life abundant.

I had a good week.

I don’t remember the last time I said that statement with sincerity. I couldn’t tell you the last time I thought back on my week, and said to myself “Boy, that was nice.”

But this one was. Genuinely good.

This past year has been awful. And I’m not saying that to get pity or sympathy. I’m saying it because that’s an important part of my Story; the past year has been hard and painful and uncomfortable.

But this week was good.

I don’t know why. Maybe I realized that, in the words of my dear friends, The Weepies, “the world spins madly on.” Maybe I realized that, despite what’s happening, time won’t slow down. Life still happens whether we decide to be present for it or not.

But somewhere a long the way I decided to be present and intentional. And there’s something beautiful about that– there’s something beautiful about deciding to actually live your life. There’s something incredible about not just surviving, but living.

This week I lived my life. And it was good.

I had a good week.

Here’s where I stop thinking

Here’s where I start trusting

Anything but this.

No one but You.

And maybe this will fall,

But maybe I’ve had my fair share of brokenness

And maybe the rubber will meet the road,

And maybe the two will get along.

And then I’ll think

And then I’ll know.

And in that thinking and knowing

I’ll open my eyes for the first time in a while

And maybe I’ll start living.

Maybe I’ll start breathing

Because, maybe, that’s what You’ve wanted from the start.

here i am.

I am distracted easily and often. I am prone to stop talking mid-sentence because something else has caught my eye. When telling a joke or a story, it takes everything in me to focus on finishing what I’ve started.

This is an awful quality. And, believe it or not, it probably annoys me more than the people to whom I am talking.

However, because of this terrible terrible characteristic, I have become an excellent escape artist. I have mastered the art of being fully present, and fully absent simultaneously. (Not in some weird, New-Age spiritual sense– that would probably take a lot more time and focus.)

You see, my tendency to be easily distracted can go both ways. It can sneak up on me when I least expect it, and least desire it. Or I can invite it, welcome it with open arms, and allow it to be my escape. The latter has started to happen a lot more frequently in the past ten months.

I can escape to anywhere I’d like. I can escape to a different time, a different place, a different feeling.

Here, today, right now, May 28th, 2010, I can escape to any time I’d like. I can be there for quite a while too, until reality snatches me from Nostalgiatopia.

When I am at home, I can escape to anywhere I’d like. I can take my pick from any of the places I’ve been throughout the span of my lifetime. Sometimes it’s back to Memphis, sometimes to South Carolina. Once I went to Canada; they have a nice butterfly conservatory there.

When I am sad, I can escape to happiness, or boredom, even anger—there is a vast array of emotions to choose from.

I have survived the past several months by escaping. Every time I am somewhere I do not want to be, I “go away.”

I read a book about a girl who needed to go from this valley she lived in up to the Mountains. She was given, as her guides, Sorrow and Suffering. And she had to hold their hands. And they take her to all these awful places– the Desert, and Shore of Loneliness, the Valley of Loss, etc. And she lets go sometimes. And she grabs onto other people, like Bitterness, or Resentment, or Pride because they seem more appealing.

And I’m not so different from her. Because in the midst of my companions, Sorrow and Suffering, I escape to a place where I can be with whatever seems more appealing at the moment. Because Sorrow and Suffering pull me to these places that seem like a contradiction to the Mountains I’ve been promised so many times.

Being intentionally present throughout every moment of life isn’t easy. Especially when you’re great at escaping. Grief is the last thing I want to be present for. Sorrow is the last thing I want to be present for. Suffering is the last thing I would think to cling to.

Anne Lamott wrote in her book Traveling Mercies that you have to expose yourself to grief in order to heal from it. That we must become enveloped in it before we can experience peace.

“…The bad news is that whatever you use to keep that pain at bay robs you of the flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling grief will give you. A fixation can keep you nicely defined and give you the illusion that your life as not fallen apart. But since your life may indeed have fallen apart, the illusion won’t hold up forever, and if you are lucky and brave you will be willing to bear disillusion. You begin to cry and writhe and yell and then to keep on crying; and then, finally, grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination.”

At the end of the book with the girl who is going to the Mountains, her Companions are transformed into Joy and Peace. That always seemed a little hokey to me; almost too beautiful to be true. Maybe it’s because right now I’m still trying to get the heck away from Sorrow and Suffering (I never asked for them, after all), because what I really asked for from the start was Joy and Peace. The thought of being present in my grief makes me sick to my stomach. The thought of intentionally living my life and facing the things that I want so badly to escape from scares me to death.

