It’s finals week here (this'll be short). Even so, with my mental faculties fatigued and my heart longing to be home with the Christmas tree, my family, rest, and momma’s monkey bread, I was struck by something today that Donald Miller wrote…
"Imagine how much a man's life would be changed if he trusted that he was loved by God? He could interact with the poor and not show partiality, he could love his wife easily and not expect her to redeem him, he would be slow to anger because redemption was no longer at stake, he could be wise and giving with his money because money no longer represented points, he could give up on formulaic religion, knowing that checking stuff off a spiritual to-do list was a worthless pursuit, he would have confidence and the ability to laugh at himself, and he could love people without expecting anything in return. It would be quite beautiful, really."
I don’t pretend to understand the vastness that is the love of God. It leaves me speechless and breathless. It leaves me overwhelmed with joy and simultaneous sorrow because I realize how many days I end and have utterly failed to love people as God would. I’ve been selfish, disconnected, inconsiderate, and apathetic. If we really sought to emulate the love of God in our lives, things would look so differently. Through God’s grace and the work of his spirit in me, I’m going to try to be a reflection of that challenge brought by Paul to the Corinthians – a challenge to love.
…Heidi is patient, she is kind. She does not envy, she does not boast, she is not proud. Heidi is not rude, and she is not self-seeking she is not easily angered, and she keeps no record of wrongs. Heidi does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. She always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres…
We’re about to celebrate the physical manifestation of love coming to earth in the form of a baby for the purpose of reconciling fallen humanity with its perfect creator. Oh that we would live in light of the truth of that love. Let's do it.
Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Fifteen Kids and Fred Flintstone
Rarely do we make the effort to comprehend the tangible and physical manifestations of Christ in the world around us. As I write this, I’m sitting in the corner of a crummy seafood restaurant in downtown Dayton, OH where I wandered in to find coffee over lunch break. I’ve spent all morning in a Dayton courthouse watching as kids became permanent parts of families that aren’t biologically theirs. Every Friday morning they do adoptions here. It means a good end to the otherwise frustrating and often unrewarding week of paper work, inter-agency wrangling, and sad stories of abused kids.
The courthouse looked like something from prehistoric times as I stepped onto the second floor after being sent through the normal bout of metal detectors and desk clerks. Caseworkers and magistrate’s assistants alike were dressed in wild hair colors and Flintstones costumes to celebrate this year’s theme. Even the judge joined in with her giant inflatable “Bam Bam!” club to smack alongside her gavel at the end of a hearing . This is how they do National Adoption Day here.
Talking with all of the kids and their soon-to-be families as I gave the little ones crayons and coloring sheets, got them all snacks, and ran errands for the secretaries, my heart was glad. All the kids wanted to tell me about their favorite subjects in school, their favorite sport to play, their biggest talent, their favorite food, and all the other funny information that comes from the mind of a child. They laughed while I told them stories about “When I was a little girl…”, and giggled as we played house in the Styrofoam cave at the end of the hallway.
Talking with their soon-to-be legal parents, they shared with me about the joys and grief that accompany this journey of adoption. One dad sat and talked with me in the waiting room about how they really weren’t on the best financial grounds to be adopting twins…. The kids might not get all the newest toys, but they’d have all the love that family could muster. A mom told me of how she’d waited three years for all the paperwork to go through before she could finally call the abandoned little girl hers. Family after family, story after story; all so unique yet so similarly priceless.
And I sit in this poignantly smelling seafood café to write. People are sitting all around me reading their newspapers, sucked into their own personal worlds. It’s been strange this morning to watch some of my dreams start to show their nature in physical form apart from their theoretical existence in my imagination. It’s not all the ideological utopia I can paint things as in my mind. There’s administrative red tape everywhere, paperwork, formalities, long waiting periods, confusion, but somewhere in there, the beauty of taking a child whose parents can’t or won’t take care of them and placing them into the arms of someone who loves them… well, it still manages to take my breath away. To be enthusiastically accepted into a family that doesn’t need to love you; they want to, they choose to. Wow. All I can say, is if I ever do work in foster care I hope it never grows old. I hope the stories and implications of the concept of adoption never leave the awe factor within my thinking.
Did you know there are 129,000 kids in the foster care system ready and waiting to be adopted as I write this? Fifteen of those kids were blessed with homes and families before my very eyes this morning. Oh that such an impact within human action would never be seen as a common place event. The spiritual and physical are inseparable realities making up our existence, the world we live in. What a blessing it is to step away from the Cedarville bubble every now and then to remember that and to experience it firsthand.
The courthouse looked like something from prehistoric times as I stepped onto the second floor after being sent through the normal bout of metal detectors and desk clerks. Caseworkers and magistrate’s assistants alike were dressed in wild hair colors and Flintstones costumes to celebrate this year’s theme. Even the judge joined in with her giant inflatable “Bam Bam!” club to smack alongside her gavel at the end of a hearing . This is how they do National Adoption Day here.
Talking with all of the kids and their soon-to-be families as I gave the little ones crayons and coloring sheets, got them all snacks, and ran errands for the secretaries, my heart was glad. All the kids wanted to tell me about their favorite subjects in school, their favorite sport to play, their biggest talent, their favorite food, and all the other funny information that comes from the mind of a child. They laughed while I told them stories about “When I was a little girl…”, and giggled as we played house in the Styrofoam cave at the end of the hallway.
Talking with their soon-to-be legal parents, they shared with me about the joys and grief that accompany this journey of adoption. One dad sat and talked with me in the waiting room about how they really weren’t on the best financial grounds to be adopting twins…. The kids might not get all the newest toys, but they’d have all the love that family could muster. A mom told me of how she’d waited three years for all the paperwork to go through before she could finally call the abandoned little girl hers. Family after family, story after story; all so unique yet so similarly priceless.
And I sit in this poignantly smelling seafood café to write. People are sitting all around me reading their newspapers, sucked into their own personal worlds. It’s been strange this morning to watch some of my dreams start to show their nature in physical form apart from their theoretical existence in my imagination. It’s not all the ideological utopia I can paint things as in my mind. There’s administrative red tape everywhere, paperwork, formalities, long waiting periods, confusion, but somewhere in there, the beauty of taking a child whose parents can’t or won’t take care of them and placing them into the arms of someone who loves them… well, it still manages to take my breath away. To be enthusiastically accepted into a family that doesn’t need to love you; they want to, they choose to. Wow. All I can say, is if I ever do work in foster care I hope it never grows old. I hope the stories and implications of the concept of adoption never leave the awe factor within my thinking.
Did you know there are 129,000 kids in the foster care system ready and waiting to be adopted as I write this? Fifteen of those kids were blessed with homes and families before my very eyes this morning. Oh that such an impact within human action would never be seen as a common place event. The spiritual and physical are inseparable realities making up our existence, the world we live in. What a blessing it is to step away from the Cedarville bubble every now and then to remember that and to experience it firsthand.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Patricia
“Please… come back in 20 minutes…” the dark haired little woman choked while a baby squirmed in her arms and a rangy mutt circled her shoeless feet. We’d walked to her neighborhood from an old rusty overpass just on the outskirts of Harlan. This was hour number three marching through trailer parks; knocking on doors, praying, talking to people, and listening to their stories.
