Browsing the web I came across a blog proclaiming that today was “Orphan Sunday” — a day for the Church to stand up for orphans and bring awareness to their needs and adoption.

Does the name “Orphan Sunday” sound a little tasteless to anyone else but me? Maybe it’s just because I take everything a little too personally, but I found it a little offensive at first.

Why? Well, what do you think of when you hear the word “orphan”? The world has painted this picture of a skinny kid with sad eyes, Madeline or Buddy the Elf-esque, bratty, pity project, empty, detached, dirty, and unwanted. Typical responses that make being an orphan sound like you’re barely human and so desperately in need for others to save you.

Maybe I find it so offensive because in my pride I hate admitting that I am in many ways a skinny kid with  sad eyes, Madeline or Buddy the Elf-esque, bratty, pity project, empty, detached, dirty, and unwanted too–or at least before I was (literally and spiritually) adopted.

The connotations of “orphan” and associated themes of adoption go far beyond Angelina Jolie and little orphan Annie. God’s heart for the orphans (in the spiritual and physical realm) is truly amazing. Maybe if I really learn to understand what “orphan” means, this day won’t sound so tasteless, I’ll understand God’s hand in my own past a little more, and my heart for orphanage ministry will be a little more Biblical.

And so here goes my attempt to try to understand it more– a blog  series on different associations with orphans/adoptees than those of pity and shame. Stay tuned. You’re comments will be much appreciated

“It’s like we spend all this time trying to figure out how to ‘play the game’, but really it’s just about knowing the Father”
–someone from SG last night (… the persistent coughing stole whoever said it from my memory)

I never thought I’d be so joyful to get the flu. (It’s kinda funny to say I have H1N1 too… I feel so trendy!)

It’s nice to truly believe that God is the one who does things in people’s lives, and I’m nothing–just the vessel. Usually my pride is so big that I deceive myself into thinking along the lines of:  ”maybe because I spent extra time in prayer…that’s why Bible study was half way decent last night”… “I bet it’s because I fasted or probably because I made a nice outline this week… that’s why the Spirit was present!”… “I have to read my Bible today or people might think I’m not a very good Christian or small group leader.”

And while those things aren’t bad to do, I easily get caught up in using those means of grace to “play the game”, instead of using them as a means to meet with my Father. We’ve heard the commentary on “legalists” and “libertines“, or the “prodigal son” and his “older brother” over and over again, but clearly there’s a reason why we need all the replays.

This week in Bible study,  all I did was cough up a lung and wear a fobby teddy bear mask, while the Spirit did His thang.  The only thing I gave my small group was likely  some H1N1 particles (sorry guys!). And I know it. I know without a doubt that God was faithful in this small instance, and it had nothing to do with me. If only I could learn to stop trying to steal God’s glory in my daily life without having to catch a virus

I’ve been saying I need to slow down and regularly rest since the semester started, but it’s taken an aching body, bright red throat, feverish hot flashes, runny nose, headache, cough, and self-quarantine to force me to. In fact, if it weren’t contagious, I’d probably be so Pharisee-like as to try to go to prayer meeting tonight.

So praise God for catching the flu! It seems like just the thing Dr. Luke ordered to break through my self-dependence and give me some much needed rest and quality time with the Father.

One thing I ask of the LORD,
this is what I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the LORD
all the days of my life,
to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD
and to seek him in his temple.
-Psalm 27:4

This summer I interned with an agency that works with parents that are at-risk for having their children placed in foster care because of abuse/neglect. (Comments about my internship have been altered for confidentiality). While working with the moms and dads in a group therapy setting, I was always struck by how initially judgmental (in positive/negative ways) I was.

I’d hear disgusting stories of parents neglecting their children, beating or cheating on their partners, or fathering 9 different kids within a few years, and honestly, I’d want to slap them (not all of them, just one or two).

But then when you hear where they’re coming from, it becomes a little more understandable. Every single client grew up in emotionally/physically abusive homes themselves. Every single one was affected by several other issues as a child, such as poverty, sexual abuse, single-parent home, alcoholic fathers, biker gang mothers, drug addicts/dealers, lack of education, growing up in foster care, rape, etc. I probably wouldn’t have the best parenting skills either if the adults in my life parented via beatings while they were stoned either.

