Pink Eye and Pride

Steven Staurt: Pride is a powerful narcotic, but it doesn't do much for the auto-immune system.

Recently, I developed pink eye. It is a horrid sickness that takes over one's eye and makes it look like Rocky Balboa after an almost fatal punch from Apollo Creed. Over the course of this pink eye tragedy, I began to question why it is that I hate pink eye so much. Now, of course no one would desire to have pink eye, but I have a loathing for it that goes beyond most people's hate for this irksome thing. For instance, I would much rather be legitimately sick than have a small thing like pink eye. I would rather be (sorry if this is graphic) puking in a trashcan, have a fever over 100, and possess the nausea equivalent to a pregnant lady than have this pink stuff on my eye. This is probably not normal, and when I run into things about myself or the universe that aren't "normal," I investigate.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that pink eye is my least favorite sickness because of how others perceive it. You see, if one has the flu or something like it, people naturally feel bad for that person, bring them soup and a cold clothe for their head, prepare their bed, etc. If someone has pink eye however, others will shun this person. For example, on Friday I was walking around Conrad and Hinkle ( a local grocery store), and I saw a small child. The mother of this kid looks at my infected eye (though I promise at this point I was no longer contagious), grabs the child by the arm, and yanks her to the front counter--far away from the evil eye that could infect her precious little one. Now, I understand that this mother did not know I wasn't contagious, that I did look rather disgusting at the time, and that this example is extreme; however, I give this example to make a point.

When one has pink eye, others see the sickness within--one is the judged. I would rather be internally sick and no one visually perceive my ugly sickness than be externally sick. Most of humankind is like this. This is why we, as a human race, put degrees on sin. If we visually see a drug addict who is snorting, has dark circles under his eyes, and gets jittery when he needs a fix, we judge him more than we would someone who struggles with say...pride. There is something wrong with this.

I realize that, most of the time, I benefit from this skewed understanding. I struggle with pride, being a control freak, guilt, and with judging others. These things are awful, but does anyone condemn my sin one a daily basis?
No, of course not. Number one, my sin is mostly internal and thus can be, to some degree, hidden from the outside world. Number two, to the outside world, my sin does not matter as much because it is more visually appeasing than other's sins. My sin is like the flu. It has consequences, but others do not visually see the full weight of these consequences. They don't see the bulging pink eye of a drug addict or a thief. My sin is socially acceptable, and I like this. Having socially acceptable sin feeds my pride even more.

Having pink eye has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my summer. When one has pink eye, others see the sickness. When one has pink eye, one cannot create a flawless outer self. Not only does one look incredibly awful when pink eye is developed, one also can't cover the grotesque stuff up. I couldn't put make up on when I had pink eye. Mascara, eye liner, and eye shadow would only make the disease worse; therefore, they were not to touch my eye. I also had to wear my glasses. Put contacts in when one has pink eye and you're just asking for it to spread!

Having pink eye made me realize just how much I care about others perceive me. I couldn't stand not putting make up on and wearing my glasses day in and day out. I couldn't stand others seeing my disease. This is also the case on a non-literal level. I really hate it when others see my inner problems, and most of the time I paint myself as the have-it-all-together girl who can deal with anything that comes her way so that people won't visually see my inner weaknesses. For years, I have felt pain when guys reject me and pretend all is well, struggled with confidence and walked like a super model, and have helped others with problems while struggling with the same stuff myself (and not making this known). We all do this on some level.

When I had pink eye, it sounds funny, but I actually became more open. Because I was already externally vulnerable, I shared my sin more. I became more approachable. This past year, I became angry when a guy friend of mine told me that most of the time no men asked me out (even if they like me) because I am intimidating, because I seem to have it all all together, have no human needs, and be too good for them anyway. He was right. I am like a hermit crab who though at first glance is open, inviting, and friendly, on further investigation...is not. I crawl into perfect shells that scream "I don't need you" when in reality I am a small crustacean that is vulnerable and just as broken as everyone else.

I have learned that it is time to remove our outer shells of perfection. It is time for us to share our inner struggles. It is time to stop judging those who are more open about their sins and do this ourselves. It is time to chuck our pride out the window. It is time to trade mascara, eye-liner, and contacts for glasses and natural flesh that show others we are imperfect creations striving just like them...people of God who are not judgemental, unapproachable, and flawless but are instead--Striving. Longing. Struggling. Open. Inviting. And completely ready to work on their shit.

