: remembering my grandfather

Every week, two of my dear friends and I meet to talk about theology and books, but mostly Aslan, over drinks at a speakeasy-style establishment in Nashville. Last Thursday, much of our time was spent discussing our families and childhoods and stories we’d never thought to share before. During our conversation I was reminded of the last memory I have with my grandfather. Rummaging through old notebooks and files, I found a piece I wrote for my creative writing class about his death. Most of my recent energy has been focused on the broken areas of my childhood, but this is a beautiful memory—maybe one of my best. It’s not his birthday or anything, but I thought I’d share it because it’s good to write about good things sometimes.

---

It was my third trip to Boston that year, so I knew Grandpa wasn’t going to last much longer. He had been sick since I could remember, but always managed to bounce back and recover despite the doctor’s reports. He was always a fighter—everyone knew that—but nobody expected him to last this long with a heart functioning at fifty percent. I landed at midnight, greeted by cold October weather and a tired mother.

            “Where’s dad?”

            “He’s at the nursing home with your grandfather”

            “How’s Grandpa doing?”

            “He’s worse than last time… you need to prepare yourself.”

I’ve always been the crier in my family and my parents feel obligated to “prepare me” for bad things, as if that would somehow make them better. Pulling into the nursing home, I saw my dad waiting in the front. He was exhausted. His eyes were glazed over, his face unshaven, and his smile unconvincing.

            “Dad, how’s he doing? What are the doctor’s saying?”

            “I don’t know, San. I wouldn’t be surprised if we got the call tonight.”

            “So he’s not going to make it through the night?”

            “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I couldn’t stand the thought of my grandfather dying in a room by himself while I was thirty minutes away in a hotel. It didn’t seem right. I grabbed my suitcase, got out of the car, and insisted on spending the night with him. Hesitantly, my mother brought me to his room and set up a bed using two chairs and a blanket. She turned on the fluorescent lights and for the first time, I saw my grandfather as a vulnerable man. He had tubes going in and out of his thin, pale body. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what he looked like on Sunday afternoons when we’d visit to watch a baseball game. He’d wait for us outside, lounging on a chair in the same outfit: a pastel colored shirt tucked into his khaki shorts that came just above the knee. His socks were pulled up mid-thigh, complimented by a pair of sneakers he bought because Nana insisted he needed better arch support.

This wasn’t the same Grandpa I knew from Sunday afternoons in Winchester.

He glanced at me slowly and closed his eyes, fading back into a restless sleep. After my mother left, I turned off the lights and looked around the room to see deflated “Get Well Soon” balloons and hand-drawn cards taped to the walls. I wanted to pick him up and bring him back to the house so he could be in a familiar place, somewhere full of happy memories, but it was impossible now. All I could do was try to be a good memory in the midst of inevitable death.

            “Help! I need water! Can’t you see I’m dying?”

            “It’s okay, Grandpa. Here’s something to drink.”

            “Who are you?”

            “It’s Savannah, your granddaughter. I’m here to stay the night with you.”

            “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know that?”

He fell asleep again, but not for long. Over the next hour or so, his body jerked every time he woke up because of pain or anxiety or thirst. I closed my eyes again and tried to remember Grandpa’s contentment as we watched TV together. I loved The Thoughts of Animals on the Discovery Channel. Episode after episode, he watched it with me, never admitting that he hated every minute of it. Come to find out, he used to recite poetry in his head to make the time pass. Throwing up his hands in the air, he finally confessed, “Why the hell would I care about the thoughts of animals, Savannah? I can’t even keep my own thoughts together!”

He had spunk and loved to laugh. But this wasn’t the same Grandpa I knew from Sunday afternoons in Winchester.

He shouted again about being afraid, and I was torn to pieces inside. This isn’t how he needs to go, I thought to myself. He needs to be ready. He needs to be at peace. With that, I pulled out my Bible and started reading the book of Psalms aloud.

            “Savannah,” he interrupted. “Can you hold my hand?”

            I offered my tear-stained hand to join his on top of the blanket.

            “I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be with. Keep reading.”

