Caryn Rivadeneira's Blog, page 9

Did the Demons Really Win?

I had wondered why the death of Whitney Houston struck me so. Why the news of her being found dead in a Beverly Hills bathtub hit me so hard. After all, I didn't know the woman. Beyond that, I'd never been the world's biggest Whitney fan. Not even back in the day. Even when the 13-year-old me danced around my room and sung along with "How Will I Know," I didn't dance or sing with the same verve that I did, say, when it was Madonna or Cindy Lauper.

That said, while I've never been a huge fan of Whitney the Pop Star, I am a big fan of Whitney the gospel singer. I'm not ashamed to admit that the soundtrack from The Preacher's Wife—a movie in which she also stared—is among my favorites. And I'm really not ashamed to admit that I wore that record out during some difficult times in my life. Even still—when I'm having a hard time—I'm known to queue up Whitney singing "I Go To The Rock" or "Hold On (Help Is On the Way)" or even "He's All Over Me" and sing and swing in sweet promises of those songs.

I'm pretty sure this brings me to real reason for my grief over Whitney's death. We all knew of Whitney's troubles, her "demons," as they're being called. And yet when I'd hear her sing, "When all around me is sinking sand/on Christ the solid rock I stand" or "Say don't you worry, no don't you fret/The Lord has never, never failed you yet," I heard a woman who knew to whom she could seek in the battle with those demons. Because I knew of her trials and her faith, I heard her pain and her hope in her music. And in that, I—and certainly many others—found hope in my pain too.

So when news of her death came, that hope felt dashed. Because with that news came the realization that sometimes our demons win. This is news that people of faith never want to hear. Or even admit.

And yet, we see it play out all the time. When we struggle—or someone we love struggles—with addiction or mental illness or some other "demon," we pray and we hope. That God will deliver. That healing will come. That in our weakness, God's strength will be found. That it will be enough to overcome. That this will be yet another one of those "I found Jesus and never took another drink" stories the church loves to tell. Those are good stories—great stories.

But many of us recognize that they are not always true stories. Or, at least, not complete stories.

Again, sometimes the demons do win. And it was with that thought, that discouragement, that I sank into some grief—for Whitney, for her daughter, for her mother, for those who loved her. But also for all of us who fight against forces or demons or whatever you want to call them that so strong they threaten to overtake our lives or the lives of those we love.

So I spent a few days angry at God—for not stepping in, for not healing the many faithful who are trapped by these forces. I stayed angry at God for allowing these demons to get the upper hand and to take away lives. For letting them win.

Until I realized they hadn't won. Not at all.

A simple check of Facebook on Saturday with a line about the "church happening" on all the major cable news channels alerted me to Whitney's funeral. I had hours of house-cleaning and party-prep ahead of me, so I lugged my laptop from room to room and kept her live-streaming services on in the background. Church was indeed happening. Gospel choirs sang; preachers preached; performers testified. While person after person eulogized Whitney and shared memories or songs, behind each was the story of a troubled woman who loved and was loved by God.

People can criticize that we spend too much time gloating over the lives of the rich and famous, that in televising a pop icon's funeral we're doing a disservice to, say, those service men and women who've given their lives for this country, and they may be right. But all I know is that this weekend—the good news and redeeming love of our Lord was broadcast around the globe. Who knows how many millions of people—trapped by their own demons—heard for the first time that God loves them too. That there's nothing they can do that can separate them from that love.

It's still a difficult thing to understand why God steps in and heals and rescues some from their demons and seems to let others succumb. We don't, we can't, know. But this weekend, I moved from being angry at God for not rescuing us all and letting the demons win and joined with those at Whitney's funeral who exalted Jesus even as they wrestled with the circumstances of her life and death.

The truth is: the demons didn't win. Though they'll keep fighting, they never do. They'll never really win. It's just as we've been told. They nip at heels—and cause plenty of us to trip and fall hard—but one day, their heads will be crushed. All lives forever free of their traps and grips.

Because even in times when it seems he's failed us, our God is at work, answering prayers and rescuing the faithful.

