Wildhorse Canyon!

Three years ago my mom received an urgent phone call from Wildhorse Canyon, a Young Life camp in Antelope, Oregon. It went something like this...

Mom: Hello?
Property Staff: Hi, is this Kristi Harkson?
Mom: Yes it is.
Property Staff: Hello, Kristi. This is the Property Staff from Wildhorse Canyon. We just wanted to call you regarding your son...
Mom: Oh no, what did he do?
Property Staff: Well, he and some other boys from his cabin decided to sneak out late last night.
Mom: (nervously) Uh huh...
Property Staff: They snuck out in the middle of the night, took the motorized go carts and decided to chase deer around the property while they were completely...well, naked.
Mom: (in such a "mom" way) Oh my.

What else do you expect from an 8th grade boy having the time of his life at summer camp? Nothing, I guess. Though youthful freedom may have been taken to the extreme by my brother, it was just a reflection of the essence of camp--to retreat for a week into a world of adventure and recreation, relaxation and...chasing deer in the buff.

This week I am headed to that very same camp, Wildhorse Canyon, where my brother was busted for his mindless tomfoolery and general disruption of the peace of local fauna. Except I won't be joining a band of incautious boys. I will be taking a group of lovely 8th grade ladies from Waluga Junior High. And I am thoroughly excited!

We leave this Thursday morning--myself, my co-cabin leader, Britta, our eleven girls, and the rest of the Lake Oswego Young Life gang--herding into over sized buses to venture south for a life-changing week of excitement, thrills and an expectancy to encounter God.

Here's where you come in. Would you please pray for us? I have only met four of the eleven girls in my cabin and I have yet to know their individual stories. It will be a week of introductions and a week of breaking-the-ice big time spiritually during our allotted "cabin time" where we will discuss the evening talks of the camp speaker.

The past month I have felt overwhelmed on just what to pray for regarding these girls. They come from all walks of life and most of them are complete strangers to me. Today the Lord was reminding me not to enter the week with fear or worry, but to go forth with gratitude in my heart. Gratitude and expectancy for what He is going to do. Praise and thankfulness for what He has already done. I have been so reassured by Romans 8--continually reminding me that when I don't know just what to pray for, the Holy Spirit takes care of it by praying for me. I know that if we lift these girls up by name in prayer, God will give us an abundance of reasons to have even greater gratitude and praise.

So here are their names...

Sam
Madeline
Dani
Gwen
Emily
Katie
Jenna
Chandler
Shelby
Mikaela
Paige

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

(Ephesians 3:20-21)

It's the little things, really.

Last night I stayed up far too late making blackberry pies and laughing with friends on the kitchen floor. Worth every minute, but the lack of sleep certainly took its toll on my body and spirits as I walked into work this morning feeling less-than-effective and obviously drowsy.

Anne (of Green Gables, of course) always said that "Each new day is fresh with no mistakes in it". I thought about the red-headed orphan's words this morning as I struggled to emerge from my cocoon of a down comforter. Instead of swallowing her words of optimism, I just wanted to punch Anne Shirley in the face. And maybe Gilbert Blythe, too... just for kicks. It was nearly impossible to get to work--even with both front windows of my car rolled down and the "Rent" soundtrack blaring.

I was talking to the Lord out loud on the way to work, "Lord, help me to serve you today. Take my mind off of me and give me a heart to work hard and serve you today. And if you could really just shake me and wake me up, too...that would be wonderful. Be my caffeine, Jesus." There is something so special about talking to the Lord--laying our lives before Him at the beginning of each new day. Opening up the lines of conversation and breathing Him in as our first breath instead of waiting till we're out of breath.

I still felt a bit drowsy when I arrived at my desk. But as soon as I looked around the room, I knew I was not the only sleep-deprived soul in Suite 220. My boss, Sharon, had her lips glued to her coffee mug and I couldn't help but notice Kathlee's rapid eye-twitching. Everyone was dead silent. This is what happens in the office when no one has slept. Finally I said it. "I'm kinda tired, today". Talk about an invitation to spill all. First, Sharon told her story. She had only slept two hours, because she was babysitting her four-year-old grandson who had to finally be locked in his bedroom because he was continually bopping her on the head with a spoon while she was sleeping. Then Kathlee told the end-all tale. She had spoken to a social worker, Teresa, who had been up all night because her golden retriever gave birth to thirteen puppies last week and the puppies were suffering from "gastric distress" until the sun rose this morning. All thirteen of them. Things could always be worse...

