Why the Women of Fellowship Church Won’t Let Me Settle

A little over a week ago, I spent the afternoon with a woman who I refer to as “My Adoptive Church Mother”.  We spent hours talking catching up on one another’s lives and enjoying each other.  At one point in the conversation, after telling her about some of my more recent and painful “romantic failures” she looked me in the eye and asked:

“Patrick, have you been settling when you’ve pursued this women?”

I don't think her question sank in until today. For some crazy reason today during my 9½ minutes of morning prayer I uttered the request: “God, please show me what you want for me in a wife”.  I had no idea that my request would be answered as quickly and loudly as it was.

I went to church this morning, MY church, Fellowship in Chippewa Falls Wisconsin.  It is the only body of believers where I have ever felt that I truly belong as myself without even a hint of pretense. The members of the Fellowship Community help me live more and more like Jesus every day.

Soon after arriving at the movie theater where our services take place, I was elated to see my Church Mother by the coffee cart, as she has been absent from services for about the past month for a very good reason.  After a heart-felt hug and a brief conversation, we both were herded, along with the rest of the attendees, into Theater 3 because we always have the intention of starting on time.  While I was walking to my seat I couldn’t help but think how much this woman inspires me.  She is devoted and passionate about bringing grace to graceless spaces, she’s always been honest with her wounds and her mistakes, she’s strong, kind and compassionate, this woman is a warrior in every sense of the term, and I love her for it (and love the fact that she’s vocal about spiritually adopting me).

After getting to my seat I watched a brief intro video and then woman from our church stood up and talked about her ministry in Liberia, West Africa and her recent trip to that country.  Through passion and obedience this woman has joined God in accomplishing amazing things.  In less then a year, schools have been built, wells have been dug, pastors have been trained, and relationships have been formed that will positively influence generations of rural Liberians.  While she was talking I penned in my journal that my prayer had been answered: that God wants (and has designed) my wife to be extremely passionate about serving people in need and obedient to Him, even when it doesn’t make any logical or emotional sense.

Then, as if my prayer hadn't been answered enough, after the service I joined some friends at Culver’s for lunch.  During our time there my Church Mother, one of my friends, and the wife of another friend led a discussion about what it would look like to create a group for women that would promote further community and integrity among them.  While listening to these three women talk I realized that I was witnessing something that was simply otherworldly: from the Kingdom.

Today, I caught a glimpse of my future wife’s character through the women of Fellowship Church in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin.  The majority of the women I just wrote about are already married.  However, that fact doesn’t make me despondent: thinking that “All The Good Ones” are already taken.  It actually makes me really hopeful because I know that as I continue in community with these women, women like them, and Fellowship as a whole I simply won’t be able to settle for anything less than amazing, passionate, captivating woman of integrity: the women of Fellowship won’t allow it.

Freedom and Hope: God Speaking Through Johnny Cash

Today has exhausted me: emotionally, mentally, and physically.  If I were to take the time to explain all the conflict that has culminated in my life today it would take me hours to write it all out.  

My heart has heard from several sources that I’m not good enough and I’ll never find love.  I’ve found victory from my demons only to give into them hours later.  I’ve been excited about who God is and what He is doing in my life and the lives of those around me only to call Him an implacable prick before the day’s end.  I’ve cried my eyes out, cursed, praised, ranted, raved, and prayed. 

Through the din of it all God’s still, small voice has repeated, “Pat, I love you.”.

This afternoon with the scent of sin still on my collar I sat down with Johnny Cash’s autobiography.  He writes the first chapter from the porch of his vacation home in Jamaica and gives a short overview of his life.  At the end of the chapter he gives a list of the things he is thankful for.  It includes a comfortable pair of shoes, a loving wife and family, the song of birds, and his musical talent.  The last thing he listed was the most encouraging to me.  It is as follows:

Finally, I’m thankful, very thankful, that at this moment I have absolutely no craving for any kind of drug.  I’ve been up almost three hours today and this is the first time I’ve though about it, and even then it’s in the spirit of gratitude.  So my disease isn’t active.  Last night I saw a bottle of wine passed around the table, and I never once thought about taking even a sip of it, (So why am I thinking about it now? Watch it Cash! Gotta never be complacent.  Never take anything for granted.  Don’t forget, great prices have been paid and will be paid again if you get too smug, too egotistical and self-assured.)            Cash pp 9-10

Porn, lust, gorgeous women, brandy, cigarettes and violence will always exist during my lifetime.  My sinful desires and actions don’t have to.  I want to know the freedom Johnny Cash felt at his dinner table in Jamaica; when a full and open bottle of an old demon passed in front of him and his only response was a resounding “No”.

