Hi friend. We're going on week ten of quarantine. Or eleven, or nine. Who's counting? I came back to Washington. I missed the mountains. I wish I could move my entire family to Washington, because I love both them and the mountains. I have to be honest. Tonight, I'm mad, and I'm sad. And I'm going to be okay with that, because I know tomorrow I'll be better. But tonight - I hate this virus. I hate that it's taken lives. I hate that it's taken jobs. I hate that it's divisive. I hate that it's threatened civil liberties that the Constitution taught me are unalienable rights. I hate that it's taken my power to choose. So I will apologize in advance that I'm not going to discuss all the great things about quarantine and how I'm being productive, learning a new skill, really getting in tune with my inner self and feeling ultra-centered, becoming a yogi, master chef, or mixologist. Tonight, I'm going to talk about all the things I miss. And let's be honest, I'm doing it as I drink wine.
I miss sports. Man, how good was The Last Dance? I didn't like the Bulls. I hate dynasties. But it's undeniable. What Michael Jordan did for the city of Chicago and the game of basketball was legendary. Sports are heroic. They're pure and a beacon of hope in hardship. Not only to towns, cities, or countries, but to the athletes who play. They give life.
I miss concerts. O, how I miss the power of live music. Walking over the hill at the Gorge, beckoned by the call of Birmingham by Shovels and Rope. "Rock of ages, cleave for me, let me hide myself in thee." I had just moved to Seattle, and it was hard. I hate transition. I hate loneliness. But in those moments, I hid in the transcendent power of music, and it lifted me. I danced my heart out for hours, and was reminded of the beauty in the world and in me. It gave me life.
I miss tennis. I mean, let's be honest, the only reason I was successful at tennis is because it's a naturally social distanced sport. We all know if I'm within six feet of someone, I'm compelled to speak. Yet, wires are on every court. Apparently now you are able to play tennis as long as you only touch your own balls. Lord, I never thought that would be a statement I would type. Quite frankly, I'm considering licking my own balls in protest. I miss the weight room. Because nothing else matters on the tennis court. Or in the weight room. You can leave your stressful job, your disappointments, your shame, your anger at that guy who was a total jerk, that fight you had with your friend, at the door. And for however long you're on the court, or in the weight room, the only thing that matters is that next point, or that next lift. And when you win a match, or nail a PR - there is life in that.
I miss restaurants. Having a beer after a hard day of work. Enjoying an intricately prepared dish with a glass of wine over good conversation and laughter. Crying to a dear friend over a brownie sundae because life's just been hard lately. There is life in that.
I miss travel. The world holds so much of God's beauty to be explored that clearly displays his magnificence. I climbed Mount Baker last year. Sitting at base camp, watching the sunset over the mountain ranges for 360 degrees, I was at peace. I had just completed my first year at Amazon, through all the highs and lows, and summiting provided a warm sense of accomplishment, a strength to tackle another year and new challenges. It gave me life.
I miss my friends. Everyone has a varying level of comfort in all of this. And indeed, much of it stems from a strong sense of social responsibility, which I understand. It is thoughtful. At the same time, it's freakin weird, and I think it's fair to acknowledge that. I don't know what the rules are. If I go on a date, will my other friends see me? Can I go on a walk with two different people at the same time or should I go at two different times? If I sneeze because of allergies, should I sequester myself for weeks? If I hang out with three people outside, can I also hang out with them inside? If I run into a friend, can I hug them? Should I talk at a safe distance? Or am I only allowed to go on walks by myself? And maybe casually run into someone, talk for no more than five minutes, then continue on my own? What are the rules? No one knows. And I get it. We're all just figuring this out and trying to do it in the best way possible based on our personal values, but it's freakin hard, because I like spending time with humans. Humans give me life.
I miss eye contact. You don't get that on conference calls. You get scattered eyes and broken voices. I miss having a two minute drive by in the hallway before a meeting. I miss the energy derived from a quality brainstorm. Work from home is doable, and for some, it is ideal. For others, including myself, it is exhausting. I live in an 800 square foot apartment, and my job entails daily arguments with multiple stakeholders. And it involves expectation. High expectation to deliver. I feed off of other people's energy. I feed off of a smile in the elevator, a casual conversation in the hallway, a meeting where we get to laugh. Now, I speak once a week to a meeting of thirty people, and every time, it is impossible to read the room. Because there is no room. I don't know who's listening, who's engaged, who's sleeping on the call.* There's no natural back and forth discussion, though of course, I've implemented all the key success tactics for "leading a quality video conference call." Shoot. I don't get to bring them cookies. I love bringing them cookies. Those moments give me life.
I miss church. I miss worship. I miss gathering with a group of other Christians, lifting my hands in praise, feeling the overwhelming presence of God's love and power. There is an intimate aspect of worshiping within your home, but there is a reason churches gather corporately. It gives us life.