Learning from The Leper Pig

My daughter loves gold and sparkly and my (one) son loves pigs. So obviously spotting this gold, sparkly pig as we walked into a church lobby after a friend's concert was a Rivadeneira family win-win. As I stood waiting for my kids to stop oohing and ahhing over its goldy goodness, a woman from the church walked up.

"Did you see what the pig is for?" she asked.

I didn't.

"Women in our church have been raising money for lepers for more than 100 years," she said. "Remarkable, really."

And then she walked away, while I walked closer to read the hand-written words behind the pig, which one hundred years later was still raising money for American Leprosy Missions. I got a little weepy. For 100 years, the women of this church had committed to doing as Jesus did–healing lepers. And I got a little humbled.

I'm one of many Christians who tend to think we're the first generation of "believers" to care about the troubles of the world. And I'm definitely one of the many Christian women who–in our fights for opportunities to use our gifts–think we're heading into territory no other Christian women have trudged before.

But that's not true. In that one church, women have taken the lead and sought justice and healing for people with leprosy for 100 years. In The Church, women have been doing seeking justice, living mercy and showing neighbor love since the time of Jesus.

And it's important that we don't forget who they are.

Right off the bat, I think of Frances Willard and Jane Addams, here in Chicago. I think of Mary Magdelene and the Woman at the Well from Scripture. All women who trying to change the world (or their small neck of it) while following Jesus.

Who are some of your favorite examples?

The Christmas Card

For the past two years now I've given a talk called "Grumble Merry Christmas." In this talk, I admit that Rivadeneira Christmas Cards will not happen. "A Merry Christmas on Facebook will suffice," I say. Well, turns out I lied. I've decided this year that a Merry Christmas wish on my BLOG will also happen. Please, hold your applause.

I decided this yesterday–after I got Christmas cards from every publisher I've ever worked with, from my agent, from old friends and new–and I felt a little ashamed that they'd be getting a bit whopping nada from me. That the only effort I was going to put into a mass Merry Christmas was a quick tweet on the way to a Noche Buena celebration after a candlelit service.

So…here I am, upping the ante a bit. I've got a picture of the famed Gunky Jesus (famous from my last e-newsletter post as well as from the climax of Grumble Hallelujah) and even one of my family.

And here are also two bits from the "Grumble Merry Christmas" talk I give. These paragraphs–which are normally separated by a good 4 minutes–sum up what Christmas has come to mean to me in these past years.

"Christmas is Jesus entering into what we don't imagine. Into what we might not even want. Into what we're afraid to face. Christmas is Jesus entering into our messes and our complications and our unexpected. Into our hurts as well as our joys. Into our sorrow as well as our success. Into our grumbles as well as our cheers….

"Christmas is in every dark place where Jesus enters, where 'Gloria in Excelsis!' is heralded by angels to the lonely, where stars shine to lead the lost. Christmas is where Jesus enters in to all our disappointments, all our stresses, all our meltdowns. Christmas is where Jesus brings light to our darkness. That's what's so glorious about it."

I've learned these things the hard–the good–way. While Christmas looks so much different to us these past few years–because of financial burdens and family heartaches–its so much richer, so much truer than it has ever been before.

So my Christmas wish for all of you is that too come to this deeper, truer understanding of Christmas. While I don't wish trials or troubles on anyone to get there, if it comes (and it always comes at some point, no?), I do hope that you can know true joy and peace and light and hope in those places.

Grumble, grumble, Merry Christmas!

Bitter vs. Honest

The other day I complained to a friend about a man we both knew. My words: "I'm so sick of Rich White Baby Boomer Men like him being so bitter about life because the parachute wasn't quite golden enough."

My friend laughed and I kept going: "I mean. Really, like life is perfect for you, feeding you every opportunity, getting out of your way so you can achieve whatever you want. You've never had to fight for one darned thing, and then you're angry because you can only afford to take that around-the-world cruise every other year. Come on!"

Or, something like that. And then my friend had to head to a meeting–leaving me to sit stewing in my thoughts. And then the feelings started poking through my internal rage.

