Author: Sheth

Love Sport

by ShethLife / Love / Poetry / Relationships / WritingLeave a Comment on Love Sport

In my debut to the game,
I broke Christine’s heart in 1997.
The volley was returned by
Lisa, Jessica, and Brittany –
each breaking my heart:
1-3.

I went on a run of my own:
Kristen, Melissa
Hannah, Marie.
No longer new to the sport,
I was on fire:
5-3.

My heart, being broken
by Amber and Julia,
balanced out the score
and it’s all tied up:
5-5.
Match point.

I think my next opponent
should be my last.
A long game that ends
in a tie, and we leave
the field together.
The score no longer kept.

Truth: Complex Simple Sentences

by ShethHome / Love / Truth TuesdayLeave a Comment on Truth: Complex Simple Sentences

After 95 years, my grandma moved from this life and into the next, and while expected, it is no less difficult. I’ve cried, prayed, and cried some more. I’ve called or messaged family and friends who needed to be notified. And I’ve thanked the fullness of where she is now for the values she instilled in me and the unending love she gave me.

While it’s difficult to mourn the loss of someone so great, if I were truthful I’d admit that the difficulty I’m having right now is being apart from my family and sharing in the grieving. I could share my stories and memories with my friends here in Texas but it’s not the same; I have to set up the context, describe locations, find pictures of certain items, cars, and breeds of dogs.

If I were with my family I could easily say something like, “Grandma’s cinnamon rolls at the table in Coaldale around Christmas…” and I wouldn’t even have to finish the sentence. Everyone in my family knows what every word in this sentence means, feels like, smells like, and tastes like. While my Texas friends might have a general understanding of cinnamon rolls, being with a grandma, and the feelings surrounding Christmas, to me and my family it’s different.

Our grandma made cinnamon rolls from scratch and when she would serve them the plate would be swallowed up by their size. The warmth was visible from the steam that came off of them as they were straight from the oven, and the scent of cinnamon and butter filled the house. We would get to eat them at least once when we visited, and they would be served with a tall glass of cold milk.

The table where we sat was stained dark and the table itself was thick and sturdy. At the head of the table sat my grandpa, while the rest of the family squeezed in where we could. At the height of family gatherings we would have 15-20 people around a table built for eight. But we didn’t just eat at this table – we played Skip-bo or UNO for hours on end; we planned out hunting trips while poring over topo maps; we shelled peas, shucked corn, and prepped green beans; we drew pictures, decorated Christmas ornaments, and dyed Easter eggs; the adults talked and the kids listened all around this one table.

Coaldale was where my grandparents chose to spend their retirement and they built a house in the hills, far removed from any city. When I would go to my grandparents’ I got to experience ‘country’ life: dirt roads, no traffic, and a slower pace. I would get to be in nature, too: climbing pinion trees, chasing away magpies, stalking deer, and catching lizards. The house itself was different from the houses that were crammed together in the suburbs of Denver: constructed of cut logs, their house had wood floors and ceilings, and was heated by a wood-burning fireplace, but it never felt overly ‘rustic’. My grandpa, dad, and uncles spent hours building this place and took pride in its completion. It was comfortable, warm and inviting, quiet, tranquil, and filled with scents that ranged from cooking ingredients, to my grandpa’s Old Spice after shave, to the fresh spring breezes that brought in the smells of blooming sage and pine.

Holidays were the times when, in spite of everything that may have been going on, my family would always get together; nearly every year I would spend either Christmas or Easter at my grandparents’ house. And we would go to their church – usually on the holiday itself, but if not, then soon before or after; my grandma would always give us grandkids a quarter to place in the offering plate. As a child those holidays held more than just the religious meanings for me. Christmas was filled with presents, hot chocolate, games, sledding, watching TV while laying beside the fireplace, trying to stay awake and listening for any hints as to what I’d be getting as gifts, laughter and smiles, childish fights and scuffles. The Easter weekend would be spent going to town, getting eggs and PAAS egg dying kits and then attempting to craft the best egg we possibly could (my dad usually out-doing everyone with his intricately drawn designs using markers).

