What My Grandma and a Pigeon Had in Common

My earliest memory of my grandma takes me back to the cement driveway of my old house. With a jumbo chalk in one hand and chalk dust stained on the other, I was in the middle of my masterpiece when I heard a discomfiting THUMP against my garage door. I glanced behind me to see the aftermath of an unlikely collision: a pigeon, writhing and flightless on the pavement. Immediately, I ran into the house to find my dad to move it or put it out of its misery. However, only my sweet grandmother, Nanay, was home (she was living with us at the time), and I could barely imagine her doing either of those things.

And she didn't.

She gently picked up the pigeon and brought it inside. She nursed it back to health in our old bird cage, and it was no wonder that the bird recovered perfectly. I was convinced that the care of her tender, frail hands could cure anything. With nails always painted with red polish, her hands had wiped everything from food to tears from my face. They had blessed me, held me, and loved me. It was a familiar haven, and I had no doubt that pigeon thought the same.

It wasn't long before the pigeon had fully recovered, and I was elated at the thought of a new pet. I dubbed it "Seedy" because I thought it was best if you just added a "y" to whatever food it ate. (Original, I know.) However, Nanay, who had obvious custody over the pigeon, let it out of its cage and set it free."We need to set it free," she told me. "It's not supposed to live in a cage."

Although I was heartbroken at the time, I've thought little of the incidence since. That is, until November 9, 2013 happened.

It was 9:00 p.m. My family, extended family included, and I were crammed into a tight hospital cell, and the heart monitor controlled our every sob. My grandma lay in the middle of our huddle, conscious, but unable to respond. Her skin was as thin as paper now. An unsettling reality began to settle over us: These were our last moments with her. So we sang hymns and prayed and held each other-- the three things she would always do for us. An hour later, the heart monitor moaned, everyone screamed, and the doctor offered her condolences.

The next week felt surreal. I kept replaying the scene in my mind, and I kept second-guessing if it really happened. The same hands, firm and gentle, that blessed me could not have been the swollen hands I held in the hospital. And they definitely weren't the same cold hands I touched beside her coffin. But reality told me differently.

I replayed every memory we had together-- from trying to help her with the dishes and laundry to her birthday party, karaoke, and constantly asking her which grandchild was her favorite. Everyone kept telling me that she was in a better place now-- that she was dancing with her husband in the presence of God. And they were right. She was finally where she was meant to be, and she was happier there. God gave her to us for a time-- so that she could love us and so that we could love her. Ultimately, she was God's, not ours.

And I think that's what she had in common with that pigeon: Neither was mine to keep.

Nanay is a citizen of heaven, not of earth, and she knew that. This earth was just a cage, built with bars of her sickness, pain, and sin. Although she is gone, her words and her love echo today. While most of me misses her, another part of me rejoices that God set her free because she was never meant to live in a cage.

Chewing on Rocks

"I remember my affliction and my wandering

The bitterness and the gall.

I well remember them and

my soul is downcast within me.

Yet this I call to mind, 

and therefore I have hope."

Lamentations 3:19-21

The book is literally called LAMENTATIONS. Last I checked, that meant crying, whining, and grieving. How on earth did the editor let the word "hope" get into this book? It's too out of place. "Oh no, Cheryl!" you're thinking to yourself. "I know this Bible verse, and it's one of my favorites. Hope isn't out of place at all. Stop being a cynic." Well, read the couple verses in front of it, and you'll sympathize with my confusion. Jeremiah is talking about his body being mangled, living in darkness, and chewing on rocks. Chewing on rocks?! The only background information I had on Jeremiah at this point was that God sent him speak to the Israelites, and he didn't want to. 

I thought, "Jeremiah. Sometimes God makes me do things I don't want to do, but I don't write a book about it. Calm down."

