Lover of the process.

As I was preparing to lead a worship session for my Campus Cru Group, I came across these "mini sagas" (which means you can only use 50 words including caption) that I wrote when I was in Pakistan when I attended my friend KTs ESL classes for fun.

I was thinking that I could post these earlier today, but then I got caught up in preparing and ended up just leaving them opened on my computer.
Now that I'm back from the meeting I feel it's got so much more meaning now.

It's exactly how I feel these days... And just these last days, also during the service, it's been a reoccuring theme- not just in my song selection but also in the sermon.
And so tonight I'll share these "poems"with you, as a statement mostly to myself to remind me that my God is a lover of the process, of my process, my metamorphosis- enjoying growth, not the end result.
And that he is always making beautiful things out of the dust.

You

The crayons carved their way into the heart of the paper.

Oh, nice, I like red.

Blood?

Grey?? Sure about that?

And sparkles of yellow, green for hope.

Title: Beautiful things out of the dust.

No eraser needed.

Your skillful lines and curves gave way to my bigger picture.

A rough creator

Held firmly.

Kicking.

Who do you think you are? Who gave you permission?

Glass shatters.

Don’t you mess with my life! I want it my way!

Why?

Put together.

It just doesn’t seem to make sense.

“Look down.”

And then I can see it. A beautiful mosaic.

Sie dürfen im Wartezimmer Platz nehmen // The waiting room

Es sitzen mehrere Leute in einem Raum. Links von mir sitzt eine jüngere Frau in irgendwelche Dokumente vertieft. Ein paar andere Menschen. Auf der anderen Seite des Raumes sitzt eine andere Frau. Diese muss husten. Schon beim ersten Husten, rümpft die jüngere Frau nahezu unmerkbar die Nase.
Die Frau hustet erneut. Und während in Abständen von 10 bis 20 Sekunden die arme erkältete Frau immer mal wieder kurz hustet, beobachte ich sie- zunächst leicht amüsiert, bald eher entrüstet: Zunächst blickt sie ein wenig genervt, schaut mit jedem Husten wieder auf in die Richtung der hustenden Frau. Mit wiederholten Malen versteift sie sich, sie macht sich immer kleiner, als wolle sie gar nicht da sein, als wolle sie weg und möglichst viel Abstand zwischen sich und die Quelle des Hustens bringen. Es wird sehr klar, was sie von dieser "gefährlichen" Störung hält. Sie blickt jedes Mal wieder unempathisch, aber vorwurfsvoll auf. Als sei es verboten, in ihrer Gegenwart zu husten.

Aber wir sind hier in einer Arztpraxis. Nicht die Gesunden brauchen eine Arzt, sondern die Kranken.

Und in meinem Herzen sehe ich die Situation auf einmal in einem neuen Licht.
Ich höre diese leise Stimme und was sie sagt, will ich der armen, mit strafenden Blicken bedachten Frau zusichern. Unsere Blicke treffen sich und mit einem Lächeln sagt mein Herz zu ihrem:

"Du darfst krank sein in dieser Arztpraxis. 
Du darfst husten, du darfst verletzt sein. 
Und ich wünschte, alle würden dich auch so behandeln.
Ich wünschte, du müsstest die anklagenden Blicke nicht ertragen. Die Blicke, die deine Anwesenheitsberechtigung in Frage stellen, die dir Vorwürfe machen, weil sie Angst haben, sich anzustecken.
Dabei sind sie doch selbst beim Arzt. Und tun so, als bräuchten sie nichts."

Und auf einmal ist meine Wahrnehmung dieser Situation soviel tiefer. Und ich erkenne, an was mich diese Stimme in meinem Herzen erinnern will.
Auf einmal hab ich das dringende Bedürfnis meinen Rucksack nach einem Stift zu durchsuchen und fange an, auf die Rückseite eines Briefumschlags zu schreiben. Ich schreibe -einen Mischmasch aus Sorge und Trauer und Bedauern verspürend:

"Vergiss nicht, Kirche, dass du auch im Wartezimmer sitzt und kränkelst.
Strafe nicht die anderen mit angewiderten Blicken, als hätten sie die Pest.
Du sitzt im selben Wartezimmer.



