Wash Over Me
Have I asked for healing or only asked why You haven't healed me yet?
Well, I'm asking now.
Please wash over me with your healing.
Wash over my hands that I may serve you in my work and words.
Wash over my lungs that I may breathe you in and out.
Wash over my feet that I may walk forward with you.
Wash over my eyes that I may weep tears of grief and tears of joy with equal freedom.
Wash over my lips that I may praise you.
Wash over my ears that I may hear your voice over the lies that tell me I'm not good enough or that I don't need you.
Wash over my heart that bitterness may melt, joy will grow.
Wash over my brain that I would be engaged with the world, surrendered to you.
Use my wounds.
Use my heartache.
Use my mistaken ways of coping with burnout to your glory.
Come thou fount. Come with your healing. Come with your blessing.
Keeping it Tight with a Timely Tale
Excerpt taken from Madeleine L'Engle's delightful book, Walking On Water: Reflections on Faith and Art:
"There's a story of a small village (about the size of the village near Crosswicks) where lived an old clockmaker and repairer. When anything was wrong with any of the clocks or watches in the village, he was able to fix them, to get them working properly again. When he died, leaving no children and no apprentice, there was no one left in the village who could fix clocks. Soon various clocks and watches began to break down. Those which continued to run often lost or gained time, so they were of little use. A clock might strike midnight at three in the afternoon. So many of the villagers abandoned their timepieces.
One day a renowned clockmaker and repairer came through the village, and the people crowded around him and begged him to fix their broken clocks and watches. He spent many hours looking at all the faulty timepieces, and at last he announced that he could repair only those whose owners had kept them wound, because they were the only ones which would be able to remember how to keep time.
So we must daily keep things wound: that is, we pray when prayer seems dry as dust; we must write when we are physically tired, when our hearts are heavy, when our bodies are in pain.
We may not always be able to make our "clock" run correctly, but at least we can keep it wound so that it will not forget."
As Christian artists, Madeleine posits, we pray and we write. We write and we pray. And we're supposed to do it everyday.
I've been doing the writing part. If not everyday, then at least every other day.
The best lesson I learned as a creative writing student was to spend 20 minutes a day with my butt in a chair and a blank screen in front of my face. Even if I just stare at the screen. Even if all I write is "I don't know what to write. I don't know what to write. I don't know what to write" for twenty whole minutes.
Because even on the days the "clock" isn't working properly, it's a way of keeping it wound for the days when inspiration strikes. For the days the clockmaker returns with his tools and his tinkering.
On the writing front, I understand this. It's been drilled into me since Freshman Comp. Even in the midst of burnout. In the midst of "hating" all work and all writing, I still couldn't help but write. Couldn't help but keep my own sort of time.
But on the praying front I've had a harder time with discipline. I've whined and I've cried, "God why haven't you healed me? Why haven't you shown up?" before taking the time to ask for healing or to invite His presence into my life.
I make time to write. Why shouldn't I make time to pray?
I believe that God speaks to me. That God can speak to all of us in different ways. This week he used a friend to remind me how desperately He wants to spend time with me, to pour out out his love on me.
What if I took time to just "sit with God?" In short, to pray?
20 minutes a day. My butt in a chair. My heart open to the One who loves me.
No notes, no writing--although writing is spiritual for me, this is different from my writing time--just chatting with God. Sitting with a friend. Even if I don't want to. Even if I don't feel his presence or can't hear him speak. I will sit there in anticipation. I will keep the clock wound.
Two Beers, or Not Two Beers
We were going to serve and love and be gracious guests, so cultural sensitivity was key. This meant that we would be expected to accept food, rides, and accommodations, that, perhaps, we weren't accustomed to without making any rude, ungrateful, or condescending comments, grimaces, or otherwise malicious facial expressions.
The phrase: "That's different."
Piling entire families onto one motorcycle may be a tad dangerous to the safety-obsessed American, but within earshot of our hosts, it's just different.
I've been living in Guatemala for three months now, and, in an attempt to be a gracious guest, I have tried, at all costs, to appear unfazed by the foreign culture around me. I've done my best to employ the "smile and nod and remember it's just different" approach.
But let’s face it, sometimes situations aren't just different—they can be horrifying, delightful, even comical and beautiful. So I'm going to start a new blog category called, "Well, that's different" where I can recount my collection of the best and brightest and differentest moments Guatemala has offered me thus far, and, believe me, I've wracked up a pretty delectable number of cross cultural cuentos.
I share these stories with the full understanding that I am a guest in this country. I don't intend to pass judgment in any way. I'm just hoping for a little travelers empathy and to give you a glimpse into the life I lead here in this at times horrifying, delightful, comical, and beautiful country.
Here's a lighthearted tale of a girl and her beer to get the series started:
Two Beers or Not Two Beers
On a recent trip to the Ixil triangle of Guatemala, my travel companions and I found ourselves eating dinner at a quaint Guatemalan restaurant. The place wasn't super fancy, but not shabby either. The tables were draped with only somewhat stained cloths and the chairs were adorned with shiny bows as if the decorator had spent time catering banquets or weddings in the States.
A young waitress appeared, poised to take our order.
My friend ordered a beer and was immediately told that the restaurant didn't carry her beer of choice. But, the waitress, hurriedly interjected, they did carry Gallo, a national Guatemalan beer that you can often find more easily than purified water.
When the waitress turned her eyes and her order pad to me, I ordered a Gallo as well. Por que no?
Finished with our orders, the waitress dipped back behind the partition which, presumably, led to the kitchen.
So we waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally, my friend went back to ask the waitress to bring out the drinks before the food. The waitress, looking a bit sheepish, followed my friend back to our table.
"We only have one beer," the waitress apologized.
"Small, " she replied. "We only have one beer."
Finally, understanding dawns across the table. We both ordered a beer. They only have one solitary bottle of cheap, Guatemalan beer. There's not enough for the both of us.
"I'll have a strawberry smoothie," I ceded with a shrug of the shoulders, "and my friend will have the beer."
Finally satisfied, the waitress snuck back into the kitchen. Minutes later, she returned with the much-coveted and elusive Gallo and a delectable strawberry smoothie, which actually paired much better with my dinner omelette.