“I live just across the street… I’m watching the baby for her mamma while she’s at the store. Please, I need to talk to you. Give me a half hour?” We smiled and nodded, taking a step back off the broken porch. I glanced over my shoulder to see the house we’d be returning to in a matter of minutes. The dirt yard had covered itself around the bottom of the house courtesy of the thunderstorms that week. Behind the brown, little shades of orange peeked out, though actually, it was more peach as the years had worn the brightness of the palate to nothing more than a dull reminder of its glory days.
Plastic bags and duct tape filled the bottom left corner of the front window where glass had once been. This was it. This was Patricia’s home. There were hundreds more just like it on the streets around us.
As the three of us left to investigate the surrounding streets, we encountered all kinds of people. The bent grey haired man taking out his garbage who wanted to debate the exclusivity of Christ, the mother with seven children who asked us to come in and gathered all her children around to hold hands so they could listen to us talk and pray, even the three old maids smoking on the front porch with their cynical looks, “Hell girl, you go ahead and pray, things can’t get any worse.”
We eventually headed back to that faded peach house with the broken window. I knocked on the door - silence. I knocked gently again – still no answer. A little confused, we turned to head back down the streets when Patricia came rushing from the neighbor’s. “Please come in, come in…”
We stepped into the old house, and immediately upon entrance, it struck me; this woman had nothing. An old shredded couch, a few trinkets, that was all. Glancing back into the kitchen, shards of glass lay spewed about the floor.
She asked us to sit down. As we started to talk, tears came to Patricia’s eyes. She started telling us about her family. Dropping out of school in jr high, she’d come from a rough background. She’d raised two kids alone, only her daughter was still alive. This daughter was also raising a daughter as a single parent… This little girl, Patricia’s granddaughter, had a terminal illness.
Particia’s daughter was going through suicidal depression because of her granddaughter’s illness. They couldn’t afford the hospital bills, and were left without money for groceries, electricity, or a telephone. She wept as she told us of her anger toward God, pointing back to the kitchen full of broken glass.
“I couldn’t take it anymore last night… I broke everything. Everything… why is this happening? Where is God? Where is he?”
My heart broke. We sat for over an hour, I held this hurting woman in my arms and we prayed and talked. I cried with this complete stranger for the pain of this world as we listened to her story. Patricia at one point got up and picked up a little worn Bible off a shelf. She was a Christian, and told us about when she put her faith in the forgiveness and grace of Christ. We were able to get her information about a local church that could help her, and went on to contact the pastor. As the time came for us to go, Patricia held my hand and looked as us.
“I sat in my kitchen last night after breaking everything, and just screamed out to God that if my life mattered at all to him, to show that to me. He sent you to me to show me. He knew I needed you today. He sent you to me.”
As we left, I couldn’t help but stand humbled and awestruck at how God uses people to accomplish his perfect plans, and to encourage his hurting children. It’s been six months since that day, and I haven’t heard from Patricia since then. I pray that her faith is strong, and that God will continue to reveal himself to her.
This isn’t the way life was meant to be. Death, pain, sorrow, guilt; it’s all a result of sin. It’s all a result of the curse that we all must suffer under. The rich and poor, the young and old, the wise and foolish, each life will pass like a vapor. Where our human depravity leaves gaping holes though, the person and work of Jesus Christ offers a redemptive solution. He overcame death. He healed the sick and the hurting.
This life will soon be over… Praise the Lord! Why you ask? Because my friend, there’s another life still yet to come. I’ll cling to the promises of God until then, and enjoy this life he’s so generously given me.
Someday though, I’m ready for heaven.
“I live just across the street… I’m watching the baby for her mamma while she’s at the store. Please, I need to talk to you. Give me a half hour?” We smiled and nodded, taking a step back off the broken porch. I glanced over my shoulder to see the house we’d be returning to in a matter of minutes. The dirt yard had covered itself around the bottom of the house courtesy of the thunderstorms that week. Behind the brown, little shades of orange peeked out, though actually, it was more peach as the years had worn the brightness of the palate to nothing more than a dull reminder of its glory days.
Plastic bags and duct tape filled the bottom left corner of the front window where glass had once been. This was it. This was Patricia’s home. There were hundreds more just like it on the streets around us.
As the three of us left to investigate the surrounding streets, we encountered all kinds of people. The bent grey haired man taking out his garbage who wanted to debate the exclusivity of Christ, the mother with seven children who asked us to come in and gathered all her children around to hold hands so they could listen to us talk and pray, even the three old maids smoking on the front porch with their cynical looks, “Hell girl, you go ahead and pray, things can’t get any worse.”
We eventually headed back to that faded peach house with the broken window. I knocked on the door - silence. I knocked gently again – still no answer. A little confused, we turned to head back down the streets when Patricia came rushing from the neighbor’s. “Please come in, come in…”
We stepped into the old house, and immediately upon entrance, it struck me; this woman had nothing. An old shredded couch, a few trinkets, that was all. Glancing back into the kitchen, shards of glass lay spewed about the floor.
She asked us to sit down. As we started to talk, tears came to Patricia’s eyes. She started telling us about her family. Dropping out of school in jr high, she’d come from a rough background. She’d raised two kids alone, only her daughter was still alive. This daughter was also raising a daughter as a single parent… This little girl, Patricia’s granddaughter, had a terminal illness.
Particia’s daughter was going through suicidal depression because of her granddaughter’s illness. They couldn’t afford the hospital bills, and were left without money for groceries, electricity, or a telephone. She wept as she told us of her anger toward God, pointing back to the kitchen full of broken glass.
“I couldn’t take it anymore last night… I broke everything. Everything… why is this happening? Where is God? Where is he?”
My heart broke. We sat for over an hour, I held this hurting woman in my arms and we prayed and talked. I cried with this complete stranger for the pain of this world as we listened to her story. Patricia at one point got up and picked up a little worn Bible off a shelf. She was a Christian, and told us about when she put her faith in the forgiveness and grace of Christ. We were able to get her information about a local church that could help her, and went on to contact the pastor. As the time came for us to go, Patricia held my hand and looked as us.
“I sat in my kitchen last night after breaking everything, and just screamed out to God that if my life mattered at all to him, to show that to me. He sent you to me to show me. He knew I needed you today. He sent you to me.”
As we left, I couldn’t help but stand humbled and awestruck at how God uses people to accomplish his perfect plans, and to encourage his hurting children. It’s been six months since that day, and I haven’t heard from Patricia since then. I pray that her faith is strong, and that God will continue to reveal himself to her.
This isn’t the way life was meant to be. Death, pain, sorrow, guilt; it’s all a result of sin. It’s all a result of the curse that we all must suffer under. The rich and poor, the young and old, the wise and foolish, each life will pass like a vapor. Where our human depravity leaves gaping holes though, the person and work of Jesus Christ offers a redemptive solution. He overcame death. He healed the sick and the hurting.