Reading this, I already thought he was being dramatic. Then in verse 19, it got worse. It was like he got on the Mood Swing ride and came back delirious, spurting out words like "hope" and "faithfulness." It was like someone replaced the rocks he was chewing on with the best gum in the world. He seemed like he was being capricious.

But that wasn't the case at all.

Jeremiah wasn't whining on a whim (<--please take a moment to admire my alliteration). He was not grieving for himself, but for the people. Jerusalem was being destroyed, and he was in the thick of it. He watched the people starve to death and the temple of the Lord be raided. Since he was a child, God ordained him to prophesy to the Israelites. He told Jeremiah that no one would listen to him. And what could be worse than carrying a message that God himself told you no one would listen to? The truth burned while the people died. Jeremiah had a lot of reason to complain, and little reason to start this "hope" thing.

And it struck me. Jeremiah was comparing having to present truth to a dying and stubborn people to the worst grief in the world. He knew they wouldn't accept the only truth that mattered as he watched them die. I have the gospel, the Truth, yet no such urgency moves me. I have the promise that His Word will not come back void, yet whether or not someone listens didn't pain me. It only annoyed me, and then I moved on. After reading this, I prayed that I would have the same burning desire to tell these people of the truth. That I would feel like if they didn't listen, maybe I would be grinding my teeth on rocks too.

Even though Jeremiah was called the weeping prophet, he makes one of the most profound statements of joy in the Bible. After verse 19, he talks about the remnant that remains:

"Because of God's great love, we are not consumed

for his compassions never fail.

His faithfulness is new every morning; 

great is your faithfulness. 

I say to myself 'the Lord is my portion'

therefore I will wait for him."

Jeremiah said that God was his portion-- that He was enough. He was enough when dead bodies surrounded him and his city was being captured. He was enough when he had to proclaim the truth to a crowd that wouldn't listen. He was enough when he was experiencing the most pain he ever could. He was enough when he was chewing on rocks. Then I looked at my life compared to his. I have a promise that the gospel will bear fruit. Even though the government just shut down, my nation is doing fine. And the last thing I chewed for more than an hour was a piece of Arctic Cool Five gum. So why would I have any excuse to not let God be enough for me?

A Better Question

Open up with a cliche Pinterest picture and a quote from C.S. Lewis? Check.
I also wonder if Pinterest has a modeling agency. I bet their quotes could make the back of anyone's head look good.

I've never had much trouble finding my place in the world. I've had more trouble creating it. I've always been a deep thinker. You know, the kind of person that would sit down, eat a sandwich, and wonder how eating this sandwich would effect his life in ten years. In seventh grade, I already had a ten-year plan. I knew exactly what college I would attend, what age I would be when I got married, what my kids names would be, and where I wanted to live. Did I mention I was eleven years old? I thought I had all the answers, and the road ahead was smooth-sailing. I was so wrong. Of course, now I'm five years older, wiser, and better. I tweaked my plans, and I have my whole life figured out.

Psych.

This is my last year to live at home, and I'm still not sure what the rest of my life is going to look like. I've gone back countless times to my seventh grade agenda and wondered why it's been half a decade and I still haven't become the revolutionary I thought I would be. I tweaked my answers to fit what I felt like doing every year and improved them to make them more realistic. However, the more I think about it, the more I've discovered that I should stop wasting my time.

Maybe life isn't always about finding better answers. Maybe it's also about asking better questions.

The question I asked in seventh grade was "What will make me happy for this life?" Don't get me wrong. My answers weren't that I wanted to get drunk, party, and do drugs. They weren't even about winning the approval of others. I didn't want to be world-famous or rich. I just wanted to be happy.

In fact, my seventh grade list was actually very moral. I wanted to become a doctor and help in third-world countries, start a pro-life campaign, and find a cure to cancer. (Let's all take a moment to note that I was probably the most idealistic seventh grader there ever was.) I thought that if I finally did all these things, I could be satisfied in myself. I would be a good person, go to heaven, and leave this world better than I found it. I strove for perfection. My seventh grade question was exposed for what it really was: "What can I do to satisfy myself?"

