Katie in Kenya: Days in Dog Years

“Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.”  

I apparently don’t have a good feel for time. I was so proud of myself for how well I was doing adjusting to Kenya and how I wasn’t missing everyone too much yet. This illusion was shattered when via Skype conversation I was reminded that I had only been in Kenya for 3.5 days at that point. I thought I had been here for a week, maybe a week and a half if I was being generous. Instead of admitting that I had been experiencing time differently, I just retorted that obviously I am living out my days in dog years.

This probably has something to do with jetlag, and that my daily schedule (up until today) looked like it took its inspiration from “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” — I ate, slept, ate, came back to my room and climbed into my sleeping bag even when working on my computer. I’m pretty sure we’re being fattened up before we’re sent off to the village to eat rice and beans. I probably don’t know how many days have passed because I have slept and woken up many times in a day, but I also think it is more than that.

I have had nothing I had to do. I have even been sending emails about the justice ministry I head up at church because I have the time and internet to. But otherwise, there hasn’t been anywhere I’ve had to be, and I’ve had the idea of 10 weeks away from home stretching in front of me.

Two and a half months is both a long time and not that long of a time. But right now, it seems long. I already miss people. If I think about it all at once it is overwhelming, so instead I don’t. I have been listening to a song that is a version of “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it” and then, on Sunday, I went to chapel at the university and we read a liturgy which also paraphrased that Psalm. I’m beginning to get the idea. I wonder though if I should have to sing, “This is the moment the Lord has made…”

I am learning that I appreciate the Holy Spirit more when life is moving quickly. I am so grateful to call upon the Spirit in face paced situations such as going into hospital rooms, dealing with difficult interpersonal situations, or getting up to preach. I am not so welcoming to the slow moving breath of the Spirit — I’m more the mighty wind type.

I was explaining to the other people on the trip with me that I am a “go big or go home” kind of person when it comes to things going wrong. I don’t get colds– I get pneumonia, you get the idea. And I feel I may also have grown accustomed to having to be knocked down by the Spirit to listen. But then I hope that maybe I have been knocked down enough recently that I am becoming a better listener.

Because I am leaning that life in dog years has more moments. More moments to think, which can be scary. More moments to look around, more moments to listen. This means I will also have to slow down and really see. Really see poverty and pain but also really see beauty and community. Slowing down can be dangerous when we actually stop to look around at where we are.

I will report back in ten weeks, but, for now, I am feeling challenged to live in the moment, and to live there for real. The weeks up to leaving were filled with wanting to speed up time and be done with the semester and wanting to slow down time because I wasn’t ready to leave yet. But now there is time. Time enough to be gently nudged by the Spirit, to experience the holy discomfort of seeing and experiencing all of life that passes in front of me, to not be able to be busy. To see where the Lord is moving in each moment and to rejoice and be glad in it. And to get to the end of my time here and to not have wished any time away. I want to exist in moments of gratitude, in moments of trust, that when I slow down, I will hear the gentle whispers of the Holy Spirit.

This is the moment the Lord had made, I will live and rejoice in it…

On Ducks

“It doesn’t interest me how old you are

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool

for love

for your dreams

for the adventure of being alive.” – The Invitation

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Today the little girl I nanny reminded me of something important — ducks are awesome. She definitely thinks so. At 6:45 in the morning she was already asking, “ducks, walk, outside? Outside, walk, ducks? Ducks?” Due to her persistence, and also how pretty a day it is, we visited the ducks multiple times. She’s only 18 months old but she is very courteous to her webfooted friends and told them both hello and waved them goodbye. By far the best part of the day was when I was crouched down next to her, right near the water, and a duck came right up to the edge of the water, only a few feet from us, and she got so excited… “DUCK! Katie! Duck! DUCK!” She alternated between staring at the duck and pointing and looking up at me to make sure I wasn’t missing out. 

Well, I definitely didn’t miss out on that duck, but she got me to thinking about how many “duck” moments I miss in a given day. Maybe one of the reasons we are told to be like little children is because they are unabashedly excited about creation, about life. We played outside, and she couldn’t decide if she should be more excited about her ball, the flowers, or the ducks. There were too many things to delight in… when was the last time we had that problem? 