Of course, all of this could seem superficial and selfish. How could I be thinking about sports when people are dying? PEOPLE ARE DYING, ANNA. DO YOU HATE LIVES? I don't hate lives. I love lives, actually. Lives are my favorite. Lives and laughter. And though I sincerely don't mean to discount the deaths due to COVID, you're entitled to see it as such. And if it seems I am comparing missing a concert to dying, I have not effectively conveyed my message, because I don't mean that, either. But I promised when I started writing this blog, I would be honest and raw, and though I know my thoughts won't be popular with all, if I don't write, I would not be honoring that promise. And in this area, I feel particularly convicted**. Because sports isn't just sports. And restaurants aren't just restaurants. And friendship isn't just friendship. These non-essential things are what take us from day to day, week to week.*** They empower us to overcome hardship, to face the world a bit stronger and enthusiastically. These things are human. And it is human to touch, to hug. It is human to experience. It is human to fight. And, indeed, it is human to die.
A close coworker died suddenly the other day. He was around my age and a friend, and the thought of him dying alone with no chance to offer memorial in the way of a service is devastating. Coronavirus isn't the only source of death, nor is it the only thing we are fighting. We are fighting poverty, hunger, socioeconomic disparity, depression, anxiety, loneliness. We are fighting cancer, thousands of other diseases, hatred, the loss of freedom. In fighting this one particular disease, we have denied ourselves that which is life giving. And while we may "defeat" COVID, whatever that moving target ends up being, if it comes at the expense of all the others, then is it worth it? I'm not saying I have the answer. But I'm saying if we don't ask the question, removing the intense emotion and fear that surrounds this disease, then we're not doing our due diligence. Because it's not as simple as one fewer COVID death = victory.
Why don't I just go back to my Zoom happy hour, watch some Netflix, and shut up? I mean, honestly, what a privileged sadness I'm having. After all, my life won't change much. I'm still getting paid. I'm young and healthy. And the dust will settle. This will end. Life will go back to a semblance of normal, though for some, their lives will be forever impacted, whether by death, loss of business, extreme depression, poverty. I'll get my restaurants and concerts back. But this will happen again. It may be another virus. It may be cybersecurity. This time, it shut down restaurants, entertainment, sports. What if next time, it shuts down the entire technology industry and we're forbidden to use the Internet? We won't even have memes to save us. It may be something I haven't even heard of yet. How do we learn from this, prepare, and decide what our reaction will be when the next time comes? And if we as a country decide we want to give the government the ability to forcibly shut down any business and any natural part of human life when experts deem it necessary for the good of the people, then I will accept that decision. I may move to Antarctica, but I will accept the decision. But that's a decision that we need to confront, that we need to engage critically in, and that we need to make as free people. And, personally, I think we can do better.
I love the mountains, but valleys are beautiful as well. Seattle is nestled between the Olympic mountains to the West, the Cascades to the East, Rainier to the South, and Baker to the North. I don't think it's geographically such, but it feels like a valley. Every time I see them, I'm breath-taken with such a clear image of God's glory and steadfastness. He was here before this, He weeps with all during this, and He will be here after this. My favorite song of 2020 quotes: "From the greatest of all valleys, come the pastures we call grace." Y'all. This is a valley. You may vehemently disagree with 90% of what I just wrote (though I'd be surprised because who doesn't miss concerts and restaurants. You probably just vehemently disagreed with 60% of what I just wrote). To be honest, I vehemently disagree with so much of what I hear. That doesn't negate the need for grace. For yourself, for others and their experience. Have grace. Listen to a different viewpoint. Understand other people's reasons. And know that while we're on this earth, humanity is broken, and outside of Christ, we will continue to experience death and division, but we have a unique opportunity to fight that, enter the pasture of grace, and emerge the other side with creative solutions that are life giving rather than life taking.
* Obviously, I also use this time to test out my stand up and assume everyone is laughing.
** For those familiar with the enneagram, I am a seven, which means I define my life by the experiences I have, so this could be part of the reason my conviction is so strong.
*** And of course, they employ millions.
Tuesday, May 19, 2020
Saturday, March 28, 2020
Happy Birthday, Stephen! What Do You Think about This?
Hi there, Stephen. Happy belated! I'm late again, but at least this year, I'm writing in the appropriate month. I'm writing from Mom and Dad’s, a land flowing with toilet paper and cleaning supplies. I spent the last week playing Pandemic with Phil and his wife, attempting to save the world, and watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy to put our current situation in perspective. Sure, I worked a long week at Amazon, but that was the third most stressful part of my week. Pandemic is an intense game. Tensions were high. And I now have an irrational hatred of Johannesburg, because it’s really inconvenient to cure.
Yes, I flew home. One may think that I’m skirting my social responsibility in the era of the new normal to flatten the curve by social distancing during these uncertain times. Boom. Buzz word bomb. To them I say, I understand your concern, but I think it's best for the world I am home with family, because there's no telling what scheme I would concoct if I were alone in my apartment for another week. Those walls were getting weird, and I may have committed a crime just to be in a cell and feel the hot, stinky breath of another human.
I don’t know if you’ve been watching from up there, and I hope you haven’t because there are so many cooler things to explore, but the world’s weird right now. I’ve had so many questions. For instance:
Why didn’t I preemptively secure a quarantine boyfriend?
Who have I rejected that could be a quarantine boyfriend?
Who has rejected me who I could convince to be my quarantine boyfriend?
You think that homeless guy is single?
Why was I just rejected by a homeless guy? This is a new low.
Why is six feet the magic number? Why not five or seven? Does anyone else feel like they’re Pigpen from Charlie Brown comics with a cloud of dust around them?
