yes, i like church (most of the time)

My faith is my life. It is not just part of my life. It consists of all of who I am. Even when I walk in cynicism, and I am extremely off-focus, my life is still my faith.

Maybe it comes as a surprise to some, as I am not any sort of stereotypical happy all the time and let me preach to everyone sorta Christian. I normally don't talk about it, unless it comes up in conversation because I don't like to push anything on anyone. But quite often, it does come up, because it is my life. It's casual. "Janelle, what did you do this week?" I could respond, such as this week, I went to the beach with my church group, or I went to a bible study, or I hung out with people (and some of these people I know through these things). So it does come up.

But, a lot of people go to church. People who don't give a crap about it go to church. A lot of people go to church and are completely bored. Not so with me. I go to church and I am usually engaged, or fascinated, or just feel extremely loved in the community of people who care about me a lot.

It bothers me when people interpret my church-going as something I just do because I am supposed to. I am very rebellious by nature and I don't do anything just because I'm expected to. I've noticed that people take their church experiences and apply it to me. Because they go to a boring church must mean that all churches are like that I think it's funny that because I am generally a sarcastic person, some people interpret my liking of church as me just being factitious.

I work close sometimes on Saturday nights. And that's my least favorite shift because we usually get out of there late and I have to wake up early for church. Waking up early is probably the thing I hate most about church (this is why I love churches that do later services, but alas, my current church doesn't). One time when we were getting out super late, a shift supervisor said something along the lines of "It's ok, you can sleep in anyways." And I am like, "No, we have to get out as soon as we can. I have church, and I am not missing it again." And something would be said like "Oh, God will forgive you."

And that gets me mad. I don't treat church like religion. If I want to miss it, I will. I didn't go to church for a long time but was still a practicing Christian involved in bible studies and college fellowships. I know that "God will forgive me" if I don't go to church. What is not understood, is that I have an actual desire to be there. It is often the best part of my week and I absolutely hate missing out.

My faith has been a little dry lately, so sometimes what I do feels like I'm just going through religious motions. But then I realize, this is all I got left. My personal prayer life is practically dead...but the encouragment I get from church and different groups keeps afloat and keeps me from turning away from God. God uses brothers and sisters in the body of Christ to communicate to me how much he loves me since I most of the time refuse to listen to him directly.

But despite this phase, I love Christ, will give up my life for him and I genuinely do enjoy being a Christian, no matter how sarcastic and cynical I get. I hated church for a long time as a Christian, because I did not understand its function in my personal walk with God. Sometimes it felt like relationships with Jesus, put out on a performance stage. But nowadays, I have developed a genuine love for church and a continuous desire to be there. That's all I got now, unfortunately. But I will work with that.

an afterthought edit: As I am reading through this, I realize I care too much about what people think. I write this blog as a sort of defense. But I don't think I care only what they think of me. I want people to understand faith differently, and that's why I care.

more and more human

Let's be honest. Most of my life has been spent on some cloud somewhere. I exiled myself there, because I did not want to face life as it really was. Lately, I've been floating down to the surface. I wrote a couple months ago that reality is hitting me like a ton of bricks. Now it's not. Now I'm floating, I am not being slammed down.

I am bruised by the bricks. I am still mourning the life I would've wanted. But I am better. Reality is making me stronger. Actually, it's making me weaker. But when I am weak, then I am strong.

More importantly, it's making me more relate able. I am not on some super spiritual high. It's good when that happens. It's good when you get a good super-charge of the holy spirit. But that's not where I am currently. Not like it isn't there. The spirit is keeping me afloat.

But I am more relate able after seeing my own sin clearer than ever. Through this I can better understand other people, and I am less inclined to judge. I have always been very accepting of all sorts of people but I have never understood how to interact with all types of people. I am still learning.

Work has been helping me. Sometimes my co-workers are such a pain. Sometimes they're wonderful. When people used to talk down to me, I used to ignore it completely and pretend it didn't happen. But I won't stand for it anymore. If someone, out of stress and tiredness, says something a little off to me, I might respond killing them with kindness or I completely ignoring the comment. But sometimes people need to know. For example, someone used to keep misinterpreting my body language and vocal tones. I had to absolutely communicate to her that this was all in her head. Starbucks is not my ideal job, but here, I am becoming more real with people. I am learning to take their punches and reply honestly when I need to.

in fact, i did write a poem today...

which i will post everywhere. even if it is crap.

I wear brokenness around my neck –

It's a green scarf with stripes- tattered but still fashionable.

I hide myself in it to keep from sudden exposure

To the crashing sky that breathes

Heavy, knockyaover winds

I carry brokenness with me

Slung upon one aching shoulder

- a quilted bag, each patch telling

stories of a place once strange to me.

stories I have chosen to forget.

I punch brokenness through the holes in my body

The black and white half moons dangle,

dragging my ears down with their weight

But vain beauty keeps them there all day.

My brokenness attracts other people.

The vivid colors, intricate patterns

Sometimes begs the question-

"Where did you get it?"

I am hesitant to reply. I don't want to brag.

