Post surgery x-ray. November 27. Photo by: Jen
After work on Halloween, I joined my husband Jeremiah and friend Claire to visit our friends Kendal and Jen. About two weeks before Halloween, Kendal broke his leg. Having a broken leg can be terribly boring and depressing; we hoped the company of friends in costume might help alleviate the monotony. Jen’s small living room had one couch, taken over by Kendal and his casted leg. The rest of us gathered around on chairs and the floor, chatting and laughing into the late evening. We enjoyed beer carried in from our favorite pub, and several varieties of chocolate and things covered in chocolate. It was in the midst of this merry, jovial room that I laid hands on Kendal for the third time since the break. The first time, I laid hands in the Spirit. Kendal texted me from the hospital, and I was stuck home without a car. I was frantic and frustrated, itching to lay hands but stuck twiddling my thumbs. I began to pray, and Dad reminded me of a post Praying Medic shared on Facebook, along with all the podcasts I’ve listened to Ian Clayton talk about spirit travel. Suddenly, I realized this was an opportunity for experience, and my frustration shifted into determination. I sat on my bed cross legged, closed my eyes, and asked Dad to take me to Kendal. It didn’t seem like anything happened, but I decided to lay hands on my own leg and believe it was Kendal’s. I checked the text again. “Hey sis, I broke my leg. At the hospital. Thought you’d want to know.” Surely enough, the text gave me no information about where the leg was broken or where to put my hands. So I closed my eyes again, asked Dad to take me to Kendal and show me where to lay my hands. Still, I seemed to be sitting on my bed nowhere near Kendal. But I felt a deep, intensifying longing lay my hands on my right leg. I put one hand just below my knee, the other a few inches above my ankle. After a few minutes of praying in tongues, I paused. “Is this right, Dad?” I tried moving my hands to my left leg, but swiftly felt as though I’d eaten over cooked spinach. I spit it out and moved back to my right leg with visceral relief. After a few moments, I wanted to touch my ankle, too. Perhaps craved would be more accurate than wanted. The craving started in my diaphragm and filled me until my fingers were twitchy and I couldn’t ignore it. Much the way I imagine an addict feels when craving cigarettes or coffee. I moved a hand to my ankle, and the craving was again relieved.
It's NaNoWriMo! That means significantly fewer blog posts this month for me. And slightly out of date posts as well. This one's about Halloween. I know, been there done that. But the story has little to do with the holiday, and is only getting more relevant as I ruminate on it.
As a rule (I use the term loosely), I like to take anything people in my realm of influence have deemed secular, demonic, anti-christian, or any other label that's supposed to suggest I steer clear, and advance the Kingdom with it.
Recently, my husband and I started playing a game called Magic: The Gathering. We particularly like to play at our favorite pub because inevitably, other Magic players light up at the sight of their favorite game being played in public. This a game for nerds and dweebs. People have been scorned and ridiculed throughout child and adulthood for playing this game. And it has a particularly unsavory reputation in the Christian clubs. Most players don't like to broadcast themselves outside their safe zones. We love drawing people out of hiding, engaging with them and watching their eyes light up because we are as weird as they are. And we're not afraid to show it.
Harry Potter taught me about being a friend and the gift of service. Game of Thrones is teaching me about ruling (or about how not to rule) as a Queen in Heaven. I do Yoga, because I hear Dad speak more clearly when my body, mind, and breath are synchronized. Any time, any where, give me something the Church clubs have rebuked and I will find Jesus all over it. Because I can. Because He's all the time everywhere. Because I take joy in people and the things people find joy in.
"...Dad told me I'd be drawing people into their identities. Specifically, I'd be naming people "Healer..."'
OK so, Halloween. Obviously, I had to find Jesus in Halloween. So I dressed up as Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter to work my shift at the coffee bungalow. Once I got there, I set up two dice and a little sign offering "prophecies." Then, I let Dad speak.
This is the second year I've dressed as a fortune teller for Halloween and given prophetic words. Dad seems to love speaking to people this way. Last year, we threw a party at our house. Some friends tended bar, and twenty or so other friends dressed fancy and enjoyed themselves. I set up a hookah and a tea pot in the lounge, and offered tea leaf readings. Then I got to prophecy identity over people.
I have never prophesied so much, so accurately, and been so eagerly received at any given time. Last year, there seemed to be a theme. Whether people saw ducks or unicorns, when I Googled the symbol meanings, Dad was talking about leadership, decision making, and transition.
