Three days ago I used a dry erase marker to write, “Love is patient and kind” on my bathroom mirror. I hoped that by writing it there, I’d be forced to mediate upon it while brushing my teeth or putting on mascara or the more common gnashing of my teeth when asked to give patience and kindness away.
There’s more than that sentence in I Corinthians. Things like, “Love does not envy or boast,” or “ Love bears all things, believe all things, hopes all things, endures all things,” but at the moment, those “things” were too much for me, and I knew that writing Love is patient and kind would be enough to refine me for the week. Maybe the month. Maybe the year. When I wrote that little sentence, I wanted to believe it, to let it soak into my heart somewhere, to eat it like Jeremiah says is chapter 15 verse 16.
“Your words were found, and I ate them,
and your words became to me a joy
and the delight of my heart,
for I am called by your name,
O LORD, God of hosts.”
When I wrote that sentence, I intended to put myself through the fire- let myself get a little burned, or a lot burned- in the hopes that my selfishness and lack of compassion would be turned to ashes, and from those ashes, something beautiful might be allowed to thrive.
Don’t get me wrong, I do nice things for people. I lend notes, I do favors, I do a lot of favors actually, and I give myself and time to those who need it. And all of this time, I was convinced that I was patient and kind, until a few months ago when I began to pray to be more compassionate towards others.
And the day came for me to be “kind” like usual, but I realized I was being selfish, and impatient, and I was doing something I absolutely had no heart to do, and though on the outside all appearance would suggest I was being generous; in my heart, my heels were shoved inches deep into the ground, and I was being dragged into kindness, screaming the whole time. And God opened my eyes to just how selfish I really am. God, yet again, revealed to me the true nature of my heart, and it wasn’t full of compassion and unconditional love.
I started to reflect over my past given favors, and it was simple to find a pattern. On most occasions, I absolutely did not want to do what was asked of me on the grounds that “they” never did anything for me. Selfish. I was thinking, “I always give, and I always do, but no one ever takes thought for me.” I was convinced that if others thought of me and what I wanted, they wouldn’t ask me to give so much or so often. They would realize that I was tired, or busy, or that they needed to take more initiative to get things done and not rely on me as their back-up plan, but apparently this didn’t happen because I was still being asked pretty often to do things that I just didn’t want to do.
When I realized that I have a tendency to do this, I couldn’t shake off the guilt, and not so much guilt as conviction. Conviction that in the MANY times I have had the opportunity to show the Lord’s love and compassion and to be a free hand to those who needed it, I’ve clung to my own wants and comforts and have only done kind things because I’ve wanting to deflect the conflict or confrontation from those who asked of me.
And at night, I thought of Jesus. I thought of how much he gave, and I’m not talking about the crucifixion. We all know how much that cost, but I’m talking about his life, his daily want to give of himself. Think of the people who only wanted to be near him to gain; the people who asked for miracles or healing, those who had sinned previously and were facing consequences and wanted to be “fixed.” I think about all of the people who gathered around him grabbing at his cloak, reaching for his shoes and his arms, pulling and tugging, wanting and needing, and he didn’t run. He didn’t turn away. He didn’t remind them that what they got is what they had coming, he just said, “be forgive,” and they were healed, but more so, they were loved, and in that love, they learned of something bigger and grander than their physical and immediate needs, and their lives were changed by it. Jesus loved in such a way that it fully impacted everyone around him. For some, it made them believers, for others, it made them haters, but either way, his love was loud and obnoxious and it couldn’t be ignored.
I’d lie there and stare at my ceiling and just think, “how did you do it?” How did you not become empty? How did you just give and give and give? And then this thought came to mind and it was quite simple and obvious, and that was God. Jesus was God, I know, but the more I thought about it, the more amazing it was. I’m not God, but God resides in me, right? So, if I want to love people like God and I want to be compassionate like God, I have to let God do that through me. I have to forget about my wants and my needs and I have to just love people for who or what they are and how they got to who or what they are because God would have me love them despite all of those things.
What’s funny is that when you think of loving people as an opportunity to show them God’s love and to have God’s love grow in you, something changes. I’m not saying I’m radically different, but already I can feel the Lord breaking down my callused heart even more and making it more sympathetic and tender, and in the times I’ve been asked to do favors since this refinement began, I find myself feeling joy when I do someone a favor because it was an opportunity to love them, and I find myself growing in compassion…weird.
I’m so thankful for the joy and the growing love because, honestly, the burning of knowing how selfish I am, and how little I go out of my way to shower people with genuine love and compassion really bothered me. It’s hard to see the bad things about yourself, you know this. It’s hard for me to see really bad things about myself, especially when they are things that I don’t necessarily want to change, but thank God for grace and mercy and his gentle hand that is able to change our stony hearts into something nice and mushy. The burn hurts, but I desperately needed it.
