Caryn Rivadeneira's Blog, page 6

My Lenten Confessional: Day 3

Dear God,

Forgive my meanness. Forgive me for the times I think mean things, the times I say mean things, the times I do mean things. Forgive the times I bypass being kind or offering grace or simply taking a deep breath and indulge in the wicked rush that is a well-time jab or a cruel cut down (God, I hope I don’t do this often, but I know I do!). Forgive the times I choose not to think kindly of someone but instead let my mean thoughts roll on.

In your name, amen.

For past confessions, click here.

 

My Lenten Confessional: Day 2

Dear God:

Today’s a big day! Twelve years ago–as you may remember from the  ”Oh, dear, sweet Jesus” prayers I had on repeat during those 45 minutes of pushing my big-headed baby out–I became a mom (thanks for this!). While I could fill 40 days with the mistakes I’ve made as a mother, today I ask for forgiveness for the one that haunts me the most.

Forgive me for the times I’m short with my kids. For the all-too-often moments when I’m short in tone, when I’m on time, when I’m short in temper, have mercy on me.

Amen.

Click here for the other confessions and click here for the reason I’m even doing this.

 

My Lenten Confessional: Day 1

So I’ve been pushing around topics every which way about my desire to talk about our sins—to get the “big” sins, the “tiny” ones, the public ones, the secret ones out there.  For a while I thought it was the Reformed coming out in me (I do so love to talk about our depravity—how else do we understand the dazzling drenching of grace in our life?). But then I realized it was something else entirely.

Instead of needing to get us all talking about our sins, it seemed the Holy Spirit was prompting me to talk about mine. Or, more specifically, confess them. While I’ve always been good at admitted to being a sinner in general, I’m sometimes fairly lousy about naming the specifics (although, I’m quite adept at naming other people’s specifics. Funny how that works).

So with Lent upon us, I’ve decided not to give up anything (well, actually, I’m also trying to give up complaining about the weather) but instead take up something: the spiritual discipline of confession. I’ve been subjecting myself to the 12-steppers “searching and fearless moral inventory.” And I’ll try to post one of my moral failings every day of Lent. JUICY!!

But to kick it off, it’s less juice, more between God and me.

Confession #1

Dear God,

You and I have a good thing going. Chatty. Like friends. I talk to you in my mind, out loud. All the time. We’ve even got short hand (so glad you understand my raised, shaking fist and those hands help open at my side). The best thing anyone ever said about my writing was that I portray “a very real God, more so than I’ve often encountered in books” and that it’s like “Jesus hangs out with” me.

I was thrilled to hear that my writing reflects what I believe is true. That I see you as very real. And that Jesus indeed hangs out with me.

But alas, in this, I’ve messed up. Too often, I’ve taken for granted that you’re a God willing to stoop down, to hang out, to enter my space. I’ve neglected to see you as the Holy One you are. I’ve neglected to enter your presence with awe and humility and reverence. I’ve not once—not ever, I don’t think—lived in fear of you. I don’t fear you, Lord—in any sense of the word.

Forgive me for not giving you the respect, for not falling on my face in your presence enough. For not spending more time, quaking in your presence, awe-struck at your power and wonder and glory.

But thank you, thank you, thank you, still. For being a God who hangs out with me anyway.

 

My Lenten Confessional

So I’ve been pushing around topics every which way about my desire to talk about our sins—to get the “big” sins, the “tiny” ones, the public ones, the secret ones out there.  For a while I thought it was the Reformed coming out in me (I do so love to talk about our depravity—how else do we understand the dazzling drenching of grace in our life?). But then I realized it was something else entirely.

Instead of needing to get us all talking about our sins, it seemed the Holy Spirit was prompting me to talk about mine. Or, more specifically, confess them. While I’ve always been good at admitted to being a sinner in general, I’m sometimes fairly lousy about naming the specifics (although, I’m quite adept at naming other people’s specifics. Funny how that works).

