Truth

y name is Heather Ziebart.

I am a 23 year old White Caucasian Female. I was born a female. I will always be a female.

I am a straight heterosexual. I like boys. I believe in opposite sex marriage, with one person, for life.

I am a virgin. I believe that sex is to be saved for marriage. And I believe that children should come from within this marriage.

I am a Christian. I believe that the one and only God made the world and all that is in it. I believe that he made me. And that he has a plan for my life.

These things are who I am. They are the core of my being. And right now, PSU is challenging my being. I am surrounded by feminist propaganda in three of my classes. I was told yesterday that just because I have a vagina, that does not make me a girl. It is my choice. My choice. I am being told that the Bible has good stuff in it… but it is not Feminist friendly. I have been told that white, heterosexual, straight, middle class, Christian, nuclear families are not only rare, but on the failing end of the slope as far as families go. I have been told that if I have not explored my sexuality, or questioned my gender, then I probably need to. I am being told that people who marry and have children are simply “breeders” nothing more. They are just following some stereotype expectation, and not living their lives for themselves. I am reading about how history has forgotten women, but we need to “STAND UP NOW” and make sure they gosh darn don’t forget about us from here on out. I am riled up. My blood boils. But I can turn it off. I want to know what is being said. I don’t want to throw it out. I want to question my theology and not throw out biology.

I like the challenges. I like hearing what others have grown up thinking. And getting a glimpse at what the world is hearing. But some days, like this week, it is just loud noise. The words are packages of lies, all wrapped up in a presentation too alluring to not rip open. It is good to question. To think through. To know. The sheep know the voice of the shepherd. And in this truth I shall rest.

Top of the Morning to You!

 

Grammy, today I called my mom, your daughter. And I told her “Top of the Morning!” When I woke up this morning, I thought of you. I wanted to call you. But I could not. This is my first St. Patrick’s Day without you. I know you always loved this day. The Irishness of it. I remember last year, I came to visit you unexpectedly. And even though Aunt Donna was caring for you, your house still had that familiar scent of caraway seeds from the warm Irish Soda Bread. I remember that we went on about how frustrating it was that the Columbian newspaper failed to even mention the holiday. I promised to tell everyone I knew of the day, of the history, of the legacy.

I remember when I was little. And I would call you on the phone. And you would tell me stories of when you were little. How Cleveland Ohio in the 30’s was Irish Central. How you had the day off school and had a big Irish Celebration. A Celebration of your heritage. You talked about how your dad, Pampa, would pull out his items from home, tucked safely away in an attic trunk the rest of the year. And you talked of how your parents would speak Gaelic to each other, but you never learned a word.  You talked about the celebrations on the street.

I wish I had been there. It is so far removed from this “green” day we have now. The “I’ll pinch you if your not wearing green".” The Leprechauns and four leaf clovers. Those might be the decorations I have in my house, but in my heart, being Irish is deeper. I am glad you are my Grammy. And that you taught me about this day. That even if I can’t explain it, I hold a memory worth more than a pot o’ gold.

Class?

Man in a wheel chair.

Appears maybe homeless.

Enters the Max.

People move away. Turn away. Pretend he is not there.

What is this? A caste system??

He asks over and over if anyone will take him to McDonalds.

I watch from far down, no one responds. I move closer. Ask him to repeat his request.

He is just very tired and would love a push to McDonalds.

I gladly say I will push him. Its on my way to my class. Only two blocks away. People back up as if I am not a caste too.

Its not like touching his handlebars will paralyze me. I want to scream at everyone. For not responding to him. For being Jerks.

His name is Bryan, and he had a joyful, thankful heart. We talked about snow.

He asked to buy me a sausage sandwhich.

I decline.

Sausage Sandwhichs were my Grammys favorite.

A random guy looks at me and says I am amazing.

Why?

Because I pushed a guy in a wheel chair when non one else would.

Bryan… I hope to give you a ride again.

Doubting

I am sitting in my Cafe at PSU. Ease-dropping. I left my headphones at home today. Today that was an accident. But, I am glad that I did.

I am absolutely captivated by the Lord these days. I find myself challenged and doubting and questing, and ultimately, trusting. My faith has always been easy, you hand it to me, feed it to me, I believe it. The end. It has always been mine. I have never had a problem with it. I have never thought much about the fact that people were much different from I. I mean, I have accepted that there are people in the world going to hell, and that it is my job to reach them... but it seems so big, and so far fetched, that the reality of it has never moved me enough to actually partake in action. Yes, I have been on "mission" trips. And they changed my perspective of the world... but it did not challenge my faith.

The group at the table next to me are having this discussion, and I wish I had joined in at the beginning, but now it is awkward because I have been listening, and am now writing about them. They are taking about church, and God, and what they believe. "Did you hear theory that Jesus might be Buddhist? I kind of like that theory." They continued to share their knowledge of church, throwing terms like "evangelical" and "Pentecostalism" . One of the guys responded to the latter word by saying he would love to attend just one service to "see those tongue speakers in action."

One of the girls, her dad is a pastor in Portland, she is part of a different church in Portland. " Its cool, they curse, and we don't really like read the bible, and for sermons, people just kind of talk, and share whatever they want. We meet in a yoga studio, its more like spiritual than christian, we meditate and pray and stuff. But its weird. I like it though. Cause its like a house church, a small group. But we celebrate halloweeen, which is cool." Her parents think she is part of a good church. She won't tell them what it is like. Because her dad would be mad and sh--. The other people in the conversation talked about how dumb that was, that parents get mad when their kids don't follow their ways.

