Everything...

Something In the Eyes of Prostitutes...

I can still see them, all of them, face by face. They stand, side by side, glancing up and down at you, taking you in. I feel taken in. I feel exposed. Their looks are a mix of fear, hatred, hurt, and need. I’m not sure what to do with myself, and I look away awkwardly, continuing my run home. I am in my jogging shorts and tank top, they are all clothed in worn silk dresses or scanty shorts and low-cut necklines. These girls line the bars and clubs along the Garapan Strip in Saipan. Heading back from a market night or from my routine jog, I pass these innocents as the sun is setting just off shore.

I wake up in a cold sweat, breathing hard, disoriented. I’m in dorm room #602, Foreman Hall. My room mate sleeps beneath me. I know immediately that I’ve had the dream again, and I set my head back down on my pillow and try to clear my mind of the pictures. I can still see them. All of them. Face by face. Soul by soul. They stare into my soul and ask me what I’m living for. My heart stutters, and I don’t know what to say. I am at a loss for words. How do you tell a battered heart and a cynical mind that there’s more? It’s harder than they say it is in Sabbath School. “WWJD?” is harder to apply than your Youth Pastor said it would be. As those young girls stared at me, I knew that no words I possessed could ever lead them from their prison of prostitution into the sunlight of love.

My mind would start to argue with me: I was a Student Missionary, wasn’t I? What was I doing if wasn’t helping people who couldn’t help themselves? What was I here for anyway? Wake up, Sacha! There are people in pain lining these streets and you just keep jogging!? Then logic would fight back: I’m here to teach. I’m teaching 1st and 2nd Grade at Saipan SDA School. That’s what I’m doing. I’m reaching that group of people, those hurt souls, and the innocent hearts in my class room.

Now I find myself awake night after night, seeing faces that I passed by day after day... and I can’t tear away. I keep asking myself what I should have done. I keep re-thinking my words and my thoughts; trying to put something together that could touch these broken slaves in a sexual world. I feel their pain, their hurt, and their need; I cry for their hatred and fear. It’s extremely inconvenient. I don’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now... Oh how I wish I knew. Oh how I wish I had known.

I am not Jesus. I won’t always know what Jesus would do; but I can ask Him to be in whatever I end up doing. I can guarantee that my heart will still stutter, I can guarantee that my mouth will stutter even more. But maybe those prostitutes in Saipan weren’t interested in my eloquence or my heart’s stability. I think they just needed me to look into their eyes and feel. Feel everything that they couldn’t understand; and let them know that it hurt me too. Sometimes the walk to freedom begins in someone else’s eyes and someone else’s heart; the knowledge that you can get where they are going. We are all in slavery, and we all need help. We are surrounded by slaves every day, passing them on our way to class, or in the lines at Starbucks. We all need each other, and your problems are always worth my time. I need to be able to look in your eyes and know that what you have conquered, I can conquer too; what I have conquered, you can conquer too. Simply the knowledge that you can be free, releases a kind of freedom into my life.

Someday I’m going back to Saipan, back to the Garapan Strip. I won’t jog past this time, and I won’t regret what I do. I may stutter and I may look stupid, but I’ll do what I should have done a year ago. I’m going to let them know that there’s love. Real love. And I’ve found it, so they can find it too.

Furious activity is no substitute for understanding.