But nonetheless, these people are adults, and they’re all in the group because they want to break the cycle (or are court mandated, so that they will want to want to break the cycle). They’re trying to be adults and are fighting their hardest to keep their children and ensure that they too don’t grow up with emotional and physical scars of brokenness. At some point when we grow up we have to take responsibility for our own actions, despite the crap that happened when we had no control.

An acquaintance exposed to traumatic divorce as a child, constantly questions the length of her happy marriage today. Another is too scared to get close to anyone, after having family members seemingly ripped away as a child. One seeks his identity in finding love, since it wasn’t there as a child nor exists today. Another spends their time worrying to please God and others, after never being able to please their parents.

We’ve all got something from our past that we use as an (often legit) excuse for our present qualities. But what I’m learning more and more is that at some point, I too have to take responsibility for the me today. I don’t want to use my insecurity and fear related to my youth as an excuse for my insecurity, fear, and control freakness today… I don’t want to run away from real commitment (in work, family, friends, etc.) just to protect myself from a repeat of my youth… and I don’t want to use brokenness as an excuse to not get put back together again or to doubt God’s infinite love for me today.

Sometimes I wish I was court-mandated to change my messed up thinking, because I’m so used to living in a cycle of excuses that it’s not always so easy (at least when I’m trying to fix everything on my own). Like many of the people I worked with this summer, I feel like I am finally growing up and learning what it means to understand my past, but not use it as an excuse for present my craziness. Those often rare moments when I finally stop using excuses are only by the grace of God, and are usually the times when I realize how in need of a Savior I really am! yay for a God that can and wants to break those cycles in me:)

“Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the Teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.” What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?
-Ecclesiastes 1:2-3

For the past few weeks my small group at home has been studying Ecclesiastes . At first I just wanted to rip out the pages of meaninglessness, “under the sun”, and confusion…but slowly it’s been turning into a sharp rebuke towards contentment, humility, enjoying life, and remembering our Maker. I take life, and especially myself and my agenda, way too seriously. (Hopefully I’ll write more later, but I wouldn’t count on my consistency:)

Ecclesiastes is a difficult book to understand–my grasp is pretty weak sauce, so you should just read this Max Lucado excerpt that was in a sermon my sg leader hooked me up with by Dr.Steve/P. Paul Kim:

Rhythmic waves, a little boy is on the beach. On his knees he scoops and pats the sand with plastic shovels into a bright red bucket. Then he upends the bucket on the surface and lifts it. And to the delight of the little architect a castle tower is created. All afternoon he will work spooning out the moat, packing the walls. Bottle tops will be the sentries. Pop sticks will be the bridges and a sand castle will be built.

Big city, busy streets, rumbling traffic. A man is in his office. At his desk he shuffles papers into stacks and delegates assignments. He cradles the phone on his shoulder and punches the keyboard with his fingers. Numbers are juggled and contracts are signed and much to the delight of the man a profit has finally been made. All his life he will work formulating the plans, forecasting the future. Annuities will be the sentries, capital gains will be the bridges and an empire will be built.

Two builders of two castles—they have much in common. They shape granules into grandeurs. They see nothing and make something. They are diligent and determined and for both the tide will rise and the end will come. And yet that is where the similarities cease. For the boy sees the end while the man ignores it. Watch the boy as the dusk approaches. As the waves near, the wise child begins to clap. There is no sorrow, no fear, no regret. He knew this would happen. He is not surprised, and when the great wave breaker crashes into his castle and his masterpiece is sucked into the sea he stands and smiles. He smiles and picks up his tools and quietly goes home.

The grownup however is not so wise. As the wave of years crash on his castle he is terrified and mortified. He hovers over the sandy monument to protect it. He blocks the waves from the walls he has made. Saltwater-soaked and shivering, he snarls at the incoming tide. “It is my castle,” he defies. The ocean need not respond. Both know to whom the sand belongs.