Woah. Does Italy have a healthcare system?
Will the stock market dive or soar today? Is the stock market a schizophrenic falcon?
Am I in a subpar Black Mirror episode?
Can we get rid of social media? But keep the memes? And have an awards ceremony similar to the Oscars to reward the memes?
Can we get to 2021 so we can do a fascinating retrospective? One prediction based on absolutely no scientific knowledge: post re-integration, unexpected pregnancies of single adults sky rocket
What’s going to be the buzz word for re-integration? Social integrating? Social blending? Social exploring? Social testing? Social dabbling? By the way, I’ve trademarked all these terms.
Okay. I’m done. You get it. Stephen, what is going on? I’ve had so many questions in the past six weeks, but when I consider what really matters, it’s this: how do I address fear?
Yes, my heart goes out to those who have lost loved ones or are concerned about loved ones, but honestly, I see losing loved ones as a natural part of life - one that, however sad, I am accustomed to. I understand how to grieve that loss, and I know that when the time comes for me to die, I will be reunited with you. I don’t mean to belittle those who have that fear in this situation, but it’s just not mine.
What hurts my heart is it seems a certain joy has been suspended in the world. Streets that once bustled are eerily quiet, a palpable tension in the air. People look at one another with suspicion. Strangers don't smile when they hear my loud laugh. And you know I love to laugh. I'm not quite sure how to grieve that loss, even if it is temporary. Though my fear is not death, if I allow my thoughts to wander, I, too, will venture down the path of fear. I think about lost jobs, broken families, failed businesses, depression, anxiety, suicides, the power of government and of disease. Then I scroll through memes to distract myself. And then I think about Jesus.
A verse I have clung to for years is 1 John 4:18: "There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear." What is a perfect love? And what does it look like to live without fear? Mary Magdalene was a prominent woman in the gospels of the New Testament. Before Jesus entered her life, she was possessed by demons, living a life of shame, prostitution, abuse. Her life was without purpose. She was lost, broken, alone. And then Jesus came to her. He sought her and rescued her. When no one knew who she truly was, He called her by name and invited her to follow Him.
After Jesus’ death, the other disciples went to their homes, hiding in fear, as they expected the Romans would crucify them next. Though Jesus had promised He would rise on the third day, in their fear, they had forgotten that promise. He had not established a kingdom as they expected, and they were doubtful of His sovereignty. But Mary waited by His tomb. She clung to Jesus’ promises because she knew His love for her so intimately, and she knew that whatever was in this world, it paled in comparison.
“The thief comes to steal, kill, and destroy,” and right now, it is all too obvious. He wants to steal our joy, kill those close to us, either through death or disagreement, destroy our hope. It is easy to doubt the sovereignty of God as we look at brokenness of the world. But there is a promise in the same breath: “I have come that they may have life, and might have it abundantly.” That life is not in this world, but in yours, Stephen.
It can certainly be hard to have perspective. We live in a culture of sound bites. The perspective that matters though, doesn’t revolve around sound bites. Very simply, it revolves around Jesus. He is the One who calls us by name in our utter brokenness and promises us a life abundant, which is something we will never get on this earth. And when we try to control this world, He gently says, no, this world is not yours, it is mine. He is no stranger to history. He has been steadfast in the past, He remains steadfast now, and He will be steadfast for eternity. Outside of Jesus, the world is hopeless. The world is uncertain. But with Jesus, there is certainty.
There’s something about home, Stephen. It’s just so nice. It’s peaceful, and maybe it’s because whenever I come to visit, I never do anything, so quarantining here feels quite natural, but it’s safe, reassuring. I’m so grateful that in all of this, I am able to work remotely, I have a family who I enjoy spending time with, and when this lifts, my life will likely return to what it was. I don’t take for granted that others are not that fortunate. More than that, though, I’m so grateful that Jesus came to me, in my brokenness, my shame, my life without purpose, and He called me by name and asked me to follow him, promising a life abundant. Did he call me Anna or Ana? Good question. That’s between Him and me, but he did call me. Stephen, I’m excited for the day I get to really meet you. I’m also excited for what God has to do with me on earth and how He can use the current environment to reveal Himself, because as silly as this world can be sometimes, it is a small picture of something greater that God has prepared for us. And, friend, while it is undoubtedly broken, it is still so beautiful.
Yes, I flew home. One may think that I’m skirting my social responsibility in the era of the new normal to flatten the curve by social distancing during these uncertain times. Boom. Buzz word bomb. To them I say, I understand your concern, but I think it's best for the world I am home with family, because there's no telling what scheme I would concoct if I were alone in my apartment for another week. Those walls were getting weird, and I may have committed a crime just to be in a cell and feel the hot, stinky breath of another human.
I don’t know if you’ve been watching from up there, and I hope you haven’t because there are so many cooler things to explore, but the world’s weird right now. I’ve had so many questions. For instance:
Why didn’t I preemptively secure a quarantine boyfriend?
Who have I rejected that could be a quarantine boyfriend?
Who has rejected me who I could convince to be my quarantine boyfriend?
You think that homeless guy is single?
Why was I just rejected by a homeless guy? This is a new low.