When I am torn between choices it is more the feeling of being overwhelmed by life functioning tasks, homework, lab work, and the desire to actually be a social creature, and frequently I can’t enjoy any of them to the fullest. The funny thing is though, even when I do have those “duck” moments, when I get super excited about being alive, I am usually accused of being childish, as if my excitement is unreasonable and unbecoming.

I wish to challenge that– when did we relegate pure joy only to children? It’s completely true that they’re better at it than us, but that just means we need to hang around little people more to learn from them. Children show us that there is joy around every corner and that life is an adventure. Because the world is pretty awesome, and ducks are pretty cool. And if we look around there really is more beauty than we can take in at one time and too many things to delight in at once. 

So, adults, I think we need to regain the art of delight. You make look foolish, people may think you’re a little unusual, but you might find that the upsides far outweigh the obstacles. I don’t think this will necessarily be easy. I’m thinking that it might be easiest to first take delight in children as they show us the world. Then maybe we can learn to see as they do. I’d like to suggest that viewing the world and others as an awesome adventure might have dangerous side effects, and I take no responsibility for the consequences that could include less items check off your to do list, and an inability to easily write off other members of creation.

And maybe it will take a while to rediscover delight, and maybe you think your life is just fine without it. I realize that it takes courage to look for beauty in a frequently pain filled world. Because once you acknowledge the beauty of the world, you have to do something with that. You can’t stay there, but you also have to deal with that which is ugly and painful in the world, and sometimes it seems like trying to hold onto both is more trouble than it’s worth. One of my favorite quotes from Gilead is ”I think there must also be a prevenient courage that allows us to be brave– to acknowledge that there is more beauty than our eyes can bear, that precious things have been put into our hands and to do nothing to honor them is to do great harm.”

When we are no longer small, sometimes it takes courage to seek out delight, to look into the pain of this world and claim that isn’t everything, but as the quote suggests, to not honor the beauty of creation, the awesome adventure of being alive, is to do more harm, is to let the scale tip in the direction of that which is painful. Despite the courage required, I am of the belief that it is worth the effort to seek out the wonderful, even in the face of the difficult because there is hope in that process as well as joy.

But, despite all that, all I am suggesting for now is that if you have or know a little person, or can borrow one, maybe you should ask them to show you some ducks. Because they really are delightful…

This Ain’t Candy Land Folks…

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So, we made it through Lent and are now into the season of Easter, and this has gotten me thinking about the Holy Spirit. On Resurrection Sunday, my pastor mentioned how for 40 days we fast or give something up, and how we should respond in the opposite direction for the Easter season and throw parties and celebrate. I really liked the idea of the 40 days after Easter being a response of joy and celebration, and that’s when I started thinking about the Holy Spirit.

You see, I don’t think I live like I think much about the Holy Spirit. We live in a world that is very concerned with how everything is going to turn out. There are certain steps that have to be followed, hoops to be jumped through, boxes to be checked, and if something is missed, well, you’re in trouble. We’re taught that’s there’s only one person out there in the universe we could live happily ever after with, and if you slept in the day s/he was supposed to enter stage left, well, hopefully you’re content to be the equivalent of a cat lady for eternity. There are career choices to be made and calculated and internships to get and, again, if you blow that big interview, hope you’ve picked out cute wallpaper for the inside of your ice cream truck you’ll be living out of. In short, there are a series of correct choices to be made, and you better figure it out the first time, or life will be hard and possibly irredeemable. 

My wise and delightful mother told me one time that life is not like the game Candy Land. God hasn’t picked out one exact path for us to follow and, God forbid, you make the wrong choice and get sent back to Mr. Plumpy and then you’re screwed and have no choice of winning. Instead, she said that God has set out a banqueting table for us. There is room for movement and choices and changing our mind, all within the realm of seeking God’s will. 

Think on that for a moment — one, it means we have free will and I’m gonna say that’s a good thing. Two, it means that God adjusts and moves with us. We cannot get so far off the beaten path as to be outside of God’s presence. We can earnestly seek after God’s will and fail miserably or maybe be close but not quite there, and that’s ok too. God is patient with us. 