This life will soon be over… Praise the Lord! Why you ask? Because my friend, there’s another life still yet to come. I’ll cling to the promises of God until then, and enjoy this life he’s so generously given me.
Someday though, I’m ready for heaven.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Being Known
The Romantic era, that time when artists began to see things like poetry and music as a sudden and overwhelming consummation of emotion stemming from an interaction with the sublime. Far different than systematic interpretation of those artists going before, the value of the inner sense of existence and reality, even in its most simplistic and rustic form was enough to be hailed as the new foundation for art.
I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately, mostly because I have this (as probably most do) love-hate relationship with emotions. Emotions allow one to experience the joys of life in a way that is unmatched by hard formed observations made apart from this influx of feelings. Yet at the same time, when life lacks this elation, possessing emotion means the pain and sorrow of the moment can be experienced at a level of excruciation.
Furthermore, emotions are extremely personal. The feelings you have or the passions that arise from witnessing a series of events can never be duplicated, nor can they be fully explained to another. I have to think, then, that we as human beings can never truly be known by others. Human relationships are funny things. They just are. For some reason, though, as Christians we are commanded by God to interact with people - of this I am convinced.
Scripture absolutely revolves around the message of the gospel, the promises of God, and how we should live in this world in light of that revelation. Many of our commands for living center on interaction with people. Hmm. Curious that God would command us as finite beings to engage humanity, whom we have no ability to ever truly know.
Only God will ever know me or you; because he is the creator; because he is God. In some sense, that realization seems lonely at first - to understand that those individuals I care about will never truly know me, nor I them. How much more exhilarating though, to think that there is a being so consuming that he understands me to my core, even when I don’t understand myself.
One of the things I hear many people struggle with here at college is the lack of deep relationships. Some have a hard time coming into a setting where people know little or nothing about them. We get caught up in conversations of “surfacy crap.” Last year definitely brought that struggle to me, and in many ways, it continues today.
Oh to be known. What a blessing and simultaneous agony. I sense that we as human beings have some innate desire to be known. Not even necessarily to be loved or liked, just known. Humans will never really be able to fulfill that desire for one another. What great incentive that is then to point people toward Christ, the knower of all things. This is a fairly lengthy passage from Psalm 139, but it’s worth the time it takes to digest…
“O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.
You hem me in – behind and before;
You have laid your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
Too lofty for me to attain.
Where can I go from your spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there.
If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,"
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,
your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.”
How inescapable. How comforting. How thrilling. How humbling.
I am known by God. That’s more than enough.
I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately, mostly because I have this (as probably most do) love-hate relationship with emotions. Emotions allow one to experience the joys of life in a way that is unmatched by hard formed observations made apart from this influx of feelings. Yet at the same time, when life lacks this elation, possessing emotion means the pain and sorrow of the moment can be experienced at a level of excruciation.
Furthermore, emotions are extremely personal. The feelings you have or the passions that arise from witnessing a series of events can never be duplicated, nor can they be fully explained to another. I have to think, then, that we as human beings can never truly be known by others. Human relationships are funny things. They just are. For some reason, though, as Christians we are commanded by God to interact with people - of this I am convinced.
Scripture absolutely revolves around the message of the gospel, the promises of God, and how we should live in this world in light of that revelation. Many of our commands for living center on interaction with people. Hmm. Curious that God would command us as finite beings to engage humanity, whom we have no ability to ever truly know.
Only God will ever know me or you; because he is the creator; because he is God. In some sense, that realization seems lonely at first - to understand that those individuals I care about will never truly know me, nor I them. How much more exhilarating though, to think that there is a being so consuming that he understands me to my core, even when I don’t understand myself.
One of the things I hear many people struggle with here at college is the lack of deep relationships. Some have a hard time coming into a setting where people know little or nothing about them. We get caught up in conversations of “surfacy crap.” Last year definitely brought that struggle to me, and in many ways, it continues today.
Oh to be known. What a blessing and simultaneous agony. I sense that we as human beings have some innate desire to be known. Not even necessarily to be loved or liked, just known. Humans will never really be able to fulfill that desire for one another. What great incentive that is then to point people toward Christ, the knower of all things. This is a fairly lengthy passage from Psalm 139, but it’s worth the time it takes to digest…
“O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.
You hem me in – behind and before;
You have laid your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
Too lofty for me to attain.
Where can I go from your spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there.
If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,"
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,
your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.”
How inescapable. How comforting. How thrilling. How humbling.
I am known by God. That’s more than enough.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Father of the Fatherless
It’s not one of those things I can place my finger on when it started, the first time I remember being overwhelmed with the needs of humanity in regard to this heartbreaking reality.
You see, I’ve largely taken for granted that at family reunions, everyone knows my name. They love me. They have stories of my birth, and those times when I toddled around the kitchen begging to eat ice cream for breakfast. I’ve taken for granted that when I was young and other kids asked what my parents did, I had an immediate answer. “My mom’s a teacher. My dad, he works in the hospital looking at people’s bones.”
I take for granted that I live with people who share my DNA, and that I know those who gave me the particles that helped start this thing called life. Even my name. I take for granted that there were two wonderful individuals who carefully thought and searched and chose the parts that would make up the silk kimono of phonetics wrapping and defining the life of this girl. I take for granted that I know my story. The story of Heidi Benson.
Not everyone has that. Did you know?
Perhaps it was the time I watched a Home for the Holidays special in 3rd grade that my heart broke when I realized how many kids didn’t have what I did. Maybe it was the times my family hosted international orphans for months at a time, and I saw the thrill on their faces as we included them into our family. Maybe it was the way their eyes would sparkle when my mom bought them light-up shoes from Payless.
Maybe it was when I went to the home of my “little brother” whose mom had just died of cancer and whose dad was sitting in prison that it first burdened my heart. It could have been while writing my senior research paper for composition that I came across statistics about the foster care system that left me on my knees crying out to God. Perhaps it was those times I sat in the studio of my jazz musician uncle who told me of his memories of the world of adoption, and his search for identity in the madness of it all.
Perhaps it was how every home I stayed in this summer had some connection –they had been foster parents, had adopted a child internationally, in the US, or were adopted themselves. Maybe, just maybe it was the first time I read James 1:27 and bothered to think about what those words say. “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this – to look after orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”
Maybe it’s when I remember that I’m adopted. Though alienated from God because of my sinful nature, he predestined me to be his adoptive child through faith in the death and resurrection of his only Son.
I love kids. I want so badly to be able to express how spending everyday this summer with hundreds of kids affected my thinking. How I can explain that it exposed my overwhelming selfishness and pride? How can I put into words that it grabbed my heart, my emotions, the essence of my very being? How do I tell you that every time a child came and gave me a hug, a smile, or came running to me with tears dripping down their little snotty faces, I had a resounding peace that told me I would spend the rest of my life fighting for the lives of little bugger faced, greasy fingered kids.
I hate sin. I really do. I hate how it corrupts everything, how it warps what is good, how it distorts what is innocent and precious, how it tears into the lives of families, of people, of children. But praise God for his grace! Praise him for choosing to redeem us and therefore give us hope in this dying and desperate world.