All this (and so much more that cannot be described) is wrapped up in the simple and incomplete sentence, “Grandma’s cinnamon rolls at the table in Coaldale around Christmas…” I look forward to being with my family in the coming weeks so we can share in these stories and the memories they hold. Until then, I will rest on my own memory and cherish the unending gifts my grandma gave me.

much love. sheth.

Love Languages for Yourself

by ShethLoveLeave a Comment on Love Languages for Yourself

It can be easy to love others, and most often we are willing to love outside of ourselves.  But loving ourselves can be a challenge for many of us.   I’ve been working on flipping the Five Love Languages concept back towards myself and learning to love me.  It takes work and practice, but it’s necessary to becoming all who we’re meant to be.

Words of Affirmation – How often do you tell yourself you’re good enough?  How often do you build yourself up?  Encourage yourself, build yourself up, tell yourself all the good things you see in you.  Don’t be so negative or even neutral in your words to yourself.  Listen to the good things others day about you, and repeat them to yourself.

Quality Time – How often do you spend time on yourself?  When was the last time you spent time alone with you?  Put down your phone, your books, your distractions and spend time on you.  Give yourself the attention you deserve.  Listen to your inner voice, listen to what you’re saying to yourself.  Look at your dreams, revisit your hopes, make some plans for your future.

Receiving Gifts – How often do you buy something for yourself?  When do you stop and treat yourself?  Think about that one little thing that you know is unnecessary and maybe a little silly, but that you never buy for yourself.  What keeps you from getting it?  Occasionally take the time to get a gift just for yourself, something apart from the necessities.

Acts of Service – How often do you do things for you?  Take the time to clean your home, build that bookcase, or repair the fence.  Vacuum your car, spend some time volunteering, do some sewing, but do the things that you need done.  Do not think of it as simply work, but as making your things and spaces better and cleaner and more organized for you so you can spend less time later worrying about it.

Physical Touch – How often do you receive touch?  How often do you shy away from a hug from a friend, a goofy high-five, or a pat on the back?  Safely keep yourself open and portray the willingness to be receptive to physical touch from family and friends.  Embrace the embraces from others and enjoy the contact the world can give you.

much love. sheth.

Note: These initial concepts are taken from The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate (Northfield Publishing, 1995) by Gary Chapman

Truth: Gems

by ShethBeauty / Christianity / Life / Truth TuesdayLeave a Comment on Truth: Gems

I picked up this rock last week when I was back in Colorado. It’s nothing much, really – a bit of brown rock with a streak of amethyst running through it. I found it in a tailing pile from an old mine, and obviously it wasn’t worthwhile to the person who was digging in those hills long ago – the amount of amethyst and the quality of the stone is negligible.


When I picked it up off the ground I wasn’t sure what to expect because I couldn’t see much through the dirt and dust. I brought this, and a few other little rocks, back to Texas with me and I cleaned them up a bit – I soaked them in soapy water, scrubbed them with an old toothbrush, and I picked off the loose bits that would eventually fall off anyway. The amethyst itself is not showroom quality and it’s not going to win some fancy award from the American Gem Trade Association (it’s a thing).

But I kind of like this little piece of rock. I like that it’s imperfect and mis-shaped. I appreciate that it was a little dusty and covered with eons of life. While it might be appreciated by some and disliked by others, at it’s core – underneath the mess – is where its true beauty lies. If one looks past the jagged edges and rough exterior we can see something beautiful that wants to be appreciated.

This little rock is a lot like me, truthfully; and probably a lot like you. Most of us are not polished and cut to exacting precision. And we’re probably a little dusty. As painful as it may be to say it, we’re probably disliked by a few people. But deep within us, I know that we all have beauty that the world needs to see. We all have our own amethyst that resides at our core and is the true essence of who we really are. As rough and jagged as we may appear to those around us, our gems are aching to come out.