While God likes to make me wait for lots and lots of things in life, he's always super quick with me when it comes time to convict me of my hypocrisy or harshness. It's so annoying.

But, of course, there is something a bit outrageous about me–a woman who just wrote a book called Grumble Hallelujah and who writes and speaks about the need to grieve disappointments and who has recently expressed hurt at being called spoiled for not having a hard enough life to complain about–taking issue with someone else for doing the same thing.

Point well taken, God. Good thing those mercies are new every morning.

But while I sought forgiveness for my meanness, I have kept thinking about what it is that troubles me about this particular person. And, in truth, it's not that this person is disappointed in life. It really is that the person seems to be stuck on bitter. Which is a very different thing than expressing disappointment or grieving or grumbling hallelujah.

Bitterness is actually the opposite of those things. Because bitterness is what comes from not "dealing" with disappointments, frustration or hurts. Bitterness comes when we don't forgive, when we don't stop comparing, when we don't seek God in the twists of life. And bitterness–as we know–does horrible things to a person. To us, when we allow it to take root–and bloom.

Perhaps one of the worst things it does, however, is repel people. Push them away. Because bitterness contaminates every ounce our being, every story we tell, every opinion we offer.

This doesn't seem to happen when someone is sharing a sorrow in life. That's an act that can draw people to us, bring them in. So I've kept thinking about the difference between these two. What makes a person seem bitter and thus repellant? And what makes them seem honest and inviting?

Thoughts?

 

Hard to Complain

Most of the reviews for Grumble Hallelujah have been quite good (read them here). I've loved the emails and messages readers have sent, and the kind words friends have shared. So nice to know that something I worked so hard on and poured so much heart, mind and soul into is being well-received.

But of course, not every review has been kind. Not every word said about me or my book has been favorable, but that's okay. As my mom always said, "To each his own." [Quick note: The saying loses something when I make it gender inclusive. So I didn't...]

Except that yesterday, I read the second review of my book in which I was accused of being "spoiled" and "whiney." I believe the woman also called me shallow. Again, to each her own. But what bugs me so much about these words being used against me is that I cop to these very things in the book.

I write about how I feel guilty because the things that made me grumble my hallelujahs are no doubt "first world" problems. I understand that what I lament is no where close to the despair that reaches God's ears from around this globe.

But I also write how afraid I've been to share my struggles because of my fear of being called "whiney" or "spoiled" or "shallow." And I write specifically how Jesus has used the events that made me grumble to help me become less spoiled, less shallow, and–well–actually more whiney. But still: it seems doubly mean to go ahead and harp on me for being this way, when I've confessed. When I've written that it scares me that this is how I will still be seen.

But alas. I'm a big girl. And I'm a professional. I know this is part of the writing life. Writers take risks when we share things–risks of being rejected, risks of being called names, risks of being misunderstood. It's why we get paid the big bucks, people. (If you consider 1/3 the minimum wage to be "big bucks," that is.)

But if I can offer a word to the wise (another saying I stole from my mom): When someone bares her soul, when someone offers a struggle, do like Jesus and come back with kindness (you don't have to like the book!). Don't come back with name-calling, with shaming. Instead, respond with love, with kindness, with gentleness. Let's not get into the habit of judging one another on the merits of our complaints.

Except for the few chronic complainers and whiners among us (ahem: anyone of my children on any given day), I believe complaining is hard for most of us to do. It's hard to tell others we hurt, we struggle, we suffer some how for the very reasons I experienced in reading that review.

Christmas gift idea: How about this year we give others the gift of being a listening ear. That we hear each other out, without judgment and with lots of love and mercy.

Why Create–Reasons #2, #3 and #4

Last summer I'd watch him with his chainsaw, twisting, slicing, carving. Calling a dolphin out of a tree trunk. I never got to watch him long–since I was always in the car on my way to the library or somewhere else "in town." But when I'd seem him out there, I'd slow down–on this main, busy street–and marvel.

We'd had a bad storm not long before. The storm left basements flooded, power lines downed and slews of tree uprooted, cracked and splintered all over town.

