The Maxwell House Church

Uptown church met last night at the Stagg's house on Maxwell St. (affectionately referred to as the Maxwell House Church.) We've been meeting since August and kind of figuring out what our evening meal and gathering time is going to look like. I think everyone is slowly discovering their role, and it's been hard for me to know what part I play in this little community. A tradition has started that before the meal, Charlie asks the leaders of different households to share their testimonies with the group before we break bread and begin eating. The conversation after the meal doesn't have a rigid structure and we have a growing sense of community. There have been things that I've wanted to say but I hadn't found the right context in which to share; I've wanted to share Isaiah 40, a passage that has been particularly meaningful to me; I've wanted to share my struggles with sharing my spiritual gifts... I brought my guitar one Sunday to see if I could practice with another musician after the meeting. But one of the leaders promptly asked me to lead worship, and it was terrifying. It went perfectly fine, but I've been constantly struggling with putting myself out there as a new guitar player and not-a-singer, with how to bless the community of believers and not worry about my lack of skill. 

I said all that to say this:

Our meeting yesterday was amazing.

We gathered before supper and Charlie told me he'd like me to share my testimony and break the bread. I am a little girl. Little girls don't get to play roles like that at church... But this is a house church, so I guess we're blazing our own trails. After the meal we started the meeting and I once again lead worship. When we were done singing, someone felt compelled to share because of one of the lines we sang. I felt like God was actually using me-- He was working through the music to grow our fellowship and bring us closer together. Later, a new mom shared some of her struggles with feeling cooped up this winter and not being able to get in the word due to the demands of her current station in life, caring for a newborn. She mentioned wanting to open her bible and read a passage that really spoke about God's majesty and power, like Isaiah 40. I had to laugh at my savior's insight. When she was done sharing, I picked up a bible and read the passage aloud, though I guess I didn't need it because I memorized it last summer with some campers. We prayed for her and then a few others shared. Caleb went into a more structured group discussion on the use of spiritual gifts in the context of our community-- God presented a perfect situation for me to share what I'd been struggling with. Edification. The group's ideas, encouragement and insight flowed together flawlessly, as if it had been choreographed and tailored to each person's specific needs. And I'm sure it was.

I've never been more excited about church in my life.
This is it.
This is what it's supposed to feel like.
This is what Jesus and Paul and the apostles intended; I can feel it.

Use it.

This whole blog thing, I think it's good. For me. It's Vick's VapoRub for my soul, or something. Okay, maybe not the best metaphor. Whatever, I'm trying to mull through a few ideas right now and string them together in the process. Forcing myself to write out my honest thoughts for others to see has been really hard for me. Which is odd, cause I'm incredibly vocal about my opinions 98.3% of the time.

But it's these ideas-- and I now realize this is what Stephen King was talking about--- it's these complex issues I'm struggling with that get at the heart of me; the destitute truths buried down deep somewhere I'd rather not have exposed to sunlight... That's the stuff that people need to see, and it's also the stuff that's hardest to let people see. It's much more comfortable for me to hide behind this facade of carefree lunacy and sarcasm, never taking anything seriously and bursting into cachinnation when anyone takes me seriously.. I promise that's genuinely a part of who I am, and both my creator and my brothers have had profound influences on that part of me developing. But it nags at me sometimes, that some people only see that side of me. And there are weird quirks to my personality that I do need to mold; there are moments, quite frequently, when I, like every other sinful human being (which is all of us by the way), realize that I'm not being an accurate representation of my savior. Not even close. And it breaks my heart, little by little, until I feel that I shouldn't have this gift I didn't deserve in the first place-- Why didn't Jesus pick someone better suited to shed his light on an unbelieving world? 

I was sitting in a doctor's office yesterday, waiting for my name to be called, and I overheard a woman talking with the receptionist about an elderly man they both knew. It was the woman's grandfather, and the receptionist had met him a few days before. And the way they described this man, the way he treated everyone around him... He would see someone looking a little down and, no matter where they were or who it was, he would take their hands and pray for them right there. His gift of kindness and gentle wisdom and a joyful spirit... I could close my eyes and picture his wrinkled, friendly smile just pouring out Jesus' love. They both spoke with such conviction about what an astonishingly godly man he was, the legacy his actions shouted from the rooftops. 

I have these gifts, these seemingly random, sometimes frustrating gifts that my gracious Savior has blessed me with, that I occasionally shove to the back corner because I'm afraid to do what He created me for. I led worship at my church two nights ago. I can't tell you how terrifying it is for me to get up in front of people and display what I perceive to amateur guitar skills and an incredibly mediocre singing ability. I seem like the type of person who would love getting up on stage and performing... False.

I cry.

I'm crying just attempting to type how it makes me feel. Inadequate is the word  the tempter is screaming at my subconscious. When it comes to my gifts, I have an insatiable lust for perfection, recognition from others, satisfaction with myself... And it's crippling. It shouldn't be a hard way to bless others. Music. Art. Written works. It seems basic enough... But I am inherently either petrified of something not being good enough-- me not being good enough-- or, if by some miracle I'm satisfied with whatever it is that I'm doing, I completely soak up the glory and approval of those around me like a glass of ice water on an Iowan summer's day, when the heat index is like 117 and it hasn't rained in two weeks. I cannot find balance. I cannot find balance on my own. Cowardice and pride, two things that, for me, appear to be two conflicting feelings, are my two greatest sins. And it happens when I haven't centered everything I do around Christ.

I'm going to paint a picture today, and I'm going to paint it for my Savior, to bless and uplift those around me. I'm not going to punish and berate myself when it isn't perfect, and I'm going to rebound any praise I get right back at my Lord and Master, the Creator who is ultimately responsible for every single piece of fruit the labor of my tiny, uncoordinated hands that He has graciously given me produce. Thank God for my ability to even hold a paint brush. To even have a voice. To be able to convey my ideas, to be able to learn new instruments with slightly above-average ease. Nothing I do comes from me. NOTHING I DO COMES FROM ME. I am NOTHING. This life is NOT a story about me. I am a wave in the ocean. I am a speck of dust in the wind. I will be gone in the blink of an eye-- but with a shred of help from my Master, maybe my sinfully proud, feeble self can leave a glimpse of a legacy that glorifies Him, that points straight to the cross and undeniably cries out that Jesus rose; because that is the greatest and most noble thing I, or anyone, could possibly accomplish in this life.

Also, who am I kidding? Vick's VapoRub is SUCH an accurate metaphor.

Becoming invested..... and thirsty.

The general consensus of my mind has been that English teachers always make me over-analyze literature. We're forced to dissect it, and I would often let it ruin my own experience of the novel. Or poem, short story, essay, whatever. Just a few weeks ago, I had a teacher reiterate over and over again that every single word in a written work is chosen with care, specifically picked to convey a unique thought. And I called shenanigans. Every word? Not a chance.


But I'm sitting here, polishing the only story I've ever written and been mildly satisfied with, and I'm realizing the truth behind it all.


It's all in the subtleties, and my stomach turns when I think of someone skimming over this thing I've poured countless hours into, only to miss what I'm trying to say. To miss the feel, the message. There is no intrigue if I just come out and say it, that's how crappy novels are written. You have to discover it in the chipping paint, to peer through the keyholes and put the 299 pieces together to find the missing cardboard jigsaw. It's in the stolen glances, the memory of freshly brewed coffee's scent, snow drifting to the ground with quiet serenity, or the way she brushes the hair out of her eyes.


Don't dissect



Drink.