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.
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.
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