We need to recognize the beauty that is in everyone. We need to look at others knowing that there is a gem inside of them. But first we need to find that beauty within ourselves. We must acknowledge that when we came into being we were beautiful; even now, with the dirt, the dust, and the roughness, we are still beautiful. Antoine de Saint-Exupery said, “What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.” Within our desert lives there is a well; within the desert lives of others there is a well. And we must find it! We must find it within ourselves and within others, and bring out the beauty that is within all of us. My friends, go and scrub some rocks, give them a little attention, and discover the beauty that is abounding in those around you!

much love. sheth.

The Heart’s Home

by ShethEssay / Home / Life / Relationships / WritingLeave a Comment on The Heart’s Home

A few years ago I was living in a tiny apartment in Salida and I was trying to watch television.  I say trying, because I found cable to be an unnecessary expense, so I had the old-style rabbit ear antenna.  Its two wires stood straight up from a base on top of my TV, and with great hope I could pull in a few weak signals from Denver or Colorado Springs.  Usually the picture came in grainy and hard to watch, but if I got a decent picture I would watch whatever came through.

I was flipping through the channels (all five of them), trying to find anything that came through decently enough to watch when I stumbled across one of the PBS stations.  There on my screen were two people, standing in front of a small glass box which held a pair of shoes.

An older man, wearing a plain brown suit coat which hung loosely over a white collared shirt, was speaking, “These shoes are one of seven known pairs made for the movie.  They’ve been on display here at the museum since 1979.”  The man was balding from the front to the back, and had a white, bushy mustache.  His excitement about the shoes was visible, but the interviewer disregarded it, hoping for more general information.

“So how many people visit the museum?” the interviewer asked, clearly interested in the building itself and not its contents.

“Well, we have roughly four million people visit annually and they…”

“Wow,” the interviewer said exuberantly, “that’s a lot of people!”  Her interjection was unwelcomed by the man from the museum.

“…yes, it is…” he hesitated to say more as he was unsure of when she would speak again,  “…the National Museum of American History has about three million objects in its collections.”

She feigned astonishment, “Three million?  How do you show it all?”

The man smiled and answered politely, “Well, we only have about five percent of it on display at any one time.  We simply don’t have the room to show it all.”  He moved his hands as he talked, making wide but gentle gestures now and again.

“And what are some of your most popular exhibits?”  The woman clearly tried to make this interview more exciting than it was.  The man was not the best person to interview; he didn’t exude the vibe and excitement that television called for, even for PBS.

“Well, of our two-hundred thousand square feet of gallery space, the most visited include our transportation collections – cars, trains, planes, and the like.  Also, visitors seem to flock toward the collection on American Presidents.”

Her made-for-television smile beamed as she stared into the camera, speaking as if she knew what he was going to say next, “And of course, the Ruby Red Slippers.”

“Of course,” he said as he smiled, “they are one of the most asked about pieces in the entire museum.”  He placed his left hand on the glass case in a caressing manner, “Everyone loves these shoes, the magic they hold, the dreams and hopes they have brought to so many.  Dorothy Gale was able to fill the void in her heart with the use of these shoes.  Visitors to the museum want to see what they have believed in for so many years.”

“And what is that?” the interviewer asked.

“The belief that a person can go home again.”

***

Just off Fremont County Road 39 is Falls Gulch – at one time it was a rough and bumpy road only accessible to four-wheel drive vehicles, but has now become a somewhat better thoroughfare that my Nissan Murano could somewhat navigate.  Last week, when I was back home, I made a quick visit to the old road, partially to escape into nature and partially to find something for which I’ve been looking.

In years long-since passed, the earth around Falls Gulch was picked and prodded for minerals, and the remnants of discard piles can still be seen.  For all the traffic that goes through the area, even today the road is often washed out and will change its course based on the season and year.  Over the decades the forest service has blocked off some off-shoots with boulders and dirt berms.