Und du darfst krank sein und zum Arzt kommen, der dir helfen will."

Ich sitze im Wartezimmer. Mit Menschen, die husten, die ihren Arm in einer Schlinge tragen und die sehr schwach aussehen. Und mit Menschen, die ganz normal, ja gesund aussehen, aber trotzdem einen Arzt brauchen.
Diese Tatsache haben wir gemeinsam.
Wir sitzen im selben Wartezimmer.
Und der Arzt selbst, der seine Praxis natürlich nicht für die Gesunden, sondern für die Kranken eingerichtet hat, tritt herein und in das Husten und Leiden und das Urteilen spricht er sowohl zur älteren als auch zur jüngeren Frau, sowohl zu jenen, denen jeder ansieht, wie krank sie sind, als auch zu jenen, deren Leiden nicht so sehr offensichtlich ist:

Du darfst hier sein. Und du darfst krank sein und zu mir kommen. Ich will dir dabei helfen, wieder gesund zu werden.

Und ein bisschen stell ich mir vor, dass er noch mit einem Schmunzeln zur jüngeren Frau sagt, dass man sich von Husten über 2 Meter Distanz doch nicht so leicht ansteckt, wie sie denkt.

Und man müsste sich gar nicht mehr jeweils mit mindestens zwei Stühlen Abstand im Wartezimmer hinsetzen. Und man könnte einfach akzeptieren, dass wir alle krank sind, und uns deswegen nicht verurteilen müssen. Weil wir an nem sicheren Ort sind, um krank zu sein.
Denn hier dürfen wir krank sein. Im Wartezimmer des Arztes.


//


I am sitting in a room. There are a couple of people sitting there with me. A couple of chairs to my left there's a young woman reading. On the other side of the room there's an older woman. At one point this woman starts coughing. Every 10 to 20 seconds she coughs once or twice. And I see the younger woman getting a little uncomfortable with this.
At first, she just looks up to make out the source of unwelcomed noise, but with its reoccurrence I see her cringing. With every cough she looks up from her paper getting more and more annoyed. The looks grow from annoyance to complaint to disgust to revulsion. She gets uncomfortable in her seat, trying to escape, to bring as much distance as possible between her and the threat of contagion.
Every glance is a silent reproach of the other woman. An accusation, as if it was illegal to cough here.

But we are in a doctor's waiting room. And not the healthy need a doctor, but the sick.

In this moment I hear that silent voice in my heart telling me there's a much bigger thing happening right now than what meets the eye.
That voice reassures me, saying-what I would like to pass on to that coughing woman by meeting her helpless look with a smile with the following message:

"You are allowed to be sick here in this waiting room.
You are allowed to cough, you can be hurt.
And I wished, all would treat you like that as well.
I wish, you wouldn't need to bear those accusing glances that question if your mere presence is even authorized in here.
I wish, you wouldn't need to bear those who reproach you, because they are afraid to catch whatever you have.
Even though, they themselves are at the doctor's.... And they act like they don't need a thing."

Don't forget, Church, that you also sit in the waiting room and you are sick!

Don't punish others with disgusted glances, as if they carried the plague.
You are sitting in the same waiting room.
And you also are allowed to be sick and to come see the doctor, who wants to help you.

 And as I sit in that waiting room with both people obviously looking or acting like they are sick and hurting and people who looks just fine (but obviously need a doctor, too, cause otherwise they wouldn't be sitting here), I realize that this is what we all have in common. A need for the doctor. And he, who came for the sick, not the healthy, for the suffering and those trying to hide what's eating them away on the inside, enters into the coughing and suffering and judging and speaks to both the  younger and the older woman and to everyone else:

You are welcome here. And you can be sick and you can come to me. I wanna help you get well again.

And maybe the other person isn't so contagious after all and we don't have to keep our distance. And maybe we could accept the fact that we're all sick and that because of that we could just stop judging each other.

Because we're in a safe place to be sick.

