NAMES & FACES

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

see

I haven’t spent much of my life around people in the military. My dad served during Vietnam and both of my grandfathers served during World War II. But we didn’t talk about it too often. It was in the past. Maybe there were too many searing memories that seemed better left in the dark.

I’ve always respected people in the military, but I’m more of a put your gun down kinda gal in most situations. Then I moved to Oahu.

Here on the island we have bases for all the major branches of the military: Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Air Force and Marines.

The military is now in my backyard.

I know people who serve. I’ve high-fived their kids. I have shared meals with them, prayed with them, sang worship songs with them, laughed with them and lived life with them. I’ve heard the pain in their wives’ voices as their husbands leave for overseas.

So this morning, when I saw a news story about two Marine helicopters colliding on the North Shore, my heart sank. I know a helicopter pilot and his face immediately came to mind. He’s safe, but there are still 12 people missing.

Twelve people. Twelve people with families and friends.

Winter waves of 30 and 40 feet are making the search as hard as it could be. And so, even though I don’t know the people who are being tossed in that ocean right now, I feel for them in a new way.

I’ve seen the oil still bubbling up from the U.S.S. Arizona with my own eyes and tried to imagine what it felt like to have bombs rain down on December 11, 1941 as Pearl Harbor was attacked.

In all of it, I’m thankful. I’m thankful for their service, but more than that, I’m thankful for the people they are. I’m thankful I have the opportunity to know them, because now, the military isn’t just an idea to me. It’s real. The people fighting for our freedom are real. I know some of their names. I can picture their faces.

It has helped me understand in a fresh way why it’s so important to know people’s stories. What if instead of keeping the people we don’t understand at a distance we got to know them?

What if we heard laughed at their jokes, shared their grief and dared to love them for who they are, for who God created them to be?

Here’s where I’m making a jump. It’s a rather big one so stick with me.

What if, instead of crossing the street to avoid that homeless man, we smiled at him and shook his hand? What if we took the time to look in his eyes and hear his story? Wouldn’t that make our world a better place? Isn’t that what Jesus would want us to do?

Now please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not trying to compare military personnel directly to people who have been pushed to the margins (although there are far too many veterans who end up homeless). What I am saying is that names, faces and stories matter. They help us not only understand the world around us, but ourselves better.

Names and faces give us compassion, something our world is in desperate need of.

 

HOME WRECKER

/ jessicaivaska / 8 Comments

9FybtVFNSEOxogGzIvHJ_IMG_2226

I am a home wrecker. It’s true. But before you get all upset and vow to never read another word I write, let me explain.

We recently moved into an older rental home in an older neighborhood in Honolulu. Friends and family (and anyone who has asked…and some who haven’t) know that I’m not the biggest fan of this place. I could tell you why, but it really doesn’t matter. It’s just where I am right now. I think God is working on me, but it’s been a rough few months.

When we first looked at the house, I noticed a bird’s nest above one of the windows. The single-wall construction of this home means that every window and door has a sill above it, making a nice ledge for creatures like birds—and geckos—to settle.

I thought the nest was cute. Dare I say, sweet. Always an animal lover, who once tried to nurse a bird back from the edge of death with fresh worms and grass clippings after it flew into an enormous glass window, you could say I’m pro-bird.

I admire nests when they are high in trees, and I sigh sadly when I see them crushed on the ground.

Or I used to.

Then a bird decided it was going to make a nest on one of those nice ledges I mentioned. Problem is, this ledge is directly above my front door. Yep. The only way in and out of my house.

At first, I just swept down the start of the nest thinking that would be that. But let me tell you, this lady is one tough bird. For at least a week, multiple times a day, I swept twigs, straw and leaves off the ledge and off of my porch. Sorry friend. Even when you stare me down from your perch as I lug in bags of groceries, I can tell you, you aren’t winning this battle. There are plenty of other places you can build your home. This one, for the time being, is mine.

So I spent days knocking down half-built nests, wrecking the bird’s home, and even sprayed Febreze up there hoping the weird smell would keep her away. It didn’t.

Now the weird thing is, we were just gone for about a week and a half. We came back and there was of sign up said bird. Not one stick on the steps, not a feather dropped. The Christmas with family had almost erased the home wrecking battle from my mind. Until two days ago.

The bird is back, friends. Yes, it’s cute. Yes, it has a nice song. But really, my front door?