It was so interesting sitting right here, listening. So much of what they said was honest. And they respected each other in their conversation. And I know if I had joined in, they would have been so open to what I had to say. Not because they want to be converted, but because they are open to letting anyone believe whatever they want to believe. I always assumed that non-Christians just hated Christians, and honestly, that Christians hated non-Christians. This was the model that was presented to me... or at least the way I interpreted the model presented to me. Real life is nothing like the cheesy "evangelism" videos we watch in Sunday school classes. Real life is full of peoples pain, and open hearts, and a longing for truth. Real life is open to listening, and is not condemning and hears what people has to say. Real life is a place where God shows up, where he speaks and moves.

I just started a class this term called Feminist Biblical Interpretation. I could write a blog just describing the 19 other people in my class. Yesterday we did introductions. 8 of the students identified as growing up in the church. But the most common thing said was "I am on a spiritual journey." One girl said she knew nothing of the bible, and felt that a feminist approach would be a good place to start.

I am 23 years old. I have a life time of church with me, multiple read overs of the scripture, two years of bible college on my belt, and a very active relationship with the Lord. I am not scared of this class turning me into a Feminist Christian. What I do feel is excitement that we get to read the word of God in school. And I know that the Word of God does not return void. So as I am in this place, full of people on spiritual journeys, I am thankful for real life, and the opportunity to doubt, but to know that in the end, My God is good.

Worth it.

I never journaled about 9/11. And growing up, I didn't take any pictures of my best friend Katy Lucas. And up to this point, I have not yet blogged about Austin.

It seems that the most obvious, life changing events seem to be overlooked in the world of writing. Not because they are not important, but because they are SO important. How can you possibly capture them in words? When something holds such a large part of your heart and life captive, do you really have time to stop and write of it?

For me, writing is a way to process. A way to make things real. A way to never forget. But, when the large, obvious thing is what makes me process. When it is, already, so very real. And when it needs not written to be remembered. It is then, that is is not written of.

Austin has entered my life, in such a Way, only he could. And it is obvious. And real. And something I shall not be forgetting. Austin, you are worth writing about, I just don't think that my writings can do you justice.

On Writing

"Every once in a while, when I write, I feel that feeling of a thousand slender threads coming together, strands of who I've been and who I'm becoming, the long moments at the computer and the tiny bits of courage, the middle of the night prayers and the exact way God made me, not wrong or right, just me. I feel like I'm doing what I came to do, in the biggest sense. That's why I write, because sometimes, every once in a while, I feel entirely at home in the universe, a welcome and wonderful feeling. I could cry at the feeling, because it happens so rarely. Doing the hard work of writing makes me feel like I am paying rent at the cosmic level, doing the thing that I can do to make the world a little better decorated. Writing wakes me up, lights me on fire, opens my eyes to the things I can never see and feel when I am hiding under the covers, cowering and consumed with my own failures and fears. "

Shauna Niequist - Bittersweet p.161-162

I totally agree with and come along side her words, an echo of I AGREE!

To sing Hallelujah

I am reading this book called "bittersweet." The author writes short chapters, discussing short chapters within her own life. By using names and telling stories. As I rode the 72 bus this morning on the way to pre-school, I was captivated by a few of the pages that I read.

She wrote about the season she was currently in. About living with her husband and her small son, and being lonely. About how she had just come from a very rough spot, but did not recognize in it the joys of being in it.

"I'm able to see now that what made that season feel so terrible to me were not the changes. What made that season feel so terrible is that I lost track of some of the crucial beliefs and practices that every Christian must carry with them..."

I think about this. How much I say I desire change. It seems though, that when I am in the midst of change (which is like my entire last year), I seem to handle it quite terribly. I have been blaming my terrible attitude on all of the changes, and trying to "handle them." But, this is a very low blow blame. What makes me feel terrible is that I am losing track of some of my crucial beliefs. When I become focused on me, I begin to trust in myself, which shows my distrust in God. Which is like me saying that I do not believe he is good. But He is! He is Good! He is trust worthy! And if I would just let him have it, and not worry about the changes, I think I would find this to not be a terrible season, but a very purifying experience...

She then wrote about a weekend where she flew to California to spend three days with her college friends and their small babies. How they just rejoiced in every single squeezed out moment of lemonade life that weekend. And how if you are still in that season where you live with those people, to continue squeezing out every moment.

I can't help but thinking about the season I am in. I mean, I blog about it practically every day for gosh sake. (http://welaughbecause.wordpress.com/) Because I know that it is good. But, reading her words, about how life will be. How the day will come when we will not all live in the same house... or city for that matter. How we will be spread all over this country and world. How we will rejoice in memories past. I know right now, that I serve a very good God, that he allows such a powder sugar covered season to exist.

I know too, that an end does come to all good things. And because of The Fall, we can not live our lives in secluded community with those relationships close to perfection. We must venture out into the world, furthering His Kingdom. But, there is great peace when I think of eternity. When I think of the word forever, and how very long of a time that is. What a party heaven will be! It would be very selfish for us to keep to ourselves the Joy of our Savior, so we must, for a short time, share of ourselves while here on earth. But, we have a hope, a hope of a day to come when pain and suffering shall exist no more. When the hallelujahs sung to our King are echoing off golden streets. Forever and Ever...

So, while I am in this season of churning change, and powder sugar covered joys, I will trust in my Good God, and share of his perfections, awaiting the day when together we will sing unending Hallelujahs!