So, what if we lived like we believe this? How do we live into the Easter season as people who trust the Holy Spirit? Now, I sheepishly have to admit that my theology is something made in reaction to theology I run away from. I do not believe that seeking God’s will means I trust that “everything always works out for the best” or that everything will turn out as I want it to. I do believe I can still make really crummy choices that have negative consequences for myself and others, though I also believe that my life can always be redeemed, and I can be nudged toward better choices on the banqueting table. In short, I’m saying that learning to trust the Holy Spirit more, for me, does not mean either sitting on my butt and waiting for everything to work out or running through life at full speed thinking that anything I can do or want to do means that it is what I should do. So where does that leave me?

This leaves me, personally, trusting that God is leading me into a future that is good, even if I already know parts will be hard, and it may not turn out as I plan. It means I can go to Kenya for the summer and know that my world at home will be ok in my absence, and that it is alright that I will be away and miss things. I will move and people at home will move and grow, and nothing goes back to exactly how it was before, and I can be at peace with that. It means that I can work hard for the future and make mistakes and trust that the Holy Spirit provides wiggle room. I can take more time for rejoicing and less time worrying over the pieces. I can listen more for the nudging of the Holy Spirit than the panicked cries of the world. This Easter season, I refuse to play the game, because this life ain’t Candy Land folks… it’s a banqueting table… And the God of Resurrection bids us come…

Where O Death is Now Thy Sting?

“See, I will create
    new heavens and a new earth.
The former things will not be remembered,
    nor will they come to mind…

Never again will there be in it
    an infant who lives but a few days,
    or an old man who does not live out his years;” – Isaiah 65: 17, 20

My favorite Easter hymn is “Christ the Lord is Risen Today” and as I sit here, the night before Easter, I think about the words to one of the verses, “Lives again our glorious King/ Where O death is now thy sting?” Since last Easter, I have been present, as a chaplain, at the death of 12 children, and death still stings.

None of them were my children or the children of my friends or family members, but I can bring each face and family to mind. There were those who grieved quietly, and those who mourned out loud. Those who told me, over and over, that God wouldn’t do this to them. And, like the poem, there were some situations where I wanted to the child to “rage, rage against the dying of the light” and others were I prayed that they would “go gentle into that good night.” 

There was one little boy who lost both his siblings in one day, and he wasn’t understanding that they were gone. When it was beginning to sink in he looked to his mother and said, “They left me all alone. I’m all by myself now Momma, there’s nobody left but me.” This is that family’s first Easter since then. How are they going to sing, “Where O Death is now thy sting?”

 When I had nothing else to tell families in the hospital, I told them that God cries with them. You see, God knows how it feels to lose a child, to lose a child to senseless violence, to someone else’s sin. God knows the pain of watching a child suffer physically, to be exhausted, to fight for life and then breath their last and give up their spirit. We serve a God who was both a mourning parent and a suffering child. And because Jesus was, and is, both fully human and fully divine, that means when Jesus died on the cross, a part of God died — a part of the parent died with the child.

We know that the events of the world often break the heart of God and our hearts as well, but we know that we do not grieve as those who have no hope. What does it mean to be resurrection people? How do we sing “Where O Death is now thy sting?” in a world such as this one? 

We often just talk about Jesus’s victory over sin on Easter, but it was a victory over sin and death. It is a victory because death didn’t get the last word. Because Jesus was only the first to defeat death. We do not grieve as those who have no hope because we know that Jesus said, “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?” But Jesus’ victory was not just for the future, because there is also grace for those left behind. We are promised peace and not as the world gives it, and hope, and redemption.

But you know what, death still stings. We haven’t yet made it to the new heaven and the new earth where babies are never born to live but a few days– we’re not there yet. We are resurrection people living in the promise of the time when all things will be made new and when families will be reunited.

But we are not alone. We can still stand and sing in the face of death because we know who won, and because we are accompanied through life’s valleys by the Son of God who suffered for us and suffers with us, and by God the parent who knows what it is to grieve. We have layers of hope to wrap ourselves in — the hope that gets us through today, the hope for those who have already died and are in the presence of God, and ultimately, the hope for the time when all things are made new. And I pray for those families, that when they are wrapped in that many layers of hope, that death stings a little less.