I was spiritually, physically, and mentally balanced. Yet, I was never satisfied. My life by anyone else's standards should have guaranteed happiness. I had friends. I had work ethic. I had Jesus. My life should have been perfect.

But that's the thing. We were never made to be perfect. And Jesus was never meant to be apart of some list, even if he was at the top. God was meant to be at the very center of it.

I think that's what a lot of Christians look over. They think that they can satisfy themselves with morality, family life, and loving others. We try so hard to satisfy ourselves with religion. We think that a healthy dose of Jesus will make us into a better and happier person. But may I just emphasize: JESUS IS NOT A DIET. He is not some plan we get on to get a better version of ourselves. Under his grace, we are a new creation. We are no longer satisfied by the things of this world. We cannot be satisfied in anyone else.

The answer I so meticulously contrived in seventh grade could be answered simply. "What can I do to satisfy myself?" Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I could be the best person in the world, but I would only ware myself out. Instead of asking "Will this make me into a better person?", I started asking, "Will this make me look more like Jesus?" (Thus, I bought Chaco's, because I'm 70% sure that Jesus would have worn them.. but really.)

C.S. Lewis about sums it up in Mere Christianity:

The Christian says, 'Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food. A duckling wants to swim: well, there is such a thing as water. Men feel sexual desire: well, there is such a thing as sex. If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.

I still don't know what I want to do. I'm sixteen years old, and instead of writing my college essays, I'm blogging about Jesus. Honestly, that's all I want to do. I want to talk about Jesus the rest of my life. As long as I love him, I could be starving. I could be homeless. I could be broke. (S/O to Justin Beiber) But truly, maybe we should stop asking what else will satisfy us and start asking "Is God enough for me?" Will we simply settle for what is before us because it is convenient? Will we scramble to get our best life now? Or will we live, knowing Jesus IS the life? 

If you're in the same boat as I'm in and you're deciding what you want to do for the rest of your life, I encourage you to have peace. Stop fretting over the trivial things. I've found so much freedom in chunking that seventh grade list. Good news, guys. I don't have to find the cure for cancer in order to be happy at the end of my life. There is so much grace to stop asking "God, should I become a doctor or a lawyer or a sanitation engineer or...?" and to start asking, "God, what can I do to look more like Your Son and glorify you?" 

Insanity, by definition, is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. So, I guess we're all a little clinically insane. We keep asking the same questions over and over and still become frustrated at every dead end. If you're still searching for something that will satisfy you in this world, I'll save you the trouble. Nothing really will. We were made for a different world. So stop scrambling to create your spot in the world, and start finding yourself in all God is.

Love Notes On Candy Wrappers

The more I learn about relationships, the more my parents completely astound me. Even after 25 years of marriage, they still sit on the couch together and talk every night. My mom still sings while my dad plays the piano (Sometimes it gets depressing when they choose to sing Les Miserables songs every night, but I guess it's almost cute). My mom still gets excited every time my dad comes home from work and greets him with a kiss. As I look at them, I see the love-struck eyes of young honeymooners somehow trapped in 50 something year old bodies. (If Mom or Dad is reading this, that was a typo. I obviously meant **30) Honestly, who wouldn't want a marriage like that? The older we get, my siblings and I wonder about their secret. How does a marriage like theirs even start? The answer came at dinner one night: It all began with a nine-year story of quiet pursuit, sprinkled with a few love notes on candy wrappers.

Long story short, my parents met in a church during a missions meeting my mom was speaking at. Apparently, my mom was quite a beauty when she was my age. With long locks of ebony hair, a dentist-advertisement smile, and a heart after God, my mom was eight-five pounds of beauty when my dad first laid eyes on her. He met her at a missions meeting while she was speaking to raise money for a trip. His  small donation ended up being one of the biggest investments he'd ever made. She worked as a receptionist at her church, and it didn't take long for my dad to leave his church and start attending hers "by coincidence." Long story short-- nature took its course, and my dad became the first and last boyfriend my mom ever had.