The Ties that Bind

I stare at the book pages that my brother Logan and I pasted on my wall with Elmer's glue one stormy night during my Junior year of high school. I look to the center of the room and spy the sticker wall that my brother Mitch and I started when I was seven and he was two. The blue floor sports cough syrup that my mom spilled when I was sick, remnants of pick paint from when I decided to mural my right wall, Bon-Bon nail polish in various colors, and stains from dad eating food in the room late at night before we headed off to movie adventures. My room reminds me of the family and memories that I have often forgotten, shoved aside to make room for the "self discovery" that I hold so dear.

Over the past few days, I have come to understand that though my family is indeed imperfect, it is also amazing. These past two years of college, though full of breaks shared with my family and games of phone tag with my mom, have not been years filled with appreciation for what I have here in Lexington. The first two years of college were mostly spent trying to distance myself from my family, attempting to understand the imperfections in my God-given unit, and discovering who I was without the members of my immediate support system.

But the thing is, I can not distance myself from this family. My mom pursues me, loves me and understands more than any person in existence. My brothers tare at my heart strings when I am away. I grieve not hearing Mitch's voice change day by day and only hearing the final man-voice that now greets me in the afternoons when he finally decides to wake up. I hate that I have not been with Colton during his therapies, and I can not stand the fact that my dad has not been forced to go a chick flick since Christmas. Families were not originally crafted for distance. Families are the first things that love us for exactly who we are (or at least try to); they are suppose to be our support, and we are to lean on them rather than attempt to go it alone.

(My brothers and I at Myrtle Beach)

I also know that though it is good to understand the imperfections in my family, it is also a glorious thing to revel in the good things about it. This world is not only fallen; it is also in the age of redemption as we speak. My family, in some small ways, is being redeemed. I need to see the beautiful, healthy features of this family too. It was not good to walk around in the rose-colored glasses that I wore before college which showed me only the good things about my parents and brothers. However, now that I see the good and the bad, it is time to create a picture that includes the family that I have, at times (even if only subconsciously), excluded in order to make sense of my life.

There is also a problem with discovering who one is outside of the context of the family. It is impossible. Our families shape us. They plant pieces of wisdom in our minds, share experiences with us, create terrible tendencies within us, turn us off or on to various habits (good and bad), conform us as well as create a desire for nonconformity within us, and love and hate us with such a passion that they're spirits leave fingerprints on our hearts. For some, families are dreadful things. Parents, for others, are simply DNA givers. But, for most of us, families are both beautiful and broken, dreadful and dynamic, the things that make us cringe and make us cling. For most of us, parents give way more than DNA.

Though I have made my family a partial part of my life for the past two years, I have decided that it is high time I drop the control and embrace the ugly and lovely family that I have whole heartedly. Self discovery is not about deciding who you are outside of others. It's about understanding that the self is rooted in Christ. I am defined by whose I am, and I belong to God. It is impossible to understand the self without understanding the connections that have shaped you. God has shaped me. My family has shaped me. My friends have shaped me. People shape me everyday, and excluding them from the word picture, does not solve the problem. My life is a scrabble board and without the family that has invested so much in me, almost all of the letters are vowels. There is no life, no fervor, no concreteness without the mother, father, teenager, pre-teen, and child that I call my family unit.

My mommy and me!

Dad and I during Father-Daugter Date Night.

Little Acts of Defiance

So, I've been reading a one year devotional, and today it was about inner rebellion. Now, in case you don't know me, I am basically a straight-laced, rule follower. As far as eternal actions, I sort of have this whole "not rebelling" thing down pat. I was one of those high schoolers who was told "to stay out later and have a life" rather than to "get my booty home this instant." However, when we add the qualification of "inner" to rebellion, I am afraid I don't make the cut...in any way, shape, or form. After reading the devotional, I started thinking about the "small" ways that I rebel, things that no one else would would notice and or care about that I do in order to feel "cool" or "bad." Now though these things are not life or death issues, they show that I, in my own small ways, rebel against the things that I internally despise.

There is a deep rooted hatred for rules within me that I often don't think about. Making the following list of my own little acts of defiance has helped me see that the internal workings of my heart desire "sticking it to the system" more than serving others and worshipping God even in the small things that I do. Though most of these are silly, they still show an internal problem that I have with others telling me what to do; they show the desire I have to make myself the God if my life--to be my own Editor-in-Chief.

1. I lick the beginning page of every chapter in every book I ever check out from the library. I do this because I want others to touch the pages and, without knowing it, get my germs. Because I am a nerd, a lot of people now have my germs. This sort of makes me happy.

2. I regularly steal pens. I do not purposely steal individual's pens; however, I love taking pens from corporate offices or places that have a boss man. I especially cherish taking pens from corporations that choose to not give me a job...at least lately. I also revel in the fact that later when people ask me about said stolen pens, I lie and say that I took them on accident--"must have placed it behind my ear."