I continued reading for the rest of the night, and by sunrise, I noticed he hadn’t cried out for help in hours. I slowly slipped my hand from underneath his chin to see if he was breathing. Much to my surprise, he was. Grandpa woke up at seven thirty that morning. The nurses said he hadn’t slept that long without crying out for help since he arrived. After he woke up, he called me closer to his face. Looking at me with tears in his eyes, he slowly said, “Good morning, beautiful. It was absolutely marvelous to have you with me tonight. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. You look gorgeous. You always do.”

That was the last time I heard him speak. He passed away three days later, on October 27^th, 2009. Thanks for the happy memories, Grandpa. I’ll see you soon.

: graduating college (what if I'm a barista forever)

Graduation day was a strange thing. Almost two decades of my life pointed to the moment when I'd get an overpriced diploma, snap a few pictures, and throw my cap into the air. I always viewed graduating as some sort of initiation into the real world, full of adults with real jobs and real direction. That wouldn't be mind-numbingly intimidating if it wasn't for the fact that I work at a coffee shop and have no sense of direction whatsoever.

I never wanted to be the girl who graduated with an expensive degree, lots of debt, and no career path other than liberating North Korea and getting really good at latte art. I always thought I'd have a plan... or at least a fake one to tell my parents and their friends. I've started thirty million applications to graduate programs around the country, looked at several internships, and stared at job listings for hours. It's all done out of nervous energy, though, and a frantic effort at controlling the future. Do you know how many potential life plans I come up with every day? This morning I was looking at teaching kids in South Korea, this afternoon I was looking at an internship in London, and tonight I was applying to grad schools in Los Angeles.

It's like an episode of Law & Order. You know how they bring in witnesses to identify someone in a criminal lineup? It feels as if I'm staring at dozens of different identities, but I can't point to one and say, "That's me!" And not in a cool, I'm-so-talented-and-mysterious-that-I-don't-fit-into-your-mold way, but in an I'm-seriously-going-to-be-a-barista-forever way. Some part of me wants to knock on every door until one opens, but my gut is telling me to rest and wait for the Lord.

But waiting hurts. Not being able to identify myself as a student hurts. Being a barista who's figuring things out hurts. Because it's not pretty or glamorous or fun to explain to my friends' parents. It's not the American dream. It's not the middle-class, white person dream.

I wonder if this is how the disciples felt when Jesus talked about what it meant to be the greatest in the Kingdom of God: "The kings of the Gentiles exercise lordship over them, and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you. Rather, let the greatest among you become as the youngest, and the leader as one who serves. For who is the greater, one who reclines at the table or one who serves? Is it not the one who reclines at table? But I am among you as the one who serves." If Jesus and I were at the dinner table, that conversation might go something like, "I have not come that you might live the American dream with an awesome job and lots of money to give to poor kids in Asia. I have come that you might serve whole-heartedly and give of yourself sacrificially."

It stings. It hurts.

But every once in a while, my heart is ravished by the thought that Jesus could be right about it all, and there's more joy to be found in serving rather than being served. I'm grateful that God is leading me into servanthood, even if it means I cry like ten times a week. I want to grow in humility and service. I don't want to waste my life worshipping myself. I'm part of another Kingdom now, and I'm here to serve.

: I think I'm fat 85% of the time (& Jesus is helping me)

When I was a junior in high school, I was 5’8” and weighed 190 pounds. I’ll save you a Google search and show you my place on the BMI Scale. A few more pounds and I would’ve been in the dark orange section and everything.

I always knew I was overweight. My sisters were born skinny, and their combined waistlines equaled my upper thigh. I constantly compared myself to them and every 120-pound celebrity that gallivanted around the beach in a bikini with her Thor-like boyfriend and cute puppy. After a combination of neglected abuse and watching one too many Disney movies, I decided I would stop eating my feelings away. I stopped eating altogether, and in three months I dropped thirty pounds and three dress sizes. Going into my senior year, I felt confident for the first time in my life because everyone paid attention to me. Boys thought I was pretty, I enjoyed shopping for clothes, and the popular girls let me hang out with them. It was everything I ever wanted. I wasn’t simply accepted, but worshipped. Eating disorders come in all shapes and sizes, but mine was packaged with self-hatred, self-love, starvation, and the occasional gag-yourself-until-you-vomit bit as a punishment for eating chocolate.