I can be free if I commit to walking the long and often lonely road to recovery. Hearing my brothers, men I love and respect, share their struggles and commit to stand beside me in my fight is what keeps me going.  They’re teaching me how to hope.

So, for all of you who have put a dog in my fight: Thank You.  I Encourage You To Join Me In Staying The Course and Keeping Our Eyes Fixed On Him Who Loves Us.

“But in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through [Jesus] who loved us.”

-Romans 8:37 NASB

Here's To Today

Here's to today...
          a day lived on too little sleep and even less motivation to put x's in the blanks next to my
          to-do list

Here's to today...
          a day with expectations looming overhead like dark rain clouds yet only the desire to
          read, write,  hear, and speak poetry

Here's to today...
          one lived in the knowledge of grace; not from the ever-widening and rising volume of
          theology, but rather from having fallen face first and trying to get up again

Here's to today...
          the good, the bad; the monotony, the excitement; and everything in between

Here's to today...
          because it is today and
          it is all we'll ever have

Staying In The Fight

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything substantial enough to post. 

When I think about why this is, I give myself (and others who ask) excuses.  I’ve been busy with school and work, it’s been hunting season and then the holidays, I’ve been tired, and so on and so on.  If I’m honest I have to say that I’ve been avoiding my keyboard. Avoiding the emotional landslide that will inevitably come when I sit down and try to articulate how I feel about what’s been going on in my life recently.

I try to convince myself that I’m fine, or at least I’m doing the best that I can given the circumstances.  But a dwindling supply of pipe tobacco and a recycling bin full of empty beer and whisky bottles tell a different story.

The past few months have been a roller coaster of experiences and emotions.  First off, I started being a full-time student again, back at UW-Eau Claire taking the classes I need to in order to apply to Medical School.  This act alone has brought me an excess of new but oddly familiar experiences.  While I still go to the same campus and do homework at the same coffee shop that I have been for 6 years almost everything else is different.  I’ve switched the focus of my study from the humanities to hard science, I’ve had to learn to pick out a whole new set of faces from the crowds in the student union, and I have to constantly explain that I’m 24, already have a degree, and am hoping to get into medical school by 2013, graduate when I'm 30, and be employable a decade from now.

In the personal arena, the recent months have brought just as much excitement and hardship.  I’ve discovered and cultivated a new community here in Eau Claire, I’ve organized a cigar and steak fundraiser to help Healing Hands Global in Honduras, camped out for Bon Iver tickets (not to mention actually going to that amazing concert), gone on random adventures, and had countless meaningful conversations with close friends and relative strangers.

By far the hardest thing that has happened to me recently is the illness and death of my Grandpa.  He was hospitalized in October with pneumonia 5 days before what was supposed to be one last trip to what we call “The Duck Farm”.  Instead of spending 4 days together with him, my dad, and my brother eating pancake breakfasts, hunting, playing cards, and listening to Grandpa’s stories we spent our time there packing up the cabin and preparing it to be sold.  The Duck Farm simply wasn’t the same without Grandpa there.   

Grandpa died on December 9^th after 3 bouts with pneumonia, a blood infection, and other complications that simply come with being 86 years old.  His funeral was an amazing time of closure for me.  For the first time I can remember, I saw pictures of him in the Navy during WWII, the one thing he never talked about.  Other pictures were from times I did hear about: his childhood, his career as an industrial arts teacher, and even him smoking his pipe.  The funeral was also a clarifying moment.  I didn’t cry until I saw my friend Renee Wurzer (who I often call my adopted church mother) at the back of the church.  She drove from Chippewa Falls to the Twin Cities with my friends Carl and Curt to come and support me through my time of need.  Even now, 3 weeks later, the memory of their support is bringing me to tears.

I’ve been avoiding writing because I’ve been avoiding my emotions, stuffing them down by whatever means necessary (social events, drinks, and television are the main tools).  Truly feeling, truly giving my emotions free reign to be would cause me to fall apart.  In my mind I simply cannot do that right now, or ever really.

Sunday morning, Perry challenged our church as a whole to commit to truly believing that God is good for the entirety of 2012.  That challenge is haunting in light of what I’ve just written about.  God is asking me to come alive and be an active collaborator with Him in the world that surrounds me.  Facing my emotions and what lies underneath them is the starting point to coming alive.  Falling apart under the weight of what has happened recently will force me to trust His goodness, something I haven’t done fully ever before in my life.

I’ve also being reading through the end of Luke’s account of Jesus’ life.  The most recent passages have been talking about what will happen before “the Kingdom comes”, things like wars, turmoil, plagues, natural disasters, and famines.  What God’s been teaching me through these Scriptures  has nothing to do with the Apocalypse or His second coming, but rather the coming of His Kingdom into my life for the first time in a meaningful way.