Growing up in the Philippines, neither of my parents were very "well-off." My mom had eight brothers and sisters, poor living conditions, little food, and three jobs. My dad had ten brothers and sisters, mediocre living conditions, and a high value for education. Obviously, neither had much money to spend on dates or gifts.

Still, my mom has a trunk filled with all the things my dad had given her. I felt privileged to look at and hold the relics: old bookmarks, figurines, and love notes. I came across what appeared to be trash, but then the sharpie scribblings on the back caught my eye. The crumpled candy wrappers were embellished with confessions of love and "I'm thinking about you" notes. I asked my mom about them, and she told me that they didn't have spare money to spend on nice cards. As a result they would often write notes to each other on napkins, receipts, or candy wrappers. Things have changed drastically since then.

After becoming a doctor, my dad could afford to give my mom much more than bookmarks. He began lavishing her with exotic trips, dazzling jewelry, and fine clothes. Still, I don't think anything will quite compare to those candy wrapper notes, burrowed in the corner of their trunk.

There is something so sweet and innocent in those candy wrappers. It was like elementary-kids passing notes to each other during class. I think it was those seemingly insignificant reminders which made everything else so significant.

(I took this creeper shot at the Valentine's Day dinner^)

People always say that the Bible is God's love letter to mankind. The more I think about it, the more it blows my mind. I mean, the God of the universe, who IS love, who IS the most beautiful, cares about me simply because Jesus has made me beautiful to Him. That's wild. He wrote a 1800 page love letter to us? Yet, I act like I don't have time to read it. When someone you like texts you, you read it over and over again. How much more should we do that with God's Word? 

This past spring break, I began to think of it like this. While in Haiti, a boy decided to write me love letters which was frustrating because 1.) this was a mission trip, not summer camp 2.) we didn't even speak the same language 3.) he pulled the "Maybe this is what Jesus wants" card and 4.) I still have no idea who he is. Needless to say, I have no idea where the letters are. My brother said he burned one of them, and I'm sure the other two are buried in a traveling suitcase in my attic.

On the other hand, I have a box full of notes from my loved ones. It's called my "happy day box." Every time I'm having a bad day, I go through the box and read and reread all the notes from the people I care about the most. 

I think that's a lot like how it is with God. The more we know and talk to Him, the more we want to read and reread what He has said to us. The Bible takes on a whole new meaning. It brings on feelings and memories that are unique to our relationship with Him. However, if I maintained a superficial relationship with God, he would seem more and more like a stranger in a foreign country. My Bible would end up in my attic, kept out of obligation. If I wanted to get to know someone, I wouldn't ask people about them, I would simple ask them directly. Learning about God is awesome, but it means little unless we know God for ourselves. I hope this is making sense.

Anyways, I was thinking that in the same way my dad wrote love notes on candy wrappers for my mom, God does things like that for us. The small things we often take for granted are actually love notes that we overlook. I guess God's love notes could look like all sorts of things. 

It could be in those West Texas sunsets, starry nights, or just having your favorite worship song come on.

My best friend, Kylie, and I have this thing for making secular songs into worship songs. Hers is "A Thousand Years" as featured in Twilight. It's actually about how Edward has loved Bella for a thousand years, but it's kind of cool how God loves us like that too. Mine is "Everything Has Changed" by T-Swift. Weird, I know. But the chorus keeps singing "I just want to know you better" and that's become the cry of my heart lately. It's been pointed out that the green eyes and freckles thing doesn't really line up, but I try to block that out. It astounds me how God uses a song originally about a vampire stalker boy and high school relationships to show us how much He loves us.