Because here we are allowed to be sick. In the waiting room of the great doctor.

And whenever I am in a situation like this again, Jesus, let me be the one smiling at the person coughing assuring them: 

"It's okay. It's okay that you are sick here. It is okay to be sick at the doctor's.
And I'm sick, too, so we're in the same boat. But we are safe here!"
 

Sorry that most times we suck at being what we were meant to be

Don't expect something that has been well thought through. Don't expect something that is theologically sound nor universally true. Just take it as my rant, my processing of things that I feel in my heart after a rough time. I cant actually apologize for the church, I can only apologize for myself. But take it as my apology if any of those apply to you.

Sorry for all the times the church ever made you feel like a failure.

Sorry for all the times the church ever refused to be Jesus’ open arms to you.

Sorry for all the times the church did not reflect Jesus and what he would think and do at all.

Sorry for all the times you didn’t find the church to be a place for healing.

Sorry for all the times the church was the one making wounds worse instead of helping.

Sorry for all the times when people in the church judged you instead of reaching out.

Sorry for all the times when those “shepherds” didn’t come after you and told you everything would get better once you start coming again.

Sorry for all the times the church chased you out of the service with their glances.

Sorry for all the times when you didn’t even want to make it inside because of those.

Sorry for all the times the church caused you to hate God, to think he didn’t care.

Sorry for all the times the church told you wrong things about God.

Sorry for all the times the church presented a hateful, merciless, unloving God to you.

Sorry for all the times the church has pointed in the wrong direction and you hit a wall.

Sorry for all the times the church cared more about their precious little rights than about forgiving the wrongs.

Sorry for all the times the church looked down on you as if they never messed up before.

Sorry for all the times the church was trying to fix you rather than to listen.

Sorry for all the times the church locked grace away in a cupboard while you needed it most.

Sorry for all the times the church did not love you unconditionally.

Sorry for all the times the church failed you.

And I am so sorry for all the times that I have been that church to you.

I am so sorry for all the times that I am that church to you.

I am so sorry for all the times that I- even though I do not want to!- will be  that church to you.

I hope you won't turn away still, I hope you don't quit on God just because his people are a bunch of idiots sometimes. I hope you don't quit on God because you see my life and its inconsistencies. 

I hope that between all the nonsense that comes out of my mouth, there will also be hope. Because there is even hope for people like me. There is hope and love for people who aren't the least bit perfect.

I hope that while we mess up a lot, you will still find what we're really trying to get across. That as typical as that sounds: Jesus loves you.

And the same -cause we're freakin' lucky- counts for us. The church. The people of God who are mostly just as messed up as the rest of the world, but at least have hope.

And that brings me once more to a point where I get a glimpse of how big God really is. That while we keep messing things up, he forgives us.

End of the rant. 

“A church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints.”

"The church is not a select circle of the immaculate, but a home where the outcast may come in. It is not a palace with gate attendants and challenging sentinels along the entrance-ways holding off at arm's-length the stranger, but rather a hospital where the broken-hearted may be healed, and where all the weary and troubled may find rest and take counsel together."

PS: Dear Church, please join me in trying harder! Please go after people and dont wait for them to come back! Please dont look down on people just because they sin differently than us!
Please represent the open arms of Christ again!

The legacy of a Kiwi

A year ago from today marked a horrible day.
And I told myself I would write today, one long overdue blog post- to honor a special man in my life.

On April 26th, 2012 Christian Egger, a man and friend who played such a big role in my life, died in an avalanche while - I bet- he was enjoying skiing on his beloved mountains, looking straight into the face of God and talking to him- as he seemingly did all the time.

And I can't help but cry while writing this post, because my heart is once again swamped with memories. SO many memories.
This might have been the most striking encounter with death so far in my personal life. I hate how it makes memories so bitter in a way. It's not what you remember that's bitter, it's the way how you do.