So, I sighed deeply after a good laugh, counting my blessings and thanking Jesus that I didn't have spoon dent marks on my head or a slew of gaseous golden retrievers to take care of. All I have for proof of my long night are two delicious home-made blackberry pies waiting for me on the counter when I get home this afternoon.

I'm so thankful for my job. Even in the midst of work that can be emotionally draining, God always seems to give me a little something to laugh about...

Making Mountains out of Molehills: Adam, atoms, astrology and other ideas of an expansive nature

There is nothing quite like combining great friends, Americanos, and copious amounts of books into one space—an exquisite pairing, if you ask me! Last Sunday, that was just the case.

Cynthia and I drove to the infamous Powell’s Bookstore in downtown Portland to meet Joelle for a cup of coffee and conversation that was long overdue. Unfortunately, the Americanos were a little bitter and Powell’s coffee shop was brimming with a whole rabble of readers—so we ventured up three flights of stairs to the Art room where we found a solitary bench parked in the center of a less-than-inviting expansive marble floor. No over sized couch from an episode of “Friends”, but better than nothing. Benches aren’t exactly built or intended for socializing. So there we sat—three in a row—all staring straight ahead at a series of silk screens of birds and turtles displayed on the back wall by a local artist. Bad coffee in hand, we yammered about the bad art asking questions like, “OK, If you had to hang one of those pictures in your house which one would it be?”

Our expostulating was cut short by a brave soul who strolled by the silk screens and started spewing curse words left and right about how terrible they were. “What is this sh**?!” he kept screaming in an almost irate tone. Who knew a picture of a canary could invigorate such passion and hatred in one’s heart? “I am an ARTIST!” he kept saying with enough drama behind his voice to bring Shakespeare to his knees. “I paint, and I know what is good and what is not good…this is definitely not good. What a waste of space.” Trying to level his embarrassingly loud expressions I asked, “So, how long have you been painting?” “About a year” he said. Somebody knew a whole lot about art for such limited experience.

My one question about his experience spurred on a lengthy response about his opinionated beliefs on impressionism and a voluntary show-and-tell of his artwork via cell phone pictures. Meanwhile, Cynthia, Joelle, and I just stared straight ahead and nodded. The bench didn’t allow for much physical engagement in the conversation, and to be perfectly honest, I was embarrassed by this guy’s abruptness in the midst of the otherwise-silent reading area. It kind of felt like hanging out in a library with a barking dog. He didn’t give up quickly, either. He continued to spatter on—sharing that his artistry was somehow connected to his zodiac sign and size of the moon the year he was born…or something.

Finally, after about a half-hour of listening to the “artist” and feeling terrible for neglecting Joelle, the person we came to see, I asked him his name. “Adam” he said. “I’m Abbie” I replied. “Weeeeiiiiiirrrrrd” was all he said in response to the delivery of my name. Everything was “weird” to Adam. Or eerie. Or superstitious. It didn’t take long to figure out that this was a guy chasing after answers in life. Big answers. He was heavily into astrology, calculating his future, the day of his death, and attempting to predict the unpredictable. It was as if every moment for Adam hinged upon some greater meaning that he just couldn’t quite figure out—and it drove him mad. At one point when the conversation fizzled a bit, he attempted to make us laugh and jokingly asked, “So, what did you guys learn in church today?” (after all, it was Sunday). Cynthia and I started to explain the sermon from that morning, but we were cut off by Adam saying, “Wait, you actually go to church?” This led into complex questioning of Biblical topics that were hot on Adam’s list—mainly prophecy and the apocalypse. I was astounded at how much this kid wanted to know the end of his story. Or maybe more than that, how much he was just dying to be known-- known by something or someone. No wonder horoscopes were so exciting to him. If they could predict his lucky number for the day and it proved to be accurate—he would feel known. Accounted for in a world of countless people.

