#20 - What's My Score?

by James Baker

If I had it to do over again, I probably would’ve majored in something other than Journalism.  In particular, I would’ve looked for the best school in the country that offered a degree program in, say, Sky Hook.  As in basketball.  As in the shot that put Lew Alcindor, aka Kareem Abdul Jabbar, in the stratosphere of NBA records with a career point total of 38,387.  Best part about being the all-time points leader (or record-holder for home runs, touchdowns, long jump, or hot dog eating) is not all the accolades.  Or the throngs of adoring fans.  Or the scads of fat endorsement deals.  No, the greatest part of being a record holder, is that it's real.

There’s no subjectivity about Jabbar’s accomplishments.  You don’t hear people arguing about who has scored the most points in NBA history.  He doesn’t wake up and wonder “Was I a good player?  Did I really accomplish anything on the court?”  His resume is measurable, provable, and indisputable.

But how does that translate to the matters a little closer to the heart?   What are the metrics used for determining my effectiveness at serving people other than myself?  What is the gauge I use for measuring my love for God?  How do I know how good of a dad I am?  If it’s a ‘feel’ thing, fine.  But what if I ‘feel’ different about my performance than those I supposedly serve?  Or my kids.  Or God. 

I actually think about this sort of thing a lot.  And through careful consideration I’ve actually discovered a formula for measuring the immeasurable.  The formula is, throw out the formula.  There is no formula.  Which, as I see it, is awful news.  Because it means that the only way to engage in any sort of meaningful evaluation of my life is for me to be (ugh) relational.  As appalling as the idea is, I have to sit down with those who know me well – God, my friends, my wife and kids, and even myself – and ask what they see in my life.  Even the results of those conversations are often muddled, and can leave me somewhat conflicted.

I find it both maddening and intriguing that the areas in which God has called me to be most prolific – loving him and others – he has given no clear cut means of evaluation.  No barometer, no scoreboard, no blood test.  Maybe that’s so that I won’t be able to compare my godliness to yours.  Perhaps, it is so I’ll be forced to wade into the messy waters of prayer, introspection, and relationships.  I suspect it is mostly because, like God himself, those things are infinitely complex and impossible to fully define.

Probably just as well.  After all, vagueness and ambiguity are the lifeblood of any good liberal arts major.

(on a related note – if you liked this entry, feel free to qualify your opinion on a scale from, say, 8 ½ – 10, in the comments section.  If you didn’t care for it, keep it to yourself…because, honestly, can that sort of thing even really be defined?)

#19 - Goodbyes (Guest Post)

by Wendy Scott

I come by it naturally. I’m not kidding. It’s a character trait that is swimming in my gene pool. My family is bad at good-byes. As a result, so am I.  Any time my family is together, we almost have to start saying “good-bye” immediately after we say “hello” because it takes us forever. We’re the kind of people who at the dinner table say, “Well, we better get goin’.” Thirty minutes later we are walking out the door followed by everyone who isn’t leaving. If we’re in a hurry, thirty minutes after that we’ll actually get in our car and drive away. These are conservative estimates, mind you.

Since its part of my genetic make-up, it isn’t hard to imagine how difficult this spring is going to be for me. For the last four years I have been meeting for Bible study with a small group of High School girls. The make up of the group has changed a bit over time. Girls have floated in and out and then back in again. Others have never left. A few have left for reasons too painful to mention. But essentially, we’re still the same group.

When they were freshmen we met at McDonald’s before school. As they got older and licensed to drive we shifted to the evenings. We have been together through their “never-be-caught-dead-without-makeup” phase, their “too-cool-to-look-like-I-ever-do-my-hair” phase, their “I-can-drive-so-I-must-be-an-adult” phase, and most recently, their “what-is-God’s-plan-for-my-life?” phase. We have walked together through everything you can imagine high school girls deal with—boyfriends, bad fashion trends, terrible choices, drugs, exultant celebrations, heartbreak, disappointment, and success.  We’ve spent a total of two weeks in Colorado together. One week was in relative luxury, the other in the backcountry with nothing but what we could haul on our backs. It rained the entire week. We’ve had long hilarious conversations that have made us laugh the ugly laugh (especially Meredith, which made us laugh even harder and maybe pee our pants a little); and we’ve had deep discussions about things that are too weighty to bear alone and can never be fully analyzed in one sitting. One Christmas we all bought matching onesie pjs and wore them to Bible study together. It snowed that night and we all went out in our pajamas to catch snow flakes on our tongues. I can’t remember if we even studied our Bibles that night, but we certainly worshiped and reveled in the joy of snow and deep friendship.

These girls are seniors now. They will all graduate in May. Most of them already know where they are going to college. You won’t be surprised that several of them are going far away. While I’m so unbelievably proud of each of them, I can’t help but be a little sad. As I mentioned, I’m bad at good-byes. It’s hard to imagine next fall without them.

Why is that? Why is saying “good-bye” to anyone so hard?

I think one reason is that any good-bye ushers in change, and change, whether good or bad, means the loss of something. And any time we lose something, we grieve. But even deeper, I think it’s because we weren’t made for good-byes. We were originally purposed for eternity. Eternity in everything—life, relationships, purpose. Good-byes force us to come to grips with the ugly truth. We are NOT what we were made to be. Sin has done a number on us and has made us into something that retains some semblance of former glory, but really doesn’t measure up. And even though we don’t know exactly what it is we are missing and have no concept of our intended glory, good-byes open up something in our depths that releases the pain of what we aren’t but should be. If I never had to say a good-bye, I could probably anesthetize myself enough to believe I’m okay the way I am, that everything is normal. But I don’t think I’m being too dramatic when I state that having to say good-bye to something good, beautiful or beneficial is like experiencing the amputation of the glory man had in the garden all over again. Saying good-bye makes me realize I’m not okay, and I’m certainly not normal.

Just like with everything else that causes us pain as a result of sin, God uses it in miraculous ways. If my group of girls stayed here, they would most likely miss out of some of the richest experiences they will ever have depending on the Lord. They might miss opportunities to be tested and find God faithful. Or maybe they would miss the chance to meet the man of their dreams (like I did on my very first day of college, which is why you can call me Mrs. Scott). There’s no chance I would ever deny them those things simply to avoid the pain of saying “good-bye.”

Considering my history, though, we better start now.