So, on most days, before I go to bed, and as soon as I rise, my first thought is, “Love is patient and kind,” and when that phrase has become a part of my heart, I’ll move on to the second line, and I’m sure I’ll be burned again, and again, and again…but God has called us to love, and so love I will do.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Alrighty
I’m kind of out of witty titles at the moment. The best I could think of was “alrighty,” and that’s only because- after editing my resume- I said “alrighty” when I opened up a new document to write this here blog.
I don’t have anything remarkable to say. My life is just going to have to do. Filler, rambling, space-taker-upper. Whatever. I need to write something, anything.
Yesterday, I gave a presentation on using visual aids in my Methods of Teaching Adult Education class with a friend. We talked about whiteboards, and outlines, and flip charts. I don’t really care much for any of the three, but I felt convicted enough during the presentation, and even I believed that writing key points on a white piece of paper could solve the world’s problems. I’m not going to diss on the handout too much though because I actually like handouts. The MyPyramid handout from Medical Nutrition I is in my binder and is often referred to.
In fact, I used the MyPeriod handout during the presentation. Oooops, did I type MyPeriod? I meant to type MyPyramid. And I’m convinced that when I said “My Period” in class on Monday, I meant to say “My Pyramid.” Amazingly enough, it seemed completely natural when I said it, and that’s probably because the “monthly” is a topic that has been thoroughly exhausted by Dr. White in Lifecycle. I just laughed to myself and said “MyPeriod? MyPyramid” and moved on. Though, I did giggle during my explanation on using graphs, charts, and diagrams for illustrating ideas...I kept seeing in my head, “MyPeriod, MyPeriod, MyPeriod,” and it was funny after all. Lifecycle hasn’t completely desensitized me.
I’ve come to the full realization that I hate GPA. I think it stands for a little something called, “grade point average,” but I like to refer to it as “grief, pain, and aggravation.” I have experienced all three on its account. My Dietetic core GPA is a 3.89, and what is my cumulative? A crappy 3.29. Why? Because of accounting, statistics, chemistry II, and computers, none of which are necessary for completing nutritional assessments, or calculating BMI’s, or explaining the causes of Hyperosmolar Nonketoic Comas, also known as Hyperosmolar Hyperglycemic Nonketoic Syndrome in Type 2 diabetes patients (all of which I’m excellent at).Ok, I take that back, Chemistry II might be relevant for Hyperosmolar NonKetoic Comas in some way, but Biochemistry covers all of the bases. Hark! (Listen attentively). I got an A in Biochemistry. That’s right. But Grief.Pain.Aggravaton won’t give that A any credit. Nope. It’s pulling my intellect down the drain, taking my resume and internship hopes and shredding them. My beautiful 3.89 in Dietetic core and 3.67 in Human and Food Science core are both in the shadow of that evil cumulative GPA that’s supposedly summing up my future.
Fortunately, or hopefully, those who are summing up my entire life and person on a sheet of paper will notice that I have all three GPA’s listed, just to get the point across. And the point is, “though you want me to be good at math and calculating PV=nRT, I’m not, but I kick-a in Dietetics, so please, for the love of fat camp shows, and Vitamin D, and food labels, and fat free ice cream and cake and cake, let me continue to be a food nerd in your internship program.”
Calling GPA, Grief. Pain. Aggravation usually makes me laugh, and I can’t take myself seriously. I’m wondering what others have translated GPA to. Hmmm.
Today I went to the junior high to get some papers signed, class to take an exam on Hyperosmolar Nonketoic Comas, the post office, and the Medical Clinic, which brings me to another irony in my life, registration.
Perhaps you’ve heard me say, “I’m registration cursed” before. If not, you’re seriously missing out on inconvenient, confusing, yet funny stories.
The story is that I don’t register like normal people. Normal people go to an advisor or get on their laptops and register. I pull my hair out and scream, and run from office to office, and get holds taken off that I didn’t even know existed, and I miss my registration by two weeks or more while my classes are closing, so I get on waiting lists, and get off of waiting lists, and make phone calls, and send e-mails, because I have the curse of registration.
It came to my attention at the beginning of last week that I had a hold on registration (I was already looking for inconveniences). What was on hold? My health form. You know, the one you turn in after you’re accepted to Auburn.
I’ve been at Auburn for four years…
My health form didn’t exist when I went to the Medical Clinic for a required TB test for a lab…….. In August.
“Martha Lee Anne Ryals? Are you a freshman?
“I’m a senior. “
“That’s so weird. You’re not even on file.”
I laugh, “Oh, this kind of stuff happens to me all the time.”