This year, there was a theme as well. I asked anyone interested to roll the dice. I wrote down a list of numbers, 1 to 12, and meanings associated with them (see bottom of post for list). I told them the meanings of each dice individually, then combined the dice for a third number and meaning. Then, I let Dad weave the three numbers together for a prophetic word.
Before we started, Dad told me I'd be drawing people into their identities. Specifically, I'd be naming people "Healer." Right off the bat, my first two customers rolled the dice. A couple, they both rolled a 1 and 6.
"One means unity and beginnings," I explained, not so slyly reading my number list. "Six is the number for weakness. Together, they're seven, which means resurrection and spiritual completeness."
"Ok, that's kind of neat," the woman replied. Clearly, none of us saw much significance in the dice so far.
"Let me focus on your drinks for a moment, and I'll have your prophecy ready." While making her mocha and his Americano, taking the next customer's order, preparing milks and cups as more people walked in, I asked Dad what he wanted this woman to hear.
When I woke up from the school bus dream it was early and dark out, still a few hours before I needed to be awake. I fell asleep again and had a few sporadic dreams until I re-awoke to my alarm. The school bus and children running along telephone wires were as fresh in my mind as if I’d lived the experience rather than dreamed it.
It is madness to wear ladies' straw' hats
and velvet hats to church..."
As I pulled my clothes on for the day and tidied my dreads, I asked Dad to interpret the dream for me. As quiet as I could commit my mind to be, I waited for a response. I waited and waited as I drifted through the menial tasks of the morning, until my mind wandered and I forgot I was listening.
Instead, I started thinking about a conversation I had with my sister, Brittany. One of her teammates was sick with tonsillitis. “Go out and heal the sick,” Jesus says. And I wanted to heal this teammate. But she’d been left at the hotel the day before, in too much pain to watch her team play. I’d yet to see her.
As I walked downstairs to meet my family, I was determined to find this girl and lay hands. With plenty of time to kill before the day’s games started, we ate slowly and played a story game until Brittany had to join her team for study hall.
It wasn’t until my parents and I were about to leave the hotel that I recalled my determination to heal Brittany’s teammate. I marched quickly back to the lobby where Brittany was knee deep in Facebook while her gathered teammates worked on homework. “Hey!” I said, loudly enough to prompt Brittany to take off her headphones. “Where’s that girl with tonsillitis? Carmen, right?” I’d go to the room she’d been quarantined in, if I had to.
“She’s right there,” Brittany replied with a gesture over her shoulder. Carmen sat on a giant beanbag with a blanket and a text book. Though she looked miserable, both she and my sister seemed amused by the interruption of their study session.
“Do you want healed?” I asked Carmen as I walked toward her.
“Yes!” She said, completely sick of being sick. Several girls glanced up, curious. But if they continued to watch, I didn’t notice.
“Great.” I sat down next to her, double checked that her throat was the location of her pain, then placed my hand on the right side of her neck. On a scale of 1-10, she said the pain was a 6. After a few minutes of prayer I asked if she felt any change in her pain level, but it remained a stubborn 6.
I prayed again. “What do you feel?” I asked this time.
“I feel really calm.”
Calm. That could only be the Holy Spirit at work, so I prayed one more time. Once again, I asked what she felt and if the pain had changed. “Still a 6,” she said. “But I feel super calm.”
“Are you coming to the gym today?” She was. Certain that she was experiencing the peace of Dad’s presence, I decided to let Dad continue to love on her and leave more prayer for later in the day. Dad is a far better minister than I am. “Let yourself soak in that calm as long as possible,” I suggested. “I’ll check in with you and see how you’re feeling.”
Our team’s first game of the day was at noon. Again, I found myself in the bleachers surrounded by parents. Just as frustrated as yesterday by attitudes and conduct, I wanted to rant. I used to play volleyballuntil I hurt my knee, I imagined my rant beginning. They do not need your negative energy. The moment this thought crossed my mind, Dad took my back to my dream.
I used to do this until I hurt my knee, my dream self had claimed. Instantly, Dad interpreted the dream for my spirit. I couldn’t rationally understand all I suddenly knew, but two solid details were sure. First, the school bus dream was portraying this moment. I’m in my dream, I kept thinking. Second, I couldn’t rant at anyone. I’d already seen the results, and they were no good.
One of my younger sisters, Brittany, played in a volleyball tournament over the weekend. She plays for Spokane Falls Community College. By the community college level, skills are honed and the game is fast paced. Though not necessarily more competitive than high school matches, certainly less painful to watch.
