Supporting characters

Okay, here's a question: have you ever felt like you're a supporting character in the story of your life? And no, I don't mean the cute Christian ideal of "He must become greater, I must become less." I mean in the story you live out, do you act as "the best friend," or "the manservant/guard/whatever other role tends to be a supporting one?"

Sometimes I feel like I live that way. And I know it may seem silly. I'm the one living my life, yet all I'm doing is trying to fade into the background. In fact, that's often the place I'm most comfortable. Seriously. Let me be the servant, the unseen help, the one no one else usually notices, and I'm happy. Try to bring me into the spotlight, I'll fight tooth and nail. Especially if friends try to bring me out. If my professors praise me in class, I'll admit I like that. And I like birthday gifts. But try to point me out and praise me as a friend and equal, and I'll try to brush it off, put it on someone else's shoulders, spin it back to the praiser ( I'm not even sure that's a word, but it is now), or just reject it outright.

And I easily fade into the background. Just ask my friends. I can disappear in an instant. Sometimes, I like it that way. I consider it "bowing out gracefully," for surely that the heavenly realms have better things to watch than me. And surely my friends will have more fun without me. I know this sounds really ridiculous to you who read this, but it's true. This is what goes through my head, and it does seem true. Now, sometimes this feels rather positive. I don't mean that my friends would be better off without me, a la "It's a Wonderful Life," but rather that my part is done, my lines are finished, and it is my cue to exit center stage. Exit stage, period.

But afterwards, I feel rather terrible, like I'm depriving myself of joy or fun I could have had. But then again, I still wonder if I should have it or whether it is best for me simply to leave. Maybe my sacrifice will be better to be made rather than to hoard something like manna, only to have to decay before my eyes.

And I guess, if I'm honest, I live like a supporting character out of fear. I can be a real brat when I'm in the spotlight. I know it. I have been it and then absolutely hated myself afterward. Just ask my parents about the last real birthday party I had. We went bowling for the first time. I was stupid on so many different levels I shudder to remember myself. And no, not stupid in a cute-kid way, more like a spoiled-brat-who-should-know-better way. The last thing I ever want to do is act that way again.

Then there's the fear of being lifted up. After all, you know what they say. "What goes up must come down." That really scares me. I don't want to be lifted up only to come crashing again to the earth like the wreckage from the space shuttle Columbia. I've done the crash and burn thing, I don't want to go there again. And so, I figure, if I'm never lifted up, I can't be brought down.

Like one professor of mine says, "No pain...no pain!" (As opposed to "No pain, no gain.") If I keep from getting empowered or brought into the spotlight, I'll never have to deal with being humiliated or yanked off the stage. Or have rotten fruit and vegetables or pies thrown at me.

Because of those two factors I hate being thrown into the center of attention, especially if I haven't done anything worthy of it. And I mean I have to do something great to be thrown into the center. Score an interview that's impossible to get, publish something big/break into a market I hadn't gotten into before, or, back in high school, do well on certain tests or projects. Publishing something small or doing, yet another book review gets to be old hat. Or even worse, being thrown into attention for something I didn't really do. One excellent example from this year was the TU Creep. Also known as the bane of my existence!

Now, that may seem harsh, but I have my reasons. I had worked hard that week to write two articles for the Echo, one a news piece for the Taylor University, the other an interview with a big-name band in Christian music for the Arts & Entertainment section. The first was easy, but the second had a lot of drama attached to it. The interview ended up falling through and I had to scramble to write an article for the newspaper because my editor still needed something. I got free tickets to a local concert as a consolation prize from the group and my article still ran in the paper. Friday came around, the paper was published with both of my articles in it and what's the first words I hear directed at me as a claim to fame?

"Dude! You're on the TU Creep!"

The TU Creep, for those who don't know, is a blog site that some idiot set up to take random pictures of people all across campus. I had been on it before, so hearing I was there was no big deal. But then I found out they had put me on a second time. This was a new picture taken of me that the guys at my table were wigging out about. I didn't get praise for being in the Echo TWICE. I didn't receive praise for writing an article involving a big name band. I got praised because a stalker that has no taste, too much time on their hands and a lack of propriety decided to put up my picture twice in the same blog for no discernible reason.

I was steamed. (For my non-American readers, that means I was furious.)