Why is six feet the magic number? Why not five or seven? Does anyone else feel like they’re Pigpen from Charlie Brown comics with a cloud of dust around them?
Woah. Does Italy have a healthcare system?
Will the stock market dive or soar today? Is the stock market a schizophrenic falcon?
Am I in a subpar Black Mirror episode?
Can we get rid of social media? But keep the memes? And have an awards ceremony similar to the Oscars to reward the memes?
Can we get to 2021 so we can do a fascinating retrospective? One prediction based on absolutely no scientific knowledge: post re-integration, unexpected pregnancies of single adults sky rocket
What’s going to be the buzz word for re-integration? Social integrating? Social blending? Social exploring? Social testing? Social dabbling? By the way, I’ve trademarked all these terms.
Okay. I’m done. You get it. Stephen, what is going on? I’ve had so many questions in the past six weeks, but when I consider what really matters, it’s this: how do I address fear?
Yes, my heart goes out to those who have lost loved ones or are concerned about loved ones, but honestly, I see losing loved ones as a natural part of life - one that, however sad, I am accustomed to. I understand how to grieve that loss, and I know that when the time comes for me to die, I will be reunited with you. I don’t mean to belittle those who have that fear in this situation, but it’s just not mine.
What hurts my heart is it seems a certain joy has been suspended in the world. Streets that once bustled are eerily quiet, a palpable tension in the air. People look at one another with suspicion. Strangers don't smile when they hear my loud laugh. And you know I love to laugh. I'm not quite sure how to grieve that loss, even if it is temporary. Though my fear is not death, if I allow my thoughts to wander, I, too, will venture down the path of fear. I think about lost jobs, broken families, failed businesses, depression, anxiety, suicides, the power of government and of disease. Then I scroll through memes to distract myself. And then I think about Jesus.
A verse I have clung to for years is 1 John 4:18: "There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear." What is a perfect love? And what does it look like to live without fear? Mary Magdalene was a prominent woman in the gospels of the New Testament. Before Jesus entered her life, she was possessed by demons, living a life of shame, prostitution, abuse. Her life was without purpose. She was lost, broken, alone. And then Jesus came to her. He sought her and rescued her. When no one knew who she truly was, He called her by name and invited her to follow Him.
After Jesus’ death, the other disciples went to their homes, hiding in fear, as they expected the Romans would crucify them next. Though Jesus had promised He would rise on the third day, in their fear, they had forgotten that promise. He had not established a kingdom as they expected, and they were doubtful of His sovereignty. But Mary waited by His tomb. She clung to Jesus’ promises because she knew His love for her so intimately, and she knew that whatever was in this world, it paled in comparison.
“The thief comes to steal, kill, and destroy,” and right now, it is all too obvious. He wants to steal our joy, kill those close to us, either through death or disagreement, destroy our hope. It is easy to doubt the sovereignty of God as we look at brokenness of the world. But there is a promise in the same breath: “I have come that they may have life, and might have it abundantly.” That life is not in this world, but in yours, Stephen.
It can certainly be hard to have perspective. We live in a culture of sound bites. The perspective that matters though, doesn’t revolve around sound bites. Very simply, it revolves around Jesus. He is the One who calls us by name in our utter brokenness and promises us a life abundant, which is something we will never get on this earth. And when we try to control this world, He gently says, no, this world is not yours, it is mine. He is no stranger to history. He has been steadfast in the past, He remains steadfast now, and He will be steadfast for eternity. Outside of Jesus, the world is hopeless. The world is uncertain. But with Jesus, there is certainty.
There’s something about home, Stephen. It’s just so nice. It’s peaceful, and maybe it’s because whenever I come to visit, I never do anything, so quarantining here feels quite natural, but it’s safe, reassuring. I’m so grateful that in all of this, I am able to work remotely, I have a family who I enjoy spending time with, and when this lifts, my life will likely return to what it was. I don’t take for granted that others are not that fortunate. More than that, though, I’m so grateful that Jesus came to me, in my brokenness, my shame, my life without purpose, and He called me by name and asked me to follow him, promising a life abundant. Did he call me Anna or Ana? Good question. That’s between Him and me, but he did call me. Stephen, I’m excited for the day I get to really meet you. I’m also excited for what God has to do with me on earth and how He can use the current environment to reveal Himself, because as silly as this world can be sometimes, it is a small picture of something greater that God has prepared for us. And, friend, while it is undoubtedly broken, it is still so beautiful.
Thursday, February 27, 2020
The Greats
One of my life dreams is to attend every tennis grand slam. In thirty-one years, I have been to zero, but I knocked out the first recently. It was the most difficult transit, so I think it was a good start. I met a friend at the airport on his way out of Melbourne, and in our conversation, he asked if I heard about Kobe. He died. “What?” I asked in disbelief. “He died,” he repeated. It was surreal – in a weird way, it was the same feeling I had when I heard about 9/11. Obviously, not comparing Kobe’s death to the tragedy of 9/11, but I will always remember when I heard it, where I was, and that feeling of shock. No. That can’t be true. It’s fake. That couldn’t happen. Why would that happen? Over the next few days, people mourned his death around the globe. Even in Melbourne, when I said I was from the states, people commented: “it’s tragic that Kobe died.” Many tennis players, including Djokovic, paid tribute to him at the tournament.
