Wallet.

I never knew that money equaled love until the first time my boyfriend forgot his wallet on a date. I was 24 then, grown up enough to know that when a man asks you on a date that he should prepare to take you on a date. I smiled graciously and insisted that paying was no trouble at all. I assured myself that I didn’t care about money. It was just paper after all. There were more important things in life. Like…big brown eyes. But, behind the sweet brown eyes a darker complexity grew. Was I now paying for the eyes? Are the eyes somehow obligated to me? Am I involved in some kind of ocular prostitution ring? Have I sinned against God? The spider-web of thoughts that ensued were enough to tangle the cast of Cirque Du Soliel.

I was sure that money wasn’t important to me. I lived modestly, below my means. Gave generously, above what was called for. Yet, I could not let this one forgotten wallet go.

The relationship dissolved for reasons unrelated to the wallet and I moved on. From the relationship. Not from the wallet. I didn’t tell anyone what happened, but it was there, the wallet, in the back of my mind, having a latte, (that it probably didn’t pay for), surfing the free wi-fi, waiting to resurface.

I fell in love again and out again. Time passed and the wallet nursed it’s master plan to re-enter my psyche.

I fell in love a third time. This time with someone who seemed to have invented the misplaced wallet. The wallet couldn’t have been more pleased. I constantly reassured myself that I wasn’t in a relationship with the wallet. I was in a relationship with a boy. He had a name. The wallet was just a thing. A temporal thing. A thing that no one would remember 100 years from now as long as this boy was important in the life of another human being. I quoted that from a poster I read in a generically Christian Bookstore. I also quoted the Beatles. You can’t buy me love. I can’t be bought. I can’t be persuaded to believe that this one thing could tank a whole relationship. I was, after all, 28 years old. In my small Midwest town, that was way past marrying age and my friends were all procreating by now. I was not going to let the wallet blow my last chance at love.

Then I bounced a check. Hard.

Checked my savings. $2.61.

This particular boy with a name & no wallet had been in my life for about 6 months. In that time he had paid for exactly none of our dates. Although love keeps no record of wrongs the Bank of America kept an incredible record of the $2,194.76 that I had spent on gas, food, forks and toilet paper for his apartment. Because, believe it or not, even toilet paper wasn’t something he provided for me.

So it hit me. Like a ton of bricks. I absolutely care about money.

Oh God. I am a horrible person. I am hollow and selfish and I’m like one of those reality TV people, or the Housewives of Atlanta or something. I’m over privileged with a sense of entitlement? Am I looking for a sugar daddy? How could this have happened to me? I live a life of faith and love. I believe in justice and mercy and rainbows and unicorns. How could I have come this far to remain this shallow?

All of a sudden I remembered my father.

I was seven years old when my dad instituted the five-dollar-per-A-on-your-report-card rule. The day I brought home my report card in the 2nd grade, he took me to see “The Land Before Time” in the movie theater & he gave me thirty dollars. He didn’t tell me he was proud of me. He didn’t tell me he loved me. He took me to the movies and gave me something from his wallet.

Then I remembered asking him for ten dollars to go out with a friend, I was fourteen. He gave me twenty. I remembered the day he bought me a new car. It was a surprise. I didn’t even ask for it. It wasn’t my birthday. I didn’t get my report card, but the car showed up. A couple days later I asked for twenty dollars for gas, he gave me fifty. I racked my brain to remember a time when I had asked him for something and he hadn’t given it to me. I couldn’t remember a time that he gave me less than double what I asked for. He didn’t tell me he loved me. He didn’t tell me he was proud of me. He gave me something from his wallet.

He paid for school. Lots of school. The best schools. Clothes, the best clothes. Cars, multiple. Constantly he opened his soft, gently worn wallet and gave me folded dollar bills. He didn’t tell me he loved me. He didn’t tell me he was proud of me. He gave me something from his wallet.

