I am a Writer

This will probably be deleted/hidden shortly.

One can only be expected to be so brave in a week and my bravery is about expired. Edit: I won't delete this, solely because I love Jennifer Peterson and Barbara Lane that much.

 I am a writer ...and this is one of the hardest things in the world for me to say.

I'd never said it out loud until yesterday at the last day of Hutchmoot and even then I choked on the words as they were whispered in the ear of someone who I knew would understand.

And right now I am terrified of throwing it out there. I want to take crumple this up, toss it into the trash, and never look back. I want to ignore the feeling that pushes me to write this, I want to place this urge into a box and place it on an unmarked shelf, never to be found again.

There is something about letting the words lose into the world that terrifies me and I don't completely understand why, all I know is I want to be a coward. But I am going to try and be brave and hopefully the try will turn to brave.

 People have told me, "You're a beautiful writer," and I have stammered back, "I'm not a writer, I'm just messing around with words." For I am sure that writers are people who write with beautiful prose and never doubt their gift. They know deep down that they were made to weave and spin those marks on paper and the words obey them. I on the other hand am wracked with insecurities. I feel like a five year old child with a pencil grasped in her chubby hand, tongue out in concentration trying to capture a brilliant sunset with black and crooked lines.

So, I belittle the words that I have been given and I to climb into a box, close my eyes, and I hide. I compare myself to other writers whom I admire and I know that I fall so far short. Fear crawls in the hole that comparison and insecurity has opened and voices whisper to me, reminding me of all the lack that is mine. Someone else can say it better and more eloquently than I-so why try?

At times they whisper and other times they shout but always they say, "You am not good enough, intelligent enough, and wise enough to be a writer," and I believe it. Like a fish I swallow the lie like a hook and am reeled up onto the beach gasping for breath.

 But I am going swimming back into the ocean of grace thanks to all the loving people who insisted on speaking louder than the voices this weekend. I denied and said I was fine, they insisted. They dragged me struggling off of the beach and they tossed me back into the sea. Because of them am going to dive deep and rest in who I really am.

 Truth: I am Ming, I am not as beautiful and eloquent as all of the other writers I know-but I still have my own words. I will never write a book or publish anything but I have words. I do not write for anything other than the joy that I find in the act of weaving, spinning, and stitching words together and that is okay. I may not be able to turn a prose and capture an audience but I still have a story that has been given me.

 I have something that no one else does and that is; I am Ming. I have warts, bruises, scars, and freckles that are all my own and they will be where I write from. Others may be able to say it better than I, but they cannot say it exactly like I can--for I am me.

And I'm going to hold onto that with faith that it's true even when I don't believe it.

(deep breath)

I am Ming,

 I read books like they are essential for life and I am friends with all of the flavors of the wind. I am an idealist and I can be bossy.

I long for things to be redeemed and made right, starting with myself.

I am a nurse, I am a fan of watermelon and laughter, and I am an overthinker. I apologize far more than necessary and I am stubborn from time to time.

I am deeply loved more than I ever dared to hope and my Father is awfully fond of me.

I desire more than anything to live each moment I've been given well and I am a writer, for I love the craft of stitching words into sentences. And I am going to trust that I am here for a reason if I don't see or understand why, for my God is weaving a beautiful epic story using everything, even this small dark thread that is my life.

What is Hutchmoot?

What is Hutchmoot?

If I got a book for every time I have been asked this question - it would be wonderful, because I would have to start stacking books on my staircase again.

To try and describe the wonder that Hutchmoot is and contains, is daunting. It seems much like I am shooting for the moon in trying to answer this question, but nonetheless I intend to try my hand at it and do my best, for even if I miss - at least I have a chance of landing among the stars.

Attempting to describe and capture Hutchmoot fully is in part impossible, because what you see and experience depends on where you are and the perspective you have at the time. Many people may take a snapshot of an ancient, massive tree and while each picture captures one view of the tree, each will be different depending on the angle and perspective of the person who pushes the button on the camera. Each small square of a picture is indeed a piece of the tree, but it cannot accurately capture the whole complete essence of the tree itself.

But sometimes there are things that are worth photographing, so I will try and snap my picture here.

(deep breath, exhale)

“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn't safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.” 
― C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

This is how I feel about Hutchmoot.

Hutchmoot is good but it is not safe. There is nothing safe about walking into a building where God is busy working. But it is good. Oh, it is so, so good.

I walked alone towards The Redeemer late Thursday afternoon. The sun was filtering through the leaves, I felt happy and my feet felt light. However, this changed the moment my foot crossed over the threshold of the door. Raw terror swept over me and I cowered. Voices screamed in my head and whisper to my soul, "You don't belong here. All the people who you think you belong with will reject and hate you or worse secretly despise you. What were you thinking in coming here? You are worthless." Lies were being thrown and slung as easily as baseballs in the spring and I wanted to bolt back to the safety that was felt behind the locked steel doors of my car. Instead I tried to make myself look invisible as I slid and collapsed into a chair in the back of the sanctuary.