3. If three consecutive guys at college walk through a door I am holding open for them and none offer to hold it open for me, I "accidentally" stomp on the third guy's foot. As if anyone could "stomp" on something "accidentally!" And no, I don't do this because I want to turn my fellow classmates into gentlemen. (Do not give me too much credit.) I do it because I secretly feel I am somehow more important than that poor, unsuspecting third guy. I am selfish and prideful, and I need to work on this.

4. When I pour drinks for my brothers, I purposely put ice in my brother Mitchell's glass when I know he hates it because I secretly despise always being the one to pour drinks for everyone else. I am not the natural servant that I seem to be.

5. When I watch movies with sketchy scenes, I put on the captions so that I can read the funny descriptions of wrongdoings. For some reason, I find it funny when the screen reads: [sound of pants unzipping] or [girl says no awkwardly]. I know that this is very bad, and that is part of the reason that I do it.

6. Any time someone taller than me blocks my view during a play or a church service, I secretly think horrid things about this anonymous taller-than-me person. I create insults in my head for Tall Person A, and judge them by their appearance to be "geeky," "dumb," or a "hick." This is very bad and shows that I am much more judgemental and prideful than I'd like to think.

7. Finally, I purposely sneeze on people. Quite often.

As I said before, I know that these are small things. However, they point to the very prevalent sin tendencies inside of me that I don't like to acknowledge. I challenge you to make your own list of "Little Acts of Defiance." You may discover something interesting.

WordArt

WordArt: It's a simple command seen on any typical Microsoft program. But have you ever thought about the conjunction of those two pieces of speech or text, "word" and "art?" To an English major who is daily becoming more obsessed with the art world, the conjunction of these words has to be one of the most beautiful contemplations to ever enter this trusty brain of mine. There are many contemporary artists who are now combining visuals and text to create new meanings that go below the surface of immediate observation. The combination of these two elements (words and art) reminds me a few of the chapel talks that were given at Covenant during my freshman year.

That year in chapel, we talked about the book of Mark. We discussed how amazing it is that Jesus almost always uses the gospel combined with a visual of some kind to get his point across to observers. He healed people, gave them a visual. He also gave them a foundation for the interpretation of his healings; there are very few if any instances of his healing folks without getting to the heart of the matter, without sharing the gospel. When Jesus heals the man on the mat in Luke 5, He not only helps him walk but forgives his sins and lets him know that it is He alone that has the power to forgive these sins. He shows the man his power in both physical form and through his speech. He does the same when he teaches in parables. It is phenomenal that we serve a God who meets both our physical and spiritual needs and who gives us words to follow as well as visuals to display those words.

We are called to do the same in our Christian walks, preach the gospel and display it pictorially. It is important to live a life which shows that Jesus is alive and amazing and dwells inside of you. However, today's culture, for the most part, has forgotten the text. We are a culture that indeed, in some respects, has learned to practice what we preach. We participate in Invisible Children, International Justice Mission, and Mission to the World. We send letters to congress, help in Haiti, and join the Peace Corps. We, as a generation, have finally begun to step up to the palette of colors and paint pictures that display the kind of God we serve. However, we often forget that although a canvas can be beautiful, if it points to nothing in particular, meaning is subjective. We need to begin to not only show others what the God inside of us can accomplish but point others to Him through our words, like Jesus did. People need pictures so that they can see the results, but they must know who brought those results about--not us but God. People must be given words so that the beautiful canvases of lives well lived point to the ultimate artist, Alpha and Omega.

As of late, every time I see an art piece that combines both text and picture, I am reminded of what kind of life I am to live. I am reminded that I need to be bold and brave--that I need to show God but also speak of Him. I want my life to mimic Su Blackwell's art work and Thomas Allen's photography. I want to tell an amazing God story and feel that same story so well that it pours out of my veins into visual form. I highly doubt that this story telling art is something that I will ever fully learn to do. Unlike Jesus, I have no brain for parables and my heart is usually not into telling God's story in the first place. (It's into telling my own.)However, I hope and pray that as I live out my life, God will somehow help me become a storyteller who glorifies Him--who tells his "old, old story" well.

Su Blackwell's "Alice: A Mad Tea Party"

Some of Thomas Allen's work.