But I will be present. I will be intentional. I will refrain from escaping. I will practice acceptance. I will grieve, I will hurt, I will wait for healing, and I will look for the tiny flecks of gold exactly where I am.

dance hungry, dance full.

It was about 5 am. i had climbed into my welcoming bed about 3 hours prior. I had to be up and gone in 3 hours. I fought against the awful repetitive sound of a car alarm and tried to go back to sleep. Someone’s car alarm always goes off when there’s a thunder storm. I buried my head under my pillows and tried to sleep for another five minutes. There was yelling outside. Beale Street Music Festival. Everyone in Memphis is wasted the first weekend of May. I wrapped a blanket around my head (turban-style) and tried once again to sleep.

5:15 am. Nothing was quiet. None of my makeshift sound blockades were working. I looked out the window and tried to bring my eyes to focus. It wasn’t one car alarm, it was about 5. It wasn’t drunk people. It was people from the dorms.

It was pouring. The entire back alley and parking lot was flooded. Several cars were in water up to the windshields. I ran outside to see my Baby. He looked so helpless. Half under the flood waters, looking so scared and lonely. I knew he couldn’t handle it. He’s old, and already has so many problems.

2 hours later, the water was going down. Some friends had moved my Baby to higher ground, but he was leaking oil all over the place. Poor little guy.

I am officially done with all my classes. The weight can be lifted off of my shoulders any day now. I still have several projects to do. Not to mention a World Music concert. The rehearsals are taking over my life.

It was 3pm. My New Testament summaries were due in 2 hours. I sat and read, and furiously scribbled notes, all the while cursing my tendency to procrastinate. I had rehearsal at 7pm. I had yet to shower.

5pm. Finished my summaries just in time. Bummed a ride home from a friend (my Baby still has not recovered). Showered. Dressed. Bummed a ride back to the school for rehearsal.

The auditorium’s air conditioner is broken. It’s 90 degrees outside. Miserable inside. I could not function. I could not breath. My shower was a waste of time. Sweat was dripping off of me. Hand drums seem ten times louder when you have a headache. Being at a mandatory 7pm rehearsal is frustrating as hell when you have finals to finish. We were supposed to be done in an hour. Finished at 8:45.

Friday is my night to go dancing.

A zillion thoughts ran through my head. Do I even want to go dancing anymore? It’s hot. I am a sweaty mess. My shoes are too big for me. Everyone else has already been there for two hours. Only the creepy men ask me to dance. I don’t even know how to dance.

Fine. I’ll go.

The bouncer is maybe the hugest man I have ever seen in my life.

No sir, I am not 21 yet.

Yes sir, you can put embarrassingly huge black X’s on my hands.

Cover charge tonight? Sure.

TEN DOLLARS?! Yeah, okay. Fine.

All my friends are dancing. It’s still swing music. Salsa is coming. I better hurry and dance swing before we get to salsa. I’m awful at salsa. My shoes are too big. They fell off about 3 times while I was dancing.

Salsa time. Hate it.

No sir, I will not dance with you. I just saw you practically humping the last woman you danced with out on the dance floor.

A friend asks me. I’m no good. He knows this. He’s patient. He teaches me. He only laughs at me a little. My face is beat red. I never learned how to move my hips growing up. Salsa is sexy. My version of salsa is awkward and repulsive.

The night goes on. Sometimes alcohol makes people dance fearlessly. There are huge X’s on my hand. No fearless dancing for me, I guess.

But sometimes it hits you. Sometimes you get sick of everything. Sometimes even the fear of being awkward and repulsive cannot stop the irresistible urge to dance your heart out.

I am awful. Rhythmically-challenged, if you will.

Sometimes your car floods. Sometimes you have an overwhelming amount of final projects due. Sometimes your shoes are too big. Sometimes it seems like everyone knows the moves except you. Sometimes your faith wears thin. Sometimes everything you depend on falls apart. Sometimes you can’t remember how to breathe. Sometimes your vision blurs and your heart won’t stop hurting. Sometimes you have nothing else to do, but dance your head off.

And for four and a half minutes you escape into a world of thumping latino beats and swirling hip movements. And you forget. You forget that you don’t know all the moves. You forget that your shoes are too big. You forget that everyone everywhere automatically puts X’s on your hands. You forget that your world is falling apart. And you dance. And dance. And dance.

“And she is going to dance; dance hungry, dance full, dance each cold astonishing moment– now when she is young, and again when she is old.”

sleepybaby syndrome

I live with three amazing ladies, one of which has the strangest logic I have ever witnessed. She is constantly explaining why she can’t eat certain foods, or take part in certain activities.