I was being undone. The voices unstitched and unraveled the deepest core of who I thought I was and it was searingly painful. I rested my head on the chair in front of me, I wanted to cry, I wanted to run.

But what was intended for evil was being woven into the story of my life to accomplish something good. I was being broken so I could be bound back together, unraveled so I could be remade, and unstitched so I could be sown back together - into something better than I could have imagined.

Every conversation, every session, every meal, every person, and every beautiful thing seen, smelled, heard and touched was a piece of the thread that was being used to stitch me back together again.

I fight to believe I am worth anyone's time, much less people who are admired and respected by many and who have a line of people who all want a chunk of their time and attention. All I wanted to do was to tell them thank you for what their writing, music, and stories have done for me. All I wanted was a sliver of their time and attention so I could just thank them with my lips and they could see in my eyes how much their work had meant to me. But they gave more than a sliver. They cared, they stopped, they sought me out to get to know me, they invested their time, energy, and words into me. They were the hands, feet, and voice of Jesus. And I am crying even now thinking about it.

One of the ladies I was hoping the most to thank and maybe exchange a handful of words with, grabbed me by the hand, dragged me to a bench outside to talk and tell me that she loved me. Another as I passed by stopped me and asked to grab a conversation with me, I was dumbfounded. Another took the time to listen as I whispered the words I had been to terrified to say and then held me as I cried, feeling the fire of who I was created to be burn down and branded into the deepest parts of my soul.

It makes me cry because I think that is how God is with me. I am just hoping to tell Him thank you, just hoping for a sliver of His attention for a brief moment, so those words can come tumbling out. And then in the middle of my sentence He laughingly drags me by the hand to a bench out in the air to pour life into me. He stops me in the middle of my day to tell me that He wants to get to know me, and he holds me tenderly while I am being broken and remade and He doesn't care that my tears are staining His shirt.

Hutchmoot was nothing like I expected it to be, it was so much better. I didn't expect to love everyone this much and be changed so intensely. I was warned that it would be like this, but like a child who has only seen puddles and is told of the vastness of the ocean, I thought I understood--but I had no idea.

I do know this, I have finally found my tribe. I may be the least of them--but I have found my tribe.

Aslan's presence is thick at Hutchmoot. And because of that, Hutchmoot is anything but safe, but I will tell you that it is good.

Day Two.

"To try to be brave is to be brave." writes MacDonald and this was the rhythm that I attempted to dance to today.

Yesterday was unexpectedly difficult. I thought it would be slightly uncomfortable at first with a sprinkle of awkwardness, however...

I walked into the Redeemer and fear struck the bells in my heart. They shivered, shook, and I broke out in a cold sweat. Panic poured into my veins, flooding my heart with doubt and fear. I wanted to fly out the doors back into the safety between the metal doors of my car. Instead I smiled nervously at the girls who handed me a packet with a kind smile. Sidled by the people around me trying my best to be invisible as I slid quietly into the sanctuary. 

Cross in front of me, my knees gave way, and I dropped silently into the back corner seat, wondering what on earth possessed me to think that I would belong here. These people are brilliant, wonderful, and beautiful. I listened to the lies that were being slung into every hole in my heart and they began the work of covering the truth with their sticky explosions. Lies that tell me I'm not good enough, that no one will like me, and that I made a huge mistake in coming. These lies drain the joy from my smile, the spring from my step, the lightness in my voice and glint in my eyes. 

For a short while the blinders come on and I forget what I know deep down in my bones to be true. 

So I prayed, I had nothing else to do but lower my head onto the seat in front of me and I began to tentatively knock on the gates of heaven begging for grace.

Sigh. Deep breath. Exhale.

I got up and began mulling around being generally awkward and self conscious. Inwardly cringing at the way that I greeted people. Berating myself for the fear that I was feeling and wishing that I could work up the courage to just be myself. People came up and introduced themselves and I couldn't help the panic that flashed across my face for a moment, I prayed they didn't notice it and I wished I could greet them in a the way that I wanted to. 

The concert was phenomenal, Eric Peters sang a song that I was sure was written just for me.

By that evening I was exhausted. Emotionally drained and ever more convinced that I am an introvert.

I collapsed in bed and questioned for the hundredth time what I was doing, when the MacDonald quote flashed through my head, "to try to be brave is to be brave," and I paused, looked up at the ceiling, closed my eyes, and filled my lungs with air.

I wanted to be brave.

