Serve God Like a Child, Not Like a Lifeguard

Tasha:

This year, the Black Lives Matter movement has been bringing to the surface your questions about how to attain a life well lived, your anxieties about the tension between public service and a comfortable American dream, and your frustrations with the limitations of an introverted self. Your friend Niya has been moved to pursue a PhD in Public Administration so that she can more effectively challenge systemic racism than she can in her current job as a medical case worker. She is an inspiration to you through her passion for discipleship, her personal history with social justice advocacy, her intolerance for racist policies and practices, her role as a hub of hospitality and authenticity within MiddleTree church, her warmth and openness, and the way she mothers her daughters.

You, like Niya, want to live a life of service to the God who is redeeming the world he created. But you worry that you are whistling away your life sitting on the couch, laboring on your laptop, and cashing checks from Hanover Research - while there is a whole world out there that you are missing out on. A world that is missing out on what you have to offer. The whispers worth of community service you have managed during the STL and DC years humiliate the loud-voiced soul that sings its grandiose intentions into your ears whenever you are brave enough to listen.

You told Zack about it one night when your soul was sounding especially operatic. (There had been another shooting of an innocent, unarmed black man by clearly racist and foolish police officers.) Zack comforted you, which he does so well... but that made you more worried. Do you want this frantic desperation to have change-the-world impact to be quieted and calmed? Isn’t that inertia the problem?

Then you picked up Ruthless Trust by Brennan Manning, and Zack’s words of comfort were reiterated.

It is not for you to decide how your efforts will be used by God. Or to wrench a win from your efforts to improve mankind. It is not Natasha Kolar that will, by sheer effort and perseverance usher forth the world as it should be… Rather, the work is to perform small acts of love that are in front of you, to pray for opportunities to serve God, and to be brave when you are given a moment of inspiration. God will use your small donations to His Kingdom however he decides. An action that you thought was groundbreaking will turn out to be no biggie, another that you thought was misguided will turn out to yield blessing upon blessing. Your job is to keep your eyes open and to respond to (not force yourself on) the universe as God leads.

Ultimately, the question you are left with is this: What motivation will you allow to drive you as you strive make the world a better place?

You have a couple of gears. Try to use the gear that leads you to listen for guidance from the Spirit and trust and obey God in the small things. Try to release the gear that pushes you to prove that you have worth because you have made things on Earth better than they were if you didn’t exist. Humility over pride. You are not a lifeguard tasked with single-handedly saving humanity from all the threats to God’s will being done on Earth.

Replace your fear of inefficiency with the peace that God designed you serve him patiently as you: limited by your energy levels, emotionally vulnerable and fragile, and overwhelmingly aware of the great many injustices in the world. He knows the ways you are, and he loves to see you serve him with the inspired confidence of a beloved child.

Be a child, Tasha, not a lifeguard.

-Tasha

Improv Alone

Hello

Helloooooooo

Can you hear me???

Is there and echooooo?

The canyon is so Grand.

Then that is what we should call it!

Hellooooo?

A teenage girl is riding the white water with her aunt and uncle.

They’ve agreed to take her off her parents hands for the summer while they tour national parks.

They are avid bird watchers.

The girl is generally bored. But occasionally there is a cute teenage boy in a national park and she puts those binoculars to use.

On the raft, there is a not so cute teenage boy. But he is beginning to look cuter and cuter the border and border she gets.

She decides to wink at him, because that is something she’s seen happen on TV shows like Fuller House and the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.

His face sunburn gets redder.

She does it again.

His face turns red purple.

She does it nonstop.

His face turns blue and then black and then goes up in smoke.

People choking on smoke.

I can’t breathe.

Get me out of here.

Save my cat. I must save my cat.

The family photographs. Don’t forget!

I hope a sexy fireman saves me.

I hope I don’t have third degree burns.

I hope my face still looks pretty.

I hope I don’t inhale too much smoke and get lung cancer.

I hope this causes me to quit smoking.

I hope I get lots of insurance for the barn and I can build a better barn.

I hope…

I hope…

I hope…

I make a million dollars.

Donald, just stop replacing the sunscreen with lotion. It’s not funny.

But it’s the only way you will let me tan, Ma.

Donald, don’t you remember what your father looked like before he had all that skin cancer cut off his damn face?

He was a good looking man, well better looking.

So why ya gotta go and play tricks just to get a tan. You’re gonna end up just like your old man.

I just. I just. I heard the senior girls talking about how nobody likes a pale boy. And I want to ask Maria to prom. And she is very tan. I don’t want to be that pale boy.

Is that all Donald?

Well, yeah. That’s most of it.

What else?

Well, I just. I just heard that girls like scars. In a way. And I thought, well, maybe even though dad’s not as good looking now in a classical way, maybe if I were tan and had some battle wounds from getting cancer surgery more girls would think I was datable.