Now, my close friends who knew I had done those articles told me I had done a good job. But the fact that I was famous at my floor table in the DC for being creeped on made a bitter impression on me. Needless to say, when the site for the TU Creep was accidentally blocked for a few hours, and caused massive uproar across campus, I was not sad in the slightest to see it go. In fact, I had to restrain myself from breaking the LTC and doing a jig in my room.

And now, one of my friends likes to point out that failed interview as something impressive I have done, and so pull me into the spotlight around his friends and our fellow Pro-Writing majors. I get reeeeeeaally annoyed at that. Call me a bit conservative, but a failure to land an interview and cobbling together an article from scratch within twenty-four hours to cover for it does not count as a success in my book. it still counts as a massive failure. Nor does it count as the mark of a professional (something else this friend likes to tell me but really strikes me as incredibly wrong in every sense of the word). It counts as the mark of someone who needs to get his act together. At least, it is in my opinion.

 To top off the problem, I like living there because sometimes it brings me the greatest satisfaction. Knowing my sacrifice has helped someone else enjoy something is worth it in my eyes. Whether that's doing dishes, cooking food, or giving someone else the last of the Wodfamchocsod and having none myself. And I like to do it alone. It's easier to make sacrifices if I'm the only one who notices it. And I like it that way. I don't want to be lauded when I sacrifice something. I'd even rather keep it secret. Again, possibly because I grew up thinking that it's better to be that way. After all, Jesus talked about storing up treasures in heaven and giving not being something done for someone else to praise, like the Pharisees did. Which then makes me question whether I do it out of a pure heart or to be praised anyway for a "humble" spirit.

Whoever knew humility could be so tough?

So, how do I quit living as a supporting character in my own life story? Seriously?

I wish I had answers but, if I did, I wouldn't be writing this blog. Rather I'm trying to explain myself, but..... I'm also trying to find answers. Not as easy as I wish it was. Figuring out what the meow is wrong with me? That's easy. Finding a solution? Not so much.

I hope someday to find it. God will become greater in my life and I hope that I will finally figure out how to live as a protagonist and a supporting character. But it's hard right now. So, those of you who read this blog, I will ask for some prayers.

Pray that I would find the balance I seek. Pray that God would show me how to magnify Him without short-selling myself somehow. And, on a practical level, pray that everything goes well for Finals Week this week.

To God be the praise, for He is ever worthy.

Turkeys and Thanksgiving

Today, a floor from my dorm decided to create a new Thanksgiving tradition: The Turkey Hunt. A poor, unfortunate freshman is chosen, through processes most secret (and possibly diabolical), to dress up as a turkey. The rest of the floor pretends to be Pilgrims and Indians and hunts down and tackles the turkey for the entire day. The only safe places are buildings. When he travels between buildings, he has to make noise like a turkey, announcing his panicking presence. At the end of the day, the Great Hunt begins and the poor freshman is tacked in the forest outside the Dining Commons mercilessly. After which the floor decides to have a party and open the floor to the entire campus.

Now, before my friends on said floor start thinking I'm going to bash their tradition, I'm not. If anything, I'd like to say thank you to those people. I actually thought of something rather profound.

I tend to act like a turkey. Spiritually, that is. And in other ways too. I'll be man enough to acknowledge both meanings of calling myself a turkey. But let me explain.

The battle field looks rather innocuous. The field's name is Life. I peek out of my hiding place, trying to hide my garish get-up and survive without being tackled by my personal demons. However, when the time comes for me to go from one place to the next, I run to the next safe place screaming, "GOBBLE!GOBBLE!GOBBLE!"

Of course, I make a fool out of myself, and I get taken down very quickly. I live in fear of the next attack, and just try to survive moment by moment. And when I am attacked, I don't fight back. I just give a frightened yelp of "Gobble!" and fall to my attacker's blows. Nathan for dinner!

Seriously, though, it is pathetic. If I used a few wrestling moves in this proverbial battles, I would be able to escape my attackers and run in freedom from building to building. I mean, I'm not a bad wrestler in real life, though I have yet to face my best friend in battle and legitimately beat him (sometimes he cheats after I beat him, and thus claims to win, but I'd rather not go into that). If only physical prowess converted easily to spiritual strength. But it doesn't. However, if I take the time to think about it, I do have a way out of being tackled endlessly in spiritual battles and becoming a demon's dinner.