Now I am not a propionate of faking it, but I also believe that there are times when our feelings follow our actions. There is a time for crying, but there is also a time to lift your chin, look at the sky and smile remembering that you are small and given much. So I determined to do just that, I would try and be brave and in the process actually be brave.

And today was wonderful.

Be brave. It's worth it.

Fall

Fall has arrived with a laugh, flinging a parade of colors in her wake. Two thousand thirteen is wrapping about herself a mantel swirled with burnished colors. I walk outside and leaves painted burning gold and flaming red float down and catch in my hair creating a crown cannot be riveled. 

Why: Nursing

Why did I choose nursing? Because, when I looked into doing anything else I discovered that I am too much like my parents to not work in healthcare.

Why do I love nursing?

Let me tell you why...

1. I love my patients. I enjoy caring for, helping, and I love that for an entire day I get to build a relationship with them, I am their advocate and at times I am fortunate enough to become friends with them. I enjoy breezing in and out of their rooms and perching on the edge of a chair to talk with them and answer questions. I try to always wear a smile and be genuine. I do my best to be winning and make them laugh and smile. I love getting to know them and listening to their stories. I hate watching people hurt and go through ugliness but I am thankful that I have the opportunity to be there with them and lay a hand on their back or their hand to let them know that they are not alone when ugliness happens. Yes, I deal with nastiness but I strive and strain to view it as an opportunity to serve and do good. I deal with bodily fluids all day long and I strive to do it to the best of my ability. I've also gotten to meet so many incredible people, World War veterans, a lady that played in a symphony and who now works for the government, a Holocaust survivor who had lost her entire family, and this year I met my favorite patient of all time whose whole family I absolutely adored.

2. I love my cohorts. I love working alongside the individuals in other disciplines to provide care for my patients. Ladies and gentleman, I have the great pleasure and honor of working with some of the most wonderful people in the world. From doctors, surgeons, nurse practitioners, and physicians assistants, to physical, occupational, speech, and respiratory therapy, nurses and nurses aids, house keeping, room service, pharmacy, maintenance, lab, volunteers, and pastoral services--I have had the opportunity to become meet and become friends with some of the funniest, nicest, smartest, kindest, and most gifted people I have ever met in my entire life and I really truly mean that. I walk into work every day and look up at the ceiling grateful for the people I work alongside. Major plus: I try my hardest to avoid paging doctors but I'm thankful that when I do they are almost always so gracious. (Side note: I really, really miss my ortho, neuro, and plastic surgery people, but I love my new cardiac people)

3. I love that I am never bored. I am always, always learning something new and interesting. I could never work an eight to five desk job (I would literally go insane) and nursing is so far from a desk job it's wonderful. I run around all day and have to think all the time about what I need to be doing next and I adore it. I love the critical thinking and the constant bouncing of ideas I do every day. I love that I can ask questions and I love that I work with people who like teaching me new things. Every discipline I have worked with I have found a physician, surgeon, or secondary provider who loves to teach and I do my absolute best to learn as much as I can from them.

4. Stories. From patients, staff, and ones that are constructed while I am at work there is never a lack of good stories in a hospital.

This is why I love my job.

Also, I think I would really love to work as a nurse practitioner someday too...but we'll see, it kind of scares me too, lol.

A Violin Lesson and Gratitude.

I had another violin lesson yesterday, the door swung open and I slipped down into a room that I had known well as a child. Dozens of cellos are hung in a row off the walls and there is a back room filled with violins. It smells of wood, wire, and rosin; my heart sings everytime I enter.

Here is where I went every week from the time I was five until I was thirteen, here is where stories were constructed, freeze tag was played in the front yard, and music (however squeaky) was spun. My instructor hasn't changed at all, she's still smiling and sprightly, she still exudes that contagious energy that she always has, and you can tell she is doing what she loves.

We finished up the lesson. We past Bach's Minuets and had revisited an old Gavotte and Bourrée. My fingers are still trying to find their places, I've probably grown a foot since I was here last and my hands are adjusting. I looked over at her smiling and tell her that I've never had this much fun playing. 

I packed up my violin then I leaned against the wall and my instructor and I caught up a little bit. And then I shared that coming back here and playing again made me realize how much I took for granted playing as a child. I took for granted that I was able to learn to play a beautiful instrument and I never appreciated how much my parents sacrificed in time and resources to give me the opportunity to learn to play the violin. My mom drove thirty to forty-five minutes weekly for years so I could learn, she would wake my sister and I up in the mornings and packed us up into the van even on the mornings when we grumbled and scowled. 

My parents insisted I practiced, paid me a quarter on the days that I did, taught me to read music, and I humphed indignantly at times because it was hard. They sacrificed, got attitudes thrown at them for it, and when they got frustrated - I thought it was their problem...whoops.