For example; She cannot drink cold beverages without eating food, because she is convinced that it will make her sick. She is 100% convinced that wearing cowboy boots makes her have a better day. And, my favorite of all, she was a “sleepybaby.” (Yes, one word.)

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “What in the hell is a ‘sleepybaby?’” Allow me to enlighten you.

According to her mother, when my roommate was a baby she would sleep all the time. They had to wake her up to change her diaper, feed her, get her out of the car, etc. Apparently, you never grow out of sleepybaby syndrome. Unfortunately, this is often mistaken for laziness, and, in extreme cases, narcolepsy. She’s twenty-one, but don’t let that fool you. She is, by definition, a sleepybaby.

If she’s late for class because she overslept: “Dang it, I hate that I was a sleepybaby.”

If we laugh at her for sleeping through her alarm three times in one morning: “You guys know I was a sleepybaby!”

I get so frustrated. Because there are times where I want to yell, “You are not a baby anymore! Sleepybaby excuses are rendered null and void after your third birthday.”

But the truth is, I am a spiritually sleepybaby. And I never stop using that excuse. I mess up, and I tell myself “Well, it was bound to happen, I will always be _______.” (insert my shortcoming)

My past mistakes tie me down. My imaginary sleepybaby syndrome kicks me in the rump before I even attempt to do anything.

Jeremiah had sleepybaby syndrome.

The word of the LORD came to me, saying,

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
before you were born I set you apart;
I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.”

“Ah, Sovereign LORD,” I said, “I do not know how to speak; I am only a child.”

Paraphrase:

God: “I’ve called you to wake up and do big things for me.”

Jeremiah: “Riiight, but haven’t You heard? I was a sleepybaby.”

But the LORD said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am only a child.’ You must go to everyone I send you to and say whatever I command you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you,” declares the LORD.

Then the LORD reached out his hand and touched my mouth and said to me, “Now, I have put my words in your mouth. See, today I appoint you over nations and kingdoms to uproot and tear down, to destroy and overthrow, to build and to plant.”

Paraphrase:

God: “Being a sleepybaby means nothing. I’ve called you to wake up and do big things.”

And then, God touches and literally puts the words in Jeremiah’s mouth.

Sometimes I try to explain to my Creator who I am: I am a sleepybaby, I am bound to sleep through my alarm. I am 19 years old, I am not ready for something this big. I am a white girl, I cannot work in projects. I am not a Worship Leader, I have no place leading worship.

Translation: I am scared of what people think and I lack the trust in You to do what You’ve called me to do.

I was blown away by the simple fact that God touched Jeremiah’s lips. God is a God who reaches down and equips me to handle what He’s called me to.

So, I suppose my point is that God is bigger. God is bigger than the fact that I am only 19 years old and white. God is bigger than the fact that I don’t have an extensive vocabulary. God is bigger than the fact that I don’t have the money to pay for an extra year of school. God is bigger than fear. God is bigger than weakness. God is bigger than friends. God is bigger than school. God is bigger than family. God is bigger than uncertainty. God is bigger than sleepybaby syndrome.

my paradoxical ambitions

I want a love that knows no limits, as long as it is not inconvenient.

I want to live in such a radical way that everyone admires and accepts me.

I want to give selflessly, but only if it does not require sacrifice.

I want to put on the face of Christ in the least offensive way possible.

daily bread

i have absolutely no idea what tomorrow holds. and i’ve heard the passage about worrying a million times.

i heard once that the Bible holds little weight to a lot Christians because we approach with the prideful attitude of “i know this already.”– and arrogance reduces God to principles.

i read the first few chapters of matthew today. and i read the Lord’s prayer, which i have heard and recited 20 billion times. and i read the passage about worrying, which i have read and heard 20 gajillion times.

the thought of 2010 overwhelms me sometimes. i sit and think of how unprepared i was for 2009. and i wonder how prepared i am for 2010– usually i decide that i’m not at all prepared. this causes me to freak out. my mind is a constant whirlwind of thoughts and worries. i start to think about how i don’t feel prepared for the rest of the day. and then i worry about tomorrow. and then i think: “if today is this hard, what will i be like in a year? two years? ten years? twelve and a half years?”

and i panic. i ask myself: “how will i ever make it?” and i question God: “i thought you were going to equip me to handle this stuff?”

and then i reread matthew 6.

and verse 11 reached off the page and smacked me in the face.

