History

I have always loved to hear the tales of old. I think it started with the stories my grandmother and father used to tell about "back in the day" and "when I was growing up..."There is that old joke about how older people always had it so much harder than younger people ("I had to WALK to school IN THE SNOW and it was UPHILL BOTH WAYS.") that always causes rolled eyes. Well, I didn't roll my eyes. I loved hearing every story my elders told about their past. I think it was because of those stories that I fell in love with history. I'm sure that growing up I read more historical fiction than was good for me.

Because of that fascination, in college I was spell-bound in history classes and ATE.THEM.UP. (Just because I have a degree in English does not mean that I don't occasionally use improper grammar. Ahem.) At some point during a meeting with one of my advisors in college, it was noticed that I had taken a lot of upper-level history classes and I was told that if I added one more I would have enough credits for a history minor. Ka-ching! My dad laughed when I took a course called "The History of Baseball," but my FAVORITE  history professor offered it, and my then-boyfriend-now-husband was/is a HUGE baseball fan. I loved every minute of that class. It was by far NOT my favorite history class, however. My favorite, without a doubt, hands down, bar none, was my World War I class.

I'd not really studied the time period in detail before, and was mesmerized by it. I still remember a lot of what we discussed in that class, including names, dates, battles, themes and theories. Imagine my supreme joy when the second season of Downton Abbey featured characters during that particular time period! The precise, historically accurate themes and details of those episodes brought tears to my eyes. YES. That is what shell-shock looked like. YES. Disfigured men did try to pose as dead comrades. YES. The horror caused deep pacifist tendencies. (I'm not proposing that everyone go out and watch all of Downton Abbey now. Despite the historical accuracy of the WWI episodes, subsequent episodes lost a lot of that, and a lot of my respect for tipping their hats to liberal media agenda. And not subtly, either. Grr.)

The biggest take-away from my WWI class was the fact that history repeats itself. Humanity didn't learn from that war (or any previous war, for that matter). If you think about that for too long, it can really be a depressing thought. What is far more depressing to me is when I hear people talk about how much they "hate" history. And what is even more alarming is when people don't know the stories about their parents and grandparents. Because I grew up hearing those tales, I thought everyone else did, too. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that often, my peers don't know their family history. How can we understand where we are going if we don't know from where we have come? This is true on a global as well as a personal level.

If we don't know our history, we are going to repeat it.

There are no words...

So, I went to the grocery store yesterday and had a shocking experience.

Usually, the cashier says something to the effect of, "Did you find everything alright?" and after that, asks how my day is going.  I try to be pleasant (after all, they're told to say the same thing to every customer, so I can't totally blame them for the monotone, lack of eye contact, and noticeable lack of interest in my response to their queries... but I digress) and tend to ask the cashier how her day is going.  This trip was no different, but instead of the polite, "fine/good/okay" or even the impolite but common, "just counting the hours until I get off," I received the following monologue:

"Horrible.  I have the worst cramps in the world.  I've never had cramps this bad before in my life.  It was so bad that I was just crying a little bit ago.  I don't know what to take because I've never experienced cramps like this before! At least, my boyfriend is going to stay up until I get off work at 11 to take care of me. He usually goes to bed before I get home, but he's staying up just for me. <swiping my ranch dressing> My nephew loves Ranch!  He'll put a whole bottle on a tiny bit of salad if you don't watch him. He's seven, and my niece is nine.  She's turning ten in June, but I'm going to miss her birthday because they're moving to Colorado next week.  I'm hoping to see them before they move. I keep asking my brother to let me watch them while they load the truck but he hasn't said anything about it. Here's your receipt.  Have a nice day."

Later, I told Gabe in anything-but-dulcet tones that I would have liked to have said, "I don't want to hear about your cramps!" Is there no delicacy left in America? I was absolutely flabbergasted and didn't know what to say (not that I could get a word in edgewise anyway!).  I was appalled even more that she talked about this not in a conspirational whisper, but in a loud voice for the whole world to hear... especially the BOY who was bagging my groceries as she spoke! A whisper only for my ears would have been bad enough, but to speak about it so loudly that the person behind me in line, the bagger, the cashier a row over and her customer and bagger could hear it... I was floored.  Anyone with an ounce of awareness would have noticed that I was looking all around in embarrassment.  I kept thinking, "her manager is going to walk up and give her the what-for any minute!" I don't know why I am shocked by these things, but I am.

As I was mulling this over on the way home, I remembered a funny story about how I learned that you don't talk about your "cramps" to the general public. I wonder if my mom remembers? Ha. I won't share it here, but suffice it to say that my mom taught me to be a lady in this area at least, and I am glad that she did!  I feel sorry for this girl because it's apparent that her mother was negligent in that portion of her upbringing. 

Aaaaand, the moral of the story is, please do not tell me when you are experiencing any type of female discomfort.  My sensibilities simply cannot handle it.

You Can Have Me

If I saw You on the street
And You said come and follow me
But I had to give up everything
All I once held dear and all of my dreams
Would I love You enough to let go
Or would my love run dry
When You asked for my life…

       -You Can Have Me, Sidewalk Prophets

Sometimes I think that America is a very difficult place to live for Christ.  Don’t get me wrong; we have many, many blessings.  Sometimes, however, I think that all of the “comfortable” blessings make it harder for us to serve God.  I don’t mean to trivialize the sufferings of persecuted or martyred Christians, but it seems to me that it would be easier to die once for Christ literally, than to have to choose to die every day figuratively for a long, healthy lifetime.  Again, as I said, I don’t underestimate the difficulty of choosing to die in the face of persecution.  Even as I type this, tears sting my eyes as I think of William Tyndale, being strangled then burned at the stake before mocking eyes.  There have been many, many devastatingly beautiful deaths since the beginning of time, but none so beautiful to God as those that die in His name. 

Still, Christ said that it is harder for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven (Matt. 19:24).  The way I see it, we are too comfortable to recognize our true need.  I hear the words to “You Can Have Me,” and I envision Christ saying to the disciples, “Come, follow me and be fishers of men.”  Those disciples dropped what they were doing and followed Him, giving up all they had.  But do I give up everything for Him?  He has called me; am I willing to give up all that I’ve held dear and all of my dreams?

The latter part of that line is exceptionally powerful to me because my dreams have meant so much to me through the years.  I've been a daydreamer for as long as I can remember, and have wanted so many things out of my life.  I've been convicted lately that I must be willing to give up those dreams for the cause of Christ.  I cannot honestly say that I would gladly give up those dreams.  How selfish and sinful that sounds!  That I would deem my own silly, temporal dreams more important than my God's will is simply ludicrous, and seriously deluded.  Yet, our society screams that it is our "right"--- to live the “American Dream” is our ideal!  This is part of why it is so difficult for Americans to live fully surrendered, victorious spiritual lives.  We are too busy trying to live our dreams.

I have to remember that God’s plan for my life would eclipse my dreams in every way, and “You Can Have Me” serves as a reminder each time I hear it on the radio.

Marquee

Dear Pastor of the Church I Pass on My Way to Work Every Day,

Please note that when you spell "EVENING OF PRASE" incorrectly, it not only stresses me out, but makes me want to scream.  Also, you may be losing out on potential church members and/or converts because of this irresponsible lack of attention to detail.  Please, change your marquee message!

Sincerely,
Amy