Continuing the "battle" analogy, I have a Father and Big Brother waiting for me to call out "HELP!" My Brother takes on the garb of the turkey, drawing off my attackers, while my Father leads me to safety. After beating my attackers to a pulp and demolishing their strongholds in my life, my Brother comes back and continues to walk with me, His watchful eyes constantly prowling to spot enemies.

Now, I can walk through life with my head held high, knowing my Father and Big brother have my back. I don't have to be a turkey, even though it can be fun to be dressed up as a defenseless, flightless bird. I have a protector by my side, who loves me forever. He won't let me be attacked as long as I stay near him. But if I push him away and tell him, "I've got it," I'm fair game again until I ask for help again.

So, I guess I'm thankful for the lesson of the Turkey Hunt. And I'm thankful to God for being my Father and Jesus, for saving me from the demonic hunters hungry for my foolish flesh. Without Him, I know I would still be forced to run screaming and flapping my wings uselessly, trying to not wind up as someone's meal. And I'm thankful for turkeys. Without them, I would have no food for Thanksgiving! Just kidding. I'm thankful because they have inspired me to reflect on my blessings as a spiritual "turkey."

Praise be to our most Holy God, for He alone is worthy.

Healing Anger

Okay, I'm still working on being on time with my posts here again. But I am getting better. Of course, now the problem is putting something amazing into a few words.And then writing it down. not so easy sophomore year as it was during freshman year.

And I know that I've severely fallen behind. But, you know what they say: Life is what happens while you're making plans. Most often in my case, life is what happens when you're making plans, and then you realize a school assignment is due tomorrow morning before 8 AM. So, I guess I'm still working on time management this year. Last year I was great at remembering to post. But I'll get there, eventually.

Yes, I can hear you now: "Nathan, shut up about not posting on time and get to the good stuff!" And so I shall.... Try to, that is.

I'll admit, this issue is somewhat personal. I doubt very many people who read this could empathize with it. This last week, I struggled dealing with anger. Anger at God specifically.

Yes, I know, "Why on earth would I be angry at God? Hasn't he been good to me?" Just look at the rest of my blog posts, and you'll see that answer is yes. But my anger wasn't completely for myself. It was also for my mom.

My mother struggles with many Auto-immune Disorders. This is pretty much where the body attacks itself and causes itself not to work properly. There's no real cure or treatment for it. And it's not like cancer, which quickly becomes life-threatening while many forms have treatments or surgeries to cure them. It's harder, and it takes longer.

Now, this is not at all to belittle cancer. Cancer is the nastiest thing on the planet, and I know people who have had it. It is not small in the slightest. But it is different than what my mom has to go through. And in some ways, it is a little better.

There is not cure or treatment for Multiple Sclerosis or Fibromyalgia. There is no cure for Diabetes. There is no cure for Celiac's Disease. Instead, my mom has to diligently watch her diet. She has to check her blood sugars many times a day and adjust her insulin supply because her body will not regulate itself. And the pain from Multiple Sclerosis (where the immune system gradually attacks and eats away at the nervous system, little by little) and Fibromyalgia (which I'm still working to understand) is constant for her. Some days the pain is minor and she can be a very active person and love people the way I've always known her to. But other days, she can't even get out of bed because the nerve pain in her legs and body is so terrible.

But here at Taylor University, there are ministries for healing. People are supernaturally healed often. A woman is afflicted with migraines and then people pray over her and she gets better. A man injures his liver badly playing football, and then people pray and he's healed as well. I see and hear about this happening and  my heart hurts. Not my soul or spirit (though they hurt too), but my heart. At one point this last week, a friend was sharing about how God had healed him, and while my face never changed, I felt a sharp tear in my chest, as though something ripped inside. And I thought of my mother back in Colorado, who lives with pain every day.

After a year and a half of struggling to push away the nagging thought about the injustice of it all, I just gave up. I withdrew from my friends, convinced they would find out how bad a Christian I was. "Good Christians don't get angry at God," I told myself. And I didn't want people to see me and my pain. I didn't want to be a burden to them, because I was struggling to deal with these problems. I quit talking to God because I didn't think he would answer me. And I tried to pray about others, but at the same time, I still had my mother's pain and anger lurking and sulking in the back of my mind. I couldn't make logical sense of why my powerful God could heal all these people at my school in Indiana, yet seemed like He refused to heal my mother in Colorado.