The Holy Spirit kept pressing it on my heart that Adam hadn’t received a lot of expressed love growing up. That his relationships were lacking in affirmation. So I told him how much the Lord cared for Him and his future, that He was indeed accounted for and loved. I also told him that he was making things very big and complex, when in fact God’s nearness to him was a bit more simple, more tangible, and certainly more certain than a rising moon on the third Friday after an October Harvest in the Year of the Rat. He seemed a bit shocked at my expressive “spirituality” that didn’t emerge until late in the conversation. Nonetheless, he listened with an open heart and even asked for the website of my church to download sermons. Who knows where Adam’s curiosity and hunger will take Him. He did claim he had had a few experiences where he cried out to God to “show himself if he was real” and had some serious encounters. He even said this with tears in his eyes.

While talking to Adam I found myself almost exhausted with how complex he was making everything. I felt overwhelmed with the idea that He might never see God if he keeps approaching Him in such an expansive fashion. He just needed to simplify—return to the basics. All of His stretching ideas were really shrinking and deflating the size of God. He wanted to make God into something He could understand and control instead of trusting in God in the midst of great mysteries.

The more I analyzed, the more I thought, “I can’t blame him; I do the same thing.” Sure, I don’t sweat over the exact day I will depart from earth or try to encapsulate complexities I just don’t get—but I do magnify that which needs to stay small. Every day. I am always toiling over trying to figure out God’s plan for my life instead of basking in the adventure of the present with Him.

“The only abiding reality is God Himself, and His order comes to me moment by moment.”
-Oswald Chambers

Lord, teach me not to worry over the things I can’t control. Help me not to make big what you want to keep small and simple. Help me not to forget I was created for nothing else but to know you moment by moment.

Gleanings in the midst of the daily grind.

Sometimes the Holy Spirit, our Counselor, speaks to us sweetly like a summer evening breeze blowing against a pair of white linen pants. Other times it feels more like he is pelting us with the same repeated truth again and again like some obnoxious, freckle-faced kid shooting spit wads through a straw in the elementary school cafeteria.


This continual zapping of correction and teaching makes me feel a bit like a dog wearing a collar for an invisible fence. It is kind of uncomfortable. Humbling. At the same time, it is so peaceful to know where the boundaries lie. How to live. How not to live. "Watch it, Abbie--you're living for the world, not for me--take a step back--there you go. That's better."



Here are some gleanings of truth from today that were perhaps not so much gleaned as they were shot at me through the Counselor's giant straw of wisdom and correction. Why was I the target? Because lately I am struggling with waiting on the Lord in the moment. I either live too much in comfort of the past (like I wrote about yesterday) or too much in the anticipation (or, more often, fear) of tomorrow.


First this, from Oswald Chambers--a beautiful (yet convicting) reminder to live with a spirit of passionate waiting:


"Wait on the Lord and He will work. But don’t wait sulking spiritually and feeling sorry for yourself, just because you can’t see one inch in front of you! Are we detached enough from our own spiritual fits of emotion to wait patiently for Him? Waiting is not sitting with folded hands doing nothing, but it is learning to do what we are told. These are some of the facets of His ways that we rarely recognize."


Then, a short note laced with wisdom from a dear friend (in response to yesterday's blog):



"I feel you in the roots department. It's a hard reality of living in the kingdom of the now but not yet. In truth, we have no promise for tomorrow even if we've lived in the same place for 40 years. But somehow our perceived uncertainty about the future can propel us into self-obsession and relational pessimism. But, girl, it's a Carpe Diem kingdom, making the most of every opportunity isn't just a mantra, it's a way of life. We have to invest because the investment isn't for us, it's for the one we serve."

Lastly, a convicting prayer I overheard a man praying aloud with a friend at Starbucks of all places:

"Lord, I pray for the people who think it is all about them, and not about you."

Ouch! You got me, Lord! Bulls eye!

It's days like today where I feel just like that dog--zapped so many times by the invisible fence collar that all I want to do is keel over into a whimpering ball. But the repeated correction is followed by a gentle, protecting hand that comforts me in my humbled moments and reminds me of what really matters. His plan, not mine, of course. And so I wait...

"Wait passionately for God, don't leave the path."-Psalms 37:34