“I’m just going to have to give you the paperwork to fill out again.”
“Alright, that’s fine.”
I sat in my chair content that I had fixed a problem I didn’t even know existed. And I turned my 8” x 11” problem in to the lady behind the plastic window.
It’s September. I’m still on hold. I’m still nonexistent in the filing cabinet.I called the clinic on Friday and was told they were missing my MMR, but that I could fax them the paperwork. So, I called my doctor’s office in Monroeville today to give them the fax number so they could fax my MMR forms to the clinic and solve the problem. But I was informed that I have to sign a release form... I ended up at the Medical Clinic again to fill out a release form, but that release form will have to be approved by my doctor first- which is common procedure-before they will send my MMR documentation to complete my health form which was turned in four years ago, but magically, and conveniently was put on hold the week before my registration, but I win.
That’s right registration, I win. You were sneaky, oh you were sneaky alright, and you would have done it again, but my paranoia proved useful and I was a whole week ahead of you.
I have finally beaten the registration curse. If I had not gotten that TB test in August, I wouldn’t have known that my file had “magically” disappeared. If I hadn’t discovered it was missing, I wouldn’t have called the medical clinic, which later informed me that my MMR was missing. I wouldn’t have called my doctors office, so I wouldn’t have known a release form would be needed. I wouldn’t have known that I would need to go to the medical clinic to get one...that it would take time and patience to get it filled out and faxed and responded to. Next Saturday, I would have been running around, pulling my hair out, on the day of registration, yet again, chasing some ridiculous event that was unfolding around my innocent should-be registration. And because Saturday is the weekend, I once again would have found myself in quite a debacle.
Sigh.
The only drama I have in my life is the ridiculous nonsense kind. I don’t have arguments with my roommate or with my crazy-would-be-boyfriend. I may look 17, am 23, but deep down, I’m an old lady named Martha who reads in place of watching TV, plays the piano, wants a pug, and drives 35 mph in 40 mph zones; Yet somehow, exciting, ridiculous, and spontaneous things manage to fit into my life. Weird.
I can do without the registration curse though, it shan’t be missed.
On a completely different note, as I was driving to the medical clinic today. I saw a boy waving his hands as he leaned in through the window of what I assume was his girlfriend’s car. And I don’t know what he was saying, but he looked upset. And when she drove away, even with her sunglasses on, I could tell she was crying, or wanted to be crying, and I wondered what he said or what she was thinking. In fact, I’m sure I thought more about her while filling out my doctor’s release form than my curse.
Alrighty, that’s all. I know I talked about a lot of nothing, but it only seems like that because you’re not me. If you were me, every detail was important and relevant. Keep that in mind.
I don’t have anything remarkable to say. My life is just going to have to do. Filler, rambling, space-taker-upper. Whatever. I need to write something, anything.
Yesterday, I gave a presentation on using visual aids in my Methods of Teaching Adult Education class with a friend. We talked about whiteboards, and outlines, and flip charts. I don’t really care much for any of the three, but I felt convicted enough during the presentation, and even I believed that writing key points on a white piece of paper could solve the world’s problems. I’m not going to diss on the handout too much though because I actually like handouts. The MyPyramid handout from Medical Nutrition I is in my binder and is often referred to.
In fact, I used the MyPeriod handout during the presentation. Oooops, did I type MyPeriod? I meant to type MyPyramid. And I’m convinced that when I said “My Period” in class on Monday, I meant to say “My Pyramid.” Amazingly enough, it seemed completely natural when I said it, and that’s probably because the “monthly” is a topic that has been thoroughly exhausted by Dr. White in Lifecycle. I just laughed to myself and said “MyPeriod? MyPyramid” and moved on. Though, I did giggle during my explanation on using graphs, charts, and diagrams for illustrating ideas...I kept seeing in my head, “MyPeriod, MyPeriod, MyPeriod,” and it was funny after all. Lifecycle hasn’t completely desensitized me.
I’ve come to the full realization that I hate GPA. I think it stands for a little something called, “grade point average,” but I like to refer to it as “grief, pain, and aggravation.” I have experienced all three on its account. My Dietetic core GPA is a 3.89, and what is my cumulative? A crappy 3.29. Why? Because of accounting, statistics, chemistry II, and computers, none of which are necessary for completing nutritional assessments, or calculating BMI’s, or explaining the causes of Hyperosmolar Nonketoic Comas, also known as Hyperosmolar Hyperglycemic Nonketoic Syndrome in Type 2 diabetes patients (all of which I’m excellent at).Ok, I take that back, Chemistry II might be relevant for Hyperosmolar NonKetoic Comas in some way, but Biochemistry covers all of the bases. Hark! (Listen attentively). I got an A in Biochemistry. That’s right. But Grief.Pain.Aggravaton won’t give that A any credit. Nope. It’s pulling my intellect down the drain, taking my resume and internship hopes and shredding them. My beautiful 3.89 in Dietetic core and 3.67 in Human and Food Science core are both in the shadow of that evil cumulative GPA that’s supposedly summing up my future.