The tree in his front yard must've been one of those trees lost. Losing a tree is hard. Not like losing a dog or a family member, of course. But I don't think you don't even have to love trees like I do, to gasp over the sight of a century-old (or more!) mighty tree sprawled across a road or, later, being fed into chipper. Hard not to feel your throat catch when you think of all that tree has "seen," how many children have run around it, how many pinatas have hung from it, how many squirrels have raced up it, how many birds nestled in its arms.

So I suppose that's why I found what this man was doing so fascinating, so wonderful, actually. Because out of the broken, he carved something beautiful (to him, at least). Out of the tragic, he crafted meaning. Out of the sad, he brought forth delight.

And I think those are two of the other great reasons we create. To bring beauty out of the broken, to give meaning to the tragic, and bring delight from the sad.

Have you ever created for these reasons? Would love to hear how!

Turning a Planked Eye

So I can't calm down about this Penn State horror story. I alternate between wanting to throw up and go beat someone up. Without actually doing either. I'm outraged–of course–that child-molesting and child-raping monsters roam this earth. But someone, right now, my outrage is fueled by the people who cover-up their crimes and enable this to happen.

I'm nothing short of steeped in anger at Mike McQueary–a then-assistant, now coach–who SAW boy being raped but who apparently didn't stop it. Didn't call 9-1-1. Sure, he told someone–which was good and more perhaps than others would do or have done–but I'm trying to wrap my brain around walking in on a child, hands up against a shower wall, being raped and then simply leaving.

Did he not want to get wet? Was he too afraid the rapist would have a go at him? Did he not want to lose his job? Who knows. I suppose at least he did something. But not enough.

The level of judgment rushing through me toward this guy is higher than I can remember it ever being. I'm so appalled, so angry, so questioning his very humanity.

Which means I'm also trying to block the thoughts that shoot into my brain when I get super judge-y–those rather annoying words of Jesus about taking the log out of our own eyes before seeing the specks in another. Ugh.

While I have never witnessed a crime like this and simply excused myself before walking out, while I do, actually, make a point to warn women about predator men I know, while I have called the cops on cars driving too fast down our kid-infested street, there's a lot I ignore. So much I turn a rather blind eye toward.

How many millions of girls and boys right now are being raped, trafficked? What am I doing to stop it? How many people are suffering injustices, starving, hurting, wondering where there help will come from? All while I simply go about my life. Too afraid to get wet. Too afraid of getting hurt.

I may not be protecting football at Penn State, but I am protecting something else. My own livelihood. In a sense.

May God help me. May God help us all. To become people who shine light into the dark. Who are never afraid to step in and stop atrocities. Who are never afraid to do the right thing. No matter what the cost.

And may we never turn our eyes–planked or plank-free–away from the needs of this world.

 

Glorious Grumbling

I know myself well enough to do what I did in the last post: to offer a question and sort of imply I'll answer it soon. Well, a month later, here I am. Though, I must say, the commenters, I believe answered the question well for me.

Tim wrote: "What is a fair definition of "grumbling"? If it's a spirit of complaining and finding fault, then I would lean toward sayinig grumbling is sinful. If it is wrestling with difficulties and giving voice to those frustrations while acknowledging complete reliance on God in all circumstances, then I'd say not. But how do you mean the word to be understood, Caryn?"

I say: Exactly. When grumbling is a spirit–a lifestyle–of complaining and finding fault and seeing the bad in everything, yes, sin. When it's a tone of voice, a giving voice to disappointments, fears, frustrations laid before God while acknowledging that reliance, that's potentially holy territory. That's the grumbling I mean. That's what I think maybe Jesus did.

Lynnette offered two definitions of to grumble:

1. to utter (complaints) in a nagging or discontented way

2. ( intr ) to make low dull rumbling sounds

Then she wrote: "Jesus never grumbled if you use definition #1. I certainly can imagine Jesus grumbling as definition #2 before He cleansed the temple, as He encountered Pharisees who refused to see the Truth, and even in the garden as He prepared for what was to come.

"I can say with certainty that Jesus never grumbled as definition #1.