Christ is Risen! He is Risen Indeed! Alleluia! 

 

How to Succeed in Quitting Without Really Trying

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So I gave up being stubborn for Lent, or at least I took on trying to be less stubborn. In my family stubbornness is a dominant trait. So is being brunette, brown eyed, and tall, and while I am none of those things, I made up for it by inheriting stubbornness in spades. Because everyone in my family is stubborn, we don’t see it as a problem, really ever.

I didn’t see it as a problem either until a few months ago. You know those moments when you get outside of yourself for a moment and really see yourself? Let’s just say I had a medical procedure that required sedation, and apparently a sedated me has just as much energy as the not sedated me and absolutely no filter. This resulted in the most stubborn version of myself. I learned this later when I woke up and wondered why my knees were bruised and learned that I had refused help and fallen. Also, that I had crawled up the stairs… more than once. As it was later pointed out to me, I was offered a hand up the stairs, not to be carried… and I chose to crawl. It was time to admit I had a problem — possibly past time.

Part of this problem had to do with the fact that I decided I was still going to run a marathon. All health indicators pointed to this being a poor life choice, but, remember, I’m stubborn. To make a long story short, the day of the marathon arrived, and I learned that if you have a stomach bug before you start the race, you probably will not “run it off” (just incase you were wondering). After what was a less then lovely 21 miles, I quit. As in, did not finish. As in, gave up. And the funny thing is, it was ok.

I am learning that there is grace in quitting. There is mercy in accepting help. These past fews months I have accepted more help than I normally do in a year, and I am the better for it. You see, stubbornness, at least mine, builds up walls. Without meaning to, stubbornness suggests that we are always enough– that we do not need others. There are people in my life who I only opened up to when I reached a point I could not refuse help, and I am sad to say I might not have let them in at all otherwise. While I value self-sufficiency, this line of thinking becomes problematic. Whose help do I not need? Where do we draw the line?

In the big picture sense, I know I am not my own savior, yet if I refuse help, I am not letting people be channels of grace and mercy in my life. If we are only willing to serve and never willing to be served, there is a pride to that and a misunderstanding of the whole process. Usually when I am most stubborn is when I am inches away from rock bottom, and I am holding on to the false notion that I am all that is holding me up. It is then that I have forgotten that ”My grace is sufficient for you, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” The walls of stubbornness not only keep out other peoples’ attempts at showing compassion and grace but also shut off channels for divine grace because then it is the stubbornness which in itself is sufficient.

I use to think that quitting was always the easy way out and was never the better choice, but for this occasion, I’m going to suspend that judgment. In learning to quit, I was also reminded that there are kind and wonderful people in this world who care for me. Not because of what I do or finish or because I am determined, but that I was worth caring for even when I was curled up on the floor being of no use to anyone. I am not what I do. In some ways it is new and scary ground to accept help. As if suddenly I’ll fall apart and be useless at getting anything done on my own. But I learned that if I let go of stubbornness, there is peace to be had, that the strength God gives me is often not physical, but is the courage to say that I am not wholly self-suffiecnet, that I need help and then to be able to accept it. I am also not what I cannot do.

We so often are defined by our work or our accomplishments. We ask people when we meet them, “So what do you do?” When our identity is so wrapped up in our accomplishments, to quit something is to give up that piece of identity, that marker that states to the world what we contribute and why we matter. Sometimes that marker is the activity or it can be the way that we do it. I am not fast, so I value that I am determined. In this way, I am still staking my identity in the way I do something, even if it is not in the thing (in this case the race) itself. But even the way I do things does not truly get to the heart of the matter — who are we? Who am I?

I am a child of God who lives bound up in community, who is not defined by what I can or cannot do, but by who and whose I am. I am still stubborn. I am frequently weak, but holding onto that all-sufficent grace. I am one who helps and is helped. And, by the grace of God, I am a quitter.

The Choice for Love?

