Mailbox Madness

Often I find myself trying to distinguish why I felt so fully alive at different times of my life. For example, I realize that though I often felt alive in YWAM, it wasn't necessarily "YWAM" that made me feel that way. There were various aspects of the scenario which made me alive.

Today I was reading one of the last chapters in the book "I Became a Christian and All I Got was a Lousy T-Shirt." This chapter is kinda some dude's understanding of how being a Jesus-following-secret-agent man makes you alive (versus sitting on the couch all time time being a lazy bum makes you pretty bored or busy). Sort of.

Anyways, I know pretty often I am a bored Christian, or unsatisfied at least. It seems to hard to touch sick people where I live even though we are all pretty sick. Yet today, I had an idea. Whether it was a God directed idea or not, I am not sure. But I did it anyway. I felt devious, excited, counter-cultural as well as even semi-radical with my very unradical attempt at loving someone and living on a mission.

All to say, I wrote a thank you card to a postal worker. It was somewhat awkward. After all, I've never actually written a thank-you card to the UPS before. In fact, for a distinct period of time I was pretty sure that the United States Postal Service was actually an underground anti-government group, fully of anarchy and deceptive plans to establish a secure stronghold in each location to quickly convert into a mad rebellion and overthrow the US in a coup. Now I don't believe that. I am pretty sure Northrop Grumman is an anarchy instead.

At the end of the card I was running out of space, as is usually the case when , I, Elisa, write a card. I was trying to debate if I should write a Bible verse or tell them Jesus loves them or something Christian-classic like that. I was pretty sure I shouldn't write "God Bless you" because the chapter I read, in essence, said not to do that. I finally decided on saying something like I hoped they would find a life that was fully alive (mostly because I ran out of space to go deeper than that).

The nervous sweat from my hands caused my washable kids marker to bleed, leaving blue finger prints on the card. I was rather disturbed by that, as I was leaving the card anonymously and didn't want to be caught. They probably have my fingerprints on file somewhere and can match them. After all, I have had numerous background checks in which maybe they stole my fingerprints. I don't rightly remember. To solve the problem I smudged the marks with my spit. Which, after, I decided that might not have been a good idea just in case they can somehow DNA test the card and, again, find me. I am pretty sure it was a good idea to not stick the card in an envelope as they might never open it in fear of the anthrax virus powder which I wouldn't bother to add to the envelope.

With those precautions made, I am pretty sure that maybe someone will read it. Maybe not the letter-collector. But maybe the mail-sorting guy. I hope it makes someone's day. And I really hope that maybe it won't make them think humanity is slightly nicer than they thought, but somehow God will work to help them connect the "fully alive" part with Him.

Whether that was an impactful thing or not, it helped me (at least) feel alive. I decided that one of the aspects in my past of when I felt so alive was that I used to scheme and plan to love others. I think that is a characteristic I need to add more of to my life. After all, It blesses God, others, and myself.

Recipe for Contentment

"Yet true religion with contentment is great wealth." 1Tim6:6

I must say, I love this. Not only does it have a nice ring to it, but it also alludes a plethora of wisdom from a father to his son. If it wouldn't look so awkward framed by my front door, I just might put it there. Especially as it seems that being discontent is more than a struggle with me, it even borders on being a vice. Which is a rather unbecoming vice, at that. I like to blame my discontentedness that often controls me on living in Northern Virginia as opposed to in Asia, Europe, or California for that matter. Yet my true colors show and I suspect I would be discontent anywhere. That might not be entirely true, maybe I would be more content doing something else in a different environment. I am sure, though, that this thorn is a matter of the heart and not the location.

"Pure and lasting religion in the sight of God our Father means that we must care for orphans and widows in their troubles, and refuse to let the world corrupt us." James1:27

Here is another beloved quote that I believe the former must be read in tandem with. I can rant and rave about what religion looks like today, and whether it should or not. But beyond what is in front of me is my own soul for this to be tattooed on. I love this. It is such a different view, something that makes me crave religion if this is what pure religion really is. I have the feeling that my activist friends might say the same.

The reason I wonder whether I would be content somewhere else really comes down to if I am always craving new environments or if I really believe I could practice true/pure religion within a different environment better (and therefore I'd be content). Deep in my mind, I suspect, there is some truth to both of these, and some falsehood too. If the recipe for contentment is Jesus' "Life to the Fullest" (which it surely must be), what exactly is the recipe for that? Pure religion?

Los Lokales adonde fui

Not too long ago I used to travel. Honestly, I didn't really travel that much. Maybe I did "a lot" of traveling for my age. But 7% of the countries of the world are really not that many. At 18 I created the goal to travel to each continent (excluding Antarctica) within 10 years. That means I have just shy of 4 more years to reach Africa and South America, though I'd kinda like to visit Central America and the Middle East also. In someways I would really prefer to just explore South and South East Asia. Yet when I see a spectacular sunset I always think of African grassy plains and medical clinics with beautiful people speaking beautiful languages I do not understand. For whatever morbid reason, I wish I could visit Rwanda to see where the genocide took place, and talk with survivors. I wish I could visit a refugee camp in Chad and bring food, or find immigrants in Cairo who are stateless, hear their stories and help them format them so they can go confidently to their interviews knowing they will be believed. Or it seems amazingly cool to me climb to Matchu Pitchu and see Mayan temples. To go to the slums of Lima or visit a Beef farm in Argentina and speak Spanish with a "sho soy elisa." So I guess my two continents actually do await me.

Why do I love to travel? I have no clue. This is a nonsensical fetish, it seems. I guess I figured it is some oddity that God has programed into me, I generally assume for His purposes. Even though I do somewhat believe it can be "for God" my motives in many ways are driven by just this insane thrill-seeking adventure hormone (or something) which must be released by my liver every month, week, day. Or at least, that is a theory. Maybe it really is just genetics. After all, I am the daughter of my father who would hide travel magazines under His bed like other men might hide porn. Hormones, genetics, or God-ordained . . . I may not be able to pin-point the root. But the root is there. Even if I try to pull it out, ask God to dissolve it with Holy Spirit weed killer or ignore it, wondering if it will disappear, I am beginning to believe it might not. Hence, I was chronically bitten by a travel bug. I rest in my fate.