So in the last two or three days I have knocked down that nest at least eight times. Erik even hammered in some nails last night on the side of the house to try to make the ledge less hospitable.

This morning? The bird is back. She just sits there as I take my dog out to pee, unmoving.

Man, this bird is persistent. So I’m not sure what I’m going to do now. As I said, I love animals and birds are great, but I’m not thrilled about the possibility of getting pooped on every time I enter or exit my house.

But nuisances aside, this silly bird—this silly fight—got me thinking. Are there other ways that I am a home wrecker? Something I never thought I would be? Is my complaining and bad attitude wrecking the time we have in this house I’m not crazy about? Am I missing the bigger picture because I’m so focused on what I don’t like?

Do the things I say, think and do wreck what could be a more pleasant growing experience?

I’m pretty sure we all know the answer to that one. And I’m working on it. I really am. Thankfully God is patient and so is Erik. I don’t want to waste this season, so maybe I have to take a cue from this darned bird and be more persistent about making my home here. Maybe I have to fight for it. Maybe I have to repent of the ways I have wrecked it and walk forward asking God to help me be more positive.

Maybe I can learn a lot from this little bird. Maybe you can, too. Maybe you’re a home wrecker and you hadn’t even realized it. Until now.

The good news is, we don’t have to stay there. Hope. Grace. Jesus. That’s what I want to cling to today.

TAKE DOWN YOUR MIRRORS

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

see-through

We recently moved. It has been rough. We loved the place we were in before and are less than enamored with our current residence. But in the midst of feeling uncomfortable, unsettled and uncertain, I am trying to be open to what God can teach me. I have a feeling there’s a lot to learn in this season. One of the things that I’ve already noticed is how not having many mirrors has affected me.

Our old place—the one we loved—was built in the 80s with mirrors everywhere. Some of them were brilliantly placed. There were full walls of mirrors in the living room and bedroom to amplify the ocean and mountain views. Both bathrooms had a full wall of mirrors above the counters—no dainty mirrors there—and of course, the closet in the bedroom had, you guessed it, mirrored doors. Even on the elevator ride to our seventh floor unit we were surrounded by mirrors.

As someone who has spent far too much time analyzing my body, and face, and hair, and clothes, I didn’t realize how living surrounded by mirrors in some ways magnified my insecurities. If my stomach was sticking out a bit more than I would like on any given day—or all of them—there was no hiding. I saw it everywhere. Even after throwing on a t-shirt and a hat to take the dog for a walk, I’d scrutinize my appearance for seven floors, wondering what people would think—what they would see—when they looked at me. It was second nature. It always has been. I guess that’s one of the lingering symptoms of years battling an eating disorder.

Yet…and yes, there is a blessed yet, I don’t do that here. Here in this place that doesn’t feel like home. This place where we are grateful we have a six-month lease, instead of a full year. Here I don’t look at myself nearly as often. The best part is not that I don’t miss it, but that I feel better not staring at my humanity hundreds of times a day.

This new place has exactly two mirrors. One in the tiny bathroom above the sink. It’s small, only enough for one person to use at once. The second one is also small. We put that one up so that when Erik and I are both getting ready at the same tine I have somewhere to do my hair and makeup.

There are no full-length mirrors, no haunting reflections. There’s no place for me to look at my entire outfit and frown when I don’t like what I see. And there’s been freedom in it. Freedom in the lack of mirrors. Freedom in glancing at what I look like once and then forgetting about it as I go about my day.

I’ve realized, in a culture so obsessed with appearance, mirrors allow us to keep obsessing. It may not kill us, like it did Narcissus, but then again, it might already be eating away at us in ways we hadn’t realized.

What about you? How many mirrors do you have in your home? Do they help you or hinder you? I’m finding a silver lining in not being surrounded by my reflection. In fact, when we move again, I’ll keep that in mind. But man, do I miss the air conditioning, ocean view and swimming pool.

TANGLED

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

photo-1431051047106-f1e17d81042f

There he was. Or maybe he was a she. Either way, I saw the grey little dove standing on the sidewalk as I walked to my car. He was a little rumpled. His feathers weren’t lying flat, but that’s not what caught my eye. What I noticed was a thin, translucent piece of fishing line.

It moved every time the bird did.