People say Kobe was a great man, a great father, and I don’t doubt it. However, I didn’t know him as a man, or as a father, so I can’t speak to that. I grew up with him as an athlete. I watched him as an athlete. I knew him as an athlete. That’s what I can speak to.
I went to my first professional tennis match, and it was everything I hoped it would be. Incidentally, if you are looking for a professional sporting event to go to by yourself, tennis is great because no one’s allowed to talk. I was the loudest person in the stadium – shocking, I know. I watched a couple sets of the women’s quarterfinals, and they were entertaining. But then I watched the men’s quarterfinals. I could watch men’s grand slam matches all day, and it’s not purely because the pace is faster or their biceps are simply magnificent, though those are factors. It’s mainly because instead of best of three sets, these matches are best of five, which adds an elevated element of mental grit to the match. I watched the Sandgren/Federer quarterfinal. Sandgren had the lead, 2 sets to 1. After losing three match points, the set went to a tiebreak. Federer was down 6-2, and he came back to win the set. After that, I cheered for the American underdog, but I sensed his fate. Federer won the first match point he had.
Sandgren played an amazing match. His serve was on fire, he had very few unforced errors, and he moved well on the court. I was pulling for him, just as I pulled for the Jazz when they played the Lakers, because I love an underdog – and because Tennys is American and still single with beautiful biceps. But he was playing one of the greats. I was so grateful to be at that match, because it is very rare we are afforded the opportunity to witness greatness in that form. I never saw Kobe live, but there is no question he was one of the greats. What is it that makes them great? That inspires us, those who appreciate and respect their talent, even when we want them to lose. What gives us goosebumps?
It’s patience – not necessarily the first thing that comes to mind, but I respect this most. It’s a certain steadiness under pressure. A calm that withstands, that bends but doesn’t break. It moves from point to point, play to play, day to day, persisting, waiting for the opportunity. In that match, Federer seemed un-phased by the match points. He faced them with this grace that was waiting for his opportunity.
It’s capturing that opportunity. I didn’t pull out my phone to video any of Sandgren’s seven match points. But the first match point Federer had, I videoed, because I knew, subconsciously, he would take it. If childhood Anna remembers one thing about Kobe, it’s that he wanted that last shot. He wasn’t afraid. Or maybe he was – but he learned to overcome that fear. Great athletes don’t shy away from those moments. They embrace them, because they have prepared day in and day out. When they come, they are ready.
It’s also embracing failure. The next match, Federer lost to Djokovic in straight sets. Djokovic is another great, and there will always be another great – one who may be better than you. One for whom you set the stage. Every great will fail. It is a part of the process, but the distinguishing factor is how you respond.
It’s constant pursuit of perfection in spite of failure, knowing that while one will never reach it, it is worth that relentless commitment. Federer is 38. He has won 20 Grand Slam titles, earned $124M in prize winnings, and millions more in endorsements. He will easily go down as one of the greats. Yet, as he was playing Djokovic, his wife looked as nervous as his first Wimbledon. You’d think it would get less tense and a little more comfortable at this stage in his career. But that’s why they are where they are - because they don’t get comfortable. They maintain that hunger.
I always followed Kobe, even if I hated the dynasty. As his career approached an end, he changed his shot because he couldn’t move like he used to move. He had won six NBA titles, was easily a Hall of Famer, and yet, he pursued. In the brief time we saw him after his NBA career, we saw his continued pursuit. We saw him win an Oscar, start a business, be a father. Kobe wasn’t close to done, and anyone who watched him knew that, which I think is one of the reasons people mourned him so genuinely. They saw something stolen from the world. His example was a gift to so many young people in our generation, because it represented more than just a sport. It represented how we aimed to live – in patient, relentless pursuit of the best version of ourselves, embracing failure and capitalizing on opportunities.
Any time there is a tragic death, I am reminded that even the most heroic are not immune to that thief in the night who comes to steal, kill, and destroy. And the hopelessness and doubt that often accompanies that. My heart hurts for those family members affected by the crash.
Last post, I talked about the night my brother died and how deeply realized I still feel about it. In my next session, I went back to the moment I was most scared. Lydia and I were standing at the window, and I saw the ambulances arriving. I felt helpless, confused, and totally out of control. We went through a similar process as the week prior, and somewhere in it, there was this image. I went back to that same moment, and this time, there was an image of Christ with me.
Maybe that image was God, maybe it was me, maybe it was the funky therapy. I do know this: God doesn’t promise us easy, or fair, or logical in this life. What He does promise us, however, is that He will stand in that fire with us and beside us. He will walk with us through every pain, and he wants us to walk with Him, even in our doubt, because no baggage we have is more than He can handle.
And finally, in my own life, I have been reminded lately that while the mentioned traits are worthy pursuits, if I don’t pursue them with Christ at the center, they are nothing. And if I pursue with Christ at the center, He makes them everything. He is, after all, the ultimate great. The one great who does not fail.
People say Kobe was a great man, a great father, and I don’t doubt it. However, I didn’t know him as a man, or as a father, so I can’t speak to that. I grew up with him as an athlete. I watched him as an athlete. I knew him as an athlete. That’s what I can speak to.