20 Years With God... What Now?

I don’t feel mature. Nope. Not even close. As a child, I thought that by the time I had reached the amazingly-awesome-crazy-cool age of 20, I would have the entire world figured out and spend my days stunning the world with my abilities and my maturity. Then I woke up as a 20 year-old going on 21 and realized that I was no where near mature.
I remember the day I was baptized. I was a 9 year old in the College Church (Yes, it was called that back then...), and Pastor Karl Haffner was my hero . As I waited in the wings behind the baptismal tank, I was nervous and excited. I felt ready. I stepped down into the tank at my official cue (Something like, “Sacha, will you please join me.”) and climbed on the stool placed in the water for me. Yes, I was short, thanks for noticing. I went under just like I had practiced, and as I came out of the water I realized something... I was not very mature. Even at age nine I noticed my own immaturity. I had expected some great revelation from God or a dove to appear, but instead I only thought about how nice it was in the water, and I hoped that Pastor Karl would hold me under longer so that I could swim around a little bit. Yeah, I was definitely feeling immature.
Sometimes I wonder how much has changed. Probably not much. And, in some ways, probably a lot. Not much has changed because I still find myself in these amazing “God moments” that are intended to change my life forever, and all I can think about is swimming. But a lot has changed because now I’m seeking out more of those “God moments.”
Inadequacy. That’s a pretty big word. And an even bigger concept. Try wrapping your mind around it sometime, and let meknow how it goes. I believe that my feelings of immaturity radiate frommy need for “adequacy.” What does God want from me? Am I doing the wrong things? What can I do to be more “spiritually mature?” What is the meaning of life? Okay, maybe not the last one, but the rest of those questions rear their ugly heads in my life far too often. I think God curses the day “living for Christ” became translated as “living up to the standard.” Adequacy. Yuck.
I asked my grandma about this the other day. I said, “Grandma, do you feel mature?” You wanna’ know her answer? Blew me away... She said, “No.” I turned to look at her with amazement and said, “Me neither.” She told me that it’s like learning a language; the more you know, the more you know you don’t know. A Chinese proverb says, “The wise man knows that he is not wise.” I’m not quite sure what that means, but it makes me feel a bit better to know that other people are confused too.
God never asked me to be mature. He never asked me to be adequate. He just tells me that He’s adequate - that He is MORE THAN ENOUGH. So I don’t have to worry. He gives me what I need when I need it. I’m glad I don’t have it all figured out right now... I’m glad that I am still looking for my purpose in life. I kind of hope that I’m looking for it until the day my life ends. I hope that I’m searching, always searching, and always unlocking new doors.
20 years with God... Maybe now it’s time to become a kid. Time to stop worrying about how mature I am, and just be happy making mud pies with Jesus. When I grow up, I want to be a kid. I want to be a kid with Jesus.

Love? Love... Love.

Love. Yeah, i just went there... Love. What are you going to do about it? It’s everywhere, isn’t it? According to everything around us, if we’re not in love, we should be in love; if we are in love, we need to be more in love. Love love love love love. Love.

I’m probably not the greatest expert on this subject. I don’t intend to date until I’m 23, and I’m extremely picking about what my man will be like when I actually do start dating him. As an RA in the Upper Columbia Academy dorms, I always told my freshmen girls “Boys are smelly, throw rocks at them.” Luckily, I never had to apprehend rock-throwing girls before they brained groups of innocent boys, but I did get the point across over the course of a year. Those freshmen girls are almost seniors now and are careful about who and how they date.

But, did I write this column just to talk about my exploration of the freshmen mind? No. That would probably be an interesting column, but it’s not quite what I intended.

Love. There I go, saying it again. What are we supposed to do about this word? Is this word all about dating? Is it just this awkward, supposedly “all encompassing” description of God that the Theology Professors throw out there all the time? Did Jesus say I’m supposed to do this with my neighbor? When I love someone, does that mean I’ll grow old with them and be wrinkly in rocking chairs with them someday? How do I love people?

What’s odd to me is how the world around us tells us to fall in love, when flipping the card over reveals endless amounts of hate. Love. Hate. Love. Hate. Which one do they really want us to do? By their standards, love means sex... I’m sorry, but that makes it really awkward to love my neighbor... And hating my neighbor makes life irritating for both of us.

So, how about we forget the world’s perspective of love, and we just focus on God’s perspective of love. It doesn’t get much easier. In fact, I think it gets harder. But it gets so much more beautiful.

This past summer I was lamenting over the idea of love. The idea of loving others. When I read my Bible, I see Jesus telling me to love like God loves... So how do I do that? It was quite a huge task laid down before me, and I felt lost to pursue it aimlessly and hopelessly until He came the second time to find me not loving like I was supposed to and therefore not worthy... Lame. That’s a sad ending to the story. And I hate sad endings. So I started talking to God about learning to love like He did. I wanted the heart of God. He was pretty darn straight with me about it, and began slowly laying out in front of me what that would look like. There was a lot of stuff I was uncomfortable with. He said that to get to know Him, I had to get to know people. He said that if I wanted to get to know people I had to get to know Him. Both are scary. Because if you want to get to know people... if you want to get to know God... you have to be willing for them to get to know you. That, my friends, is no small matter. I mean, I don’t mind spending all day telling you how wonderful you are, but turning around and telling you how much is wrong with me... No. Not so easy... and definitely not pleasant. At all. Uncomfortable is an understatement. But I told Him I’d do it. I said yes...