I stopped. I looked again. His leg was tangled in fishing line. I slowly tried to move towards him but with every inch I moved, he moved away.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” I said quietly. “I want to help.”

Apparently I don’t speak bird because he continued to waddle quickly away. I sighed and turned to open the car door and climb in. But as I did, I couldn’t help but think: How often do I do that? How often do you? How often do we run away when someone wants to help untangle us from the mess we’re in?

There’s no shortage of fishing line in our lives. Heartbreak. Sin. Selfishness. Betrayal. Pride. Addiction. It can be so easy to get tangled that often we don’t even realize we are. We drag around extra weight, letting it impact our lives and keep us from fully living.

Why? Because we’re afraid.

We’re afraid that getting free will hurt more than being tangled.

We’re afraid that if people get close enough to see what’s weighing us down, they’ll see our flaws. They’ll see all of us. How many of us stay tangled by fear?

How many times have you run from someone who was trying to help? How many times have you turned away from God because you thought if you kept a big enough distance he couldn’t really see you?

How often have I?

What have we lost in the process? What has our running cost us?

The dove was created to fly, but with fishing line tangled around his leg, he could no longer do what he was created to do. Have you been running? Have you been drinking wine every night just to numb the pain? Have you been pushing away people who want to go deeper because you’re afraid of what they’ll discover? Or have you been putting on a slick coat of lipstick and a smile, trying to look like everything is ok when deep down your heart is broken?

What would happen if you took a risk? What if you stopped running and let someone help you get untangled?

YOU’VE BEEN LIED TO

/ jessicaivaska / Leave a comment

cat

I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been lied to. By people you love and by people who love you. By society. In ways you’d never expect.

Now I could go all deep and meaningful on you here, which maybe what you’re expecting because I usually do, but today, just for now, let’s keep it light, shall we?

My case in point about being lied to: Cats in trees.

Pretty much my whole life, I’ve heard that cats get stuck in trees. As far as I can tell, it’s common knowledge. As a child, I actually believed that part of a fireman’s job was to rescue pet cats who accidentally wandered high up into maple trees.

But recently, I’ve realized that’s just not true. Not only do firemen have much more pressing crises to take care of, cats actually like to climb trees.

I’m not sure what took me so long to get to this realization. I mean, the clues are all around. People buy cat trees for their houses, for goodness’ sake. That in and of itself shows that cats like to climb.

Lately I’ve been observing the colony of feral cats that live in the hills behind my condo. One of their favorite things to do is climb trees. They don’t just climb them and then freak out with loud meowing, desperate for rescue. Nope. They hang out there. Literally.

Usually, up on the hill there are several cats in trees, their bodies draped over limbs, their paws and tails hanging limply. They aren’t in distress. They’re relaxed. They’re content. They want to be there.

And you know what? Never have I noticed a cat up a tree, and seen it there days later. This shows me that they can, in fact, get down all on their own. What I think is more likely then them getting stuck is that they just don’t want to come down. I mean, have you ever met a cat? They’re not pushovers. They do their own thing, and no matter how hard you try, you’re not likely gonna get a cat to do anything they don’t want to do.

So there you have it. My very scientific research proves you’ve been lied to.

In all seriousness, though, as I’ve thought about those cats, and my accepted beliefs about them, it’s made me wonder: how many other things have I just accepted? I’m trusting enough to hope that there’s not too many things I’ve wrongly believed, but I’m realistic enough to know that no one is always right.

It’s got me thinking. Are we afraid to ask questions and seek the truth? Are we afraid to push back a little bit to see what’s behind the curtain? Why? What would happen if we did?

DO SOMETHING

/ jessicaivaska / 1 Comment

Vgu1RUfKT3WN1ZYxSWaR_14672519443_13d8873062_k

I know you’ve done it. I have, too. In fact, I’ve done it more than I can count. I always thought it was a good thing. That is, until I realized it could be better.

Phrases like, “Let me know if you need something.” And, “Is there anything I can do to help?” roll out of our mouths when friends, loved ones and church family are hurting.

It’s a way we show compassion.

I think most of the time when we say it, we mean it. Truly and deeply. We want to help, but we don’t know what to do. That’s where I’ve often landed in those situations. But now, having been through enough difficult times in my own life, I realize that saying something is a great start — and if that’s all you can do, that’s ok. Do that.

But if you really mean it, if you really want to make a difference and show someone they aren’t alone. Don’t just say you’re willing, actually do something. (Check out James 2:15-16.)