Well and this is why I'm gonna talk about kiwis now. and in case any NewZealand people are reading this: By kiwi I mean kiwi fruit.
It's kind of odd but maybe you'll understand when you read on:
One of the first memories- and I must have been around 10 or 11 years, maybe 12- was that I was sitting with him for lunch and it was kiwis for dessert. I was about to cut it in half and then eat it with a spoon just as I always had done, when he told me I could it the skin, too. I was kinda suspicous and doubted that this furry brown stuff was edible, but the impressed kid I was- cause this man, my ski instructor that week, and what he said, the way he said it, fascinated me so much- I thought it couldnt hurt to try. He even said it was possibly the best part of the fruit and he'd never eat it without the skin.

And yes, ever since that day I've eaten kiwis with the furry brown skin. Because it gives it a really intriguing flavor.

Strange memory, huh? Yes, it is. But a while back I discovered it was a good symbol for the impact Christian made in my life:
It was the same week as the kiwi incident, when Christian was my ski instructor. He started off the day by praying before we hit the slopes and he would always talk about his "Lord" Jesus with his Austrian accent (he was an Austrian living in Tasmania coming for the winter season to be a ski instructor at Tauernhof) and about many crazy stories about his life.
One thing that fascinated me was how there was no story without a line similar to this "...and then the Lord said: ..." or "then the Lord told me..." and it sounded so normal just as if he had said "then my wife told me" or "my friend said..."
Of course I had heard a bunch of stuff about praying before. Of course I knew it meant talking to God, but I had never really believed he speaks as well.
I made sure that week (and to be honest, pretty much all the following years until the last time I saw Christian at my sister's wedding) that I'd get to ride the lifts with him, specifically the really long two people ones so I could ask him all kind of questions and listen to him talking about God and life and asking him for another story. I sat (which I realized my brother does, too) at the bar when he was on Bistro duty in the afternoons and evenings, and then eventually grabbed a chair at his table at the wedding reception. Why was I so keen on getting as much time with him as I could?
Because of that first year.
The year when just as I was surprised that you could eat a kiwi in a different way, I was surprised to hear someone tell me you could pray to God in a different way, too. And that this was possibly the best way you could pray as well. That praying wasnt just telling God all about what you think he needs to fix in life, but that it was talking to him like you talk to a person, and that he would answer. That he even speaks without you having to say something first. The weird sensation that you can ask him a question and expect an answer instead of just letting your prayer bump into the ceiling of your room unnoticed.
And Christian dared to challenge that 12 year old girl to ask God for an answer- even to something as simple as "Which ski slope should we take next?" 
And this girl experienced that God took up the challenge. That this girl has a God who answers her- not always what I want to hear and not in a thunderous voice from heaven, but in a voice I recognize in my heart.
And even though there are many other things that Christian taught me, this is the most important one, and the most impacting for my life.
You know, I could have gone without ever having tasted the flavor of kiwi skin, but I dont know who and where I would be without ever having tasted the flavor of a God who is personal.
There is a lot to say about prayer and about hearing God speak, much more than would fit a blog post, but in case you are a suspicious with this whole God speaking idea as I was with eating the kiwi, let me encourage you to try it out. The God I know is not one to hold back when someone really tries to find him.

One of my fondest memories of Christian is when he was praying. I know you're supposed to close your eyes and all that so you dont get distracted by looking at the people around you- but I just have to sometimes. Because with Christian it was so fascinating. He never closed his eyes when he prayed.
He looked at Jesus, as if he was sitting right across on the couch. I wouldnt have been surprised to see his reflection mirrored in Christian's eyes.

I miss hearing and seeing him pray. I miss purposely trying to get onto the same lift with him at Mitterhausalm. I miss getting the next chance to ask him to tell another story from his life.
I miss his really direct, almost harsh way in the later years when I said something and his response was "Did you ask the Lord about it? Well, then what did he say? Why are you not doing it then?"

The last thing I remember- word for word- of what he said when I told him about I was going to Pakistan was: "If God says "Left!", you go left, and if he says "Right!", you go right. Whatever he says, you just do it."
It was like a circle of our friendship closing, when I look at it now. Because actually "Left" or "Right" was the first thing I ever asked of God, when Christian challenged me to try. At that time it was a very simple, almost unimportant thing to ask, it seemed to me. Now, facing the road of life, it's become one of the most challenging questions I ask God. And I hope I'll always keep Christian's voice in mind to remember that if God says "Left!", I gotta go left, and if he says "Right!", I gotta go right.