I went to my first professional tennis match, and it was everything I hoped it would be. Incidentally, if you are looking for a professional sporting event to go to by yourself, tennis is great because no one’s allowed to talk. I was the loudest person in the stadium – shocking, I know. I watched a couple sets of the women’s quarterfinals, and they were entertaining. But then I watched the men’s quarterfinals. I could watch men’s grand slam matches all day, and it’s not purely because the pace is faster or their biceps are simply magnificent, though those are factors. It’s mainly because instead of best of three sets, these matches are best of five, which adds an elevated element of mental grit to the match. I watched the Sandgren/Federer quarterfinal. Sandgren had the lead, 2 sets to 1. After losing three match points, the set went to a tiebreak. Federer was down 6-2, and he came back to win the set. After that, I cheered for the American underdog, but I sensed his fate. Federer won the first match point he had.
Sandgren played an amazing match. His serve was on fire, he had very few unforced errors, and he moved well on the court. I was pulling for him, just as I pulled for the Jazz when they played the Lakers, because I love an underdog – and because Tennys is American and still single with beautiful biceps. But he was playing one of the greats. I was so grateful to be at that match, because it is very rare we are afforded the opportunity to witness greatness in that form. I never saw Kobe live, but there is no question he was one of the greats. What is it that makes them great? That inspires us, those who appreciate and respect their talent, even when we want them to lose. What gives us goosebumps?
It’s patience – not necessarily the first thing that comes to mind, but I respect this most. It’s a certain steadiness under pressure. A calm that withstands, that bends but doesn’t break. It moves from point to point, play to play, day to day, persisting, waiting for the opportunity. In that match, Federer seemed un-phased by the match points. He faced them with this grace that was waiting for his opportunity.
It’s capturing that opportunity. I didn’t pull out my phone to video any of Sandgren’s seven match points. But the first match point Federer had, I videoed, because I knew, subconsciously, he would take it. If childhood Anna remembers one thing about Kobe, it’s that he wanted that last shot. He wasn’t afraid. Or maybe he was – but he learned to overcome that fear. Great athletes don’t shy away from those moments. They embrace them, because they have prepared day in and day out. When they come, they are ready.
It’s also embracing failure. The next match, Federer lost to Djokovic in straight sets. Djokovic is another great, and there will always be another great – one who may be better than you. One for whom you set the stage. Every great will fail. It is a part of the process, but the distinguishing factor is how you respond.
It’s constant pursuit of perfection in spite of failure, knowing that while one will never reach it, it is worth that relentless commitment. Federer is 38. He has won 20 Grand Slam titles, earned $124M in prize winnings, and millions more in endorsements. He will easily go down as one of the greats. Yet, as he was playing Djokovic, his wife looked as nervous as his first Wimbledon. You’d think it would get less tense and a little more comfortable at this stage in his career. But that’s why they are where they are - because they don’t get comfortable. They maintain that hunger.
I always followed Kobe, even if I hated the dynasty. As his career approached an end, he changed his shot because he couldn’t move like he used to move. He had won six NBA titles, was easily a Hall of Famer, and yet, he pursued. In the brief time we saw him after his NBA career, we saw his continued pursuit. We saw him win an Oscar, start a business, be a father. Kobe wasn’t close to done, and anyone who watched him knew that, which I think is one of the reasons people mourned him so genuinely. They saw something stolen from the world. His example was a gift to so many young people in our generation, because it represented more than just a sport. It represented how we aimed to live – in patient, relentless pursuit of the best version of ourselves, embracing failure and capitalizing on opportunities.
Any time there is a tragic death, I am reminded that even the most heroic are not immune to that thief in the night who comes to steal, kill, and destroy. And the hopelessness and doubt that often accompanies that. My heart hurts for those family members affected by the crash.
Last post, I talked about the night my brother died and how deeply realized I still feel about it. In my next session, I went back to the moment I was most scared. Lydia and I were standing at the window, and I saw the ambulances arriving. I felt helpless, confused, and totally out of control. We went through a similar process as the week prior, and somewhere in it, there was this image. I went back to that same moment, and this time, there was an image of Christ with me.
Maybe that image was God, maybe it was me, maybe it was the funky therapy. I do know this: God doesn’t promise us easy, or fair, or logical in this life. What He does promise us, however, is that He will stand in that fire with us and beside us. He will walk with us through every pain, and he wants us to walk with Him, even in our doubt, because no baggage we have is more than He can handle.
And finally, in my own life, I have been reminded lately that while the mentioned traits are worthy pursuits, if I don’t pursue them with Christ at the center, they are nothing. And if I pursue with Christ at the center, He makes them everything. He is, after all, the ultimate great. The one great who does not fail.
Wednesday, January 15, 2020
The Night My Brother Died
I had just turned three. My brother was born that morning, and Lydia and I were at my grandparents, a house very familiar to us. Stephen, my brain-damaged brother who was a year and a half older than I, was also there. The series of memories is short, but I remember them as vividly as if they happened yesterday.
Lydia and I heard crying from the living room. My grandpa was bent over Stephen; I didn't know why. He was lying on a blanket, still and sweet in his curled form. My grandma looked at us, told us to get out. What was going on?