I realized that day that the wallet didn’t show up for the first time on my date. The wallet had been there all along. Cloaking love in it’s leathery skin. I had been confused because I hadn’t loved the wallet, I had loved my father. But the wallet had constantly assured me that although he couldn’t say it, my father loved me too.

The empty wallets of my gentlemen callers were speaking to me as well. They were telling me conversely, that the gentlemen didn’t love me. They didn’t care for me. They did not desire to cherish me as a person. These wallets were less truthful than my father’s. Because while my father meant to share his love through his wallet, these men were unaware of what their wallets were sharing. Both men, however unprepared, did love me. At least they said so with their words. But words were not the way in which I was accustomed to love or be loved. Thus, I was also unprepared for them.

When I walked away from that last relationship feeling crushed and alone, I wasn’t crushed by the weight of the loss of relationship. I was crushed knowing that I had only just learned that love and the wallets had little to do with each other. I felt like I should have known better. I should have known sooner. I was crushed with the weight of the responsibility of what I had to do next. I knew that I would have to reconcile the relationship between love and the wallet in my mind. I would have to carefully dismantle their ties and recover the model of love that can only be found in the one who created it to begin with.

They say that money talks but it would be more accurate to say that money reveals. It can show the character of anyone who holds it. My father’s money would tell you that he loves gadgets, technology, churches & his family. My mother’s money would tell you that she loves missionaries, children without parents and carbohydrates. I’m afraid of what my money would tell you. It would tell you that I have fallen in love with many things. Temporal things. It would probably tell you that I am prone to over commitment & Starbucks coffee.

I know that if I end up sharing my life with someone, it will need to be someone who handles his wallet well. However, I also know that when his wallet speaks it will be of his character and his discipline not necessarily of his love and I am prepared now, to know the difference.

Consumed.

Consumed.

Letting go is easier at some times than at others. Depending on the value of what you are relinquishing, whether inherent or prescribed, you wrestle with the idea of resigning control. In the best cases you hold on when you should and let go when you should. In most cases, we only hold on when we fear the soul crushing pain of what comes after. The pain of the moment when your hands are empty.

Thousands of years ago, a group of nomadic people built incredible systems of sacrifice. Systems designed by the God they served. Systems that are still in place today, carried down by their children and their children’s children and some adopted kids along the way. These systems are carefully crafted, each action having it’s own atonement; it’s own appropriate sacrifice. There were systems for praise, for first fruits, for offering, for forgiveness.

It must have been hard to teach children about these systems. A young boy sees his father work hard to raise livestock. The father chooses the most promising of the herds, raises it differently. Feeds it carefully, only the best. He uses it to train his children in the cycles of life. He prepares them for the harsh truths of their trade. When they walk in the market people ask the father about his business and he takes pride in answering. He tells of wealth of his flocks and herds and this one specific calf. The son is aware of the fate of this animal, but he feels a sense of purpose for it. He is attached to the idea that one day this calf will be killed in honor of something. It will be the center of a celebration of something not yet transpired. What kind of honor would warrant the shedding of this, most valuable blood?

It must have been difficult to explain to the son that they wouldn’t use this animal for celebration that this animal was carefully cultivated for sacrifice. It must have been difficult to explain to the son that they were going to turn it over to a priest to be laid on an altar. An impatient child would have asked the inevitable impertinent question.

“Why?” He had to ask.
“Because it is right”
“Why is it right”
“Because I am grateful”
“But this is wasteful…no one will reap the benefit. It will all be consumed in the fire.”

This is the promise of sacrifice. The promise of consumption. The promise that nothing will remain. Anyone with regret knows the power of this promise. The hope of erasure. This is the whole of atonement and redemption. We submit to the idea that If we lay something valuable down, give it away, that we can become new. We can be cleansed. Like the father, if we are truly grateful, this sacrifice will have an easy confidence.

I have a sacrifice. One that I have been putting on an altar for a long time. Putting it on and taking it off. Putting it on and taking it off. The difference between me and the boy’s father is only this:

4 years ago, I dragged my sacrifice to a rock and lit it on fire. When it was almost completely consumed, I put out the fire, took the charred pieces of something that I used to love, wrapped them carefully, and placed them in my pack. I carried them, disfigured pieces of my love, and consoled myself saying, “I have laid it on the altar.”