So with Lent upon us, I’ve decided not to give up anything (well, actually, I’m also trying to give up complaining about the weather) but instead take up something: the spiritual discipline of confession. I’ve been subjecting myself to the 12-steppers “searching and fearless moral inventory.” And I’ll try to post one of my moral failings every day of Lent. JUICY!!

But to kick it off, it’s less juice, more between God and me.

Confession #1

Dear God,

You and I have a good thing going. Chatty. Like friends. I talk to you in my mind, out loud. All the time. We’ve even got short hand (so glad you understand my raised, shaking fist and those hands help open at my side). The best thing anyone ever said about my writing was that I portray “a very real God, more so than I’ve often encountered in books” and that it’s like “Jesus hangs out with” me.

I was thrilled to hear that my writing reflects what I believe is true. That I see you as very real. And that Jesus indeed hangs out with me.

But alas, in this, I’ve messed up. Too often, I’ve taken for granted that you’re a God willing to stoop down, to hang out, to enter my space. I’ve neglected to see you as the Holy One you are. I’ve neglected to enter your presence with awe and humility and reverence. I’ve not once—not ever, I don’t think—lived in fear of you. I don’t fear you, Lord—in any sense of the word.

Forgive me for not giving you the respect, for not falling on my face in your presence enough. For not spending more time, quaking in your presence, awe-struck at your power and wonder and glory.

But thank you, thank you, thank you, still. For being a God who hangs out with me anyway.

 

Gettin’ Good and Broke

The reviews are rolling in for Broke: What Financial Desperation Revealed about God’s Abundance (What’s this book about? Scroll down for the trailer!).

Publisher’s Weekly says, “In the vein of Ann Voskamp and Sarah Young, Rivadeneira (Known and Loved: 52 Devotions from the Psalms) offers a devotional perspective on financial desperation in the suburbs. Balancing between mystical mirth and spiritualized snark, she reflects on her skepticism about God’s trustworthiness and interweaves life stories of misfortune and small miracles to help readers find God and also “find him good.” A sterling storyteller, Rivadeneira spins a narrative of finding benediction and a benevolent God amidst economic trial that will speak to fellow suburbanites.”

Margot Starbuck says, “Only Caryn Rivadeneira could weave a tale of financial desperation into a page-turner. I didn’t want to put it down at night. You will discover life and light in these beautifully written pages.”

Karen Swallow Prior says, “If you like your Jesus sugary sweet, don’t read Broke. If you don’t think irreverent humor is next to godliness, don’t read Broke. If you hope that being broken by God involves superficial tinkering not soul-deep wrenching, don’t read Broke. If you don’t want a faith strong enough to wrestle with agonizing questions and hard stories, don’t read Broke. But if you like gritty and funny, honest and faithful, go for Broke.”

Carolyn Weber says, “”Reading Rivadeneira’s Broke brings the beatitudes to life. With in-your-face honesty riddled with mirthful profundity, she takes her reader around blind corners smack into the glory and goodness of God. Rivadeneira reminds us that the abundant life is quite a ride, and that our ticket has been paid in full. All we have to pay is our attention.”

Click here to view the embedded video.

A Prayer for a Congregation #3

[Prayer Spark: Prayer offered at my church on Feb. 16, 2014]

Dear God,

You are indeed the Lord. And we thank you that we can gather here together and sing your praises, listen to your truths, and celebrate you—the miracle worker—today.

We thank you for the luxuries we’ve enjoyed during this long winter, luxuries that through much of human history and over much of the globe today would be seen as miracles. We thank you for:

The ease and comfort in which we travel to arrive at church

Heat that courses through vents in our homes

Hot water that pulses through pipes

Dryers that dry our clothes and into which we can toss wet snowpants and gloves

Stoves that heat kettles for tea and boil milk for hot chocolate

And though we do thank you for these things, we know they are not true miracles. Heat and hot water can be explained away. And yet, even in that, there is the miracle of the inventors and innovators who are created in your image, the miracle that somehow moves imaginary into reality. And we thank you for that.