"...The moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten. It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance."
Less painful, but not entirely painless. I’m a volleyball player as well. After playing through three years of college, two knee injuries, a few ankle injuries, and all the drama that comes along with a group of 12 women in close confines for any length of time, I still love the game.
Watching others play is like a cat scratch on a sunburn for me. As a player, watching from the bench can be excruciating. However, watching from the bleachers surrounded by parents is a new torture I’m hoping I don’t have to experience enough to get used to.
On the bench, I’d watch my teammates successes and feel they were mine. I’d watch their failures, and take personal responsibility to resolve them. If my outside hitter is getting blocked, I’d look at what the other team was doing and how my teammate (or myself, should I get subbed in) could hit around them. If the other team’s middle has three kills in a row, I’d look at my defense and plot ways for them to work in unity with my blockers to shut her down.
As a player, the moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten. It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance. When a mistake latches on to a player’s memory, it will begin chipping away at their confidence until they’re too crippled to play. Regardless of physical skill, volleyball is a mental game. The most successful players are those capable remaining focused and present; of forgiving their teammates and themselves instantly, and changing their mind’s desire to dwell on past and future mistakes.
I don't want to encourage a bunch of daydreamers to avoid living and hide in fantasy worlds. That's not the point of this pair of posts.
I want to release new identity over you. If you are reading this, it is because you are a prophet, a healer, an artist, and, if you'll receive the Kingdom that is your inheritance, a king/queen.
I want to see our imaginations restored and healed. I want to stop seeing our imaginations brushed aside as fanciful merriment by our teachers and leaders, and start seeing it taught as a vital skill.
I want to tell you a story. It's a fun story about a dear friend. It's packed full of prophetic imagery. I tried to interpret it for those reading and for myself, but I'm not satisfied with my attempt (although I pretty much left it down there if you want to read it). So, I'm hoping if there's imagery to interpret, we can do it together. Otherwise, we can simply experience the power of testimony that demonstrates the force of imagination made reality.
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Kendal is one of my dearest friends. He is an Olympian, through and through. Raised in the wild and beautiful Capitol Forest, he relishes our drab, ever-rainy environment. When the rainy season begins and the heat of summer fades, his burden lightens and a smile is never far from his face. Grey skies and the heady smell of damp earth have much the same affect on him that sun and pina coladas on a Hawaiian beach would have on most. Few can match Kendal’s meticulous, diligent approach to his work and his art. It’s not perfection he seeks with his methods. And though rarely disappointed with the outcome of his efforts, be they cocktails or knit caps, the finished products are not his greatest joy. His grandmother passed on great wisdom to him early in life when, as the oldest child of nine, he was tasked with maintaining the dinner dishes every day. “You can worship God anywhere, doing anything,” she told him. “Even while doing dishes.” Taking the wisdom to the depths of his heart, he learned to savor labor with the passion of King David stripped to skivvies and dancing in the streets before God.
He’s quite weird. When we first began working together, I found my patience tested. I hadn’t heard his grandmother’s wisdom yet, and wouldn’t likely have brought it anywhere near my heart if I had. It’s a finished product I like: a mopped floor, opposed to mopping. A cooked meal, opposed to cooking. Nearly four years in Kendal’s presence has rubbed off on me though. While his patience is that of a giant redwood, mine has at least increased from squirrel to some sort of large bird. Kendal’s green Volkswagen is a testament to his redwood nature. He’s had the little beast since he was sixteen, and after five years of loving labor he finally took it to a mechanic. Even at the mechanic’s experienced hand, it took several months to get the car running reliably. Kendal has driven joyfully and mischievously ever since. He’s learned the car inside and out - how to smoothly shift into first, which parallel spaces he can crank into, and exactly how far off asphalt he can venture. It was dark, in the earliest part of a late August morning. His vision was limited just enough that he didn't see the little yearling dear heaped pitifully in the middle of the road until it was suddenly directly in front of him. Knowing his car, though, he didn't flinch. After driving directly over the deer, well clear of causing further harm, he eased to a stop and turned around. Dying or dead he couldn’t tell. Concerned and curious, he walked up to the dear and checked for vitals. It was breathing still, but the breaths were shallow and labored. Carefully, he eased the creature to the side of the road and sat next to it. Cradling its head in his lap, he stoked its neck until it was calm. Together, they waited.