“Give us today our daily bread.”

today. right now. in this moment.

maybe that’s an incredibly obvious revelation.

so, that being said, i think i have come up with my official new years resolution. only, i’m awful at keeping those. i’ll call this a life resolution. because that sounds really important, so hopefully i’ll recognize the need to keep up with it.

i, eliza michelle chavez, will ask for my daily bread. i will look at the day that’s in front of my face and say “God, give me what i need for today. for right here, right now, in this moment.”

no longer will my prayer be: “I can’t do this. Equip me to handle everything.”

it will be differently– subtly different– but different: “Please give me my daily bread. give me what i need right now. i’ll tackle tomorrow when it comes. i know who You are, and i know that You provide my daily bread.”

i won’t worry about tomorrow. i won’t worry about all of 2010. i’ll ask for my bread on january 9th, 2010. and then when january 10th rolls around, i’ll ask for the bread i need for that moment.

“Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

Psalm 63:7-8

“Because you are my Rest, I sing in the shadow of Your wings. My soul clings to You: You’re right hand upholds me.”

When I first read this verse, I wrote it down. I taped it to my desk in plain view. It was a beautiful concept: finding rest in God– clinging to Him. After a few months, the 3×5 note card started to frustrate me. The concept of clinging to God drastically changed from beautiful to desperate. I spent a good four or five journal entries wondering why God wasn’t upholding me despite the fact that I was clinging with everything in me.

a snippet: “I am literally clinging onto You with every ounce of strength i have left. And yet… no rest. When is this ‘upholding’ going to start?”

And then. A revelation.

Am I really clinging to God?

Or am I clinging to what I expect Him to do in this situation?

Am I really clinging to God?

Or am I clinging to my idea of “okay”?

cling: to remain persistently or stubbornly faithful.

What am I remaining stubbornly faithful to?

What areas of my life am I not budging in?

Pause for self-evaluation.

….

The one area in which I promise again and again that I will not budge, is always the first area in which I do budge.

But these are new areas. I’ve worked the past ten years on not being stubborn in areas of my life that i recognized my stubbornness.

And now. The areas where I’ve never even imagined I could be stubborn.

….

What I really clinging to?

writer’s block at its finest.

my mind is everywhere.

none of my thoughts are concrete enough to put on paper… or, well, screen i suppose.

i am awake for half of the night. and asleep for half of the day.

christmas is coming. but before christmas, an even more momentous day. maybe momentous isn’t the correct word. i’m sure there isn’t really a correct word for it at all.  or maybe that’s just my writer’s block.

i’m not even a writer. sure, i used to be. back when adverbs were a concept that kids my age were barely grasping and i was way ahead of the game. not so much anymore.

i’m a thinker. and sometimes i think the two go hand in hand. you must be a thinker in order to be a writer.

i think i’m solely a thinker. and possibly should never attempt to write anything formal or beautiful.

i can’t even write my thoughts. because i don’t know what to make of them, how to consolidate them, or even if they make sense at all.

they probably don’t.

if my thoughts barely make sense to me, there’s no way they will make sense to the rest of the world.

a snippet:

this hallways freezing. but my face is hot. am i embarrassed? or stressed maybe? my stomach hurts. am i hungry? or stressed maybe? stressed seems like such a stupid word today. overwhelmed doesn’t fit either. i need to call my sister. i need to call my mom. the kitchen floor is wonderful. why is everything changing? why do i care? i hated the old kitchen floor. i hate a lot of things this year. my head is throbbing. should i throw out my gum? or am i just stressed? he won’t even look at me anymore. am i imagining it? no. he’s a douche. no, i’m ridiculous. i want space. do i? i have space. i have more than space. i have douchebag-ery. i didn’t ask for that. i didn’t ask for a lot of things that are happening. my face is unbearably hot.

and so. i will stick to thinking. and probably never writing half the things i think.

christmas.

Autumn was an awful, bitter cold
I detest the cold air with all that I am.
“My heart won’t welcome winter,”
I matter-of-factly say.

The scent of summer lingers in my memories.
I cling to it with everything in me.
“My heart won’t welcome winter,“
I resolutely say.

I would rather have the autumn I once hated.
The frigid air is unbearable.
“My heart won’t welcome winter,”
I furiously say.

I will not– will not drink hot chocolate.
Hot chocolate is for winter.
“My heart won’t welcome winter,”
I stubbornly say.

Last years scarf hangs, unused, in the closet
I do not want it. I do not need it.
“My heart won’t welcome winter,”
I convince myself to say.