Today, Lord, we ask that even as we learn about you—who once walked on earth healing the sick, casting demons out of the distraught, restoring sight to the blind and restoring stature to the outcast—we thank you for the miracles you’ve performed in our midst. We thank you for the inexplicable healings and recoveries, for the interventions, for the rescues, for the discoveries. We thank you for stepping in and changing or saving lives, for turning situations around against all earthly odds. We praise you for the times we’ve seen or felt your hand at work, for our own brushes with your angels here on earth.

But we do also live in the reality that miracles do not always come—at least, not the way we want.

Just as when you walked on earth you did not heal every illness, you did feed all the hungry or end all poverty or all troubles of this life, so it is today that many of us pray for miracles that do not come—and may not come.

We don’t know why your hand intervenes so miraculously sometimes and seems to miss so drastically other times. But we do know that this leaves many of us questioning you, that this drops many of us in dark places, that this leaves us doubting your faithfulness and your promises to us. We wonder why we’ve escaped your good favor. We wonder why blessings seem to dodge us.

God, for those of us in this place, be near. Remind us all of the miracle that is being sustained by you, that is being held by you through grief or pain or suffering. Remind us of the miracle that is grace.

Keep our eyes always focused on the miracle that is you, Jesus, with us.

And, God, we ask that you accept our prayers for miracles once again—now as we spend a moment lifting up a person or situation in need of a miracle—a change only you can bring about.

Jesus, we offer this in your name, alone. Amen.

A Prayer for Pastors

[Prayer Spark: One, a request for this when I explained Folks Prayers. Two, a friend--more gracious than I--who in response to my Mark Driscoll plagiarism tirades reminded me that perhaps he needed prayer. ACK. But this reminded me how busy and overwhelming this time of year surely is for most pastors...]

Dear God:

Be with pastors. Give strength to those who are over-worked and weary. Give wisdom to those offering counsel. Give vision to those preparing messages. Give peace to those in the midst of trouble. Give grace to those who fail–morally or job-wise-i-ly. Give courage to those who have to say hard things (and which of them don’t?). Give kindness to those dealing with difficult people (and which of them isn’t?). Give eyes to see their congregants as you see them–as broken but lovable. Give ears to hear your words. Give compassion so they can lead and love as they need to. Give encouragement to those who aren’t thanked. Give endurance so they can carry on, if it’s your will. Or give an exit if they need to leave.

Amen.

A Prayer for the Listed. And Not Listed.

[Prayer Spark: Finding my name on Rachel Held Evans' 101 Christian Women Speakers]

So God…

…right off the bat this is going to sound like the worst sort of humble brag: a fake prayer offered as a humble brag. But you know my heart here, God, right? If I’m humble bragging, forgive me. If I’m not (and I really think I’m not…) help folks bear and pray with me.

So hear goes: as you might have noticed finding my name on a list of amazing speakers, specifically finding my name just above Marilynne Robinson’s, just about knocked me off my chair. But here’s how I know this isn’t a humble brag: I wasn’t knocked off my chair because I find myself so unworthy (not humble!) but because I’m just not the sort who makes it on to lists.

As you know,usually I’m the one feeling like crap because I’d hoped to see my name on something (maybe? just maybe?) and it’s not. I see a list I’d love to be on but am not and suddenly I’m back in 7th grade, standing in that hallway in the middle of friends all cheering and high-fiving because their names were on that  cast list. And mine wasn’t. Remember that?

Usually I’m comforting myself with all sorts of reasons why of course I’m not on the list and why I’ll show them. I’m super mature, you know that, God.

But then sometimes, out of nowhere, my name appears. And then I’m filled with an icky weirdness all over again. Because the truth is: lists matter. You know? And being on one–being included in something “important” feels great. Because although I tell my friends who didn’t appear that it doesn’t matter and that it’s “just a list,” I’m going to add that my name appeared on Rachel’s list to my bio. I’m going to make sure my publishers see this so they think I’m something. I’m on the list!

And that stinks. That this matters. Because I know it doesn’t to you, God. What matters is that I live right. That I use my gifts as the woman you made me to be. That I love. Actually, that I love is probably all that really matters.