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 I have discovered that life comes with many choices. I chose where to go to college and then where to go to grad school. I choose how to spend my time — when to eat, sleep, or study. But there are some things I have not chosen… I didn’t chose to be 5″6, I don’t chose to react to the South with horrendous allergies, and I have never chosen who I’ve loved.

Think about it… have you ever fallen for someone who you knew was no good for you? You knew it would end poorly or that it wasn’t right, but you couldn’t help it right? What if I asked you, why did you chose to love that person? What would you say?

When did love become a choice? Commitment is a choice however. There are so many choices to be made after falling in love. If two people choose to be in a relationship then the choices continue. How to honor and respect one another. How to negotiate life choices and paths. That’s where the choices lie. There are all sorts of people making the choice to commit to one another — people like me and not like me — but in a world where commitment seems to be a harder and harder choice to see through, I have tremendous respect for all those who live out “for better or for worse.” That’s when commitment, which was first seen as a one time choice, becomes the loving collage of thousands of daily choices made for the good of the other person.

You know what else is a choice? How to handle prejudice. We can blame the ugliness we find inside ourselves on others or we can search, listen, and pray and seek to understand why we are acting in a way opposing to love and what we need to do to change it. There is no way to avoid prejudice in all its manifestations, but every time it rears its ugly head, we have the choice in how we respond. Are we content to say we agree that all people are equal but not agree to the specifics? What if we all chose to examine the specifics? I do not think we will all end up at the same conclusions, and I believe that we can end up at varying conclusions through prayer and study, but that those means, when applied faithfully, will never lead to prejudice, oppression, or hate of another child of God.

You know what that choice to pray and listen to each other leads to? It leads to choosing to love our neighbors. To making a choice to treat all others as children of God. We chose, with the grace of God, to use the means of grace to grow in love of others and God, until, whether we understand them or not, choosing not to love others is no longer a choice.

Hearts were Made to be Broken…

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“The heart was made to be broken.” – Oscar Wilde

My discovery of the tenacity of the human heart began in 7th grade. I was asked if I wanted to care for a family at church’s foster baby who I had fallen in love with over the summer. I remember my mother looking at me and asking, “You know you’re going to get hurt right?” and I said yes and did it anyways. I didn’t realize then that this would be a returning question in my life. I just have to tell people that I’m going to be a chaplain in a children’s hospital and the usual response is, “That sounds so hard/miserable/sad. I would never do that.” Add in the clinical child psych piece and wanting to work with abused/neglected children and then people start telling me that it will only break my heart, and I should consider doing something else. I know this is not a unique response. I have talked to people who are hospice chaplains or nurses in children’s hospitals or who work in Children’s advocacy centers or are social workers, and the response is similar. They are frequently asked why they do something that pretty much guarantees a broken heart. But here’s the thing, hearts were made to be broken.

Before you write me off as a complete masochist, let me explain. I believe that our hearts were made to break at the things that break God’s heart. If I could be present at the death of a child and not have my heart break, that would be a problem. It would mean that there was something wrong with my heart. If hearts are made to be broken it means two things – 1. hearts should break instead of harden and 2. If God designed hearts to break, then they are also made to be mended.

So thing 1, our hearts were made to break not harden. A heart that can break is a very different thing than a heart that gets so hard and bitter that it ultimately shatters. Pain (as I’ve been told) is meant to send a message to one’s body to stop or change what it’s doing. If you touch a hot stove, the pain tell you to get your hand off the stove before you do further damage. In the same way, a broken heart tells you something is wrong. When you learn that there are still millions of children in slavery in the world working in making chocolate we eat all the time, your heart should break. That’s a sign that you’re not numb to the suffering in the world. People can take this knowledge in different amounts before they become overwhelmed, but this just means people need to take in difficult information at different speeds, not that some people get to tune out of the world’s suffering because they’re sensitive.

Also, I believe we are called to build the Kingdom in different ways. Just because I am willing to have my heart broken working in a children’s hospital does not mean that is the place for everyone. There are some who care for the places the earth is broken and those who work alongside different groups of people who have been marginalized or oppressed. There are some whose jobs they get paid for are their direct work for the Kingdom, and there are others for whom that is not the case. I do believe we all have a place though.

