Thinking and Other Dangerous Pursuits

Learning to think was not a process that came naturally or quickly for me.  In fact, thinking for oneself was tacitly discouraged throughout my growing up – mostly because thinking would inevitably lead to disagreement, but also (and this was never said in so many words) because I was a girl.  Oddly enough, whenever I exhibited a tendency to reason logically, my dad would reprimand me and point out that “logic doesn’t work on people.”

So I spent the first 21 years of my life blindly trusting those “God put in authority” over me.  I trusted them to think for me, protect me, and direct my every decision.  Though my parents were passive about the authority they exerted over my life, I was determined to live by the rules – to earn God’s blessing, naturally – and thus wholeheartedly “gave up my right” to think for myself.  I was raised in a culture where this was the “godly” thing to do.

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I still remember the day when the first real fissure appeared in my mind.  It was, fittingly, a bright, hot summer day, and I was sitting in the membership class of the church my family had been attending for just a few short months.  I had my green membership notebook and my Bible open on my lap, and I remember soaking up the discussion of Reformed Theology as if I’d been handed the moon.  In an unconscious effort to protect us from overtaxing our minds, my parents never discussed theology, philosophy, literature, psychology, or major portions of world history, so I had never been exposed to the idea that theology is actually the study of God – and how belief in and about God affects everyday life.  It was the first time I had encountered theology outside of a male argument (I had overheard enough to know that theology was a reason to fight about God), and I was enthralled.  Theology was for me, too?  And it wasn’t about fighting?!

Oh, and my pastor said that grace was a free gift – unmerited favor, he called it.

I had never heard of such a thing.

Until that day, all my information and instruction about faith had come from essentially one source.  And I had believed all of it.  And – until that day – I had never questioned it.

One shaft of light, and suddenly my entire existence shifted.  Once darkness had been banished and sight had come, it was impossible for me to envision a world where one person had all the answers.  My beginning may have been slow and it may have been “late” by contemporary standards (I was 21 and had finished my junior year of college – and college, incidentally, had nothing to do with learning how to think, though both in and out of the classroom I encountered plenty of “new” ideas), but I took the concept of using my own brain quite seriously once I had begun.

“When you listen and read one thinker, you become a clone… two thinkers, you become confused… ten thinkers, you’ll begin developing your own voice… two or three hundred thinkers, you become wise and develop your voice.”   ~ Tim Keller

I’m developing my voice, and I do not intend to stop.

 

Light like Dolphins

I love the beach.

There’s something about crashing surf, the pungent scent of saltwater marshes, and constant wind tangling my hair that feels more like home to me than any other place on earth.  I am alive here in a way that eludes me during ordinary life, and I am grateful the shore has always been such a sweet place for me.  This week I am on vacation with my parents and most of my siblings, and I am in my favorite place on earth.

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This island holds many wonderful memories: my first time behind the wheel (of a car), my first time at the helm (of a sailboat), the worst sunburns I’ve had in my life, jumping waves and getting mouthfuls of sand and saltwater when I got tumbled by waves, late night games of Cancellation Hearts or Tripoley, feeling ravenously hungry for my Mom’s meat sauce on spaghetti after a long day on the beach, and a few epic sand castles.  But most of all, when I think of the beach, I think of Granddad.

Granddad was my rock growing up.  A brilliant scientist with degrees in engineering from Drexel and MIT, Granddad’s life was one of problem-solving.  During my lifetime (his retirement), he was fascinated by the potential of personal computing – and is solely responsible for my lifelong attachment to all things Apple.

Among many other things, Granddad taught me to love the beach.  When he died – suddenly, at the age of 80 – I was devastated.  I decided that loving people cost too much.  I was 18, and I resolved to never again feel such anguish.  So I bottled my emotions and determined not to feel.  It was an act of self-preservation, or so I thought.

Last summer, I began to wonder what life would have been like if I’d had Madeleine L’Engle beside me – at least in spirit – as I learned about grief.  I’d read her Wrinkle in Time quintet and decided to keep going with Meet the Austins and subsequent books.  I have enjoyed L’Engle’s writing quite a bit, and often found certain passages to be particularly moving.  However, I was totally unprepared for the emotions that would be unleashed by the fourth book in the Austin Chronicles: A Ring of Endless Light.

It’s summertime on an island in New England, and the entire Austin family knows this will be their last summer with their beloved, wise Grandfather.  In addition to quoting John Donne, Henry Vaughan, and Elie Wiesel, L’Engle skillfully deals with the myriad emotions surrounding death.  How do you love someone you know you’re going to lose?  How do you continue living when you’ve lost someone you love?  Why are love and pain so very intermixed?!

Grandfather summarizes the message of the book in one simple sentence: “When one tries to avoid death, it’s impossible to affirm life.”  I finally recognized that in my own life, I had taken to avoiding anything that seemed painful – which meant that I was living a life affirming nothing. I was living a life of negatives instead of a life of positives.  And I was reaping the consequences; life was heaviness and darkness to me.

Gradually I have begun allowing life to illumine my emotions – my hopes, dreams, and desires.  It is a frightening but exhilarating process to admit that life has been lived in fear rather than faith.  My pastor regularly encourages faith as the antidote to fear – a new experience for me.  I had been taught to fear nearly everything in my life, and to come out the other side and find the brightness of faith is a little unnerving at times.

That first crack of light was the hardest.  Medication helped, as did good friends and a wonderful counselor.  A year has passed since I first read about the dolphins and Grandfather and sorting out mixed-up emotions.  A pod of dolphins swam by our beach early in this vacation, reminding me that my own sorting-out has actually progressed quite a bit since last reading L’Engle.  So I have spent my spare moments this week re-reading A Ring of Endless Light – grateful for grace that has shown me that light.  I think I will always need reminders that personal transformation comes about slowly.

Let the light continue growing!