Hypocrite

Nikki asked me to write a very transparent short piece about on campus interactions with non-Christians.  She wanted me to write those things that I'd never say out loud to anyone.  A bunch of us had similar assignments that would be recorded as sound clips over videos of campus.

As I pondered this assignment, I was immediately drawn to the Great Divide that is the cafeteria salad bar.  Our school has a long-standing joke that the salad bar divides the campus: Christian, non-athletes on one side; non-Christian, athletes on the other.  Of course, there are exceptions, but this is the stereotype.

Sometimes I forget there are non-Christians here, too.  But then I walk on the wrong side of the salad bar to get some yogurt. Instantly I feel judged and unwelcome.  Like I'm supposed to be perfect because I love Jesus.  I'm supposed to always love, always care, and always be willing to help. 

"I'm not perfect," I want to shout.  Like that's an excuse.  An excuse to exhibit un-Christ-like behavior.  An excuse to be inconsiderate.  An excuse to judge.

It's not them, it's me who's doing the judging.  I shoot evil glares when I see someone struggling in class.  I avoid non-Christians like they have some kind of contagious disease I'm going to catch just from looking them in the eye.

Some of my close family members aren't Christians; they're not poisonous.  I hug, love, and serve them.  Why can't I do the same for my peers?

The night the video played and my northern accent ran through the full auditorium I realized that we divide ourselves even there at worship.  I had accidentally chosen a seat behind four boys who... well, aren't from my side of the salad bar.

They sat an empty seat between each of them so that their legs in athletic shorts or sweatpants could be spread apart.  They were so buff they could have swallowed me whole if they had wanted to. 

The head of the man right in front of me blocked my view of the speaker.  The speaker who looks like the stereotypical Jesus and has my same haircut.  Instead of marveling at these things, I was stuck staring at this guy's backwards baseball cap with our mascot on it.  Our mascot that looks like he's sharting.

He wasn't the only one.  Someone near me, potentially one of the four athletes who could swallow me whole, let one rip.  I didn't hear it.  I just smelled it.  Check your shorts, dude!

My dad's the king of SBDs.  I grew up surrounded by rancid rear-end smells.  If I have to breathe in through my mouth, it's bad!  It was bad!

"Some of my family members are not Christians.  I hug, love, and serve them.  Why can't I do the same for my peers?"

You hypocrite!

For the next hour I watched Mr. Swallow Me Whole.  He had his Bible with him.  After flipping to the scripture passage for the night, he handed it to his friend two seats over.  Then he pulled out his "assorted electronic device" and read along with the Jesus-twin speaker.  He removed his hat when we prayed.  He pulled the "Statue of Liberty" and sang along.  He even gave an "Amen!"

You hypocrite!

You talk about destroying the salad bar divide and you build a brick wall between you and the seat in front of you!  All because you're scared.  Scared that such a large man might have a heart for Christ.  Scared that your brother might swallow you whole.  Scared that God hears both of your prayers.  Katie, that's ridiculous.

Mr. Swallow Me Whole, it was a joy to worship behind you last week.  Thank you for not biting off my head when I realized I was a hypocrite.  Let's do it again sometime.  But maybe I'll bring some air freshener.

<>< Katie

Futbol Confusion

This is an old note I wrote after attending a US vs. Costa Rica soccer game in Costa Rica.  It was scarier than going to a Flyers game in Philly.  But we all lived to tell the tale.
<>< Katie

I went to a football game today. Except there was no pig skin. No quarterback. The players actually used their feet. I was shocked!

On the way to the game we saw a brawl. Everyone on the bus was yelling, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" And when the two men fell, I screamed, "Let's see some blood on that ice!"

On the street outside the stadium, the bus of American soccer players was warmly welcomed by police on horseback and one-finger waves from the crowd.

When we arrived at the game, we had a pat-down search where they confiscated cosas commencing with the letter "C": cameras, cell phones, chap-stick, and coins. I found this behavior quite strange.

I was surprised they hadn't closed the roof due to the impending rain, but the rain held off and the roof remained open.

Our seats were prefect to watch the players fly and see the quaffle at all times. Although we were definitely within hitting range from the bludgers. Who are those little insects down there walking along the grass?

We sang two national anthems. When the second started, I smiled and said, "Oh, Canada" before searching in vain to find their flag.

The game began, and the ball was kicked high into the air. "Get up! Get up! Get outta here! Gone!" As it rose, I yelled, "Fore!" for safety. Once it hit the net, I said, "Let!" When it went over, I knew there would be a five-minute major penalty for Delay of Game. Luckily, I had kept my eyes on it the whole time and was in no danger of being hit (by anything except those bloody bludgers). Eventually, the ball returned magically from the stands. That's not supposed to happen; it was your team that did it!

The ball was definitely touched more than three times. Once it crossed the entire court and the ref failed to call icing. Another time the player took it over-and-back, and my Fang Fingers were ready! During a tough call, I don't know why they didn't consult the experts in Toronto to review the play again. They didn't even take a TV time-out. The play clock continued while they exchanged yellow Christmas cards.