And it’s not going to be an easy process, full of puppies, in-flight movies, and tasty treats.  It has already a knock-down-drag-out, no-holds-barred, brawl and it has just begun.  This fight will either end in my spiritual death or my spiritual freedom, either way I’m going to end up bloodied and exhausted.

I’m a weakling, in no way capable of putting up a fight against the evil that I must face.  Luckily, I’m not the only one fighting on my side.  The Great Enabler is in my corner and He’s promised He will give me the strength and the wisdom necessary to continue on. I just need to stay in the fight.

Facing My Portrait

Dust-filled rays of light hit my face and slowly bring me to. As I open my eyes I realize I’m in an unfamiliar place with no recollection of how I got here.  I roll myself off the mattress onto the floor and get myself to my feet.  I look around and find a pile of neatly folded clothes and a note at the head of the bed. 

The clothes are simple: sandals, boot-cut jeans, a white v-neck t-shirt, and a brown knit beanie.  I put all of it on quickly to chase off the cold air that’s been setting in and the hat serves the additional purpose of hiding the unruly hair-do the night has produced. 

Then I turn my attention to the note.  It has my name on the front in plain but beautiful script.  I unfold it and read: “Come to the studio, coffee’s on”.  I still don’t know where I am, but coffee sounds good so I exit the room I’m in through its only door.  The scent of coffee leads me to a large room that has paint on the floors and lots of windows that let the light flood in.  In the middle there’s a wooden stool with an empty mug on it.  As I reach the stool, a man walks through the room’s other door with a large French Press in his left hand and painting supplies tucked under his right arm.  He looks strangely familiar but I can’t put a finger on why.  He’s probably in his early 30s and definitely looks like an artist.  His hair is kinda curly and goes down to his shoulders and he has a neatly trimmed beard.  He’s wearing a plaid shirt, khaki pants, and skate shoes; all of which look like they’ve seen better days.

He starts a bit when he sees me, drops one of his sketchbooks.  While he picking up the sketchbook up off the floor says, “Oh, I’m glad you’re up.  I didn’t expect you this early.  Just give me a few minutes to get everything read,”.  After setting the coffee down on one of the workbenches that line all four walls, he disappears into the next room.  I reluctantly walk towards the bench and pour myself a cup of coffee.  More questions swirl through my head as I blow on the coffee to cool it before my first sip.

A few minutes later he comes back into the room with his hair in a messy ponytail and carrying an easel and a large white canvas.  I decide its time that I figure some stuff out.

“So, where am I? And who the hell are you? I appreciate the coffee and all but I’d really like to get back to my place ASAP.”

“Wow, I can’t believe I’ve been so rude.  You got me kinda flustered when you came in on me during the middle of set up.  Well, I’m…Jesus and we’re in our Father’s house.”

“Ah shit, am I dead?  I meant shoot, sorry. But for real, am I dead? What did I do?”

“Relax you’re not dead.  You’re here so I can paint your portrait.  Father wants you to see it.”

“Wait, aren’t you a carpenter?”

“Yeah, but I have hobbies…and I’m getting pretty good at it.” He says with a grin. “Just take a seat and I’ll get started.  Oh, do you want some music on?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

He picks up a remote and instrumental hip-hop begins to play as finishes setting up.  With me sitting on the stool He sets up the easel in front of me but turned so I can’t see it.  When He starts painting I will be directly to His left.  After He gets all His paint and brushes out He rolls up His sleeves, kicks off His shoes to reveal bare feet, and picks up a paintbrush.  As He approaches the easel He stretches out a bit, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  He starts slowly but increases His pace and intensity.

After a while there’s joy on His face, excitement in His eyes, and paint all over His clothes.  Even though He’s working at a frantic pace, He’s deliberate.  He stops and takes a minute or two to mix several colors into a perfect hue before starting again.  Every once in a while puts the brush between His teeth, takes a few steps back,  nods and starts to smile. He walks back to the easel to paint again shaking with excitement and energy that has built up during the brief pause.

I watch Him for hours, seemingly unnoticed now; unable to see the progression.  Finally, while He’s five steps away He looks at me and does His best to says “Pat, you gotta see this” without losing grip of the brush between his molars.

I’m afraid to see what he’s been painting—what He truly thinks of me.  I’ve seen the colors He’s been mixing recently: swirls of black, grey, navy blue, and deep purple.  He must be putting the final touches on the spectra of darkness that I’ve seen in myself for years.  I tell Him I already know what it’s going to look like and would rather not see it.