Now it’s our call as believers to spread that hope, to share the gospel; this good news of the promise of Christ with everyone. It is our job to be the embodiment of that hope in the lives of people everywhere.
That’s why I want to work in the foster care system someday. That’s why I want to work with adoption. That’s why I’m at Cedarville, why I choose to study, why I choose to smile. It’s why I desperately try to be a living example of the pure joy that comes from knowing Jesus as my Savior, and my closest friend.
I hope I never grow weary of pursuing good, and that I never tire of investing in the lives of people. Human relationships are the actual conditions in which the ideal life of Christ is to be exhibited. Therefore, I pray that people are always my highest priority. Not grades, not grad schools, not prestige or recognition. I sincerely hope that someday my life is utterly unnoticeable. That people wouldn’t even think of recognizing me, because Christ is so much more evident. I pray that he may increase, and I decrease, so that he may receive all the glory and honor that so much due to his perfect and holy name.
I don’t pretend to think that I’ll ever be able to make the foster care system a perfect place, or that adoption will lead to perfect situations. We’re people. We’re broken. Sin’s made that an impossibility. I do hope that for God’s glory, and because of his grace alone, I can help. I can be an advocate, an encouragement, and an agent for reform. I hope someday kids can say I was someone who loved them, and someone who cared.
Kids are important to me because they’re important to God. They’re precious, so I’ll fight for them. My savior is the Father of the fatherless. I want them to know. This is my heart. Will you help me?
You see, I’ve largely taken for granted that at family reunions, everyone knows my name. They love me. They have stories of my birth, and those times when I toddled around the kitchen begging to eat ice cream for breakfast. I’ve taken for granted that when I was young and other kids asked what my parents did, I had an immediate answer. “My mom’s a teacher. My dad, he works in the hospital looking at people’s bones.”
I take for granted that I live with people who share my DNA, and that I know those who gave me the particles that helped start this thing called life. Even my name. I take for granted that there were two wonderful individuals who carefully thought and searched and chose the parts that would make up the silk kimono of phonetics wrapping and defining the life of this girl. I take for granted that I know my story. The story of Heidi Benson.
Not everyone has that. Did you know?
Perhaps it was the time I watched a Home for the Holidays special in 3rd grade that my heart broke when I realized how many kids didn’t have what I did. Maybe it was the times my family hosted international orphans for months at a time, and I saw the thrill on their faces as we included them into our family. Maybe it was the way their eyes would sparkle when my mom bought them light-up shoes from Payless.
Maybe it was when I went to the home of my “little brother” whose mom had just died of cancer and whose dad was sitting in prison that it first burdened my heart. It could have been while writing my senior research paper for composition that I came across statistics about the foster care system that left me on my knees crying out to God. Perhaps it was those times I sat in the studio of my jazz musician uncle who told me of his memories of the world of adoption, and his search for identity in the madness of it all.
Perhaps it was how every home I stayed in this summer had some connection –they had been foster parents, had adopted a child internationally, in the US, or were adopted themselves. Maybe, just maybe it was the first time I read James 1:27 and bothered to think about what those words say. “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this – to look after orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”
Maybe it’s when I remember that I’m adopted. Though alienated from God because of my sinful nature, he predestined me to be his adoptive child through faith in the death and resurrection of his only Son.
I love kids. I want so badly to be able to express how spending everyday this summer with hundreds of kids affected my thinking. How I can explain that it exposed my overwhelming selfishness and pride? How can I put into words that it grabbed my heart, my emotions, the essence of my very being? How do I tell you that every time a child came and gave me a hug, a smile, or came running to me with tears dripping down their little snotty faces, I had a resounding peace that told me I would spend the rest of my life fighting for the lives of little bugger faced, greasy fingered kids.
I hate sin. I really do. I hate how it corrupts everything, how it warps what is good, how it distorts what is innocent and precious, how it tears into the lives of families, of people, of children. But praise God for his grace! Praise him for choosing to redeem us and therefore give us hope in this dying and desperate world.
Now it’s our call as believers to spread that hope, to share the gospel; this good news of the promise of Christ with everyone. It is our job to be the embodiment of that hope in the lives of people everywhere.
That’s why I want to work in the foster care system someday. That’s why I want to work with adoption. That’s why I’m at Cedarville, why I choose to study, why I choose to smile. It’s why I desperately try to be a living example of the pure joy that comes from knowing Jesus as my Savior, and my closest friend.
I hope I never grow weary of pursuing good, and that I never tire of investing in the lives of people. Human relationships are the actual conditions in which the ideal life of Christ is to be exhibited. Therefore, I pray that people are always my highest priority. Not grades, not grad schools, not prestige or recognition. I sincerely hope that someday my life is utterly unnoticeable. That people wouldn’t even think of recognizing me, because Christ is so much more evident. I pray that he may increase, and I decrease, so that he may receive all the glory and honor that so much due to his perfect and holy name.
I don’t pretend to think that I’ll ever be able to make the foster care system a perfect place, or that adoption will lead to perfect situations. We’re people. We’re broken. Sin’s made that an impossibility. I do hope that for God’s glory, and because of his grace alone, I can help. I can be an advocate, an encouragement, and an agent for reform. I hope someday kids can say I was someone who loved them, and someone who cared.
Kids are important to me because they’re important to God. They’re precious, so I’ll fight for them. My savior is the Father of the fatherless. I want them to know. This is my heart. Will you help me?
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Rop Tú Mo Baile
The last drop of sunlight falls behind the hills of lush foliage in shades of green spilling out as far as the eye can see. A monastery rests in the crest of a hill where a nearly blind Christian Irish poet scratches out words with painstaking care and literary skill.
Rop tú mo baile, a Choimdiu cride:
ní ní nech aile acht Rí secht nime.
Rop tú mo scrútain i l-ló 's i n-aidche;
rop tú ad-chëar im chotlud caidche.
The words sat untouched from their original Old Irish form for nearly 1,500 years until the 20th century when two English scholars translated them into versified text. Set to the tune of an Irish Folk song, today we find them in the bindings of hymnals; stacked in the back hallways, resting against the worn wood of pews.
Back in highschool Laura Mace and I would hunt through the dust and grime to find this music we could play on junky pianos and violins with missing sound boards. I remember singing these words with missionary kids with our hands entwined making an oblong mass, and crying them when my grandma died earlier this year. Today I sit pondering the weight of what these words imply. The veracity espoused in the text; the challenge to live in light of their meaning.
“Be Thou my vision”
My vision. The vista by which I observe and perceive reality. To maintain the perspective of Christ is no simple task. The difficulty of allowing Christ to be the purpose of my vision can be found in the generality of living in a fallen state of humanity, and specifically in my own inordinate self-love. Do I think and act the way Jesus would in the way I handle relationships, in the way I spend my time, in the place I throw my money, in my priorities, in my goals, in my dreams, in my studies?
“Oh Lord of my heart”
Is he? Is he Lord of my heart, or do I merely say that he is? Perhaps it is my pride which truly rules the overwhelming majority of the time. Even in those times when I make my spiritual epiphanies known to the world around me. Even when I serve, is it really the Lord I serve? Or is it my ego? Is it my selfishness? Is it the image I want people to pin to my face and my name?