I really wish that my last paragraph could describe to you in detail how much of a saint I’ve become, that I love everyone unconditionally, I never judge, and how I never have struggles, so telling people about myself is easy. That would be grand. But, that would be a lie. And lying is a sin. So, I won’t lie to you... I judge. All the time. I struggle opening myself up... all the time. I struggle choosing to love... all the time. But the other side is that God slowly, day by day, gives me more of His heart. Day by day He gives me more love. I see more hurting people, and fewer social rejects. It’s a scary way to live. The search for God will lead you to people. The search for people will lead you to God. You have to be ready for both. And you have to accept them even more willingly than you feel. Acceptance isn’t what you feel, it’s what you do in spite of a feeling. I accept you because you’re a person, because you’re a piece of God, and because as we accept each other, God will meet us and show us His heart. I’m a fan of that.

The world will keep pervading us with their ideas of love and lust, with all of their ideals that all lead to hate. I’m just glad that I don’t have to be a part of that. I’m glad that I’m free and I can choose to love. Even when it sucks... Even when I don’t want to. And I guarantee there are times when I don’t want to. But I can meet God. I can meet you. I can love.

MELODY OF YOU (Sixpence None The Richer)

You're a painting with symbols deep, symphony

Soft as it shifts from dark beneath

A poem that flows, caressing my skin

In all of these things You reside and I

Want You flow from the pen, bow and brush

With paper and string, and canvas tight

The ink in the air, to dust Your light?

From morning to the black of night

This is my call I belong to You
This is my call to sing the melodies of You
This is my call I can do nothing else . . .

I can do nothing else.

You're the scent of an unfound bloom.

A simple tune

I only write variations to sooth the mood

A drink that will knock me down to the floor

A key that will unlock the door

Where I hear a voice sing familiar themes

Then beckons me weave notes in between

A tap and a string, a bow and a glass

You pour me till the day has passed....

This is my call I belong to You

This is my call to sing the melodies of You

This is my call I can do nothing else . . .

I can do nothing else.

Something To Give

It’s a loud, busy place. I would usually consider myself a confident, outgoing, unafraid university student who can blend in with almost any social structure. But every time I step through those doors and immerse myself in the crowd, I get nervous.

Every Tuesday I go to Wa-Hi and eat lunch with the high school kids. More specifically, I am eating lunch with the students currently attending the after school program and youth group every week at the City Church. Part of my job as a leader is to go and hang out with my kids every Tuesday in the midst of mayhem known only as a “public school lunch room.” The crowd is intimidating, the meals are barely palatable, and my job description is obscure. It’s an odd place to find an Adventist teacher’s kid who has been brought up in private schools their entire life. But, this is exactly where I find myself every Tuesday.

I must admit that I always end up enjoying myself as I mingle with the students. It’s refreshing to be immersed in an environment that is less. . . mature. Odd, I know, but true. Life is still mostly about fun for them and they aren’t afraid to let you know. They think that they rule the world and aren’t afraid to let you know. But I’ve found, in my interaction with them, that there are even more things they are terribly afraid to let you know.

What am I supposed to do about this? As I sat there at the lunch table, endeavoring to choke down what I hoped was chicken, I looked at all the young faces around me and I had to ask myself, “What do I have to give them?” By all accounts, it’s not much. I’m an over-worked college student who has $4 a month to her name. I hang out with a lot of other, over-worked college students who might have $14 a month to their names. We live in a world of over-worked people, who all work for over-worked people, and somewhere near the top of the food-chain there’s supposed to be someone who has it all figured out and can show us all how it’s done. ... I’m still looking for that person. I’m still looking for something to give.

In reality, when I look at those kids I see a lot of hurt. I see a lot of pain. I see empty eyes, beating hearts, and some clever masks. And the scary thing is, it looks a lot like my mirror. It’s too familiar. Far too familiar. So what makes me different? What am I supposed to give these kids? What am I supposed to do about this?

The truth is, I’m not any different. They’ve been hurt, I’ve been hurt. They need love, I need love. They are searching, I am searching. They mess up and make mistakes, I mess up and make mistakes. They fall and it hurts, I fall and it hurts. And I’m so glad that we are the same. Because I have been healed, so they can be healed. I have a God who chases me, and they have a God who chases them. I stand back up when I fall, they can stand up too. I’ve found something worth living for, and they can find something worth living for. Because there is a God who died for both of us...

I’m still not sure what I have to give to these kids, or to the world. Tuesday lunches will still be intimidating and hard to digest. But maybe the kid sitting across from me finds lunch time intimidating and hard to digest. And that’s all I need to know... God doesn’t need me to have a resume ready to hand people so they can hire me to fix their problems. I just need to know that I need Him. And I need to know that you need Him too. End of story.