Dry Bones.

“…So now I’m just going to let them tell their own stories.” Yay, testimony time, I would think sarcastically. My unfavorite time of youth-led Sunday nights. It was at this point that the new converts in our Jesus fraternity would tell of the harrows of life before Christ and of their miraculous changes, theologically, mentally, and, in the really good ones, physically. Now, please don’t misunderstand my cynicism here: I fully believe in the complete transformation from nonbeliever in any state of disrepair to son or daughter of God; if I didn’t, there would be little point in me trying to have a meaningful relationship with the Savior. My eye rolling is born of my partially self-imposed feelings of inadequacy as a member of the fraternity. It seemed to me that since I had not done drugs, drunk alcohol, participated in sexual promiscuity – or any other cardinal sin as defined by the church – that my story was, in fact, not a story at all.

There is a churchy witticism used to describe people like me: those of us who have been to church every Wednesday night and twice every Sunday since we were fetuses (or is it “feti”?) are said to have “cut our teeth on the church pews.” I am just such a person. My conversion experience took place at a small, country Church of God during a children’s crusade when a clown prayed for me. I was a visitor of my beloved babysitter, who sat right next to me as the minister asked if anyone wanted to ask Jesus to live in his or her heart. My facially painted, pig-tailed little self was ready. Immediately following the sinner’s prayer, I commenced a life of boring persistence on the straight and narrow. I wasn’t, of course, sinless – my sister especially would find that laughable – but I never committed a sin dramatic enough for one of these happily-ever-after confessions in front of the congregation. As any youth grouper can tell you, Barbie-mansion-coveter-turned-Christian is not so awe-inspiring as druggie-turned-Christian. Unless, I suppose, you coveted the Barbie mansion enough to steal it, leading to a life of thievery. But then, you’d be thief-turned-Christian, and that’s back to being a great story.

But all the “great stories” kept me wondering, What are we really saying about God here? In throwing into the limelight all the tales of sin and woe, were we truthfully representing God? It seemed as though we were just running PSAs like, “This is your brain on sin. This is your brain on Jesus.” The fact is, while 360-degree metamorphoses are possible and laudable and inspiring and miraculous, the story of Jesus is a lot bigger than that. Jesus is a brother, a friend, a comforter, the lifter of our heads. When all we do is present Him as the One who helps us kick the habit, we’re reducing Him to an AA leader. What about the less dramatic stories, such as a long-term Christian finding new life in Him? What about someone realizing what grace really means? What about someone forgiving her husband? What about someone discovering how deep the love of Jesus goes? What about just plain old talking about the remarkableness of Christ Jesus our Lord, apart from what He’s done?

Anyway, one afternoon I remember telling a fellow youth grouper’s mom about my frustration with testimony time. She played her role perfectly and gave me the party line for born-and-bred youth groupers: “You know, Amie, your testimony is that God kept you from all of that.” Gee, thanks. That’ll make a great anticlimactic yarn for the next Sunday night testimony extravaganza.

Years after I stopped going to the transformation festivals, but still long before I knew that youth group had done anything to me other than make me mad, I found myself as a nineteen-year-old college student at a Christian university in my hometown. A music-only worship service was my engagement for the evening, and during one song I lifted my hands in surrender to and adoration of God. He spoke to me more clearly than I ever would’ve dreamed possible and, consequently, scared the mess out of me. He gave me a glimpse of what he intended for me to become and, just as quickly, an understanding of all the sludge we’d have to take care of before I could get there.

To be truthful, my story still would not excite those looking for juicy chronicles of heathen conversion; despite all of my wishes to the contrary, I never got into the gossip-worthy sins that produced hanky-waves and “Yes, Lord”s from the church. However, God miraculously exchanged my selfish, angry heart for a joyful, Christ-seeking one. He breathed life into my dry bones in a spiritual reenactment of Ezekiel’s vision. And not only that, he walked with me through heartbreaking, challenging times to a place of peace and refreshment before telling me to saddle up again, we were headed back out for war. Perhaps my testimony is in having watched the spotlight shine time and again on these dramatic transformations – and experiencing the pleasure that these people brought our youth pastor – knowing that I would never be able to do the same, knowing that my story was not shocking enough. Yet, by the grace of God, I still grew up to seek a relationship with my Savior. Personally, I think that deserves a hanky-wave any day.