A lot of God's gifts are found in the obvious things, like church, prayer, and sermons. These are foundational, and I'm not underplaying them at all. But today, I want to encourage you to look for God in the less obvious things-- in the little things that He's doing and working in to show you how much he loves you. Listen to what's going on and look at the world around you.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll find a few of His love notes on candy wrappers.

Being Tacky

Tacky (tak--ee): adj. of poor taste or style

Did I really just use the "Online Slang Dictionary" to define that word? Why, yes, I did. Did I make up the pronunciation to make it look more official? Of course. Am I really starting my first blog ever like this? I'm just an hour away from that orange publish button.

I guess this is all to prove one point:  You could say that I'm a relatively tacky person. I would rather wear t-shirts and shorts than heels and dresses. I like apple sauce more than calamari. I'm more likely to get dirty than I am to brush my hair. I also enjoying reading more than I enjoy watching a football game. Being tacky comes as easily as breathing to me. I guess it's in my nature. 

I remember on the first day of junior high (Thank the Lord He got me through that!), I wanted everyone to see how much I changed. It played in my head like a movie: Everyone would turn their head and ask if I was new. I would walk through the halls in slow motion as they realized that the "new girl" was just a better version of the quiet girl who read books behind her backpack. I wanted everyone to know that I was a better version of myself, and I wanted them to forget whoever I was before. 

In reality, I was just as shy and just as awkward. Shocking, I know. I came in with my teeth wired up with blue and green braces and a forced smile which probably scared people away. I tried so hard to say the right things, do the right things, and wear the right things (which is absurd because we wore uniforms the whole time. I guess this is when I decided to stop matching a navy polo and navy pants together...). The one thing I didn't want to be was tacky. I found my worth in whether or not people thought I was acceptable. I found comfort in knowing that I had friends who saw past my imperfections. What I didn't realize was that my whole junior high class was tacky. Then, we all grew up and went to high school. And guess what. Nothing has changed. We just became bigger and tackier people.

We all have our shortcomings, our insecurities, and our quirks. To some people, we might be tacky, and, to others, we might be high-class. My point is not that people are just blind to our uniqueness and extraordinariness (<--- definitely just made that word up), and we must remember that we are secretly extraordinary. My point is that being tacky isn't such a bad thing. In fact, in 1 Corinthians, Paul tells us that God uses the things that the world considers tacky to shame the wise. (Of course Paul never used the word tacky because he didn't have access to Online Slang Dictionary) The more that I think about it, the more I realize that God's strength is truly made perfect in my weakness. My tackiness just shows how much more un-tacky God is. I think that's why my theme verse is II Corinthians 4:7--

"But we have this TREASURE in JARS OF CLAY to show that this all-surpassing power is FROM GOD and NOT FROM US."

I think that it would be "in bad style" to win the lottery, collect my reward, and put my check in an off-brand ziplock bag instead of a high-class vault. However, that's exactly what God chooses to do. The ziplock bag isn't valuable in itself, it's valuable because of what is inside it. We are not valuable because we have more to offer than the next person. We are valuable because HE MAKES US VALUABLE.

If you look up the word "tacky" on anything else besides the Slang Dictionary, you'll see that it's defined as "something glued together." In that sense, I guess all Christians are all a little tacky. (And no- not because of the "Jesus t-shirts", WWJD key chains, punny Bible jokes, etc.) By His grace, he glued the broken pieces of ourselves back together. The insecurities no longer matter because life isn't about us. It's not about us being the most beautiful clay jar in the world. It could be exhibited in museums and galleries, and it still wouldn't matter. It's still a clay jar, and it's useless until something is inside it. 

The world took what they considered "in bad taste" and broke it. God chose to glue those pieces back together, so that we're tacky by his definition. We are glued by the blood of his Son-- his redemption, grace, and mercy. Looking back, I wonder why I strove and sought comfort in being considered "not tacky". Now, I realize being tacky is the best thing I could be. Repaired and chosen by God, I consider it the highest honor in this life to be a tacky jar of clay.