Fortunately, or hopefully, those who are summing up my entire life and person on a sheet of paper will notice that I have all three GPA’s listed, just to get the point across. And the point is, “though you want me to be good at math and calculating PV=nRT, I’m not, but I kick-a in Dietetics, so please, for the love of fat camp shows, and Vitamin D, and food labels, and fat free ice cream and cake and cake, let me continue to be a food nerd in your internship program.”
Calling GPA, Grief. Pain. Aggravation usually makes me laugh, and I can’t take myself seriously. I’m wondering what others have translated GPA to. Hmmm.
Today I went to the junior high to get some papers signed, class to take an exam on Hyperosmolar Nonketoic Comas, the post office, and the Medical Clinic, which brings me to another irony in my life, registration.
Perhaps you’ve heard me say, “I’m registration cursed” before. If not, you’re seriously missing out on inconvenient, confusing, yet funny stories.
The story is that I don’t register like normal people. Normal people go to an advisor or get on their laptops and register. I pull my hair out and scream, and run from office to office, and get holds taken off that I didn’t even know existed, and I miss my registration by two weeks or more while my classes are closing, so I get on waiting lists, and get off of waiting lists, and make phone calls, and send e-mails, because I have the curse of registration.
It came to my attention at the beginning of last week that I had a hold on registration (I was already looking for inconveniences). What was on hold? My health form. You know, the one you turn in after you’re accepted to Auburn.
I’ve been at Auburn for four years…
My health form didn’t exist when I went to the Medical Clinic for a required TB test for a lab…….. In August.
“Martha Lee Anne Ryals? Are you a freshman?
“I’m a senior. “
“That’s so weird. You’re not even on file.”
I laugh, “Oh, this kind of stuff happens to me all the time.”
“I’m just going to have to give you the paperwork to fill out again.”
“Alright, that’s fine.”
I sat in my chair content that I had fixed a problem I didn’t even know existed. And I turned my 8” x 11” problem in to the lady behind the plastic window.
It’s September. I’m still on hold. I’m still nonexistent in the filing cabinet.I called the clinic on Friday and was told they were missing my MMR, but that I could fax them the paperwork. So, I called my doctor’s office in Monroeville today to give them the fax number so they could fax my MMR forms to the clinic and solve the problem. But I was informed that I have to sign a release form... I ended up at the Medical Clinic again to fill out a release form, but that release form will have to be approved by my doctor first- which is common procedure-before they will send my MMR documentation to complete my health form which was turned in four years ago, but magically, and conveniently was put on hold the week before my registration, but I win.
That’s right registration, I win. You were sneaky, oh you were sneaky alright, and you would have done it again, but my paranoia proved useful and I was a whole week ahead of you.
I have finally beaten the registration curse. If I had not gotten that TB test in August, I wouldn’t have known that my file had “magically” disappeared. If I hadn’t discovered it was missing, I wouldn’t have called the medical clinic, which later informed me that my MMR was missing. I wouldn’t have called my doctors office, so I wouldn’t have known a release form would be needed. I wouldn’t have known that I would need to go to the medical clinic to get one...that it would take time and patience to get it filled out and faxed and responded to. Next Saturday, I would have been running around, pulling my hair out, on the day of registration, yet again, chasing some ridiculous event that was unfolding around my innocent should-be registration. And because Saturday is the weekend, I once again would have found myself in quite a debacle.
Sigh.
The only drama I have in my life is the ridiculous nonsense kind. I don’t have arguments with my roommate or with my crazy-would-be-boyfriend. I may look 17, am 23, but deep down, I’m an old lady named Martha who reads in place of watching TV, plays the piano, wants a pug, and drives 35 mph in 40 mph zones; Yet somehow, exciting, ridiculous, and spontaneous things manage to fit into my life. Weird.
I can do without the registration curse though, it shan’t be missed.
On a completely different note, as I was driving to the medical clinic today. I saw a boy waving his hands as he leaned in through the window of what I assume was his girlfriend’s car. And I don’t know what he was saying, but he looked upset. And when she drove away, even with her sunglasses on, I could tell she was crying, or wanted to be crying, and I wondered what he said or what she was thinking. In fact, I’m sure I thought more about her while filling out my doctor’s release form than my curse.
Alrighty, that’s all. I know I talked about a lot of nothing, but it only seems like that because you’re not me. If you were me, every detail was important and relevant. Keep that in mind.
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