People have different physical pain tolerances and different emotional pain tolerances as well. We all have a different place where we’re pushing our hearts past the breaking point to the brink of shattering. It’s important to acknowledge that and to consider all the other sources of hurt in one’s life at a time. Our hearts can also be broken in ways that we do not run headlong into like serving the Kingdom, such as loss, broken relationships, and life’s challenges. I am not suggesting that we are to be open to that pain in the same way. We are to adventure into life with courage even in the face of inevitable pain, but only as the natural consequence of making our way in the world. We are not to be victims and doormats. We will face breakups and failures and losses without any desire to do so, but the good news is that all types of heartbreak can be included in the mending.

I jokingly told people when applying to grad school that I am getting my PhD in clinical child psych to have my heart broken and going to seminary to learn how God can put it back together. This only proved to show my naiveté at how much heartbreak is involved in the process of theological education. Despite that, it has only served to further strengthen my belief in redemption. I strongly believe that God does not put suffering or pain in our lives (see All Good Gifts) but that God can redeem all situations. Redemption does not mean that the pain disappears and everything is all better. It does not mean that it “was all part of God’s plan” as if God needs tornados and AIDS to bring about God’s Kingdom. Instead, it is the idea that God can bring growth and love and hope into and out of the darkest situations. I believe this because I have seen it in my life and the life of others. Just think, we serve a God who was and is willing to have his heart broken for us and with us. We serve a God of the crucifixion– there was no heart more broken, but we also serve a God of the resurrection, and there was and is no better redemption. With God’s grace and with time, our hearts come back together and we are able to venture back into the world with the understanding that they might be broken again.

I’m not a med student, but I remember being told that where broken bones come back together they are stronger in the broken places. To me, that is redemption, not that we are back to where we were or that we don’t have sore places or scars, but that there are new places of strength that came despite the pain. It is with this promise that I can venture into dark places, not of my own strength.  And to be perfectly honest, I think the alternative, to never have your heart break, is much much worse.

You know the cliche, “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?” I think most people will acknowledge that as true in the area of relationships. Most people will agree that, in a majority of cases, even in relationships that ended poorly, hopefully we learned something or enjoyed part of it, or experienced some personal growth. The idea is that some pain is a part of the learning process in romantic relationships. Well, some heartbreak is required in living a life for the Kingdom as well. There are things to be learned and work to be done that cannot happen if we stay on the sidelines covered in bubble wrap. It is a much more painful idea to think that I missed a chance to grow the Kingdom, to serve my neighbor, to be a source of peace or hope, than to experience pain from doing any of those things. This is because when we are working for the Kingdom we are open to sources of hope and joy and peace that are not available elsewhere. I found that, even going into rooms and places I could not walk into on my own, when all I could say was “Holy Spirit come,” I was never left empty.

So, what are we to do? First, I think we are to open our eyes wide enough to actually see things or learn things that might hurt. Awareness is the first step, but really only the first. If we stay there then we’ve fallen into the hardened heart category. Next we pray and act and ultimately leap. We buy fair trade coffee even when it’s more expensive, maybe we become foster parents even though we don’t know what will happen, maybe we volunteer to tutor children who’s life stories make us want to cry, maybe we work with refugees. Whatever it is, we enter with open arms, with the honest understanding that we might get hurt. We do not tiptoe into the work of the Kingdom, I’m pretty sure you can’t get in that way. We jump, we dance, we fall, we might even crawl in, but we move forward boldly knowing that there is work to be done in a hurting world but that we do not do it alone, and that the God of redemption is always there to help us pick up the pieces. And at the end of the day, all I can ask is that I live my life with a heart that can always be broken, for a Lord who will always redeem it.

Up & Redemption

Image*One last piece to look at because I can’t engage in a discussion on getting one’s heart broken without also looking at redemption*     

       We are hardwired to be both hearers and tellers of stories.  In both roles we place ourselves within the context of the story and in doing so discover the nature of our own character. Through this living in a story we learn how to live out our own story. As Amos Wilder stated, “the road to a moral judgment is by way of the imagination” (The Rediscovery of Biblical Narrative). Through this understanding we can see why Jesus was a storyteller, and the Old Testament contains more than the Ten Commandments. When we pay attention to the narrative form of Scripture we can first, read salvation history as a whole story of the covenant between us and God and second, interpret our individual stories in the context of God’s story. In this way, we are both our own character and an embodiment of the characters, promises, and possibilities throughout salvation history.