If you’ve ever lost a loved one, a job, a home, or a relationship, you know that grieving is complex. It hits you when you least except it and stays with you like the damp air of Seattle winter rain.

It also paralyzes you. Even if you’ve had 11 friends say, “Call me if you need anything,” you feel abandoned. Picking up the phone to ask for help seems impossible. You just can’t do it. Or maybe you won’t. When you’re hurting, when you’re really in the thick of it, asking for help feels like a step too far.

So I have an idea: Do something. Ok, so that idea isn’t really mine. But it’s something I believe we can all work at.

If you hear of a friend in crisis, show up. It’s that simple.

Don’t just say you are there for them, be there for them.

Stop by Starbucks, order a drink you know they’ll like and take it to them. Bring them flowers and stay to talk for half an hour. Better yet, bring a meal – enough for their family and yours.

Separated by the span of an ocean or mountains or miles of freeway? Don’t let that stop you. Call them. Don’t text, call. Set up a Skype date. Write them a letter. Be with them. Grieve with them. Show up for them. Don’t just say something, do something.

Actions really do speak louder than words.

Oh, and one other thing. Don’t put if off. Grief and pain don’t expire, but are most raw at the beginning. Don’t tell yourself you’ll call later and drop a meal off. Make a plan and then do it. Everyone is busy. Everyone has other things to do. But if we’re too busy to love each other in the most practical ways, where does that leave us?

I’m going to work on being better at doing something. I hope you’ll join me. Imagine how different our lives and world could be.

I’ve been seeing it in action at our new church and it’s amazing.

JUST DUCKY

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

9010873930_0049a342ab_b

While walking my dog Jude the other day, I saw a duck. Just one.

That might not sound unusual, and to see a duck usually isn’t. But this one was different. This was a baby.

I’ve seen plenty of baby ducks. They nest near the drainage canal across the street from our condo. The canal smells when the tide is out, a little like garbage that’s baked in the sun followed by a whiff of sewage.

Why the ducks have chosen to make this their home I don’t know. Maybe they can’t smell, but whatever the reason, we have lots and lots of ducks around. Which means we often have lots of fuzzy yellow and brown baby ducklings. They are adorable. The kind of adorable that you just can’t argue with. I don’t know anyone who could look at them waddling on their too-big black feet and not smile.

When I’ve seen these babies before, they’ve been in a group. A sort of safety-in-numbers type thing. The brown and white mother is usually hovering near by, ready to squawk if you get too close.

I’ve seen gaggles of five, seven, even nine. And that’s the thing. When they are little, they are always together.

This one was alone.

All alone.

He was on the other side of the street, a far waddle from the safety of the canal. He looked lost and confused, standing on spikes of grass with a drooping banana leaf over his head. I wanted to help him. I wanted to scoop him up and take him home, but I didn’t. I knew he must be there for a reason. Or maybe I hoped he was. That his aloneness had a purpose. That it was part of some greater plan.

Because you see, I often feel like that baby duck: Lost.

And when I’m lost, I want there to be purpose.

I want it to be for something better — something that I can’t see yet because I’m staring at the thick blades of Bermuda grass instead of up in at the huge sky above me.

TIGHT PANTS

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

nQZcA7PRTyuduZPSZQ88_wanderlust

Several years ago, I met one of my closest friends for coffee. As we sat outside to take advantage of the rare Seattle spring sun, she looked at me with eyes that said she knew I was hiding something.

“What’s wrong?” She asked gently.

“My pants are tight.” I replied.

I’m not going to debate whether or not I should have let my pants fitting too tightly have such an impact on my day. I’m just going to tell you that’s where I was at.

I allowed the pants that used to slip on smoothly and be a little loose ruin my day because now, they were tight.

Then she said it. Words I was shocked by.

“I’m going to pray they never fit again.”

“What?” I had to be hearing things. What kind of friend would say that? I wanted to scream out “NO! Don’t pray for that!” Like it was the worst possible prayer in the world.

But then, she told explained herself. She knew my heart. She knew that if I kept putting my hope in my pants, and my pants suddenly fit again, I’d have less need for Jesus. It was a control thing for me and she knew it. In that moment she could see that I was distracted and my hope was grounded not in Him, but in myself and who I could make myself become.