"Between the two definitions there is a fine line and a vast difference."

I say: Yes! Fine line and vast difference. Love that. Again, the grumbling of which I speak is more sound, more ache, more growl from the heart and soul than a life of being one who shuffles around every day looking for the bad in the world, never seeing the God or acknowledging the God behind it all.

Let's leave off with a lovely grumble from the Psalms: "My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise."–Psalm 51:17

Is Grumbling A Sin?

As soon as I said it, I knew it could be trouble. So as soon as I said–during an interview on Moody Radio's Midday Connection–that Jesus "did some grumbling" in the Garden of Gethsemane, I made a mental note, prepared to get some push-back. Not from the hosts–Anita Lustrea and Melinda Schmidt, who understood what I meant. But from listeners, who may have just tuned in or who hadn't made the leap (my fault, not theirs).

I wondered, though, if that push-back might finally usher in the question I'd been waiting for, the question I could not believe no one had yet asked. The question that I had, frankly, avoided in my book, but was nevertheless prepared to answer.

Well, two days after my interview on Midday, a full month after publicity for my book began, a full year after I'd turned in the manuscript, I got the push-back. Someone finally asked the question–or, actually, made the statement–I'd been waiting for.

In a gracious, thoughtful email (she never once called me a heretic, a bad Christian or a bad mom. She just simply questioned my word choice) mail to the Midday hosts, a listener wrote:

"About 23 minutes into the discussion, Caryn is talking about Biblical examples

of pouring our hearts out to God. When she references Jesus in the

garden, she makes a short statement that 'He was doing some grumbling

there, I think.'

"This is wrong. Grumbling is sin. And Jesus did not sin. Yes, He poured

His heart out to God about the suffering He was in. However, He did not

sin by grumbling to God. Phil 2:14 says to do everything without grumbling."

And there it was: the reference to the Philippians 2:14 I'd been waiting for. This verse, at least in the NIV, says as she wrote: "Do everything without grumbling, or arguing."

So, how is it, then, that I can claim we ought to do something (praise God) with grumbling? How can I ever claim that Jesus himself grumbled a bit?

I have my answers. But thought I'd toss it out here first. Mostly, because I don't have time to dive in. #lazy

Any thoughts? Is grumbling–even a hallelujah–a sin? Am I, in my book, telling people to do wrong?

Grieving the Bad, Celebrating the Good

When my first book, Mama's Got a Fake I.D., came out, I didn't have a book release party. Truth be told, I'm not a big party person. I'm a small gathering sort of person. As I've discussed elsewhere, as relational as I am, I'm also introverted–so just the word party wears me out.

But this time around, my friend Jennifer asked if she could host a party for the release of Grumble Hallelujah. And I was all over it.

So what happened to change my mind? A simple conversation with my friend Anita. When her book came out last year, she too had leery of the book-party thing. Thinking it self-indulgent or prideful or whatever.

But Anita's friend–the one offering to throw the party–told her that a book was something worth celebrating. Her friend reminded her that celebrating is good. An important way to mark the good things of life.

That resonated. Especially since Grumble Hallelujah starts out with a whole section on needing to grieve the disappointments of life, I thought it rather fitting to have a celebration for the very good things of life. Which include: getting to write a book, having friends and family support me through the process, having friends willing to throw a party, bring food, hang out, sing songs, and grumble a few hallelujahs.

The release of this book–and any book–really isn't about a product being released into the world, but what God has done. I'm amazed at what God has done with my grumbling. That he not only turned it into a story to tell, but that he's used it to bring friendships and all sorts of blessings into my life.

So that definitely was worth celebrating. Thanks to Jennifer for putting it together and to Angela, Dave and Gregg for singing and strumming and to Rachel for the balloons (and the napkins!) and to Bethany and Denise for making the drinks and to everyone who came to help celebrate.

And while I won't have a big party every time something good happens, the whole idea of celebrating the good things–marking them somehow–has me eager to look out for more reasons to celebrate. Seems like a nice way to live.

Just curious: What do you have to celebrate lately? How do you celebrate the blessings in your life?