That Christ be eminent in all I do requires surrender; something of which I must struggle and toil to give. Galatians 1:10 has been consuming my thoughts today. “Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God? Or am I trying to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a servant of Christ.”
“Not be all else to me, save that Thou art”
Not be all else. Not be: to mean nothing. All: the entirety of. Else: anything other than Christ. That all else should be nothing to me in comparison to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus as Lord. Wow. I’m so often so far from that standard it’s somewhat discouraging to think about. Praise God for mercy, forgiveness, and second chances.
“Thou my best thought, by day or by night”
He is the best thought, but how often do I forget that? How often do I fill my mind with meaningless entertainment, with empty clutter of our culture’s consumerist mentality? I wonder why we get caught up in the politics of it all, and how often we forget the sincere focus and the foundations of our faith.
Our thoughts should be centered on unifying truths about who God is, rather than on human division regarding issues lacking meritorious note. It was Merold Westphal who once said, “There is an atheism which is closer to the truth than a certain kind of religion, not the religion of ‘somebody else,’ but quite possibly our own.” Yet what an opportunity Christians have been given to return religion to what it should be; to remember the writing of James, that “religion our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this : to look after orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”
“Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light”
That the presence of God should be illumination into how I live my life. Illumination, the work of the Holy Spirit by revelation that God should give us the understanding we need through his Word. That Word which is perfect for life and godliness. What a gift we’ve been given through having access to a text whereby God proclaims himself to us. How often I take it for granted. How often I forget and make light of God’s ability to encourage and renew through his Word.
The more I study history, the more I see the endurance of God’s work through periods of time past and the lives of people throughout history. I just get goose bumps thinking about it. Reading through the creeds, and hymns from as far back as the 6th century like this one emphasize all the more clearly to me that my Abba is faithful, that he keeps his promises, that he is sovereign, that he is good. And this journey to know him is only just beginning… I love it.
Rop tú mo baile, a Choimdiu cride:
ní ní nech aile acht Rí secht nime.
Rop tú mo scrútain i l-ló 's i n-aidche;
rop tú ad-chëar im chotlud caidche.
The words sat untouched from their original Old Irish form for nearly 1,500 years until the 20th century when two English scholars translated them into versified text. Set to the tune of an Irish Folk song, today we find them in the bindings of hymnals; stacked in the back hallways, resting against the worn wood of pews.
Back in highschool Laura Mace and I would hunt through the dust and grime to find this music we could play on junky pianos and violins with missing sound boards. I remember singing these words with missionary kids with our hands entwined making an oblong mass, and crying them when my grandma died earlier this year. Today I sit pondering the weight of what these words imply. The veracity espoused in the text; the challenge to live in light of their meaning.
“Be Thou my vision”
My vision. The vista by which I observe and perceive reality. To maintain the perspective of Christ is no simple task. The difficulty of allowing Christ to be the purpose of my vision can be found in the generality of living in a fallen state of humanity, and specifically in my own inordinate self-love. Do I think and act the way Jesus would in the way I handle relationships, in the way I spend my time, in the place I throw my money, in my priorities, in my goals, in my dreams, in my studies?
“Oh Lord of my heart”
Is he? Is he Lord of my heart, or do I merely say that he is? Perhaps it is my pride which truly rules the overwhelming majority of the time. Even in those times when I make my spiritual epiphanies known to the world around me. Even when I serve, is it really the Lord I serve? Or is it my ego? Is it my selfishness? Is it the image I want people to pin to my face and my name?
That Christ be eminent in all I do requires surrender; something of which I must struggle and toil to give. Galatians 1:10 has been consuming my thoughts today. “Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God? Or am I trying to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a servant of Christ.”
“Not be all else to me, save that Thou art”
Not be all else. Not be: to mean nothing. All: the entirety of. Else: anything other than Christ. That all else should be nothing to me in comparison to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus as Lord. Wow. I’m so often so far from that standard it’s somewhat discouraging to think about. Praise God for mercy, forgiveness, and second chances.
“Thou my best thought, by day or by night”
He is the best thought, but how often do I forget that? How often do I fill my mind with meaningless entertainment, with empty clutter of our culture’s consumerist mentality? I wonder why we get caught up in the politics of it all, and how often we forget the sincere focus and the foundations of our faith.
Our thoughts should be centered on unifying truths about who God is, rather than on human division regarding issues lacking meritorious note. It was Merold Westphal who once said, “There is an atheism which is closer to the truth than a certain kind of religion, not the religion of ‘somebody else,’ but quite possibly our own.” Yet what an opportunity Christians have been given to return religion to what it should be; to remember the writing of James, that “religion our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this : to look after orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”
“Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light”
That the presence of God should be illumination into how I live my life. Illumination, the work of the Holy Spirit by revelation that God should give us the understanding we need through his Word. That Word which is perfect for life and godliness. What a gift we’ve been given through having access to a text whereby God proclaims himself to us. How often I take it for granted. How often I forget and make light of God’s ability to encourage and renew through his Word.
The more I study history, the more I see the endurance of God’s work through periods of time past and the lives of people throughout history. I just get goose bumps thinking about it. Reading through the creeds, and hymns from as far back as the 6th century like this one emphasize all the more clearly to me that my Abba is faithful, that he keeps his promises, that he is sovereign, that he is good. And this journey to know him is only just beginning… I love it.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
On Kindness
A dear friend of mine said something today that hurt my heart. She said, “Heidi, it’s incredible. We’re here at a school that wears the label of Christian, yet I’ve met some of the meanest people I’ve ever known here.”
It hurt my heart. Hurt it because I wonder how many times I may have said something over the past few months that was less than gracious to someone. I wonder how many times I could have given encouragement, but didn't for one reason or another. I wonder if people walk away from me feeling as valued and precious as they truly are in the sight of God. It doesn’t take much to be kind. It really doesn’t, but I wonder if I make even the smallest amount of effort that is required.
I’m challenged today to re-examine my thoughts and actions, and inspired to strive for the example of Mother Teresa as she said, “Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of God’s kindness: kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile.”
“Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you.” --Ephesians 4:32
It hurt my heart. Hurt it because I wonder how many times I may have said something over the past few months that was less than gracious to someone. I wonder how many times I could have given encouragement, but didn't for one reason or another. I wonder if people walk away from me feeling as valued and precious as they truly are in the sight of God. It doesn’t take much to be kind. It really doesn’t, but I wonder if I make even the smallest amount of effort that is required.
I’m challenged today to re-examine my thoughts and actions, and inspired to strive for the example of Mother Teresa as she said, “Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of God’s kindness: kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile.”
“Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you.” --Ephesians 4:32
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Perfectly Overwhelmed.
Sometimes I forget to see the factors God places in my life to give me encouragement. I experience them on a physical level of reality, but don’t take the time to notice the voice of God speaking through them. I was discouraged today. It’s true. Who do I think I am? What makes me think I can whip through two majors and two minors in a few years, hightail it into law school somewhere, get out alive, and transform the infrastructures of mass organizations to offer better opportunities to disadvantaged kids?
