Tonight you don't get a blog... you get a personal essay.

I’m full of rainbows and happy thoughts tonight, which is completely unlike me. 

Well.  Not completely.  I consider love to be the root of all goodness and possess an extraordinarily high level of unconditional contentment (despite my gravitation toward artistic darkness and angst… not in an emo way; in a “beauty in brokenness” way.)

So.  I’m a loving and content person.  When I say that it’s unlike me to be full of rainbows, what I mean is that sappiness and overly tender displays of emotion make me want to gag.  Blegh.  For example, I consider romantic comedies to be unpleasant… Hallmark movies, torturous.  My roommate Heidi and I often have conversations complaining about the uncomfortable nature of romantic gestures.  Receiving bouquets of flowers, being serenaded with love songs, and googly-eyed PDA make us cringe. 

But somehow, Heidi and I both get choked up at the key change of Taylor Swift’s “Love Song,” a song I thoroughly despise.  Another example of my inconsistency: although I have relatively little patience for sappy displays between humans, I have unmitigated compassion for animals.  Present me with any movie/book/story about pets and I’ll be blubbering at the five-minute mark—ten seconds if its one of those animal shelter commercials flashing clips of Trooper the Three-Legged Dog who was abandoned in a gutter and needs a family.  Tear-jerkers, those ones.

So.  I’m a loving and content person who hates sappiness, hates overly tender displays of emotion, and finds herself steeped in paradoxical mindsets.  Remember this.

*

There were 19 people at the church service I attended tonight, including the band, which was a husband and prego-wife duo—guitar and vocals only, old-school summer camp style.  Going into the service, I only knew three people—the preacher Ryan (the one from Bible Study—my age), a 22-ish boy named Travis, and his slightly younger sister (What is her name??  It contains a double consonant, I believe... something super girly… starts with an H?  Not Hillary… not Hannah... I’ll think of it.) They are an interesting pair, Travis and his sister.  They used to be missionaries in Kenya, and they give off the stereotypical wholesome, conservative, soft-spoken missionary children vibe.  Their personalities are thoughtful and reserved.  They speak of the Holy Spirit leading them, would never cuss or drink, and probably listen to only Christian music.  They are very… good.  And they have some ridiculous stories. 

Story #1:  Because Travis and his family weren’t native Kenyans, the locals assumed (incorrectly) that they were wealthy.  One night, Travis was alone in the kitchen when a burglar broke down the door and stood facing him, holding a gun at his side.  Travis’ first instinct was to tackle the intruder and hold him down until his father and brother could arrive to help—but something stopped him.  Seconds later, three more burglars burst through the door, dragging along Travis’ father and two brothers, holding guns to their heads.  Travis, his father, and both brothers were beaten while his mother and sister hid under the bed.  Eventually, the burglars realized that the family had nothing valuable to steal, so they raided their kitchen cupboards for food.  One burglar was so high that he tried to eat a candy bar with the wrapper still on.  The burglars left the family alive—maimed, but alive.      

Story #2:  While hiking in the woods near their home, Travis’ family became alarmed by herds of wildlife running in the opposite direction.  It wasn’t long before they could smell smoke, so they rushed back to their house, where they could see a plume of black smoke erupting from the woods where they’d been hiking.  Soon, the wildfire was raging toward their house and engulfing the neighbors’ houses in flames.  At the last second, Travis’ father was struck with the idea to pour a ring of gasoline around their house and light it on fire.  When the wildfire reached the fire ring, it obeyed the boundary and circled around the house, leaving it untouched.      

Story #3:  During a time of political upheaval, their city experienced weeks-long riots and bloody shooting sprees.  It was too dangerous for Travis’ family to leave the house even to pick up their van, which was in the body shop across the street.  The body shop was a target for attempted bombings because of the shop owner’s political leanings. At the time, the van was the only material possession of value that the family owned.  The shop owner bribed the police to protect his shop, and their van was safe. 

*

Confession: for a few years now, I’ve been resentful of Christians.  Ironic… I am one.

Somewhere between the time I entered college and the time I received my diploma, I became intolerant of legalistic, generalized beliefs like “swearing is a sin,” “alcohol is evil,” and “Obama is the antichrist” (seriously? How did that one get off the ground?).  I got fired up just thinking about the popular “Christian” responses to social issues like homosexual marriage, abortion, and the American Dream.  I’ve come close to flipping off the protesters waving signs outside of Planned Parenthood, but settled for glaring and shaking my head.  I’ve prepared extensive, well-researched arguments for all of my seemingly unconventional (in the Christian subculture) stances.  But the last thing I want is for this blog to become a soapbox—that’s not why I created it. 

Actually, that’s only partially true.  I do want a soapbox.  But I don’t think that would be such a good idea.  I’m learning that the passion I have for my opinions is not born of a loving concern for the world and people around me, but out of bitterness.  I’m not sure what has caused me to become so defiant toward my fellow Christians, but what I do know is that my intolerance has morphed into disrespect, and I have become no better than the rest. 

So.  I’m a supposedly loving and content person who judges others for being judgmental and scornfully resents her own religion.  Do I hence resent myself? 

Yes, and scornfully.

*

In Hawaii, it is common to see cars abandoned on the side of the road, overgrown with bushes.  When people move to the mainland and don’t have the time to sell their car or the money to ship it by boat, they leave it behind.  Where they’re going, they can’t take it with them.

Tonight’s church service was held in a tent.  The breeze swept in through the open sides and the frogs chirped melodies in the background as Ryan gave an academic lecture on the parables in Matthew 13.  Afterward, we stood around in clusters, sipping homemade iced mochas and swapping stories as if we’d all known each other our whole lives.  As if we were all family. 

Being here is… good.  It’s mild hippie love.  It’s Christian love.    

When I first met Travis and his sister, I thought they were the poster children for everything I usually resent about Christianity (minus the “Obama is antichrist” belief.)   And then I heard their stories.  And then I got to know them.  And then I began to love them. 

We all have stories.  We all have moments of rainbows and happy thoughts.  We are all steeped in paradoxical mindsets.  We all do the best that we can, and perhaps we are all… good. Resentment is expensive, and bitterness is a heavy load to carry.  Where I want to go—where I am going—I can’t take them with me.