You Can't, But God Can

I am disgusted by people’s passion without action. I feel like all our “putting on airs” and worrying about painted nails and cute skirts and curled hair is pointless. I am disgusted with my friends who talk about what “God is speaking to their hearts” when they turn around and spend two hours picking out an outfit for the next day. I am so sick of people who are like “oh I just can’t wait to worship tonight” when they are going to sit in their comfortable pews singing words about their feelings. I am disgusted with piles of clothes in my room and the boots that I spent money on when I could just wear sneakers all day and be content.

I am having a hard time being okay with this culture anymore.

I am having trouble figuring out what is right and what is wrong anymore. It just doesn’t seem fair that people have to live like that out there and we just fill up our coffee cups and are irritated when it burns our tongues.

I know that just because we are blessed does not mean that other people are cursed.

I know that just because we are born into a comfortable situation doesn’t mean we are guilty. But I definitely think we are responsible for a whole lot more conviction that we are feeling. And not even just the conviction, but inaction upon in-conviction. Like a double-whammy.

I am sick of being convicted and not doing anything about it. I am sick of these mountaintop experiences that just lead to valleys once more. I am sick of myself. I am saddened by how much hurt needs to be changed in this world. Like right now, my friend who was just crying about injustice in Cambodia is whining because she has nothing to wear. I am doing all I can not to scream out “people in the world have nothing else to wear but one single t-shirt” and there are little lost boys right now sitting in the dirt emaciated and dehumanized.

I cannot see the proper dividing line between being overly content and being just enough content. Thankfully we worship and are created by a God who can redeem any circumstance. He is powerful enough to bring people to his salvation without our help.

But he has offered us as living sacrifices upon the altar of his will. He is holding the pitcher, and we are the ones who need to step up and pour ourselves out.

I think we forget when we say that “only God can change a sinners heart” that our hearts are the most sinful. That only God can change our hearts. The most difficult thing is that we lie to ourselves a whole lot.

We concentrate on the bad that others are doing only to realize that we are capable and guilty of doing the very same.

I am just as materialistic as my friends and the real issue is that I am guiltier because I know it. They may not realize their materialism, but when I realize mine I point directly at them and divide my own blame.

I am convinced that the whole Christian life is the realization that you can't, but GOD CAN.

Generations

Have you ever been to a place that’s different. The air is heavy or the light is dry. I do not know how to explain it. That is how today is. I hate days like this that leave the imagination to nothing but memories. And somehow the only memories that tickle my brain during times like these are old ones. Old and brassy full of stories that are hard to tell. Hard to place into the current world. Sometimes I think of memories and the way things played out. I think of how things would have been if my family had stayed in Poland instead of coming here. How my world would be different. And then I think of how the world, my current world, is different because of what happened. Of why things happened like they did, and how the people are different because of it. I don’t know how to start, but it must be told. And there are so many stories. I am not sure how to tell them or which ones, but I will try. I promised myself and the memories that I would retell them. and one does not promise something without the memories haunting them until each and every word is placed next to another until it is all out. What is there to tell if not the past? To where can we look but there? All that is now was built from what happened then. And today so many are forgetting it. Forgetting the history that could make them better. Things are the way they are. It is written. There is no changing them. My family descended from the Polish and Norwegian immigrants of the very early 1900s. I am told what my Grandma June’s house was like back then, and I have an idea of how my Grandpa Ed’s house looked until his father was taken by appendicitis. Just a few short years ago there was no cure for the sudden pain and infection. It would take a father from his child and pregnant wife. Now, it is cured over night with some expense, but hardly any pain. I wish that what we know now could have been done then too, but then things wouldn’t be the same now. I do not know what my life would be like if my Grandpa had had a dad. I do not know what life was like for my Grandma Virgie, or her family or her generation. I know that her life was hard. Her mom’s husband also died, I am at a loss for what. What does it matter? It only matters that someone knows. That someone else can know and that someone’s someone can someday know. Such is life. My Grandmother Virgie grew up with a horrible step-dad who beat her mom and her brothers and her. His legacy must live on with theirs because his memory is entwined with theirs— in every sense. Those in this book who are remembered for their horrible actions are only remembered because of those they hurt. The lives of those who were hurt still live on and only because of them do we remember anyone else. The story I tell is for my mother, grandmothers, and aunt. No one else. I write it as if I am talking to them, not you. You, my friend, are only a witness. And you will hear.