I’ve been told I’m an overachiever, I’m too ambitious. Sometimes I’ve felt like agreeing. I get days like today when life is just overwhelming for one reason or another. …Then I get bombarded by Cedarville people.
I waltz into Collins hall, and the professors know my name. I somehow trip into Professor Smith’s office after a kind of hilariously awkward encounter with the secretary, and we just sit and talk for awhile. He asks about my life and strangely enough actually cares. He tells me my mom called him on the phone a few weeks ago to get specs on the DC semester, and he laughs when he tells me she told him he was my favorite professor. It was the same kind of laugh he laughs when students look pained over having to answer questions about government.
It’s almost dinner by the time I leave, so I skip over to unit 30 to see who’s hanging out. It’s Anna, Amy, Kelly, and Bethanne, all being their wonderful optimistic and joy-overflowing selves. We go to Mom and Dad’s for dinner, and I’m just blessed to have the chance to be around those precious girls.
Later on I find myself at the counter of Vecinos watching hysterical you-tube videos with Adam, Olivia, and David. Doug walks by with his goofy grin and tries to run me over with a garbage can. Walking into the Hive, there’s Suzy, who tells me it’s my obligation on Friday nights to put away homework, just for a few hours, and watch a dumb movie. She tells me as much as hard work, rest is also a necessity of college success. I think the girl’s got wisdom.
On the way back to the dorm, I end up in the journalism lab watching all the bloopers of news casts, and after that the practice rooms to play quirky piano duets. Finally getting back to the dorm, I watch Dejavu… just because I haven’t watched a movie in weeks, or months, then read my Bible, and get ready for bed.
Honestly, it wasn’t until just a few minutes ago sitting in my bed that I realized how much God has used people of all kinds to give me encouragement today. It’s not until looking back that I truly recognize the joy of the community on this campus. I rarely go a day without someone giving kind words of affirmation, encouragement, and praise. I hope I never take that for granted, and that I strive to show that thankfulness and gratitude for those around me.
I’m reminded of the words of Paul writing to the Philippians… “if you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any fellowship and compassion, then make my joy complete by being likeminded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose.”
I do. I do have so much encouragement from being united with Christ through salvation. I’m overwhelmed with comfort from the assurance of his love. The breath is whisked from my lungs from experiencing the joy of fellowship with other believers made possible through the Holy Spirit. I’m just so blessed to be a part of this community which strives to maintain the attitude of Christ in everyday life.
I’m still overwhelmed tonight, just not with the cares of my problems and self-consumed life. I’m overwhelmed instead with the limitless greatness of knowing Christ Jesus as my Lord, and seeing how he has such compassion on his sometimes discouraged daughter.
I’ve been told I’m an overachiever, I’m too ambitious. Sometimes I’ve felt like agreeing. I get days like today when life is just overwhelming for one reason or another. …Then I get bombarded by Cedarville people.
I waltz into Collins hall, and the professors know my name. I somehow trip into Professor Smith’s office after a kind of hilariously awkward encounter with the secretary, and we just sit and talk for awhile. He asks about my life and strangely enough actually cares. He tells me my mom called him on the phone a few weeks ago to get specs on the DC semester, and he laughs when he tells me she told him he was my favorite professor. It was the same kind of laugh he laughs when students look pained over having to answer questions about government.
It’s almost dinner by the time I leave, so I skip over to unit 30 to see who’s hanging out. It’s Anna, Amy, Kelly, and Bethanne, all being their wonderful optimistic and joy-overflowing selves. We go to Mom and Dad’s for dinner, and I’m just blessed to have the chance to be around those precious girls.
Later on I find myself at the counter of Vecinos watching hysterical you-tube videos with Adam, Olivia, and David. Doug walks by with his goofy grin and tries to run me over with a garbage can. Walking into the Hive, there’s Suzy, who tells me it’s my obligation on Friday nights to put away homework, just for a few hours, and watch a dumb movie. She tells me as much as hard work, rest is also a necessity of college success. I think the girl’s got wisdom.
On the way back to the dorm, I end up in the journalism lab watching all the bloopers of news casts, and after that the practice rooms to play quirky piano duets. Finally getting back to the dorm, I watch Dejavu… just because I haven’t watched a movie in weeks, or months, then read my Bible, and get ready for bed.
Honestly, it wasn’t until just a few minutes ago sitting in my bed that I realized how much God has used people of all kinds to give me encouragement today. It’s not until looking back that I truly recognize the joy of the community on this campus. I rarely go a day without someone giving kind words of affirmation, encouragement, and praise. I hope I never take that for granted, and that I strive to show that thankfulness and gratitude for those around me.
I’m reminded of the words of Paul writing to the Philippians… “if you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any fellowship and compassion, then make my joy complete by being likeminded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose.”
I do. I do have so much encouragement from being united with Christ through salvation. I’m overwhelmed with comfort from the assurance of his love. The breath is whisked from my lungs from experiencing the joy of fellowship with other believers made possible through the Holy Spirit. I’m just so blessed to be a part of this community which strives to maintain the attitude of Christ in everyday life.
I’m still overwhelmed tonight, just not with the cares of my problems and self-consumed life. I’m overwhelmed instead with the limitless greatness of knowing Christ Jesus as my Lord, and seeing how he has such compassion on his sometimes discouraged daughter.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Doppleganger
Apparently, some reporter in California has been stalking my life. Well, clarification, small portions of my life, that are three years old. A friend of mine found this article in the San Fransicsco Chronicle, and the reporter shares my name, and wrote a one sentence blurp about me.
I'm highly amused right now. Haha....
"My doppelganger is having a more interesting life.
I know this because every time my byline appears in The Chronicle, I get letters, passionate letters full of energy and what seems like devotion, asking about her.
The first was a phone call, years ago.
"Are you the Heidi Benson I met on the train on the way to Barcelona?"
Right away, I can feel the reassuring rumble of the train, I hear the rhythmic clack-clack of the metal wheels. It is night, late, the compartment is cozy, red-lit with dark-wood walls, green curtains frame a moving landscape, mountains barely seen... We're sharing a lukewarm bottle of sparkling wine...
You see, he had this voice. A slightly tremulous, benevolent baritone. He sounded terribly interesting, terribly handsome - and, well - smitten.
But I've never been to Spain. It wasn't me. I almost said "Yes!" What would have happened if I had?
Now, we all know about doppelgangers - shadow walkers, "evil twins," portents.
Not long before Shelley drowned in a boat in a storm off Liguria, he told his wife, Mary, that he'd seen himself walking, looking troubled, on the beach.
On the day Lincoln was elected president, he saw a vertical image of himself in a mirror - but with two faces, one ghostly pale. He was tired, he'd just won the election - he shrugged it off. But it happened again, and again. When he told his wife, Mary, she interpreted it to mean he would win two terms as president, but would not live through the second.
Now that doppelgangers are digital, they're not so profound. If one of yours behaves badly or spends time in jail - and if evidence of their existence might keep you from getting a high-security job at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, say - there are services to scrub your online reputation clean, or make you a brand-new one.