Carl Fredrickson, in the children’s animated film Up, demonstrates the power of rewriting one’s story in the context of a larger story. The film begins with the meeting of Carl and Ellie, who, as children, share a love for exploring. Young Ellie shows Carl her Adventure Book. The pages are filled with mementos of their hero and the land he disappeared to, Paradise Falls. The last pages were left blank: “I’m gonna save these pages for all the adventures I’m gonna have” she explains, and thus begins their life together.

            The movie shows us their life as a series of moments. They marry and buy the house they had played in as children. They have picnics, tea time, and work together in a zoo. They decorate a nursery, but next we see the couple crying in a doctor’s office. The story of their life changes then, and we see them discussing their childhood dream of going to Paradise Falls. Money is saved in a jar, and we watch it accumulate until the jar is broken open as the needs of daily life take precedence over their dream. Storms come, tires pop, and the years progress as the couple ages before our eyes. The day that was supposed to end with Carl giving Ellie the tickets on a picnic, ends instead with Ellie in the hospital. Life once again did not go according to Carl’s plan. Ellie passes away, leaving Carl in an empty house, with a half-filled Adventure Book, and a deep sense of disappointment with the world.

            Stories of failed dreams are no stranger to Scripture. With the prophet Jeremiah, we learn that our stories can hold us hostage. His prediction of imminent capture and enslavement had him imprisoned in the palace courtyard. In our own time, the poor communities of Latin America are held stagnant by the changeless story of their existence. Their story is one of oppressive structures, exploitation, lack of resources, and dehumanizing conditions that have shaped the only available endings to their stories (Hennelly, 1990). Yet others are kept from determining the ending to their own stories by the makeup of their minds. Children with Autism Spectrum Disorders (ASD) do not have the same story lines available to them as are available to typically developing children. Social interaction is often misunderstood and limited, and parents watch as the story they imagined for their child is brought to a screeching halt. They are left with Carl, wishing for a different ending, wondering where they went wrong, and if they dare, hoping for redemption.

            The wrong ending can be isolating. Carl lives alone. Jeremiah is in prison. Latin America is overlooked by the rest of the world. Children with ASD are often disruptive and not included in play dates. However, the movie Up illustrates that when God rewrites a life’s story, the past and present are redeemed individually and the future, inclusively. Carl takes off in his house for his dream destination, and unknowingly brings along a little boy, Russell, who was standing on his porch. Carl has no desire for companionship and only grudgingly acquiesces to Russell, and later a dog and a bird joining him. The trip in itself is not redemptive for Carl. He has a set plan as to how the events should occur. This is shown through his unwillingness to change or lose anything from his house, which reminds him of Ellie. He even chooses to save his house instead of rescuing the bird Kevin, thereby sacrificing his companion’s safety in order to protect what he sees as the only continuing piece to his story.  Russell accuses Carl shouting, “You gave away Kevin, just gave her away.” To which Carl replies, “This is none of my concern. I didn’t ask for any of this.” Carl wanted closure: to go to Paradise Falls, as if that would make up for the adventures he and his wife had never had. Instead, he feels like a failure. Sitting in his house, he picks up the Adventure Book. When he gets to the section labeled “Stuff I’m going to do,” he goes to shut the book, assuming, as always, that it is empty. This time he notices a picture sticking out. Flipping through the book, he sees pictures of Ellie’s and his life together. All the moments that made up their daily life, from photos of their marriage to breakfast time together, were in the Adventure book. On the last page she had left a note: “Thanks for the adventure. Now go have one of your own.”