There's so much more I could write, but I'll leave it at that for now. I hope it challenged you in your view of prayer and that it might challenge you to talk to God and try if he answers.

Christian

Christian, I know you're where you longed to be with all your heart- with your Lord Jesus! But I'll sure miss you a heck of a lot in this life still!
That's why I bought kiwis today. And I'm eating them with skin.

Don't be a camel

This is a lesson I started learning about the same time (ages ago it feels like) I posted the last blog on here.

Don't be a camel.

Sounds pretty weird, huh? I'll try to explain.
Camels are known for being able to go for a long time without water (And I'm talking regular school knowledge here, don't ask me for the why's and how's).
I tend to act like I'm a camel aswell.
A lot of times I catch myself going through life without any source of refreshment for my heart and my spirit. I don't talk to my Master J in days, or not much more than an "I'm sorry I kept ignoring you the whole day". I don't care about all he's put into an actual written book for me to know, I ignore that I have an incredible amount of answers from him already. Encouragement, guidance, counsel, challenges,...
I am the heroic (or should I call it PATHETIC?!) camel facing the desert storms, the seemingly unending amounts of sand- and not realizing that this is because I have turned my back on the oasis...

well, because actually in all my stupidity, I'd rather be a camel proving how far I can go without water and how-eventhough it tends to get a bit rough (Himalayan mountain climbing kind of rough) at times (a lot of times to be honest)- I can still make it.
Yes, indeed, I can live without reading the bible and without getting all that jesus has to offer me. but I will be as pathetically stretching myself to survive as the camel standing in the middle of an oasis and refusing to drink the clear, fresh, cold water.
My God says that he's got living water to offer, that when someone drinks from it, they will never be thirsty again. That there is plenty of it to fill us and then spill. I'm talking about as much that the camel could BATHE in it (figuratively speaking ;) ).
Why am I being a stupid camel and refuse the water?
I do not know.
All I know is that going for days and even weeks without my water doesnt make me a very happy person. In fact, it sucks. It's not a fun life, it's straining, exhausting and sometimes gives you these mirages, a big massive Fata Morgana, imagining what could be yours if you filled up your dried-up intestines with that freakin' sweet lookin' water.
Oh what glory would it be, a life so barren it ought to be called Sara (brilliant phrase stolen from Michele Phoenix) seen restored, renewed and deeply refreshed.
And I, pathetic camel that I am, don't realize or at least don't want to realize, that this all could be mine. That there is water that would steal away my emptiness if I'd only drink it.

This is my plea:

Don't be a camel! Don't be stupid! The water is waiting. It is right there, next to you. Drink it and do not act so pathetically fake-heroic to go without water any longer.

Slowly realizing that the mirage isn't one and kicking my butt to act upon it,
 

a pondering camel.

Where I am in my life (a couple of days ago)

(from last week)

This morning in the shower is was having one of my random train of thoughts again leading me to consider the impact of my year in Pakistan so far. I’m not sure if that is true but I felt that I have learned more in this year than at any other time of my life so far. When I look back it is even kind of scary to see through how many really different struggles I went.

My current one is a struggle of accepting and giving up.

The end of the year is approaching way too fast and every time I consider that it makes me wanna cry, scream, rip my calendar into pieces, stay up every night as long as possible to spend time with the girls,  bake even more for them, turn back time, but most of all it makes me…want to stay.

Yes, the thought has been haunting me, and I’m pretty sure if my mother and the rest of my family knew, it would haunt them, too (in the opposite way of course :D).

Yes, I have been obsessed with the dream of staying on for another year during the last weeks.

Because this is my home. I mean at least part of it. But at this point of time, it’s as homey as it has to get to make me feel at home. I have an awesome job here, I have friends, I have a ordinary schedule working with extraordinary people. Sometimes they have bad days, sometimes I have bad days. Sometimes I hate getting out of bed, most of the times I hate getting back into bed, just so the day wouldn’t end.