Lydia and I stood by the window in my grandparents bedroom - we never went in my grandparents bedroom. Why were we in here? I heard sirens and saw ambulances outside. Lydia looked at me and said, pray, Anna, pray. What was going on? Could I do anything? Why was grandma crying, and why was she being mean? I don't understand this, and I'm scared.
We were standing in a hospital room. It was white, and Stephen was on a bed. My pastor was there.
Lydia and I were sitting in the conversion van, waiting for Mom. We were taking Philip to the hospital for his two week check-up. Mom came into the car and whispered something to Lydia. I knew what it was. I don't why I knew, but I knew. I knew it in my gut, a feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, and I had to find out. I rushed out of the car to our front porch, and there she lay, in her puke. No, not my Rottweiler, Liesle. Not her. Please, no. No, no, no. I threw myself on her, desperately clinging to her fur, and I wept uncontrollably. Why is she gone? I don't know where she's going, but I know I won't see her again. I want to see her again. I don't want to lose her. I can't lose her, too. Don't take her from me. I can't handle this. I can't do it. I just don't want to lose her. I just don't. I don't want her to go. Give her back. Please give her back. Please.
My Dad appeared. Mom had called him to come home from work because she was worried, but I don't remember that. I just remember him holding me, curled up on his lap. I kept crying, but he held me so tightly, and I was so safe.
I had a wonderful childhood, filled with amazing memories of frolicking in the woods, spending Sundays at Grandma and Grandpas, and playing with the neighbors. I remember moments with my siblings and cousins, but none are as vivid as this.
I never really grieved Stephen. Yes, objectively, I talk about the family's loss, I go visit his grave, I write to him every year on his birthday. If I'm honest, I didn't think I had the right to grieve. After all, he wasn't my child. I didn't wake up every day with this sweet little guy, the Big Mon, and pray that he would be healed, and that his body would be released from its prison. I didn't lay him on my stomach, making sure he faced the TV so he could watch Cleveland sports, even though he couldn't see. I don't remember anything from his life, save perhaps one vague memory of being by a pond that feels more like a dream, so why should I grieve his death?
Per my last post, I've been going to therapy. The no drinking didn't stick, but the therapy has. Incidentally, it would save me money if the no drinking had stuck and therapy had not, but o well. She practices EMDR, a treatment that uses the distraction of eye movement or hand vibration to help you process traumatic experiences. It's not hypnosis, so don't freak out. When I started going to therapy, I mentioned Stephen's death as I often do, objectively, and I said there probably wasn't much to process.
Y'all, I may have been wrong, and there may be some science to the psychology around childhood experiences. At the beginning of this year, I had a small experience, very insignificant in the overall story of my life, but it triggered something, and for the first time, I tied that feeling to the same feeling I had when I knew my dog had died. I then tied that feeling to many other moments in my life - those moments when I just knew something or someone was gone, and I didn't know if I could handle it. Or those moments when I said, take this from me now God, so you don't take it from me later.
I went to my therapist, and I told her I was ready to address this memory. I went back to my Grandma's house, to my front porch, to that hospital room. I wept. I wept for my brother, and I wept for me. I wept for what was taken from me before I had a chance to know it. For my three year old self who was never going to really have her big brother. I wept that my first memories were that of loss.
One of the purposes of EMDR is to identify thought patterns these experiences may have caused. There is a part of me, however deep and however small, that expects loss, and it's hard for me to trust that God will not take away something I love, because the earliest and strongest memories I have are of Him allowing that to happen.
Another purpose of EMDR is to break those thought patterns. We're working on that, and I'll keep you posted. Maybe I'm writing because writing's always been part of my process, but the writing is definitely scary. I'm scared that my family will think I'm going to a kook, my mom might worry - please don't worry, Mom - or that guys will read this and think yikes she's undateable - to be honest, probably not the best time right now - or that readers will think it's pathetic that I'm dealing with the emotions of a three year old at the age of 31. I want to be the woman who presented to an Amazon VP last week, not the woman who keeps breaking down as she proofreads this at her kitchen table. Sorry for any typos. But I'm not scared about God, even if I realized I have some trouble trusting Him.
I've been dwelling on John 21, when Jesus appeared to Peter and the other disciples after his death and resurrection. The disciples had expected Jesus to establish this earthly kingdom, but Rome was still ruling. After three years of abandoning their livelihood for Him, He was gone, and they once again had to provide for their families. Peter denied knowing Jesus before his death, and as he sat in the boat, failing to catch fish, surely he was questioning Jesus - whether or not He should trust Him. Yet Jesus came to him, in that moment, that moment of questioning. When Peter realized who it was, he dove into the water and swam with all his might to sit with Jesus and be in His presence.
I don't know what my dad was doing when my mom called him to come home that day. Maybe he was at his desk or with a client or in a meeting. But I have no doubt that he dropped everything instantly and rushed home to hold me. And if my father, a broken man, would do that, then how much more will God rush to hold me, to invite me to sit in his presence? I don't think Peter's questions were answered as he sat on the shore, staring at Jesus' face, but He did know one thing - He was in the presence of Jesus. The presence of his perfect love. Jesus was with him. And that was more important than anything else. That was enough.
Lydia and I heard crying from the living room. My grandpa was bent over Stephen; I didn't know why. He was lying on a blanket, still and sweet in his curled form. My grandma looked at us, told us to get out. What was going on?