Shots on goal were few and far between. The goalie even ventured far from his net to retrieve the ball, but I screamed at him, "Get back in your net, Vokoun!" When the ball went in the gutter, I offered to give them a second serve, but I was benched. One man patted the top of his head, clearly needing to tie his shoe, but the play-clock never stopped. Although, the one and only intermission was cut short by five minutes.

In the last two minutes, we should have pulled our goalie. At the end, the red, white, and blue was victorious. After all, the lowest score wins, and they had three while we only had one!

I went to a football game today. I prefer to call it soccer, but either way I understand all of the rules.

Interdigiting

"Let a child take you for a week every week." - Max Lucado

My Baptist Church had a (dry) tailgate before my college's Homecoming football game. Amber wanted to take little Abby to the parade. I figured my six year old boyfriend would enjoy it, too.

Several weeks ago it came out that this busy six year old has three girlfriends. I asked if I could be number four. His father applauded him for working the college girls. He was too embarrassed to look at me all day. I think that means yes.

I knew getting him to go to the parade with me was a long shot but it was worth a try. At his father's insistence, he came. The four of us walked (ok, Amber carried Abby) to what we thought was the parade route only to discover we were on the wrong side of the soccer field. Even at their slowest speed my long legs move twice as fast as this six year old's little legs. I didn't want him to get lost in the crowd. I also realized he'd still a bit uncomfortable with me. I kept a close eye on him and my hand at a level where he could grab it if he so desired.

The closer we got to the parade, the closer he got to me. When we stopped, he reached up and took my hand. He then reached up with his other hand and grabbed hold. We watched the parade together, my right hand held captive in both of his.

I was no longer jealous of Amber with the toddler. I had a six year old comfortable enough to grab my hand with both hands. Maybe he was afraid the animals on the floats were going to jump off. Maybe he was afraid I was going to wander off and leave him. Maybe he was lost but he knew I wasn't; I knew where his parents were. All the way back, he held me hand with one hand and stuck so close I had to step around him to move. I didn't mind.

Is that how we should be with God? Our inclination, especially at first, is to wander nearby God. As we walk, we realize He knows where we're going. And we don't. We step closer and closer to Him. We link hands and let Him show us the way. He leads; we follow closely and (sometimes) obediently.

When my "boyfriend" had my hand, my face had a smile. I loved walking hand in hand with him. I wanted to introduce him to everyone we passed, I steered him clear of hot grilles, I returned him safely to his parents. If I can feel that much joy from walking with a six year old who may or may not claim to be my boyfriend (my vote is on not), how much more joy does God feel when we walk with Him? God takes pride in calling us His children. He does not steer us clear of all trials and turbulence but He does walk with us all of the way. With His shield of protect, nothing happens to us without His knowledge. That's more than I could promise my "boyfriend."

<>< Katie

Double the Mistake

There are about a million birthdays in April. Some of them I was able to write birthday blogs for but some of them I had to miss. If you didn't get one, I am incredibly sorry. Please, don't take it personally. :-)

Today's is a birthday I cannot miss. I'm often complemented on how I can see God in all sorts of weird ways and call them "God Moments." I haven't always been able to do that. Through a year's worth of God moments of her own, I was able to copy Natalie's lead and see God in little, weird things. Trust me, if you think some of my God moments are weird, ask Natalie about He spoke through the chemistry principle of microscopic reverse or anything else that relates to sports, science, and the bathroom.

Thus, for her birthday, I'd love to share one of her God moments. The problem is that I need to find a censored one that is appropriate for such a wide reading audience. Not mortifying Natalie isn't quite an option. Hey, she's the one that showed up to small group wearing a bathrobe to demonstrate how Isaiah walked around naked for three years (see Isaiah 20). She's the one that took our small group on Babylonian exile through the icy rain. She's the one that burned two bagels in less than a half an hour. She's the one that broke two fingers playing flag football.

After a few days of pain, Natalie finally decided she should go to the doctor for her two injured fingers. The identical x-rays were hanging side-by-side and, as she tells it, the doctor was looking from one to the other to her to her hands with a confused look on his face.
Doctor: These are two different fingers.
Natalie: Yes, sir.
Doctor: These are two different hands.
Natalie: Yes, sir.
Doctor: Please tell me this was the same play.
Natalie: No, sir.
She'd been playing a co-ed game of flag football here on campus when she reached for the flag of one of her opponents.  She got the flag but she also got her right hand tangled in his shorts.  Broken right middle finger.  She's broken enough bones to realize what she'd done but is way too competitive to remove herself from the game.  Besides, if she benched herself her team would have to forfeit.  A little while later she reached for her opponent's flag with her left hand and the exact same thing happened again.  Broken finger on the left hand.  Any sensible person would have learned her lesson and forced her team for forfeit the game.  She'd already not just taken one for the team but two.  Nope, Natalie kept playing.  In fact, she even scored a touchdown with two broken fingers; she said she carried the ball clutched between her forearms and her chest as she waddled towards the end zone.