Dad.

I break from our regularly scheduled programming—the Jeff-and-Amie love fest, if you remember—to wish a happy birthday to one of my favorite people, my dad. Here are a few of the reasons why I’m crazy about him, just the first ones that popped into my head:

· He used to lie on the foot of my bed and read to me from a comic-book-style Bible with my panda puppet on his hand.

· He sings all the time when going through the house, usually hymns—hymns which have become incredibly precious to me, due to his and my mom’s influence.

· He takes the worst for himself and offers the best to Mom, my sister, Jeff, and me.

· He started a tradition nine years ago of “family game night,” which was on Fridays until I moved out, Sundays until Jeff and I moved to Virginia, and whenever we can now that we live 7 hours apart.

· Once upon a time, he separated a plastic blue egg and put one half on each of his eyes before “reading” a book to me.

· He keeps himself healthy, eating sensibly and working out regularly.

· He taught me about football.

· He taught me about God.

· He taught me how to teach.

· He listens to me rant and rave about anything I want to rant and rave about.

· He has a lot of really funny facial expressions and will let you take pictures of them if you’re fast enough.

· He has a believable “courtesy laugh” for when your joke isn’t funny but he doesn’t want you to feel awkward. I have yet to master this talent.

· He listens when people talk.

· He opens the door for my mom anytime they go anywhere, and he walks beside or slightly behind her.

· He’s hysterically funny.

· He’s almost always right about everything.

· He understands people and things to their very core.

· He’s a role model in every sense of the word.

· He loves my mom more than he loves himself.

· He loves my husband.

· He loves my sister.

· He loves me.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD! I love you so much and hope to be a lot like you when I grow up.

Kaleidoscopes.

There’s something deliciously confessional about a blog, isn’t there? Things I would never actually say, for fear that it’s just too corny or insignificant, I feel free enough to present to the entire cyberspace world to peruse at its whim, should it so desire. Case in point: the reasoning behind naming this blog “The Kaleidoscope.”

It’s a great word.

Well, that, and the word kaleidoscope comes from two Greek roots: kalos, meaning “beautiful,” and eidos, meaning “form.” Don’t ooh and ahh just yet; the word gets better. The suffix –scope means “instrument for viewing, observing, or examining.” Therefore, a kalos-eidos-scope is an apparatus specifically designed to show the viewer everything beautiful in a particular design or shape. A kaleidoscope’s raison d’être is to suffuse beauty into someone’s immediate vision. Which is kind of our mission as responsible humans, right? Isn’t the Golden Rule all about upping the world beauty quotient a little?

So this blog is The Kaleidoscope because being a kaleidoscope is my goal. (I know that sounds cheesy, but hey, I’m in confessional mode here.) My life ought to consist of a shifting and colorful design of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. I ought to be living beautifully.

I must admit, though, living beautifully has proven enormously challenging up here in Virginia. My days are filled with nothing but reading and writing in my second language, which is shaky even on my best days. I work my derrière off and make decent, but not great, grades. Those factors (and others of which I will spare you) add up to major discouragement a lot of the time, and to make it worse, I’m not sure why I’m doing it all. My life’s dream is not moving to a Francophone country or being a scholar of French literature.

But here’s what I do know about language: it’s a kaleidoscope. Language is an instrument that lets you see the beautiful forms of life around the world. You don’t learn a language so you can speak it; you learn a language so you can hear it, so you can appreciate the beauty that is other cultures, other colors, other designs of life. And here’s what I know about God: he’s the power behind the kaleidoscope. He shifts people and their talents around to create intricate and lovely designs that saturate the world in beauty. His grace allows us to see the magnificence of the world; indeed, his grace is the magnificence of the world. The changing colors of leaves and flowers, the prisms tucked away in dewdrops, the rainbows spread from east to west: it’s all kalos eidos, beautiful forms.

It may be years before I know why God opened the door for me to study French at the University of Virginia; by all accounts, I don’t belong here. But until I get my next set of marching orders, I’m just going to try to live like a kaleidoscope.