Lydia and I stood by the window in my grandparents bedroom - we never went in my grandparents bedroom. Why were we in here? I heard sirens and saw ambulances outside. Lydia looked at me and said, pray, Anna, pray. What was going on? Could I do anything? Why was grandma crying, and why was she being mean? I don't understand this, and I'm scared.
We were standing in a hospital room. It was white, and Stephen was on a bed. My pastor was there.
Lydia and I were sitting in the conversion van, waiting for Mom. We were taking Philip to the hospital for his two week check-up. Mom came into the car and whispered something to Lydia. I knew what it was. I don't why I knew, but I knew. I knew it in my gut, a feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, and I had to find out. I rushed out of the car to our front porch, and there she lay, in her puke. No, not my Rottweiler, Liesle. Not her. Please, no. No, no, no. I threw myself on her, desperately clinging to her fur, and I wept uncontrollably. Why is she gone? I don't know where she's going, but I know I won't see her again. I want to see her again. I don't want to lose her. I can't lose her, too. Don't take her from me. I can't handle this. I can't do it. I just don't want to lose her. I just don't. I don't want her to go. Give her back. Please give her back. Please.
My Dad appeared. Mom had called him to come home from work because she was worried, but I don't remember that. I just remember him holding me, curled up on his lap. I kept crying, but he held me so tightly, and I was so safe.
I had a wonderful childhood, filled with amazing memories of frolicking in the woods, spending Sundays at Grandma and Grandpas, and playing with the neighbors. I remember moments with my siblings and cousins, but none are as vivid as this.
I never really grieved Stephen. Yes, objectively, I talk about the family's loss, I go visit his grave, I write to him every year on his birthday. If I'm honest, I didn't think I had the right to grieve. After all, he wasn't my child. I didn't wake up every day with this sweet little guy, the Big Mon, and pray that he would be healed, and that his body would be released from its prison. I didn't lay him on my stomach, making sure he faced the TV so he could watch Cleveland sports, even though he couldn't see. I don't remember anything from his life, save perhaps one vague memory of being by a pond that feels more like a dream, so why should I grieve his death?
Per my last post, I've been going to therapy. The no drinking didn't stick, but the therapy has. Incidentally, it would save me money if the no drinking had stuck and therapy had not, but o well. She practices EMDR, a treatment that uses the distraction of eye movement or hand vibration to help you process traumatic experiences. It's not hypnosis, so don't freak out. When I started going to therapy, I mentioned Stephen's death as I often do, objectively, and I said there probably wasn't much to process.
Y'all, I may have been wrong, and there may be some science to the psychology around childhood experiences. At the beginning of this year, I had a small experience, very insignificant in the overall story of my life, but it triggered something, and for the first time, I tied that feeling to the same feeling I had when I knew my dog had died. I then tied that feeling to many other moments in my life - those moments when I just knew something or someone was gone, and I didn't know if I could handle it. Or those moments when I said, take this from me now God, so you don't take it from me later.
I went to my therapist, and I told her I was ready to address this memory. I went back to my Grandma's house, to my front porch, to that hospital room. I wept. I wept for my brother, and I wept for me. I wept for what was taken from me before I had a chance to know it. For my three year old self who was never going to really have her big brother. I wept that my first memories were that of loss.
One of the purposes of EMDR is to identify thought patterns these experiences may have caused. There is a part of me, however deep and however small, that expects loss, and it's hard for me to trust that God will not take away something I love, because the earliest and strongest memories I have are of Him allowing that to happen.
Another purpose of EMDR is to break those thought patterns. We're working on that, and I'll keep you posted. Maybe I'm writing because writing's always been part of my process, but the writing is definitely scary. I'm scared that my family will think I'm going to a kook, my mom might worry - please don't worry, Mom - or that guys will read this and think yikes she's undateable - to be honest, probably not the best time right now - or that readers will think it's pathetic that I'm dealing with the emotions of a three year old at the age of 31. I want to be the woman who presented to an Amazon VP last week, not the woman who keeps breaking down as she proofreads this at her kitchen table. Sorry for any typos. But I'm not scared about God, even if I realized I have some trouble trusting Him.
I've been dwelling on John 21, when Jesus appeared to Peter and the other disciples after his death and resurrection. The disciples had expected Jesus to establish this earthly kingdom, but Rome was still ruling. After three years of abandoning their livelihood for Him, He was gone, and they once again had to provide for their families. Peter denied knowing Jesus before his death, and as he sat in the boat, failing to catch fish, surely he was questioning Jesus - whether or not He should trust Him. Yet Jesus came to him, in that moment, that moment of questioning. When Peter realized who it was, he dove into the water and swam with all his might to sit with Jesus and be in His presence.
I don't know what my dad was doing when my mom called him to come home that day. Maybe he was at his desk or with a client or in a meeting. But I have no doubt that he dropped everything instantly and rushed home to hold me. And if my father, a broken man, would do that, then how much more will God rush to hold me, to invite me to sit in his presence? I don't think Peter's questions were answered as he sat on the shore, staring at Jesus' face, but He did know one thing - He was in the presence of Jesus. The presence of his perfect love. Jesus was with him. And that was more important than anything else. That was enough.
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