For years, I comforted myself with the presence of what remained after the fire. I was proud, even, when I told the story of my sacrifice. I would relay to inquiring minds how painful it was to watch it burn and how redemptive it was to know that it was the right thing. After they had gone and all their questions answered, I would go to my pack to examine the pieces I still had. The sacrifice was so precious to me that even the broken pieces brought me comfort.

The plaguing question for me is now this: If I wasn’t going to sacrifice the whole, why sacrifice at all? I am sure that father’s taught their sons and daughters the beauty of sacrificing something that cost you everything. Sacrificing something that was worth more than anything else you possessed. But the beauty of that kind of sacrifice wasn’t enough for me. At some point in the process I became so afraid of the moment when my hands would be empty that I traded the redemption of the worthy sacrifice for the comfort of what I had left.

I could tell you his name, but it wouldn’t matter. He has been gone for a long time. My feeling is the only thing that remains. It is it’s own person now. My idea of him has become altogether different from the incarnate version I pass every so often. The him that I would describe to you doesn’t exist anymore. It’s a strange thing to feel wonder or emotion at a figment that lives only in your soul’s memory. It is a kind of purgatory. Can’t go back, but terrified to move forward.

So I come to this altar again. Staring at this rock. Knowing that my task is unfinished. I am standing holding what is left of what needs to be sacrificed. The broken pieces have been with me so long that they are a part of who I am and I ask myself if I have the courage to let the memory burn. I pull the pieces from my pack and carefully unwrap them. Begging myself to give in to the promise of sacrifice. The promise of consumption. The promise that if I truly let go, nothing will remain. I am standing at the precipice of my faith. Believing that the same God from thousands of years ago will see my sacrifice and consume it all in the fire.

Incarnate Journey

This is the incarnate journey.

A couple months ago my cousin, Dan, one of the smartest pastors I know (and I know A LOT of pastors) was talking to me about the one we love's (Jesus') greatest gift. A friend of mine was going through a tough grieving process and I was explaining to Dan how there was nothing I could do but sit with her. I felt so powerless to help her through one of her most life-shaking experiences. He immediately responded by explaining the gift of Jesus being 'incarnate' or in the flesh.

"He chose not to fix us, Ang." the words slipped out easily enough but, hit the ground floor of my soul. "He chose to join us."

He explained that the one we love (Jesus) came down and dwelt among us joining us in our suffering and in our joy. Joining us before our big decisions and after. Joining us both at weddings and at funerals. The most powerful thing I could do for my friend in that moment wasn't to fix her. No matter how many times I sang the Coldplay song. Nothing was going to 'fix' the pain that was tearing through her being in that moment. But one thing was going to comfort her, i could sit. i could hug her. i could just be there. be fully present. be incarnate.

So, for the first time in my life I don't have a job. You'd think that it would fill me with glee. You'd think that it would be like vacation. it's not.

I'm up early, job hunting, resume writing, calling, applying online, guessing, worrying, working. Making sure I am not taking advantage of the incredible kindness that my friends are extending. I have incredible faith combined with incredible panic. Then I remember that the one we love called me out of an incredibly busy life to slow down and be with Him. To write about Him, to learn incredible things about Him so that I could reveal His nature to a whole set of people who would otherwise never know. He's called me out to slow me down and I'm speeding up.

In Genesis the one we love created a place for man to just 'be' with Him. That was the entirety of his original plan. In the same way the Cross created a place for us to just 'be' with him. And that has to be my imperative. Everything else is ultimately proven foolish. I have to get back to the garden.

So today I decided that I am going to change my filter. I am now on an incarnate journey. A process of learning to live fully present with the one we love and the ones HE loves. I am going to be incarnate. I am going to join others, not race others. I am going to love others. Give Life. Worry less. Learn. Explore. Grow. be on an incarnate journey.