Sweet Whispers from The Lover of My Soul

The frustration wells up in my throat as the words longing to be said are stuffed down yet again. I can't seem to feel the wind like I did this afternoon when the kittens were frolicking in the sunshine and all was well with the world. The temperature rises in the light blue room as the Rolling Stones T-shirt sticks to the sweat of my chest and my head begins to pound. I attempt to produce an Athena to get the throbbing to stop, but the pounding continues. I am reminded of the numerous references to the beating of tom-toms from African American Literature class as the invisible nymphs drum on my brain, and I decide that I hate tom-toms if this is what they feel like.

It is during these moments that I begin to long for someone to lie against, someone to play with my hair and tell me everything will work out. I want a warm body to hold me, comfort me, make me feel complete. But it is also during these moments of utter frustration and anger that I feel God the most. It is as if He knows when I want a physical body to hold me, and He gives me a feeling that distracts me from this desire. Instead of muscle and bone, I feel my spirit begin to leap despite my terrible mood. The Comforter has come yet again, and in these moments I get a glimpse of what it means to have a consuming fire inside of you.

I hate that tonight brought so much pain, but I love knowing that I have a God who comforts me more than any arms of steel or soft heart beat ever could. I have been told numerous times this past year that calling God my lover and helper is inappropriate. While I understand that God indeed is referring to the church when he speaks of His bride, I can't help but feel on nights like tonight that He is just about the best and most affectionate lover I could ever had. I can't even imagine feeling as complete as He makes me feel when I one day lie down with my husband. When I fall to my knees in disappointment, He gently whispers encouragement in my ear. While a husband could play with my hair, he couldn't number every strand. And while a physical being could dry my tears, he couldn't catch them all and place them in a bottle. God paints pictures of his love for Israel through the prophet Hosea and tells us in II Timothy that we are to be lovers of Him rather than lovers of pleasure and the world.

When the Psalms talk about God, they scream passion. David writes Psalm 63 to God and cries, "my souls thirsts for you, my body longs for you." If that does not describe a love affair, I don't know what does. An Affair to Remember and Casablanca can't hold a candle to the passion and fervor we should have when approaching God. I have tried to listen to reason from friends who tell me to look at God as father and not a lover, but I have failed and gratefully so. God is my father, but limiting Him to this role is placing Him in a box. I am very grateful that I serve a God who can be my everything. He can be my father, brother, sister, mother, and yes, He can be my lover too. On nights like this when the moon is barely visible and I feel much more anger than I should, I am glad to have a God who whispers sweet not-so-nothings in my ear and tells me that life is still worth living.

The Naked Heart

I do not intend to be vulgar in this blog; however, I have to be honest...it involves nakedness. Wow, did that sound sketch or what? Anyway, a wise man by the name of Donald Miller once said that sometimes nudity is the point. In his book, Searching for God Knows What, he says that nudity in the Bible is important because in the Garden of Eden it not only symbolizes innocence but acceptance also. Adam and Eve knew they were loved by God and therefore they were not ashamed to run around without the latest Gucci handbag or Abercrombie sweatshirt. They understood who they were because they were defined by God. God told them that they were beautiful and lovely and that they were His, and this was enough to make them okay with shrieking across the bushes of the Garden of Eden.

Now, obviously after the fall, things changed. We can no longer completely feel defined by God because too many times in a selfish society like our own, which has been tainted by sin, we are defined by not only what others think of us but by ourselves as well. The basic American phrase that screams from the Statue of Liberty and the halls of any local middle school is that, in the US, you can be whoever or whatever you want to be. You can change from brunette to blond, old to young, and even from black to white or vise versa (I know, scary right?). The problem with this? We can't define ourselves folks. The truth is most of us don't even understand ourselves. God knows every hair on my head, but most of the time I can't even decide what I want in not only a man but on the hamburger staring at me from the Burger King menu.

Also, others can't define us because somehow their definition of who we are also falls short. Because we are the ones who project who we are to others, they can never truly see the real us. I may act like a "have-it-all-together" type who knows exactly what she wants out of life, but does that mean this is true? No. We pick and choose what to show the world about ourselves and paint our outer shells with only the acceptable, exciting colors. I may have shades of pale blue and icky brown in my personage but that is something you may never know because, unlike God, you cannot see the inner workings of my heart (Thank God! Who knows what demented Crayola colors are in there).

Though, because of the fall, we cannot walk around naked and feel completely defined and loved by God like we use to feel, I believe there is something that comes pretty close. Before I begin to explain what I am talking about, allow me to say this. Before leaving college and heading to Pig ville (aka: Lexington), a few of my hall mates and I (And the hall mates will remain nameless not only for their protection but for mine in case they read this.) went skinny dipping. (And I do promise there is a reason I am posting this on a public blog; I am not completely ridiculous.) It intimidated me at first, allowing my friends to see the complete picture of me--flaws and all. However, after a while, it became refreshing. There is something wonderful about shedding your outer skin of clothing and allowing those close to you to see everything, the good and the bad, and knowing that they accept you anyway. Being open about my flaws and knowing that there was someone standing beside me doing the same and loving me despite these unpleasant sections of skin was pretty phenomenal.