Adding to the mess, I fell in love with Jesus around the same time. As the months passed, God revealed the upside-down truth that I would not be satisfied until he was worshipped instead of me. I was competing for his throne by demanding the world’s worship and affirmation. After listening to a hundred million sermons on body image, I found that most teachings fell into one of two categories:

First, there’s the “You’re so awesome and beautiful and perfect and the Lord doesn’t find one single flaw in you because you’re a sweet daughter of the King” teaching. I’ve always been turned off by this because I’m flawed, you’re flawed, and we all know it. My body isn’t perfect. If I sit down, I can count on having a roll in my stomach. If I’ve had Baja burrito, a second one is bound to show up. Zits frequent my face. I have a birthmark shaped like a strawberry on my stomach. My thighs have cellulite. Sometimes a singular hair grows on my chin like an 89-year old British lady with boils on her face. I’m not trying to be unnecessarily hard on feel-good teaching, but it seems that, while sprinkled with hints of God, this ultimately ends with more unsatisfying self-worship.

Second, there’s the “Eating disorders are idolatry!” method. I’ve heard lots of people say things like, “You’re thinking of your body more than you think about the Lord and his supremacy and perfection! Stop thinking about yourself and take every thought captive, like NOW!” I don’t even disagree with this theology, but many times it lacks grace. While it is true that most eating disorders ironically stem from idolatry and pride, we cannot forget that all of us are hurting. It’s not a simple, “Stop being prideful and you’ll stop binging on Oreos” fix. People are (literally) killing themselves for acceptance, hope, and love. Is it pride? Sure. But we need to be gentle about it, remembering that the prideful are covered with waterfalls of grace.

The whole reason I started thinking about this is in the first place is because I dyed my hair purple last week and all sorts of self-hatred, self-obsessed feelings came rushing in. Then I thought to myself: If my security was drastically shaken by a bottle of purple dye and a pair of scissors, there’s a problem. I also realized how many thoughts I have that deal with my weight: my arms being too fat or my face looking swollen. It’s become normal for me to obsess over my body and myself. I’m startled by how fragile the foundation is on which I’ve built my self-acceptance. It’s an “incurvatus in se” foundation— turned inward on myself. In the midst of these emotions, the Lord reminded me of a parable in Matthew 7:

“Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.”

I want to build my identity on a foundation that cannot be moved by society, the media, or “fat days.” I want to stake my acceptance on a Rock that knows and loves based on His worth, not mine. I want to remember that there is a better way of living, generously made available by a wonderful God. I do not have to be a slave to empty self-obsession. I have been made a worshipper of Christ by the cross. I have been founded on the Rock.

Children of God, be encouraged: you do not have to be enslaved by self-obsession, pride, eating disorders, and the like. Through the power of the Spirit, you and I can turn outward and become worshippers of Christ. If you are stuck in a cycle of self-obsession, there is room for you at the cross. Turn around and run to him. He makes self-denying worshippers out of self-obsessed rebels. There is hope. Run to him.

(PS: I don’t know if you’ve ever written a blog post, but sometimes you feel confident about them and sometimes you feel like you want to vomit. I am particularly nauseated about this post because it seems scattered and sloppy. But that’s also how I feel about the subject. That being said, please be gracious with me as I struggle through a difficult area. I’m not married to anything I’ve said; I’m just in the process.)

: what I learned about Jesus from Santa Claus

Every year on Christmas Eve, I helped my grandfather dress up like Santa Claus in the garage so he could make a special visit to my little cousins. I stuffed a pillow in his costume for a belly, covered his cheeks with rosy blush, and pulled out the same white wig he’d been using since 1993. He made a big entrance on the outside porch, waved to the kids through the window, dropped off a few presents, and escaped just before they could get a good glimpse of his face.

I loved seeing my cousins’ eyes fill with wonder. They screamed and jumped and trampled over each other to get the presents Santa left them: “I can’t believe he visited us,” they’d say, trying to figure out how he could possibly make it to the kids in China before morning. Like clockwork, my grandfather would walk in after his conveniently timed nap, stretch out his hands and yawn, then ask what all the fuss was about.

You’ll never believe it! Santa came! He really came! You missed it!

I think I saw Rudolph on the roof, too!

He gave us presents a day early, can you believe it!