Have you been taking those are you datable quizzes in Men’s Health again? I told you that stuff is trash. If you really want to know if you are datable, just ask yourself these three things. 1) Am I nice to my mother? 2) Do I have a stable job? 3) Can I ballroom dance?

Tanness, scars, these things are all superficial. Girls don’t really care about that stuff. That’s just what they talk about. In their heart of hearts, they want to date a boy who has the trifecta of datability - mom, job, waltz.

I don’t know mom.

Well I’d know.

It’s all I could save in the fire Father Benedict.

It’s enough my son.

I feel so guilty, though.

Your sins have already been forgiven, Friar Tucker. You know that.

But when I think of all the alms that have been donated by poor widows - her last mite father. What a waste!

You can’t think of that, son. Remember the prostitute who poured all her perfume on the feet of our lord. Waste is not our Lord’s greatest fear. Fear and worry - now those are the most wretched of sins.

Father, your words speak life to my soul. I have felt so wretched.

It says much about the greatness of your love for the least of these that all you managed to save was a baby mouse, my son.

Yes, well, I couldn’t bear the squeaking.

No?

No. You see, I had a bird when I was a child. And the bird ate nothing but mice. Each morning I had to feed baby mice to the bird one by one. Three mice each morning.

I see.

And the squeaks would haunt my sleep each night. Squeeeeek. Squeeeeek. Like a recurring nightmare but it wasn’t a nightmare, it was real life. My life.

And so the pain you experienced killing these mice each day gave birth to compassion in your soul, is that right?

I’m not sure father, but if that is your assessment I will gladly take this as truth.

I do worry my son that living in this barn until the monastery is rebuilt will be a source of many troubles for you in your sleep. Titmice run rampant in these walls of wood. I will bless you with holy water for protection.

To Albatross Island

The trouble started when I went to the refrigerator the fourth time. Why I kept peeping on that cake I cannot say.

"Miranda! Stop opening the fridge! You'll let all the cold air out and our electric bill will cost as much as your orthodontia!"

"But, Mom, it's so prettttty."

"It will be prettier if you're still alive to eat it tomorrow."

"Fiiiiine."

I took I picture on my phone before swinging the door closed that final time. Zooming in and out of the photo, I admired my handiwork as an expert froster and colorist. Except - oops, missed one spot.

"I'm just going to fix the corner, Mom." I announced this at a decibel Mom was highly unlikely to hear from across the house, while slowly opening the illicit fridge and pulling out the crystal cake plate.

Just at that moment, Charlie ran into the kitchen with Patrick on his heels. Both were waving massive plastic swords.

"Come back here, pirate! The king will have your head on a stake!"

Backing away from the action, I held my breath and lifted the cake high above my brothers' headed. No matter. Patrick's sword came straight across my wrist, breaking my grip and letting loose the cake plate and all that it held dear. Knocked on the head under the tumbling weight of the crystal, Patrick dropped to his knees and then scrambled away rubbing his head and hollering at Charlie.

"Mirandaaaaaa!"

I looked up from the pile of chocolate, frosting, and broken crystal to the sound of my mom's approaching footsteps. And, without even trying, I disapparated.

Five-Minute Writings with Brother

splitsville? he asked.

no, i said. not unless you want our first date to be the last date.

woah woah woah, i like a woman who knows her own mind. my treat.

damn right it's your treat.

can i buy you a night cap next door at Bravo?

i'm good.

ok.

[looking at phone.] my mom's here to pick me up.

your mom?

i don't have a license yet.

oh. why not?

epilepsy. can't drive unless i can go a year with no seizures.

wow, i'm sorry.

it's cool. gotta go.

ok, i'll call you.

don't wait three days.

heh, sure thing.

-

it's after noon by now and she can hear the sun radiating through the thin slats in her closed window blinds, but she hasn't seen it's face today. she will see it before it dies, on the train from her dim flat to the sleepy airport terminal. but right now, as she contemplates a turkey sandwich, she wishes she'd seen it born, watched it grow in size and stature - not just later in it's dusty mid-life planning for an early winter retirement. "i've missed so much," she sighs, not hungry anymore.

-

The culinary machines process pears and nectarines into macarons with sugar and fat. Color glow and juice are now color dye and crunch. The glass case lights fluourescent the puffs’ artificiality and “natural” flavor for the “humans” in line: back to chest, heel to toe, hair to face.

I don't want this to bite into, and swallow, and shit. Give me a prickly barked tree in a frigid forest to climb and pluck sweetly rotting fruit from like beasts. Shivering hot fruit in a Neverland cafeteria, money in my arms and legs, wallet empty.

-

A glowworm inches it's fat body south down the pole that stabs a seahorse through the top of its head and into the muddy gummed up floor of an abandoned carousel. On the saddle of the unridden sea creature lays a stray braid from the long synthetic weave of a black haired carnival goer from years past. In one fell swoop a hawk collects the worm and the weave for his chicks and nest. The bird and prize soar home through the abandoned grounds together, watched by crickets and spiders afraid for the short lives.