I’ll admit, I still wanted my pants to fit better, but I realized she was onto something.

If I keep putting my hope in other things, I won’t fully give my heart and my life to Jesus. This works for just about everything in life. Jobs. Marriage. Friendships. A new house. Even your church. If we put our hope in anything other than Jesus, we’re going to be disappointed.

To this day, my friend’s words are some of the most unexpected and loving words I’ve heard. I still struggle with that twinge of despair when I pull on a pair or jeans that fits a little too tight, but I have friends and an amazing husband to remind me that my hope isn’t in a pile of denim. It’s in the God of the universe.

LOOSE ENDS

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

eDLHCtzRR0yfFtU0BQar_sylwiabartyzel_themap

One of my aunts is a tapestry artist. Another aunt is a seamstress. My mom sews, quilts, knits and crochets.

These women have all influenced my life in deep and lasting ways. One of the things I learned about from them has to do with loose ends.

If you’ve ever looked at the back of a weaving, you know there are no loose ends. Every thread—every piece of yarn—is neatly tucked into another. It looks like chaos, but it’s controlled. Those loose ends are necessary to create the perfect image on the other side.

But there’s more to it.

In knitting and crocheting one loose end undoes the entire project.

A hanging string downgrades an elegant dress.

During this season of uncertainty, I’ve been thinking about loose ends. I’m finding comfort in the idea that God doesn’t leave loose ends. He has a plan. He won’t let one loose string, one lost job, one overseas move unravel a whole life. That’s not who He is.

I was reminded of that this last week while I was on vacation on another island with my parents. You see, as a little girl we came to Hawaii regularly. It was our sun-filled escape and vitamin D fix to get us through the grey Seattle winter and tide us over until summer.

I’ve always loved Hawaii. Loved. Loved. LOVED. It felt like my home away from home. I loved the beaches, the water, the fish.

So when Erik surprised me on a family vacation and proposed in Hawaii, it was fitting. The place I had come to love collided with the man that God had given me. It all tied up so beautifully.

And then, years later, when Erik found a job here, even though I never imagined living here, I was ok with him applying. The seed God has planted in my heart as a little girl was growing.

So we moved. We plugged our sun-deprived selves into the sands of this little island and have loved it. But now that we feel unplugged, I’m trying to cling to the truth that this is not a loose end. God doesn’t do those. This will lead somewhere. It’s all part of His plan. I’ve seen it over and over again in my life.

When you are dangling, it’s hard to remember. It’s hard to believe. But I’m going to chose to.

I’m going to choose to believe this is part of the tapestry of our lives. This will get woven back in and it will be beautiful. It has to be. Doesn’t it?

WEEP AND HOPE

/ jessicaivaska / 1 Comment

14281045655_b76afd80c4_b

Yesterday was Memorial Day. Erik and I went to the Lantern Floating Ceremony near Waikiki.

At the ceremony, people are invited to light a candle on a boat-shaped lantern and launch it out to sea to remember their loved ones. Over 50,000 people were there. Some floated lanterns. Others, like us, came to see the beauty of candlelight dancing on the ocean.

By the time the lingering twilight finally disappeared, there were thousands of lanterns floating on the ocean. Each one was lit for someone who was deeply loved while they walked this earth.

Death is a strange thing. Especially for Christians. It’s bittersweet. We know that the one who has left, if they have accepted Jesus as their Savior, is with Him in a MUCH better place.

And yet we still mourn.

We mourn because there won’t be any more memories. We mourn because we don’t get to be with them, and we mourn because death was never supposed to be a part of life.

We were created in God’s image. Adam and Eve — male and female. We were created to love and serve God and to love and serve one another. We were given the gift of life and it was supposed to be eternal. The tree of life was there to offer never-ending health and, well, life.

But then sin entered into humanity, and with it, death.

And so as we weep and mourn the loss of loved ones, we not only grieve the loss of their life, their love, their hugs and laughter, but we grieve the fact that our world is broken. We are sad because sin exists and because of sin, death exists.

But thankfully, there is hope. God saw the depth of our pain and was filled with love for us — His broken, sinful, evil children. His justice and goodness made it impossible for our sin to be erased, so he made a way for it to be redeemed. He gives us new life not only in this life, but in the one to come.

It is a life that will never end. A life without sin, a life without death. Life as we were created for.

Until that day, we weep and we hope.