But still: there’s this world we live in where lists matter. Where being included feels great (but too great? is that bad?) and where being left off sucks. (FWIW, God, I’m not blaming Rachel here. Of all the lists I’ve seen, she set hers up beautifully and humbly and honorably).

So I don’t even know what I’m praying here: just maybe that you help me (and the other “listeds”) accept the good feelings and good “things” that come from being included in a list and that you help me (and the other “unlisteds”) whenever we are left on and want to be on.

Also, thanks for not letting my name be on that 7th grade play list. Was good to learn early on that a thespian I am not.

Alright. Amen.

Prayers for the Listed. And Not Listed.

[Prayer Spark: Finding my name on Rachel Held Evans' 101 Christian Women Speakers]

So God…

…right off the bat this is going to sound like the worst sort of humble brag: a fake prayer offered as a humble brag. But you know my heart here, God, right? If I’m humble bragging, forgive me. If I’m not (and I really think I’m not…) help folks bear and pray with me.

So hear goes: as you might have noticed finding my name on a list of amazing speakers, specifically finding my name just above Marilynne Robinson’s, just about knocked me off my chair. But here’s how I know this isn’t a humble brag: I wasn’t knocked off my chair because I find myself so unworthy (not humble!) but because I’m just not the sort who makes it on to lists.

As you know,usually I’m the one feeling like crap because I’d hoped to see my name on something (maybe? just maybe?) and it’s not. I see a list I’d love to be on but am not and suddenly I’m back in 7th grade, standing in that hallway in the middle of friends all cheering and high-fiving because their names were on that  cast list. And mine wasn’t. Remember that?

Usually I’m comforting myself with all sorts of reasons why of course I’m not on the list and why I’ll show them. I’m super mature, you know that, God.

But then sometimes, out of nowhere, my name appears. And then I’m filled with an icky weirdness all over again. Because the truth is: lists matter. You know? And being on one–being included in something “important” feels great. Because although I tell my friends who didn’t appear that it doesn’t matter and that it’s “just a list,” I’m going to add that my name appeared on Rachel’s list to my bio. I’m going to make sure my publishers see this so they think I’m something. I’m on the list!

And that stinks. That this matters. Because I know it doesn’t to you, God. What matters is that I live right. That I use my gifts as the woman you made me to be. That I love. Actually, that I love is probably all that really matters.

But still: there’s this world we live in where lists matter. Where being included feels great (but too great? is that bad?) and where being left off sucks. (FWIW, God, I’m not blaming Rachel here. Of all the lists I’ve seen, she set hers up beautifully and humbly and honorably).

So I don’t even know what I’m praying here: just maybe that you help me (and the other “listeds”) accept the good feelings and good “things” that come from being included in a list and that you help me (and the other “unlisteds”) whenever we are left on and want to be on.

Also, thanks for not letting my name be on that 7th grade play list. Was good to learn early on that a thespian I am not.

Alright. Amen.

A Prayer for English Teachers

[Prayer spark: Karen Swallow Prior's tweet about Tess of the d'Urbervilles and the tweet-versation that's been making me smile all day. Stupid Angel Clare...]

So God,

Thanks for the men and women who stand up in front of classrooms every day–or most days–and talk about books. About plot and characters and and theme and denouement. And whatever else (it’s been a long time, God. You remember better than I what they talk about).

Thank you that they make us feel and understand, empathize and wonder. Thank you that they force us to read what we’d never have picked up–and introduce to us to stories we can’t put down. Thank you for their love of literature–and their willingness to share that love. Even to those (especially to those) who don’t get it

Thank you for the magic and mystery and miracles that happen in those places as books are discussed. Thank you for your presence in those holy places–even where it goes unrecogized. Thank you for whispering through the pages of every work of literature, every poem, every essay. For being the Word.

So be with English teachers as they wrap up this semester, as they try to keep students focused and reading and writing. Be with them as they try to keep focused and reading and grading. And if there’s a typo or a grammar or usage eff-up in this post, grant them grace toward me.

Amen.