Now, before you read further, let me tell you something RIGHT NOW: I have no answers. God didn't come down and tell me why He hasn't healed my mother. He didn't tell me His will for her life or the purpose of her suffering. And, since I'm 99.9999999999999999...% (Which in mathematical terms is the same as 100%) sure if my mother had been healed my family would have told me (which they have not), God has not healed my mother.

So what changed? What made a difference? The realization I was not alone. There are people here on campus who do struggle with that same issue. People who even participate in healing ministries have relatives who have similar medical problems. And the best encouragement was hearing their stories.

The conclusion? There is none. I don't have answers. And I know this may sound hollow, but the only thing that keeps me going right now is faith. Faith that God has a purpose to my mother's suffering. Faith that she will be healed, whether or not I get to witness it here on earth. Faith that God is good.

And I now know I'm not alone with this pain, the pain of having my mother live in pain. Yes, I know the rest of my family feels it too, but it doesn't help when they're twenty driving hours and two time zones away. And their pain would be different than mine. Thus hearing other people's stories help me find reason and faith in my anger.

This is not over, not by a long shot. But the anger has abated. And I think this has brought me closer to God. I have to rely on Him, and believe in His purpose, unknown though it be. Of course, the only other option for me is chaos, which is not viable. God is good. I will continue to proclaim it as long as I have breath in my body.

Holy is He and worthy of my praise.

Hope and Longing

Hope.

Hope is defined by the dictionary as a "desire accompanied by expectation of or belief in fulfillment." Sounds so simple, doesn't it? Yet in this small, four-letter word lies so much more meaning than what the dictionary dares answer. It provokes, leads, compels. It drives us to do extraordinary things, some of them, especially in my own case, rather stupid. Nevertheless, we all have, we all need hope. And even though I'll admit I've denied it, I need hope too.

I know this sounds strange. Of course we need hope. Why wouldn't we? Some people might say hope is what makes us human. It's vital. Thus you need it too, Nathan.

But it is also a hard task-master. Disappointed hopes deeply hurt. They drive us to find fulfillment. And if we can’t fulfill them, we are forced to endure the torture of watching them die.

I know this all too well. I have seen hope perish as quickly as it was born, and I have watched it die slow, agonizing deaths. Often just in my own life. Because of this, I've been forced to wander, "What is the point of hope?"

More often than not, I empathize with Éomer from The Two Towers. He tells Aragorn that Aragorn should "not dare to hope [for] it is forsaken in these lands." So often I have felt that way. I have wanted to look at my reflection and tell myself that hoping for something was useless. That hope was for other people. Not for me. Never for me. I know this seems down and stupid, but it’s true. In my weakest moments, I feel as though I have no reason to have hope. And should not expect to find any reason for hope.

Now, before you start thinking that I have serious problems and stop reading, I need to tell you that I have heard this lie subtly from Satan over many years. Unfortunately, after a while, if you hear something long enough, it becomes truth. Rephrase that: it sounds like truth. It mimics truth so closely and so loudly, that the smaller voice that tries to remind me of the truth is drowned out, and I’m unable to discern fact from lie.

But the truth is that I need hope too. I have desires that want to be fulfilled. I have dreams that want to become reality. And I have old visions that now feel like nightmares I never want to happen for real. And trying to kill hope does nothing but kill your own self. I know. I've tried. And every time I tried to kill my hope, I went away depressed. I felt cold and unloved and hope fluttered on the edge of death.

Ironically, it's always when I'm at my worst, when hope has almost died that God steps in and revives it. Revives me. And it's usually through people that I find hope again. Maybe it’s a hug that I needed. Maybe it’s small words of encouragement I never expected. Maybe it’s a visit from a good friend. But God never fails to show me hope. He reminds me of His love, the most powerful reason for hope.

But I have discovered something else too. Sometimes, I can't simply wait for God to hit me with hope. Sometimes, I have to fight for it. Sometimes, I have to desperately search for it. I have to be active when it comes to hope. But I also believe God honors that search. If we seek hope, and more importantly, if we seek Him, we will find both together. God is the ultimate source of hope. It springs from Him and flows back to Him in a never-ending cycle.

So, here I go. Now to pursue God and Hope with all the stubbornness I claim to have.  I know that I can, but I must determine not to be distracted by lies and traps Satan tries to lay for me. But God is faithful. I'll always be able to find Him.

Holy is He and worthy of praise.