Collect All the Pieces, but Then Decide which Piece to Play

Tonight, you are draped over the couch you inherited from a group house long ago, and you have spent the last hour and a half looking at TV clips and movie trailers and new content added to Netflix you will never watch, and scanning images on Pinterest for recipes you will never cook and DIY crafts you will never make. You’ve been looking sleepily for something to watch or do. Looking looking looking.

And not just tonight, when a 12-hour work day has made you as animated as a paper doll.

Basically, Natasha, you would always rather search, strategize, contemplate, and deliberate than take action. It’s important for you to take action. Otherwise you will always be preparing for life but miss out on the living.

There is nothing wrong with your need to gather all the pertinent information before making a decision. And you have made many an informed decision as a result. Let’s think of a few.

1. Printing the perfect photos for the Emmick Plantation House Kolar family gallery (Evan in a fur coat, Eames’ hipster posture, the boys in Prague laughing into pilsners, Tasha with a shotgun in gingham, etc.)
2. Finding Biola University in the Princeton Review all those years ago
3. Settling on an MA in International Education instead of a teaching credential or international development degree
4. Going to work for Hanover Research, the perfect place to grow personally and professionally
5. Writing a bunch of high quality research briefs with high quality sources
6. Wading through churches and finding a home at St. Brendan’s in the City (in DC) and then MiddleTree (in STL)
7. Choosing a great apartment in St. Louis, sight unseen
8. Marrying Zack Thompson, a toad among tadpoles
9. Designing an awesome honeymoon itinerary
10. Hunting and gathering many lifelong friends who make your world merry and sparkly

Ok, that’s 10. Ten’s usually a good number for stopping. And stopping is the goal here.

So, I’m telling you to (yeah do your thing, BUT!) pay attention for when it’s time to stop considering all your options, and grab one off the shelf. Rip open the package and suck it down right in the aisle of the supermarket. Don’t waste another minute. That’s how you got your top ten list. Now let’s stretch it to 100.

On Mate Picking

How do you know he is the one? You feel the calm of the woods, the effervescence of the sea, and the assurance of gravity when he is in the room. In his eyes you see only truth and he makes you true. Your instinct is to cultivate your love like a garden that you trust will feed you and make you grow strong. And, well, you marry him like he is literally the only man in the world that can do the job. 

The Abominable Morning Strategy Session

730am. Zack is up and about the house.

830am. Zack is off to law school.

930am. I have to log into my work laptop from my home office.

That leaves two large hours between the time I am first roused and the time I need to be doing something. Two hours during which I have no motivation to move a pinky. So I've developed a new morning activity:

The lazy and lingering bedside strategy session.

This activity occurs while wrapped in a blanket of goose feathers and with soft light peeking in through slightly askew blinds. Sometimes there is a heating blanket involved. Sometimes there is music. A memory-foam mattress and lots of gently supportive pillows are involved. And it is the absolute worst part of my day.

The experience is like watching a ticker tape at the bottom of the Red Zone channel. The ticker tape streams all of the tasks you must complete over the course of the rest of your entire life, while the live action animates all of your most colorful concerns for the day and offers options for how they might be (or fail to be) tackled. 

I'm pretty sure this activity is the opposite of prayer.  

On Friday, I decided to escape my own morning monologue by reading Psalms (which often begin with content surprisingly similar to my bedside strategy sessions). Then, I hoped, I'd be able to follow the psalmist's route from fear, frustration, and discontent to hope, trust, and praise. Rather than beginning and ending with… well, fear, frustration, and discontent.

I started at the beginning. Psalm 1. And the words on the page (screen, let's be honest) sounded to my soul like an echo of kinship from a different generation. The verses subdued the voices calling out warnings and arrows and cliches in my own mind. The narrator reminded me I am not alone in the human condition. The delicious pairing of disappointment with joy tasted like a hearty bowl of Cheerios to my mind. This was much more constructive than bathing in anxiety and wearing the weight of my little world like a blanket.

So I've concluded that mornings will better be suited to consuming Psalms rather than producing solutions to all of my life's greatest conflicts and complications, riots and responsibilities. If you ever happen to catch me biting my lip or chewing my fingernails in bed with my eyes open (unlikely, I am sure considering that slumber parties are rare this time of life) please hand me a Bible and remind me to eat up! I would much much much appreciate it.

Here's Psalm 3 for the road:

Lord, how many are my foes!
    How many rise up against me!
 Many are saying of me,
    “God will not deliver him.”

 But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
    my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
 I call out to the Lord,
    and he answers me from his holy mountain.

 I lie down and sleep;
    I wake again, because the Lord sustains me.
 I will not fear though tens of thousands
    assail me on every side.

 Arise, Lord!
    Deliver me, my God!
Strike all my enemies on the jaw;
    break the teeth of the wicked.

From the Lord comes deliverance.
    May your blessing be on your people.