            Ellie rewrote their story for Carl. He was waiting for an adventure, and she showed him that they had been living one. She gave him a format for understanding his past in which he had not let his wife down. They had been each other’s adventure. Her last comment freed him to let his future story change. The conclusion no longer had to be Paradise Falls because there were new characters in Carl’s life, such as Russell. In an image showing this new freedom, he pitches all his belongings out of his house, so it is light enough to fly again. With this newfound future, Carl rescues the dog, the bird, and the boy. As the credits roll, we see pictures added to the book of the new adventures that Carl and Russell have together. Carl’s past was redeemed in specific regard to his dream. His future redemption included the boy, who was lacking a father figure in his life and the abandoned dog.

            Jeremiah lived out the story of Israel’s future redemption. He bought a field and went through all the ceremonial necessities, as an enemy army approached.  His actions told of an ending where their homeland would again be theirs to live in and cultivate. Jeremiah’s past storytelling was specific to the redemption of the people who were living in the land at that time. The future redemption was for all the children of Israel, as God stated, “I will make an everlasting covenant with them: I will never stop doing good to them.”

            Liberation Theology is giving people in Latin America, and the rest of the developing world, a new language in which to tell their story. There is power in their story now as they understand salvation history in light of Jesus as liberator. The words of Jesus that had become spiritualized to exclude the physically poor from the poor in spirit and the actually widowed and orphaned from those who were just less included now encompasses both meanings (Hennelly, 1990). In reviewing Scripture from the perspective of those treated as less human, there is specific redemption for the poor of the world in that the story of salvation is the continuing story of Jesus’ love for the least of these. This story contains the continuing redemption for all the world who are included in furthering the work of God in creation and laboring toward the Kingdom of God on earth.

            The life stories of children with ASD are being rewritten through the development of Social stories. Social stories are simple stories, written from an individual child’s perspective that explains a social situation and how one should act and how others will respond in an appropriate manner (Spencer, Simpson, & Lynch, 2008). They follow a set formula and often include pictures, and children can read them repeatedly and apply them to their daily lives. This security in repetition allows for learning when other methods have not worked and only resulted in frustrated parents and screaming children. Research has shown that children with ASD can learn how to initiate play with a peer or how to make it through homework without a meltdown (Adams, Gouvousis, VanLue,  & Waldron, 2004; Quirmbach, Lincoln, Feinberg-Gizzo, Ingersoll,  & Andrews, 2009). Those seemingly small actions can be large victories in the lives of children with ASD. Suddenly new possibilities are open to these children which include more mutual play, friends, and more positive time with their parents. These stories work with individual children and give them control over their interactions, thereby opening doors for others to enter into their story as well.

            This redemption, in works of fiction or the ongoing story of salvation, does not change the past. It instead rewrites how we see the past in light of God’s promises for the future. The redemption of each of our individual pasts involves the specific details where God shows us that we were part of God’s adventure all along. This revision opens up a future where our stories hold all the promises of the story God has been writing all along. This redemption is inclusive, as it invites characters and prophets, liberators and children into a future where adventure, growth, liberty, and community can be part of all of our stories.

 

 

 

 

Works Cited

Adams, L., Gouvousis, A., VanLue, M., & Waldron, C. (2004). Social story intervention: Improving communication skills in a child with an autism spectrum disorder. Focus on Autism and Other Developmental Disabilities, 19(2), 87-94. doi:10.1177/10883576040190020301

Hennelly, A. T. (1990). Gustavo Gutierres “Toward a Theology of Liberation” (July 1968).         Liberation theology: a documentary history (pp. 62-76). Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books.

Spencer, V. G., Simpson, C. G., & Lynch, S. A. (2008). Using social stories to increase positive behaviors for children with autism spectrum disorders. Intervention in School and Clinic, 44(1), 58-61. doi:10.1177/1053451208318876

The Rediscovery of Biblical Narrative. (n.d.). Welcome to Artful Word. Retrieved January 1, 2011, from http://artfulword.org/word/rednar

Quirmbach, L. M., Lincoln, A. J., Feinberg-Gizzo, M. J., Ingersoll, B. R., & Andrews, S. M. (2009). Social stories: Mechanisms of effectiveness in increasing game play skills in children diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder using a pretest posttest repeated measures randomized control group design. Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders, 39(2), 299-321. doi:10.1007/s10803-008-0628-9