Large Enough For Me

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love, but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.
-Emily Dickinson

I can remember doing a unit in my high school American Literature class on Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson and viewing it as a colossal waste of time. I hated poetry because it wasn't straightforward; it required a creative effort on the part of the reader (i.e. me). Now I pour over these words, perhaps because I've experienced just a little more life and I'm beginning to understand some of Dickinson's sentiments that I couldn't a few years ago. Maybe I've just learned to appreciate poetry in general a little more.

I can also remember sitting in the back of the classroom day after day, ignoring my seventh grade social studies teacher's lectures about African history. Now I'm struggling to manipulate my schedule to fit in an African Studies class next fall.

I wonder what I'm learning about these days that I will look back and wish I had given more attention to (I should probably start by spending less time whining about my schoolwork). Today my "little toil of love" involves a lesson in empathy for my future clients with voice disorders, as I myself have lost my voice. It is definitely large enough for me.

What We Had For Dinner

I just finished watching Hotel Rwanda.

I'm utterly confused about the state of the world, especially with regards to international diplomacy. I realize that many of the scenes in the movie were sensationalized, but I cannot ignore the fact that it's based on a true story. Real people. Real families. Real children. 1,000,000 of them.

One of the themes that I picked up on centered around the moment of realization of the bystander apathy infecting one's culture. Paul (Cheadle) was a Hutu. At first he attempted to look away as his own people began to slaughter hundreds of Tutsis, his neighbors included; he claimed that his "family is the only thing that matters." But he could not ignore for long.

I am an American, and although I was only six when this conflict took place, it was my country, the leaders that we elected, that supported UN withdrawal from Rwanda. Our leaders dismissed the issue as insignificant and isolated "acts of genocide." We abandoned them...why?

I'll admit that I know very little about this matter, but allow me to venture a guess: "The economy, stupid." What had Rwanda to offer us? Would things have been different if she had oil reserves to power our SUVs or diamonds to perpetuate our long-standing (est. 1948) traditions?

How does a person arrive at a point in his life at which he is capable of assigning greater value to some material good than to human life? Or deciding that the protection of hundreds of thousands of children and their families is not worth our precious time and resources? I am not pointing my finger; for we as citizens of a sickeningly wealthy democracy are just as guilty as the crooked politicians that we elect. We all looked away.

Jack (Phoenix), the American camera-man, recognized the bystander apathy of his country:

Paul Rusesabagina: I am glad that you have shot this footage and that the world will see it. It is the only way we have a chance that people might intervene.
Jack: Yeah and if no one intervenes, is it still a good thing to show?
Paul Rusesabagina: How can they not intervene when they witness such atrocities?
Jack: I think if people see this footage they'll say, "oh my God that's horrible," and then go on eating their dinners.

------

I wonder what my family had for dinner that night.

Self-Control is the New Patience

Yesterday morning I was running on the indoor track at Ramsey when God let me know what was about to happen in my life, at least in the arena of character development: self-control.

So joy is the new compassion in that it just kind of sprouted up in me without my notice; and self-control is the new patience, for I have a feeling that I am about to be painfully aware of its lessons.

"It is not good to eat too much honey,
nor is it honorable to seek one's own honor.
Like a city whose walls are broken down
is a man who lacks self-control."
-Proverbs 25:27-28

I kind of feel like I don't fully understand this metaphor because our cities don't have walls, but I imagine that the walls were established to protect the city's inhabitants. The guards at the gates could regulate what went out as well as what came in, and certainly the walls made the city a safer place.

I tend to associate self-control with the regulation of one's actions; a self-controlled person does not hurt others, but keeps the bad things that are inside from escaping. But in this context, it appears that self-control is more about self-protection than the protection of others from self.

Maybe effective self-control starts sooner than we think; for if we filter what comes through the gates, we need not worry about what exits through them.

Better Things Ahead

"Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind." -C.S. Lewis

Death is an exceedingly difficult concept to grasp because of its stark permanent nature; we cannot understand it fully because every aspect of our world is temporal, at least to some degree. Less and less frequently I am reminded of a friend of mine that passed away about two months ago. Admittedly, we were not very close, and unfortunately, two months would not have been an unusual amount of time to pass between visits for us. Nevertheless, I knew her well enough to deeply regret the fact that I did not make a greater effort to get to know her more.

I wonder about her from time to time - where exactly she is - what her existence is like - and whether it is even something that I could comprehend as I am now. Some nights I cannot sleep because all the memories - the thoughts, the images, events, meals shared, conversations, and jokes - keep running through my head. How much more is this magnified in the minds of those that knew her best?

Tonight is one of those nights; my heart is filled with an overwhelming sense of compassion for her family, especially her mother, for I know what it feels like to lose your best friend so suddenly and unexpectedly. I know what it's like to want desperately to think and feel the "right" things, but to have so very many questions, and to struggle every hour of every day to trust God and believe that His plan and His timing are perfect. I also know what it feels like when the wounds start to heal. My prayers and my heart are with her tonight, though, in all likelihood, she will never know it.

Free as a Bird

"Oh, blessed be God! He didn't go off and leave us. He didn't abandon us defenseless, helpless as a rabbit in a pack of snarling dogs. We've flown free from their fangs, free from their traps, free as a bird. Their grip is broken; we're free as a bird in flight. God's strong name is our help, the same God who made heaven and earth."
-Psalm 124:6-8 (The Message)

Misguided Insects

I wake up some mornings to find pieces of myself - I'm unsure of exactly which portion of "self" I am referring to: soul, spirit, heart, mind, personality, etc. - missing. Maybe I've just misplaced it, but certainly, like everyone else on this planet, I have been jaded by life. Sometimes it's a passion or dream that slowly fades and eventually disappears altogether by the gradual process of erosion; parts of me, my hope, my openness, my trust, are gently swept away, piece by individually insignificant piece. Perhaps they find a new place "down-river," or end up in the same place as lost weight.

Something happens that shatters my confidence, or worse, pride sneaks its way into my attitude, suffocating the small amount of mercy and patience struggling to survive there. A plan I made the mistake of hoping in falls through and I temporarily lose my ability to dream in the way that, until recently, has always come so naturally for me. I must constantly remind myself of What exactly it is that I am living for, while an unsettling sentence is whispered in my ear over and over again: You are not the bright young woman you had imagined yourself to be, but rather just a silly little girl.

These parts are chipped away in chunks - lopped off like the small hand of an African boy that hasn't even lived long enough to do wrong (I realize that I am referencing yet another morbid scene brought to us by Hollywood [Blood Diamond], but this one haunts me as well. Something in my heart tells me that it is an unfortunately euphemistic portrayal of a much more gruesome reality than any of us "misguided insects*" care to entertain the thought of).

So here I find myself in a life full of comfort. I have everything I need, practically every (material) thing I want, and much more. So why, at 19, do I have moments in which I feel so thin and weary, at least in spirit? Moments in which I wonder what, if anything, could possibly be left of "me" in five more years of life? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? Barring infection, the boy and I will most likely survive our injuries, but his body and my heart will never be quite the same as they once were - for just as some wounds can be healed, some losses are unsalvageable.

*This comes from January 1979, a mewithoutYou song