"Are you the Heidi Benson who worked on the Anderson Ranch in Aspen?"
When I got this call, I wanted desperately to answer: "Yes, of course! You came by to play poker with the other cowboys and saw me ride up, bareback, on my palomino, hair flying. That was me. I can prove it. I have cowboy boots."
That I bought those boots in Sorrento and have had a lifelong fear of horses had nothing to do with my urgency in that moment, just in that moment, to be that Heidi Benson.
But I couldn't lie. "No,' I said, 'I've never been to Aspen." What I could do - from backstage,where I'm most comfortable - was to search Google.
I learned that there are many Bensons who thought it was a good idea to name their daughters after the Swiss orphan from a children's book who was played in the movie by Shirley Temple. Go figure.
There's a Heidi Benson who is a consultant at the Know Yourself spa for burned-out executives in New Mexico.
There's the one who went hang-gliding off Mount Everest - there are pictures, somewhere - as a member of the American Alpine Club.
There's the scientist at the National Engineering and Environmental Lab in Idaho Falls who is studying ringing in ears, hypothyroidism, depression and memory loss (I have all four!).
There's the Heidi Benson who is senior editor of Family Life magazine and the author of a four-month study called "Timeless Toys."
There are a number of athletes - the coordinator of Central Iowa Aquatics; a third-place winner in the Ashtabula Triathlon. She's 17; there's a fieldhockey hotshot at Northeastern University in Boston; there's the certified scuba diver on a theater scholarship at Monmouth College in Illinois.
In Michigan, there's a homeschooled pianist who shared second place in the 2007 Germania Young Musical Artist Award by playing "Toccata" by Khachaturian.
(HA. Okay. That's me. [/amusement])
On the subset of Heidi Bensons who appear in photos, the majority are blond. And they are - to a Heidi - smiley, cute, healthy, perky, outdoorsy.
Now, I like my life. I like being a brunette. I'm glad I took the road I traveled. I feel lucky. But I am weak. Identity is a slippery serpent. And the doppelgangers keep turning up.
The latest emerged on Sept. 11 this year, when I got an e-mail saying: "We really enjoyed your Sunday feature. Was your father John Benson from Belfast?" - Tom & Sheila Foley
I wrote back, saying, "No relation - tell me more."
"John Benson was from Ireland. He lived in Alameda and had a daughter named Heidi. John was a member of the Encinal Yacht Club. He died around 20 years ago during a sailboat race to the Farallon Islands sponsored by the St. Francis Yacht Club. A sudden storm came up during the race and he and the boat he was on - Bad Sneakers - were never found."
Bad sneakers? He was wearing bad sneakers and he fell off the boat? No, the name of the boat was Bad Sneakers.
Oh, the poor man. His poor daughter! Imagine - your father and his boat, never found.
I lost my father in a transportation accident. Maybe I should meet her. Could we talk?
"There is a memorial plaque to John Benson at the Encinal Yacht Club," Tom Foley tells me, "and I also think his daughter was involved with newspapers."
Then he gave me her phone number - Heidi Benson Finberg - in the 510. She's in the East Bay. I'm afraid to call. Who would pick up?"
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/12/02/CM5MSQBRV.DTL
I'm highly amused right now. Haha....
"My doppelganger is having a more interesting life.I know this because every time my byline appears in The Chronicle, I get letters, passionate letters full of energy and what seems like devotion, asking about her.
The first was a phone call, years ago.
"Are you the Heidi Benson I met on the train on the way to Barcelona?"
Right away, I can feel the reassuring rumble of the train, I hear the rhythmic clack-clack of the metal wheels. It is night, late, the compartment is cozy, red-lit with dark-wood walls, green curtains frame a moving landscape, mountains barely seen... We're sharing a lukewarm bottle of sparkling wine...
You see, he had this voice. A slightly tremulous, benevolent baritone. He sounded terribly interesting, terribly handsome - and, well - smitten.
But I've never been to Spain. It wasn't me. I almost said "Yes!" What would have happened if I had?
Now, we all know about doppelgangers - shadow walkers, "evil twins," portents.
Not long before Shelley drowned in a boat in a storm off Liguria, he told his wife, Mary, that he'd seen himself walking, looking troubled, on the beach.
On the day Lincoln was elected president, he saw a vertical image of himself in a mirror - but with two faces, one ghostly pale. He was tired, he'd just won the election - he shrugged it off. But it happened again, and again. When he told his wife, Mary, she interpreted it to mean he would win two terms as president, but would not live through the second.
Now that doppelgangers are digital, they're not so profound. If one of yours behaves badly or spends time in jail - and if evidence of their existence might keep you from getting a high-security job at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, say - there are services to scrub your online reputation clean, or make you a brand-new one.
"Are you the Heidi Benson who worked on the Anderson Ranch in Aspen?"
When I got this call, I wanted desperately to answer: "Yes, of course! You came by to play poker with the other cowboys and saw me ride up, bareback, on my palomino, hair flying. That was me. I can prove it. I have cowboy boots."
That I bought those boots in Sorrento and have had a lifelong fear of horses had nothing to do with my urgency in that moment, just in that moment, to be that Heidi Benson.
But I couldn't lie. "No,' I said, 'I've never been to Aspen." What I could do - from backstage,where I'm most comfortable - was to search Google.
I learned that there are many Bensons who thought it was a good idea to name their daughters after the Swiss orphan from a children's book who was played in the movie by Shirley Temple. Go figure.
There's a Heidi Benson who is a consultant at the Know Yourself spa for burned-out executives in New Mexico.
There's the one who went hang-gliding off Mount Everest - there are pictures, somewhere - as a member of the American Alpine Club.
There's the scientist at the National Engineering and Environmental Lab in Idaho Falls who is studying ringing in ears, hypothyroidism, depression and memory loss (I have all four!).
There's the Heidi Benson who is senior editor of Family Life magazine and the author of a four-month study called "Timeless Toys."
There are a number of athletes - the coordinator of Central Iowa Aquatics; a third-place winner in the Ashtabula Triathlon. She's 17; there's a fieldhockey hotshot at Northeastern University in Boston; there's the certified scuba diver on a theater scholarship at Monmouth College in Illinois.
In Michigan, there's a homeschooled pianist who shared second place in the 2007 Germania Young Musical Artist Award by playing "Toccata" by Khachaturian.
(HA. Okay. That's me. [/amusement])
On the subset of Heidi Bensons who appear in photos, the majority are blond. And they are - to a Heidi - smiley, cute, healthy, perky, outdoorsy.
Now, I like my life. I like being a brunette. I'm glad I took the road I traveled. I feel lucky. But I am weak. Identity is a slippery serpent. And the doppelgangers keep turning up.
The latest emerged on Sept. 11 this year, when I got an e-mail saying: "We really enjoyed your Sunday feature. Was your father John Benson from Belfast?" - Tom & Sheila Foley
I wrote back, saying, "No relation - tell me more."
"John Benson was from Ireland. He lived in Alameda and had a daughter named Heidi. John was a member of the Encinal Yacht Club. He died around 20 years ago during a sailboat race to the Farallon Islands sponsored by the St. Francis Yacht Club. A sudden storm came up during the race and he and the boat he was on - Bad Sneakers - were never found."