I sat in a room and built memories with the other children in between lessons and orchestra. On nice days we would play freeze tag for hours in the front lawn (my sister fell into the pond once and had to play in orchestra with wet jean shorts), on cold days we would play epic battles of War with cards or pickup sticks in front of the fireplace. And this is just a sliver of my fantastic childhood--and I never realized how incredibly blessed that I was. So, I told her thank you for teaching me as a child.

While I was driving home I thought about how much I would love to go back in time and bend down and take my seven year old selves face in my hands and tell her/myself to appreciate everything. "You have much to be thankful for, be grateful. And don't be a butt," is what I want to tell my little serious eyed child self.

I drove back to my parents house, went inside and caught my mom washing dishes downstairs. I snuck up behind her gave her a hug, apologized for the prick of a child I was and the prick of an adult child I can still be at times, and I told her thank you for everything that I took and take for granted, for my music lessons,  the time, the patience, and everything else. And true to my mom's character she laughed it off and said it was no big deal.

When it comes to parents, I have a couple of the best ever.

And a one...

I discovered Andrew Peterson years ago when I was a junior in high school. I heard the lyrics of "Just As I Am" read during a message on a podcast that I listened to and those words struck every bell in my soul, striking and resounding with words that rang true. If you were to read my blog from high school you would find Andrew's lyrics peppered throughout (along with various C.S. Lewis quotes and long tangents: I haven't changed much).

No More Faith, Love is a Good Thing, More, Lay Me Down, All Things New, and The Good Confession have been the soundtrack of my life. When hard times come, when waves crash around me and the wind howls like an animal--these are some of the songs where I find refuge. When I am to tired, scared, worn out, and lonely to even read, I have learned to find a quiet place and let a song strike the chords of my heart again and again reminding me of what I know to be true but so often lose sight of in this foggy reality we live in: there is more.

When I have made a mistake for the hundredth time The Good Confession is what played and gave me hope that I am loved inspite of myself. Oh, though I kick and scream, oh love, love is leading me.

Then there was the night that I saw the jaws of death snap shut and I stared the curse full in the face. I saw life slip between the fingers of all that tried so hard to save it. Ever fiber of my being rebelled against the ugliness of what I had seen and I wept. I walked out of the hospital clutching my notebook to my chest and I drove under a bright dusty moon. Head pounding, heart raw and aching, soul weary. I found myself passing the road that lead home and winding down a road that led somewhere, anywhere that I could pray, think, and process.

When I say pray I mean whispered sentences that are strung haphazardly together, begging for grace and help. Processing everything while pounding on the chest of my Father begging for clarity and words, for platitudes would not suffice and cliches could not shoulder the burden. So I drove on, past sleeping cattle and a doe that peered wide-eyed at me out from between the pines as I glided past.

I longed, longed to go Home. To see past the curtain and shed completely the scales that cover my eyes.

And the words from More and Lay Me Down swirled in the air around me. I passed cemeteries where the dead lay silent, with only a few hammered words in stone to sum up their life. They know of the glory that I long for, whether they flee it or seek it - they know it. I pulled into an empty church parking lot, clambered onto the hood of my car, and looked out over a mist that spun across the tombstones.

This is where we will all end up. Lying quietly inside a hole in the ground or a small pile of dusty ashes-regardless of your story and where it leads during life, whether the character you played was rich or poor, kind or cold, humble or prideful - there will be a page in your story that when turned to, will hold these words, "...from dust to dust," and whether it comes swiftly or slowly, the end is coming for us all. And in that moment I was so ready for it, ready for glory. Ready for no more tears, ready to see the whole picture and laugh at the brilliant Story that was woven here on earth. ...but hold on, it's worth it.

And I realize in that moment that I am loved enough to hurt. I am loved enough that suffering and trials are allowed to enter into my story to refine and purify me, to shape me into something better. Joy is sweeter after tasting salty sorrow.

This a beautiful world full of sunrises and sunsets, bright days and dark nights. Some fathers never make it home, babies are buried, tragedy enters the scene, hearts are shattered, and we scream as pain carves deep scars into our souls.

I am alive. My heart hammers, my lungs inflate, I breath, and I live. While this means I will get to see life, it also means I will see death. I will see the curse played out over and over, again and again. And when this happens, I will run, fast and furiously back to the things I know to be true. I will go back to the old roads and I will lash my heart to the ancient mast. I will hold on and I will not give up.

I will live, running and striving to pour out as much of my little life as I can. I will not hoard up myself. I will give and smile and laugh. I will hold onto hope and even with hands full of grief I will hold onto the knowledge that this is not the end of the story. I will run this race before me with vigor because I know there is a better beginning awaiting me once I cross the finish line. Ugliness and pain and heartache and tragedy and even death itself will not have the final word, and they all will be burned away like the dross that they are. And we will laugh as beauty colors the sky with a flourish.

Good is coming.

I am not home yet.