Then, He turns His entire body towards me, takes the brush out of his mouth and says, “Pat, really, just come and see.”

“I can’t, I won’t.” I tell Him as I begin to cry.  I’m convinced that this will be the final cosmic kick in the teeth, confirming that all I am is a mixture of dark hues.

But not knowing what else to do I start making a long arc so I can see His work from a distance.  Within a few steps I can see the top corner, its color is what I expected: a kind of darkness that doesn’t even exist in my worst nightmares.  This takes my knees out from underneath me and brings me to a full sob.  Even if my legs would move me I wouldn’t be able to see my way through the tears.

Jesus then picks the easel up and sets it right in front of me, “Pat, just look. Please.”  When I finally work up enough courage and clear away enough tears to see the picture clearly I’m faced with something unexpected.  The swirl of dark colors is in the background, like fading twilight as a glorious and vibrant dawn rises on my face.  I start to cry again, not from anger or fear but from joy.

“It’s so beautiful,” I say, “but I don’t…”

“It’s beautiful because you are.  That’s the first thing you need to learn, appreciate, and live out.  The rest of the little details will take Me at least a lifetime to explain to you.”

Writing Love Over My Scars

Tonight Jaime Tworkowski from To Write Love on Her Arms came and talked at UWEC.  I've been interested in TWLOHA for a while and to be honest Jaime didn’t really say anything that I hadn’t heard or read before.  What stuck out to me the most was his explanation of how the name of the organization came to be. In 2006 Jaime and some of his friends helped a girl named Renee get sober and mentally well enough to enter a small treatment facility in South Florida.  At one point during her last night spent in a world filled with drugs, binge drinking, and self-harm she used a razor blade to carve the words “FUCK UP” in her forearm; it was the summation of who she viewed herself to be.  It was Jaime’s intention with his interaction with this girl “to write love on her arms” over the self-inflicted wounds of razor blades and false self-image.

Our actions reflect our view of ourselves.

I haven’t used razor blades, but I have carved my own perceptions of myself into my flesh and soul.  I have sought out a life that I felt I deserved: one that’s cold, lonely, and without hope.

After tonight, my hope is that I will learn to write love over the scars on my soul that both others and myself have caused.

Before Jaime talked this guy named Noah Gundersen played a few songs.  The song below brought me to tears, so I thought I should share it

Haircuts and Grace

My life has been crazy recently.  Starting school two weeks ago added to the drain on my finances and my free time; but that’s not entirely the truth of the matter.  I don’t know when exactly; but somewhere in the recent past I started on a journey of self-discovery, sailing past what I now understand as my own point of no return (with Kansas playing in the background).  Most of the time on this journey I have felt like I was stumbling through the darkness chasing after some elusive and far-off light. However, there have been times when the light of truth was focused intensely and specifically on an area of my life or the way I view the world that surrounds me. 

One of those moments happened last night…

While at work on Sunday a customer handed me a coupon for a free haircut at SportsClips.  I had no intention of getting a haircut before receiving the coupon but readily put in my wallet with the intention of using it sometime this week.

Every Wednesday I go to Man Club, a men’s group my pastor hosts at his house where we read through the Gospels in parallel to each other and try to come to an understanding of the passages as a group.  Afterwards, we always break up into smaller groups to pray, smoke cigars, and kill zombies on Call of Duty together.

This week I was put in a group with a good friend of mine, a man who finalized his divorce earlier that day, lost his job a couple months before that, AND in the middle of it all had his car break down. Fortunately, he is no worse for the wear, actually in spite of it all, I’ve seen him come alive.  After asking for prayer over certain areas of his life he added that he needed a haircut sometime soon, but didn’t really have the money for it.  Without much thought I reached into my wallet and handed him the coupon I had received on Sunday. 

As I drove home I was taken aback by how willing I was to him the coupon.  This nugget of scripture has been ringing in my ears ever since:

Since you freely received, freely give.

-Mat 10:8b

I don’t give much freely, especially trust, grace, forgiveness, and mercy.  The reason is simple: in my mind those things need to be earned. 

To be honest I don’t think I would have been so quick to pay money (that I had earned with my time and effort) for my friend to get a haircut.  I don’t freely give grace, mercy, etc either because I like to think I’ve earned them through my morality and my intellect.

For someone, like myself, who claims to be an amateur biblical scholar this belief, holding this view is ridiculous.  Grace cannot be earned (see Eph 2:10).  It is a gift that has a value beyond comprehension and part of enjoying it involves NOT trying to buy it.

I really don’t know how to change except by praying that God would grant me the wisdom of how to live the rest of my days enjoying the gifts He’s freely given to me and find ways to daily give those gifts freely to others.