I don’t know much about sand castles, but children do. Watch them and learn. Go ahead and build, but build with a child’s heart. When the sun sets and the tides take, salute the process of life. Take your Father’s hand and go home. -Max Lucado

I may not ever aspire to be a business (wo)man with a 6 digit salary, but I still have my own agenda. Whether I call my sand castles “successful ministry”, “family that knows Christ personally”, “4.0 GPA”, “clients that are actually changing”, or “relationships that feed my heart”, it’s all the same. No matter the “motive”, a great Wave will come.

A great reminder to enjoy life and build away (Eccl. 3:11-13), but also to remember God (Eccl 12: 13-14).

On May 31, 2009, the Illinois General  Assembly passed a partial budget  which created a $9.2 billion funding gap which is now forcing draconian cuts in fundamental state services.

Severe cuts in the State human services budget will have serious adverse consequences for local governments, public safety agencies, the courts and corrections.   Slashing funding for mental health services, addiction prevention and treatment programs, and youth services will result in less prevention, more crime, more trials, additional probation caseloads and higher detention and incarceration rates. (IL NASW)

The state’s proposed budget is set to cut 50% in funding for social services, starting in just two weeks. On a personal level, I’ve been very lucky. I get to wait out the current financial chaos and budget cuts via a (government financed) veteran’s tuition waiver for graduate school at a (government funded) university, while accumulating thousands in (government subsidized) loans. (I wonder if people think i’m a ‘deadbeat’ too for living on government assistance??)

But my internship is transforming the ridiculous numbers and statistics I keep reading about into faces and names. I have the blessing to meet mothers that are trying to fight the cyclical poverty they grew up in and maintain employment, yet because of state budget cuts, their children will soon have no day care and they’ll be forced to leave their (crappy, low-paying, and demeaning) jobs. Parents that are genuinely good parents, but aren’t poor enough to qualify for assistance, yet are so stressed to put food on the table that they severely beat each other. Children that are exposed to severe trauma, yet their counselors are being fired as they’re shifted around the system.  Mothers that want to be in their child’s life, but can’t without being on proper medication, of which they can’t get because budget cuts have placed them on long waiting lists to get their meds refilled. Social workers that have dedicated decades of their lives to helping people (on ridiculously low pay) that are being fired on a two-week notice.

How are we supposed to protect children from abuse and neglect with caseloads of 50 (as opposed to the 15 they have now–which is still way too much)? What are we going to do with the thousands of mentally ill or physically disabled that will soon have no place to live? Too bad homeless shelters are already too crowded for us to just throw them there. Do we think that incarceration, teen pregnancy, and substance abuse rates will just hold steady while we cut practically every community based prevention program out there?

Ugh. I’d really like to rant for hours about how misunderstood, improperly financed, and misdirected funding of social services really is, but your time would better be put to use contacting  your local legislator about the absurdity of cutting 50% of the budget for social services:)

Last night I was talking to one of my transracial Korean adoptee friends about how weird it was to be back at home in the relative homogeneity of central Illinois for the summer, and not around people who know what samgyopsal and patbingsu are. She empathized, “You don’t realize how uncomfortable you are, until you get comfortable and realize what that actually feels like!”

From the perspective of ethnic identity, once I became friends with others that could relate to Korean-adoptee culture, I finally felt very comfortable in my identity as a transracial Korean American adoptee. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable it was to have an ethnic identity so defined by others, until I realized how comfortable it was to actually have one of my own. (This is a book in itself, so I’ll leave it at that for now).

From a spiritual perspective, my recent weeks of rebellion have also opened my eyes to a similar concept in my relationship with God. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable it was to not speak to God on a regular basis…to not be in regular fellowship with the Body… to not meditate on grace and seek repentance… or to not have faith in His promises, until I first realized how comfortable it was to walk with Him regularly.