Thinking of it, I couldn’t imagine anything that competes for a better next year (heaven excluded in the consideration).

But you know what the one thing about it is, that kind of turns all the previously said things into insignificance?

This reminder:

“We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.”  Rom.14:7

That’s where I am right now. Having gotten it back into my head, that nothing is about me and all about him. That no sacrifice is big in comparison to his. That no matter how hard it is and is gonna get, it doesn’t matter because the only thing that I really do want and sadly forget more often than I remember it:  I do not want to glorify myself and follow my ways. It’s HIM, HIS ways, HIS glory.

And I want to be back at a point where -even if it is the most valuable thing in my life- I can joyfully rip off the bottle of perfume from my neck and break it and pour it over his feet, as Mary did. Of course I’m just talking figuratively here. I want to be able to give up my awesome life here happily at any time without asking questions, just for the sake of the pleasure it gives me to please him.

What could he have for me other than my best, even when it may be accomplished through severe pain, suffering and hardship?

I don’t want life to be about my ego, my wishes, desires and getting my way.

Freakin’ heck I want to stay here. But what does that count.

Following is denying the way you want to go and depend fully on the one who is leading and guiding.

I don’t want to be like a selfish little child in the supermarket that starts to cry because it doesn’t get its will.

Most of all I want to accept from his hand with gratitude whatEVER he gives and be happy to offer him EVERYTHING he asks from me.

Man, I wanna be more than I am. I wanna see more than what I myself can accomplish.

And that just doesn’t work when I choose my paths. When I hold on to things, I think are great, but that might prevent me from something else to learn, somewhere else to be, some other challenges to run into.

And hopefully- HOPEFULLY- I will have chosen to do what it takes to embrace these paths and not still be fixed on some stupid idea of mine of what would be so much better to do instead. 

That’s kind of where I’m at right now, though I’m not yet satisfied with my heart attitude.

I want to joyfully embrace what is ahead.

Right now I’m more at the stage of being convinced of its necessity.

“Uplifting” conversations are appreciated.

Because what greater fulfillment could there be in life than when your desires turn into his.

Give me to know your will and the joy of walking in it.

Where you go, I'll go
Where you stay, I'll stay
When you move, I'll move
I will follow you
Who you love, I'll love
How you serve I'll serve
If this life I lose, I will follow you
I will follow you

His dream house

Yesterday I listened to one of the German songs we often sing in my youthgroup back home. One line stood out to me (I’ll try to translate it, though I guess it doesn’t nail it down as precisely as the German wording did):

Eternity comes with you in our hearts,

A place where you like to live

And when I realized what I just had heard, it came to me, that my heart should be a place the Father, the King gladly lives in. A place he rejoices to call his home.

And so I started thinking about it as such: My heart as his dream house.

I’ve talked to my German 1 class a lot about dream houses- which rooms should be in theirs, furniture, view, …

What would his dream house look like?

I bet there should be rooms of forgiveness, gratitude, praise, trust, joy. A couch of peace, a storage room to be filled by his blessings, his gifts, his love. It should have a view, a huge roof window looking toward heaven, a window and a balcony of compassion and love towards people. I think most of all it should be carpeted with thankfulness, humility, the knowledge that all inside comes from him alone, not from what we can do. The door should be always open, better not even have a lock to close it. Most of all it doesn’t depend on what is inside, because he can easily fill that. He wants to bring and use his own furniture anyways, not ours.

His dream house should just be open to him.

I guess he likes to live in a place of imperfectness that is in desperate need of a creative interior designer. One with the knowledge of how to see and use the potential hidden inside.

Our designer can’t wait to make himself a home of splendor there; a palace, not because the outside looks so majestic, but because he fills the inside with himself.

When I think about it that way, I lose my fear that he might not like it very much to live in my heart. I rather get thankful, because it seems that after all it doesn’t take soo much to turn my heart into his dream house, a place where he delights to live .