My grandfather laughed and smiled and asked a hundred questions: “What did Santa look like?” “Did you see what color eyes he had?” “Is his belly as big as everyone says it is?” Hour after hour, year after year, he listened to his grandchildren talk about Santa’s visit. His eyes were full of wonder, too—almost like something came alive in him when they talked about it with such confidence. Knowing the kids were clueless about his identity as Santa Claus, my grandfather wasn’t too concerned. He knew that one day, they’d understand. In due time, they’d be in on the big secret, too. One day, they’d be the ones stuffing pillows and helping put on fake wigs to give the next generation of children wonderstruck eyes. For now, he was satisfied with being wondered at.

It makes me think of when I first wondered about Jesus. I couldn’t make out his face, but I knew he was real. I knew it was him. I remember talking to my friends, babbling on and on about the new things I discovered: “Can you believe the cross covers it all? Like right now, he loves me as I am! Not some future version of me! Can you believe it?” I bet it brought so much delight to God, for me to be asking and believing and marveling about him. Day after day, year after year, he waved from the back porch, leaving gifts for me to rip open and enjoy. I had been wondering my whole life, really, until it clicked: He is real. Like really real. It didn’t seem to bother him that I didn’t fully understand the magnitude of his identity—that he was both the Giver and the Gift, the Wonder and the Wonderful One. He knew that one day, I’d be in on the big secret. He knew that in time, I would bear the image of Wonder, too.

Let us not lose sight of the simple enchantment of the Gospel—that God has gone to great lengths to make himself accessible. He waves at all of us from the back porch, leaving presents for us to enjoy for enjoyment’s sake. Remember that he delights in your delight of him. Let your eyes be filled with wonder, knowing he is real and chose to visit you.

Jesus said, “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” –Matthew 18:3

: life of a never-been-kissed-ex-porn-addict child of God

I don’t have a catchy opening line. Sorry.

It’s probably because I feel really, really uncomfortable writing this post.

The whole thing is strange because I’ve written about sexual abuse and being addicted to pornography and having an eating disorder on this blog. Still, my hands are jittery as I write this out: I’ve never been kissed and I don’t really want to until I’m engaged or maybe even married. And I want you to hear that sentence apart from images of your youth leader screaming things like, "Modest is hottest! True love waits! I kissed dating goodbye!"

Because my story isn’t everyone’s story, nor does it need to be. It’s a bizarre sexual dilemma because I was abused and addicted to pornography for years but I’ve never been kissed. My purity has been stripped away, but my purity has also been spared. Ultimately, my sexual identity, righteousness, and holiness can only come from Christ. Still, though, I’ve found it emotionally taxing to battle shame about both the things I have done and the things I haven’t done.

It reminds me of my senior year of high school when I saw the devastating images of Hurricane Ike on television. It leveled out the entire town of Gilchrist, Texas, with the exception of one home. Soon, pictures of the “last house standing” circulated around the Internet and news shows. It was a bizarre sight: a charming white and yellow house surrounded by a wasteland of debris. For whatever reason, God preserved this place and not another—he preserved Pam and Warren Adams instead of the Jones family down the street. It’s in inexplicable act of mercy.

In many ways, this is how I picture my sexuality. There are years and miles of damage surrounding me, but God chose to preserve one particular area of my purity. And I’d like to say it’s because I’m so awesome and said no to all my gawking suitors, but it’s not true. I put myself in dozens of stupid situations with men in the past five years. I don’t deserve to have anything left standing. It’s an inexplicable act of mercy. It is something to be celebrated.

Many people instinctually say, “Bless your heart, isn’t that the sweetest thing!” when they hear I’ve never been kissed. This belittles the gravity of the situation, though, because it’s not sweet. The last house standing isn’t sweet. It’s a fierce act of preservation. It’s divine kindness. It is bit of treasure found in my jar of clay, “to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to me. I am afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4). It is humbling. It is grace.

I’m not sure why purity has become so cheesy nowadays, and I’m not trying to rally for “Virgin Lips” t-shirts. This isn’t a no-kissing revolution. It’s just my story, and my story’s all I have. I hope you find this to be an encouragement or maybe even a challenge. Really, I hope you see the mercy of God in it all.

(I’m going to press on “publish” and run away from my computer for the next year now. BYE.)