By Monday at small group time she'd be amused by the identical x-rays and had two splints on her fingers. 
Apparently the flesh-colored splints make it look like her fingers were wearing hoodies, so she drew faces on her fingernails.  The right-hand one became Jesus and the left-hand one became John the Baptist.  Imagine Laura's reaction (her faithful co-leader who frequently reminded her "Be censored, Natalie!").  It went something like, "NATALIE!  You cannot flip someone off with Jesus!"

Thus was my small group freshman year, and as is common for Natalie, God spoke through such a bizarre series of events.

She went on to talk about how sometimes she makes the same mistake twice.  Sometimes she puts bagels in the oven and forgets about them until they're burned to chars and sometimes she does it again ten minute later.  Sometimes she burns two bagels again two weeks later.  Sometimes she breaks two fingers in the same football game.  Sometimes she had to make the same mistake twice before God gets her attention.  Do we do the same thing?  Are we so caught up in what we're doing that we forget to pay attention to what we're doing? That we forget to pay attention to God?

Luckily, there is good news for us.  Even out of her mistake of breaking fingers, God was still able to do something remarkable when He helped her score.  He can still do pretty cool things with our double-mess ups.  And frankly, I think that's a darn good thing.

I love you guys.  A lot.
<>< Katie

Brothers in Christ

Since my reader is anonymous, I can't tailor my blogs to her (I think it's a her).

Confession time: I my only brother is the tractor. Sometimes I eel like I missed out by being in a primarily female family. My dad always teases he's the minority in the sorority, but it's actually true. My life has almost always been filled with female friends and I've had very few close guy friends over the years. This summer my sister was teasing me about the "four" guys I have in my phone. (In my defense, I really have more than four guy friends but that's beside the point... and I mean their numbers in my phone not the guys themselves because that would be weird). I think all of these factors could contribute to why I don't really know how to behave around guys.

However, as of late, I've discovered I have a lot more guy friends than I'm given credit for having. I mean, go back and reread this blog. Either I have my share of guy friends, I'm making up, or the few I do have just inspire me write. (All of the above is not an option). I've also taken a look at where I've spent my time lately. Monday night confirmed this inkling when I was actually one of the guys for a few hours.

Monday night, my Green Bay Packers played the Minnesota Vikings and I was invited to watch the game with a bunch of guys (and a few girls briefly). At first, I was wondering if they were all Vikings fans who invited me over for a good laugh as my team was destroyed. Most of them are Vikings fans, but they didn't laugh at me. Not even when I confessed part of a deep secret: I don't really understand football. I know to cheer when the green guys are running and to boo when the purple guys score. I know Brett Favre is a traitor. I know the thing on my head is a cheesehead. Ask me about scoring and I'm clueless. I even had to think if football games were separated into quarters or only halves. Hockey I can explain in full detail. Tennis I can play. I understand the basics of basketball and baseball, but football and futbol (soccer) leave me totally confused.

It didn't really matter. We weren't all glued to the tv. Fellowship, friendship, and football took place in that dorm room. I looked over Four Year Plans (I love these!), we traded pictures from this last weekend, and we shared life together. I got the opportunity to witness true selflessness (a guy offering to drive a friend three hours to her date with a different guy, sit around while she was on her date, and drive her three hours back), someone else pull the door shut to shield the girls' eyes when a friendly dorm prank turned dirty and involved the removal of pants, oh, and I wasn't killed when I helped myself to a guy's food either. I realize this isn't normal: we all gathered to watch the football game and it was just background noise, yet it was wonderful. It is how it should be: brothers and sisters helping each other out and spending time together while honoring their Abba Father.

<>< Katie

Oh, and just to clarify: I'm not dating nor am I trying to impress any of these guys. They didn't pay me to say this either; they're the brothers I've never had. :-)

Stereotypes

We've all assumed them. We've all faced them. We've all been annoyed by them. Yet stereotypes still exist in this world.

On Wednesday, several friends and I were having an intimate, intense discussion in the hallway of his dorm. A door opened and a new student walked into the hall. I'd never met this boy before, but I instantly knew he was a football player and I didn't like him. As he passed, my friend accidentally dropped a pen. The new student stopped, picked it up, and handed it back to my friend before continuing down the hall. We looked at each other in shock! Someone even mouthed, "Wow! He's actually nice!"

We'd all judged this new kid before we'd even met him. When he returned to his room, we introduced ourselves and he blew away more stereotypes. Yes, he is a football player. Yes, he was student government class president for three years in high school. Yes, he is a music major, choir director, and teacher. Yes, his dream is to go to medical school. Yes, he is a preacher's son. Yes, he was appalled by the number of swear words dropped nonchalantly on the football field. Yes, he was concerned about the cleanliness of his room. Yes, he cringed when someone used improper grammar. Yes, he is nice. We invited him to join our discussion, and he was instantly sucked into our dilemma.

Don't make the same mistake I did and write people off before you even know their names. Take the time to get to know them before you judge them.

In Christ,
<>< Katie