I began to wonder why we don't do this sort of thing more often. No, not why don't we skinny dip and shriek more, but why do we hide behind layers of labels and secrecy instead of being open about our screw-ups. It is very rare to see heart to hearts in the modern-day church outside of high school D*Now weekends. It's as if when we enter the adult world, being a screw-up is just simply not acceptable anymore. In high school youth groups, one sees people lifting up personal struggles; however, in adult Sunday school classes usually the prayer requests involve either remote people who are going through health problems or folks we feel we need to bless because of their pitiful state which is so "below" our own. Now, I am not saying that Erma's heart condition or the starving children in Africa are not important. What I am saying is that I think we have forgotten how to be honest about our sin. I believe it is time for us to go on a skinny dipping trip of the heart. What do you think?

First Things First

So, a few of my friends recently told me to take up writing again. I honestly haven't penned a word that didn't reek of English paper since my eleventh grade year of high school. Because this is the case, I figured a blog would be a good start to "getting back into the swing of things." It's easier to start with "Today...blah blah blah" than to make "dark, stormy nights" interesting and original.

Because this is my first entry, I feel it would be fitting to state why I call this thing "Letters from the Editor." After all, I'm no Editor-in-Chief and if I wrote for the New York Times or The Atlantic Monthly, you definitely would have heard of me before now.

The first thing you should know is that I am an English major. Because of this, I can't help but try to form thematic statements for each year of my life. I love nothing more than to look back over the year and pinpoint the exact lesson or virtue that God was trying to instill in me. Doing this helps me not only connect the dots of various situations that would otherwise be random happenings (which honestly bother me...yes, I am a neurotic, closet control freak.) but also gives the "not-so-beautiful" things that happen a label. Giving hard things a label helps one deal with the why question. For example--Question: Why did I struggle with an eating disorder in high school? Answer: To help others later on who would confide in me about their own eating disorders.

So what's the problem with this philosophy? It has gaps. There are some things that are simply beyond explanation. There are even things, and I am sorry fellow creative writers slash grammarians, that are beyond words. For the first time in my life, when I look over this past year at the "Marriage Mill on the Hill" (better known as Covenant College) I can form no thematic statement. My sophomore year at college was full of random get-togethers with people I never saw again, friendships that fizzled out, gained fervor, and became...well...just plain weird, and hard situations that no matter how much logic I use cannot be placed into a singular box. I use to be able to reason my way out of everything, to make up analytical hypotheses that made each part of my life disectable and easy to deal with. I am no longer at that point.

I am beginning to learn that mysterious is okay. Life can't be diagrammed like sentences, and no matter how much I would like to tear apart the thesis of my own life like I do the papers that come by the writing center, the truth is, sometimes the thesis is that there is no thesis. I believe that the main thing God is and has been trying to teach me this past year is that I create thematic statements and overarching reasons that serve as notebook dividers in my whirlpool of a life because I like control. Labeling is easier than falling back in faith, hoping beyond all hope that someone is there to catch you when the shit hits the fan. I have, for most of my life, been trying to be the editor of my own book. Though I say all of the cliche' things like "God drives my car" and "God writes my love story," this is actually not true. Most of the time, I give God the ID tag that says Editor-in-Chief but treat him like my personal secretary.

I find all of the grammar mistakes in my work and try to fix the sentence fragments and awkward phrases myself. I take the red pen labeled "the blood of Jesus" from God's hand and scratch it across the surface of the paper, dividing, labeling, and outlining because it's a lot easier than trusting that the King of the Universe can do whatever he wants, whether it involve a thematic statement that I can identify or not. I am just now learning why I always try to edit my own mistakes and am discovering the value in simply "letting things be."

Because God has recently stopped bringing me Green Tea Frappes from Starbucks (which He obviously only did in my head) and has now told me to stop playing publicist of my own life, I have been demoted. I am no longer editor of my own life and have instead begun receiving letters from The Editor, whose formal name is Yahweh. So, I title this blog "Letters from the Editor" because over the summer I plan on receiving marked up copies of text for the first time in quite a while. If you want to learn more about my summer and my controlling ways, please continue reading as I receive "Letters from the Editor." Join me in attempting to listen to the Holy Spirit, shutting my big fat mouth when God tells me what's up, and dealing with my demotion to ambassador and secretary to the Editor-in-Chief on High!