Bad sneakers? He was wearing bad sneakers and he fell off the boat? No, the name of the boat was Bad Sneakers.
Oh, the poor man. His poor daughter! Imagine - your father and his boat, never found.
I lost my father in a transportation accident. Maybe I should meet her. Could we talk?
"There is a memorial plaque to John Benson at the Encinal Yacht Club," Tom Foley tells me, "and I also think his daughter was involved with newspapers."
Then he gave me her phone number - Heidi Benson Finberg - in the 510. She's in the East Bay. I'm afraid to call. Who would pick up?"
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/12/02/CM5MSQBRV.DTL
Thursday, February 12, 2009
"Hope is the Thing with Feathers"
"That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me." --Emily Dickinson
The last drop of water hits the floor as I crank the shiny silver handle back to its position of preference; another check mark on the list of things to do today. Finding a non-descript purple bowl and spoon, I dump a half cup of symmetrical square wheat wonderfulness into the bowl to await its death by drowning in skim milk. Grabbing a seat at my desk and sending up a prayer, I open my eyes to the view of a list of homework assignments, a full inbox, and the federalist papers scattered about the grayish speckled desktop.
By now I’m thankful the Chex have already met their demise in the translucent white liquid. Woe be to the one who dismembers that which is still living. Not that cereal is alive, but if it were, it would certainly thank me for the courtesy of drowning it before meeting the impending doom of molars. Sometimes I catch these kinds of thoughts wandering about in my psyche. How strange that I assign stories and values to inanimate objects. Perhaps it’s because I feel I have less time to do the same for that which is living. Though life be surrounded by thousands of people, in some ways, college screams and kicks for solitude as a ragamuffin refusing to bathe does for dirt.
Eh, Stravinsky’s around whenever in need of a temporary diversion from the study. Sometimes I wonder why I’ve chosen to subject myself to this rat race of assignments and classes, these routines of academic toil. Perhaps I’m here for the classic response of those lovers of intellectualism. “I’m learning for learning’s sake.” Perhaps I’m really after acquiring necessary skills for a monetarily gratifying career. Maybe I want to conquer the world, or maybe I believe this is a divine appointment to chase becoming what I should be and do.
Whatever it is, the longer I’m at school, the more I realize how little I understand of myself, the world, my God. The consequence of grasping some facet of knowledge is the contingent realization that there exists more information beyond that which is currently conceived. It’s often a simultaneous experience of exhilaration and discouragement; of joy and confusion. Realization of the limited state of the finite mind could lead to frustration, and to say it has not would be deception on my part.
Regardless, I’m so thankful for this mind, lacking omniscience as it is. To wish more would be to wish for the role of God; an envy of which I want no part. How beautiful then is faith, and how necessary. Reading through the book of Habakkuk, my thoughts resonate much with those of this prophet.
No Cedarville is no being attacked by ruthless Babylonians, yes I do argue with God when his ways seem unfathomable and unjust. I struggle to comprehend his ways and his work. As perplexity intensifies, I find it tempting to do that which many philosophers have tried to do; boil life down to a series of explanations for everything. Not that this is fruitless, as God has given us the capacity for understanding, to neglect making use of it would be a shame.
Even so, it would serve me well to mirror the response of Habakkuk in the midst of his seeking. He learned even then to rest in recognition of God’s sovereign appointment and work through a spirit of worship and confidence. To rest, to attain peace even as those fully processed Chex squares did as they embraced their new life of milk submersion and released their previous joy of plastically wrapped freshness.
Who knows where this life will take me. Perhaps I’ll have a life like Emily Dickinson, who when living published barely a dozen poems, and was dramatically overlooked by those in the elite literature community. Yet today, there is nary one able to live untouched by some bit of her work. Whatever the case may be, I find myself tonight thankful for the hope I am guaranteed that God’s work will be accomplished through my life regardless of my comprehension regarding the means employed.
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me." --Emily Dickinson
The last drop of water hits the floor as I crank the shiny silver handle back to its position of preference; another check mark on the list of things to do today. Finding a non-descript purple bowl and spoon, I dump a half cup of symmetrical square wheat wonderfulness into the bowl to await its death by drowning in skim milk. Grabbing a seat at my desk and sending up a prayer, I open my eyes to the view of a list of homework assignments, a full inbox, and the federalist papers scattered about the grayish speckled desktop.
By now I’m thankful the Chex have already met their demise in the translucent white liquid. Woe be to the one who dismembers that which is still living. Not that cereal is alive, but if it were, it would certainly thank me for the courtesy of drowning it before meeting the impending doom of molars. Sometimes I catch these kinds of thoughts wandering about in my psyche. How strange that I assign stories and values to inanimate objects. Perhaps it’s because I feel I have less time to do the same for that which is living. Though life be surrounded by thousands of people, in some ways, college screams and kicks for solitude as a ragamuffin refusing to bathe does for dirt.
Eh, Stravinsky’s around whenever in need of a temporary diversion from the study. Sometimes I wonder why I’ve chosen to subject myself to this rat race of assignments and classes, these routines of academic toil. Perhaps I’m here for the classic response of those lovers of intellectualism. “I’m learning for learning’s sake.” Perhaps I’m really after acquiring necessary skills for a monetarily gratifying career. Maybe I want to conquer the world, or maybe I believe this is a divine appointment to chase becoming what I should be and do.
Whatever it is, the longer I’m at school, the more I realize how little I understand of myself, the world, my God. The consequence of grasping some facet of knowledge is the contingent realization that there exists more information beyond that which is currently conceived. It’s often a simultaneous experience of exhilaration and discouragement; of joy and confusion. Realization of the limited state of the finite mind could lead to frustration, and to say it has not would be deception on my part.
Regardless, I’m so thankful for this mind, lacking omniscience as it is. To wish more would be to wish for the role of God; an envy of which I want no part. How beautiful then is faith, and how necessary. Reading through the book of Habakkuk, my thoughts resonate much with those of this prophet.
No Cedarville is no being attacked by ruthless Babylonians, yes I do argue with God when his ways seem unfathomable and unjust. I struggle to comprehend his ways and his work. As perplexity intensifies, I find it tempting to do that which many philosophers have tried to do; boil life down to a series of explanations for everything. Not that this is fruitless, as God has given us the capacity for understanding, to neglect making use of it would be a shame.
Even so, it would serve me well to mirror the response of Habakkuk in the midst of his seeking. He learned even then to rest in recognition of God’s sovereign appointment and work through a spirit of worship and confidence. To rest, to attain peace even as those fully processed Chex squares did as they embraced their new life of milk submersion and released their previous joy of plastically wrapped freshness.
Who knows where this life will take me. Perhaps I’ll have a life like Emily Dickinson, who when living published barely a dozen poems, and was dramatically overlooked by those in the elite literature community. Yet today, there is nary one able to live untouched by some bit of her work. Whatever the case may be, I find myself tonight thankful for the hope I am guaranteed that God’s work will be accomplished through my life regardless of my comprehension regarding the means employed.
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