If anything, the past few weeks of slight rebellion have reassured me of my salvation and authenticated the progression in my walk with God over the last few years. A few years ago it wouldn’t have bothered me too much to not pray or to sleep in past 10 or to not spend quality time with my family. But, oh how uncomfortable that is now! This of course isn’t a justification for my rebelliousness, but a reminder of the fight that exists. And it’s a nice dose of humility, recognizing that this change is not because of my “doing” (b/c clearly, I haven’t been doing much of anything:), but because of His pursuing. At this point it’s so uncomfortable to avoid my true Love, that I’m pretty sure it’d be impossible to actually run away from Him even if I wanted too

I’ve only been home for the summer for 9 days, yet i’m quickly realizing more and more how my prayers and my faith are so small.  BUT,  I can’t stop Him (in my smallness/lazyness OR my over-achiever- goodness) from giving me gold.

It’s such an odd thing to go from a lifestyle of little sleep, daily prayer meetings, dinners with different friends every evening, hours in coffee shops writing papers or prepping for Bible study,  1hr/week work out sessions , classes, retreats, cooking dinners, girl-talking, and so on… to a lifestyle of doubling my sleep hours, reading, napping–not even power naps but the real ones!, eating a lot, and an occasional diaper change or mop of the kitchen floor.

Moving from a place where my identity is so personally defined but what I do/don’t,  to a place where I’m just Elana–the good girl of the family who went off to college and likes to go to church. Going from a place where I feel so “needed” (even tho I’m not), to a place where I feel so useless (which isn’t true either).

It’s been a humbling start to the summer to say the least, pretty depressing to say the most. My family,  my friends, my clients, my sg, the poor, the orphans, and the widows–none of them need me. They only need Jesus. I only need Jesus.  My identity isn’t in my hands, but in the cross. I’m slowly learning that the answer to my prayers isn’t dependent on me as the asker, nor the “silver” I ask for…waiting on my gold.

So I originally started blogging years ago when I went on a short term missions trip and to Korea to keep friends/family in the loop, but I just haven’t found a good enough purpose to keep it going regularly since I’ve been back.

Eventually my blogging became reduced to pages of narcissism and lameness. But here is my attempt to redeem! Friends perpetually seem to comment on my negativity and black hole thinking. You could call it an inability to see the “redeemed” side of things. Co-leading small group this year was great, because it pretty much forces you to get out of a hole of self-deprecation and cling to the cross for dear life.

But now that I don’t have that accountability, I’m forcing myself to use blog posts to redeem my negative spirals of thought. haha.  I used to find it semi-annoying to read Christian blog entries that had perpetually happy endings and lessons learned tied with a cute bow.  But what makes those entries so effective, so redeemed, is their claims to TRUTH. I need more truth.

It’s like the wonderful Psalm 42. By the end this guy still doesn’t really “feel” like praising God and his circumstances haven’t changed, YET he goes back to the truth/God’s character.

Psalm 42:11Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.

So even if my readership is down to random strangers that accidently click on my blog, this summer I am making the conscious effort to redeem my anecdotes of pessimism and failure into the stories of God’s redemption in my life that they are meant to be.  (If you are reading, feel free to, nicely, keep me accountable .

I came to the Union to study and ended up being inundated by crowds of moms and daughters smiling, fighting, shopping, embarrassing one another…

In undergrad I  always hated this weekend, but only because it glaringly reminded me of what I didn’t have. I’d go out with all of my roomies and their moms, but always felt out of place as the girl without one.

I used to think I was such a failure whenever I just missed her–as if it were a sign that I were  a weak Christian, with little faith, who valued things of the earth more than Christ alone–and so I bottled it all up in an attempt to be the “strong” girl.

Today God was reminding me just how unbiblical my thinking was

John 11:33-36: When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. “Where have you laid him?” he asked. “Come and see, Lord,” they replied. Jesus wept. Then the Jews said, “See how he loved him!”

ESV Study Bible (<–which is sweeeet btw): Jesus joins his friends’ sadness with heartfelt sorrow, yet underlying it is the knowledge that resurrection and joy will soon follow (cf. 1 Thess. 4:13). Jesus’ example shows that heartfelt mourning in the face of death does not indicate lack of faith but honest sorrow at the reality of suffering and death.

So yeah, 8 years later, I still miss my mom. But underlying it is the knowledge that resurrection and joy is a promise to come. yay.

I’m in the process of moving my old blog to this one.

Change your bookmarks/subscriptions! (All 15 of you!)

http://elanameesun.wordpress.com