As I stutter the place's name I still sound

Exotic. Lovely. Noble.

I am not those things.

I do not know why I choose to wear these pieces.

Especially when it relates to a place I'd care not

To re-visit. Perhaps because I can only be

At least a shadow of the girl I once was. But each

Accessory has brought the demise of that form of me.

I can't look back. Not even with the reminders.

I wear my brokenness as novelty now-

paraded with pride, people mistaking it with loveliness.

In private, I notice the scheme but

It's the only way it will fit.

cannot serve two masters

When I consider my current options and what I want to do, I cannot help but feel a little burdened.

I know I need to make money right now. I have bills to pay. I have college loans and a car lease.

But I don't want the rat race. I don't wanna be another fighting commuter and spend hours in a car each day. I don't want to live in a suburb where I drive at least 30 minutes to do most things I like to do. I don't want a job that overloads with me with work til I burn out completely.

I want to: live near my work, have enough free time to generously my time up, live in community, learn how to garden, be able to walk/bike everywhere, not feel so burdened by money, have adventures, have purpose, not want for anything.

I want to work for a church or para-organization. But how much do they pay? Not enough.
But then I am simply thinking about this in human terms. Doesn't God promise if we seek his kingdom, he will provide? I am so quick to doubt. So quick to worry about money and security (something I never thought I'd be worried about).

Part of me wants to move out of Northern Virginia very badly. But I am too scared to leave. Too scared to try to make it on my own without first having a full-salaried job. I am complacent and stuck, and maybe even a little lazy.

You cannot serve both God and money.

on my writing block

Anyone who reads my blog might assume I am depressed most of the time, going from highs to lows- but that's just what gets recorded. My blog entries are the edited clips of my life. Most of the time I am rather mellow and complacent. Though, it's easy for me drop fast. But then again, I am a writer.

I don't know what the deal is about the link between the ability to write and one's mental health. I love reading author biographies in the Norton Anthologies I had in school. They all seemed to end up with some futile, hopeless fate. They get severely depressed and throw themself into a river; they are sick of society's restrictions and decide a pill overdose will release them from their marital problems; they become chronic alcoholics and can never seem to find a fulfilling relationship.

I guess I dwell on all of this to admit that I'm scared of writing. I've not written a story or a poem in a matter of months. I keep wondering what aside from laziness is keeping me from my craft.I write to tell the truth. And the truth is often depressing as hell.

Some writers can write depressing stories of life's truthful pains and somehow sound irreverent. One can read it, sorta feel bad, but all at the same time, draw a wicked smile out of the story. I guess that's why I am so drawn to black comedy. That's why I'm so prone to sarcasm and cynicism.But even that is self-defeating. And people don't often read sarcasm in my stories, they read the defeat. Even though I have a distinct capability to stay irreverent in my verbal interactions, it does not translate into my writing.Is it from being just an amateur writer, or is it just not who I really am?

The truth is this: I am unlike those writers who bestowed wicked fates upon themselves. I have hope. Yes, I am mildly depressed, but out of the cracks that run through me, there's light that can't wait to tear through. Light hurts. I don't know how much people realize that when contrasting light and darkness. Darkness is comfortable. It hurts a lot more to sit with the lights shining bright on you. It's exposing. Christians are representations of Christ's light. I am a Christian. Yet I am sitting here, in a dim lit room, all too comfortable where I am.

A lot of writers dwell in darkness the whole time. That's why I cannot read a lot of writers I want to read and I cannot write a whole lot right now. Only a certain amount of darkness is comfortable for me. Any more will swallow me whole.The real challenge is how can I be a writer who dwells in light? Wouldn't I rather be that? Wouldn't that be less life-draining and more life-giving? Wouldn't that remove the cliche of becoming a hopelessly depressed writer with nothing but haze in front of them?

I used to do it. My most inspired times of writing have resulted outof very intimate quiet times hearing from God. But I haven't had it for awhile. So all I can offer my pages is quiet hollowness and doubt.

I've been avoiding writing while simultaneously avoiding my relationship with my Creator, who helps me create. It's time to embrace both. It's time to sit in some light.

I almost wrote a poem today

Sometimes you can distance yourself from something for such a long time, that you forget how to reconnect.

For example, today I had a very big poetic thought. It was very vivid and almost inspirational, but once I got it on paper, the idea flopped. I need to re-visit it. Re-visiting is the only way to get over this slump.

I was at an advent gathering, and we had some quiet time to reflect on peace (because the candle of peace got lit today). I wrote out some of the things I needed peace over. As I was doing this and reflecting on my woes, I looked back on myself. I've been wearing a whole lot of stuff I acquired in Kenya lately. I find that interesting because Kenya broke me a lot, and it's like I'm wearing my brokenness. So the poem's about wearing your brokeness around your neck, slung on your shoulders and various other things, but I just don't know how to connect that back to Kenya in the poem. I don't know how to complete the metaphor.

Maybe I need to read some Billy Collins- he's not overly concerned about making the language overly elegant- he speaks in very down to earth, everyday terms that somehow connect beautifully. Maybe after reading other poems, I can sit down and write.