This place held many memories for me: near where my grandparents retired, it’s where I would often spend some portion of any elementary school breaks with them.  Falls Gulch is where we would go to play, learn, and explore.  I spent summer days puttering around the hills with my grandpa in his old Jeep, our family held many picnics in the clearing near the long-dilapidated fireplace, and every fall I learned more about hunting for mule deer in those hills.

I don’t often make it into those hills now, mainly because they hold so many memories for me, and when I do return I realize how fuzzy my past has become.  It’s frustrating and a little sad to be in a place that was once so familiar, and to now not recognize much of it anymore.  The fireplace where we picnicked has finally crumbled to the ground and has become overgrown with scrub oak.  Once-tall trees used as landmarks have fallen with age and have been carted off by someone for firewood.  The amethyst mines we would pick through have been washed away and covered by the changing earth.

I keep returning to that place because it had always been a link to my past – it was where I spent time with my grandparents, where my father taught me life-long lessons, where my brother and I learned to shoot, where my cousins and I bonded after months of not seeing each other.  I always held out hope that my time spent in those hills would give me the opportunity to relive those times and days from so long ago.  But just as the landscape has shifted and changed over the years, so too does my link to that place.  As much as I want to step into the past’s memories and experience them again and again in Falls Gulch, I can’t do it anymore.  The place that it once was is no longer – this home is not my home.

I’m realizing that I’m home-less, and it’s a little scary.  My parents have been living a nomadic life for a few years and most of their belongings are in a storage shed.  My grandmother was moved into the nursing home two years ago, the majority of her life’s possessions sold off to pay for the extended care.  The landscape of Falls Gulch has shifted and changed into a nearly new and unrecognizable place.  The small town that I spent my formative years in is now a bustling, rapidly-growing, second-home community for people from the Front Range of Colorado.  I can’t go home again because my home is no longer there.

**

In 2001 I was in a small village in Kosovo, talking with Flamur, a sixteen-year-old from a local village.  Wiser than most his age, he was describing to me what had happened during the genocidal reign of Slobodan Milosevic two years prior.

“We were forced out of our homes by Serbs that live right over there,” he pointed to a small group of houses not more than two hundred yards away.  “One night, they just entered our village and started robbing the houses.  We fought back, but it was no good.”

He kept his head up; his voice was strong as he continued to speak, “We left to the mountains right over there.”  I looked behind him at the mountains behind which the sun was slowly falling.  “One hundred and seventeen of us left our homes, our belongings, everything.  We only took what we could carry, loaded up in the cars, trucks, wagons, and we left.  Only months later did we return after the United Nations had bombed and stepped in.”

I didn’t know what to say, or what to ask, and I told him.  “It’s okay,” he said, “I know it’s something that you couldn’t really get.  The good thing was that all of us returned to the village – all one hundred and seventeen.”  He smiled briefly as we walked down the road.  “Not many villages are lucky enough to say that.”

“And what about the village?”  I asked.

“Houses were burned out…you know, destroyed.  We found some of our things out in the fields, but most of it was gone.  We had to rebuild the houses, buy our new furniture.  We had to start all over again.”

There was a long silence as we both stood on the muddy road that weaved through the village.  “Let’s go,” Flamur said, “It’s not safe to be out after dark.”

Home, for Flamur and the others in this village was not a building.  Home was with the others.  There, each individual heart was connected to another; piece by piece, generation by generation they continually built a home where they could live, laugh, and love.  I can’t imagine the heartache each person would have felt if they had lost a single member of the village.  But I can honestly say that they would be missing a little bit of themselves.

*

Even with all of my ‘things’ with me here in Texas, it doesn’t feel quite like home.  While I can take the time and effort to make my dorm room more appealing to me and my sense of belonging, I know that in two years I’ll have to pack up and move on to someplace else in Texas, or Iowa, or Idaho or Montana.

This home-lessness is new to me, and I don’t know what to do with it.  I wonder if I’ll ever find that sense of comfort and peace that I once had in Falls Gulch or in my parent’s house on East 3rd Street.  I wonder if I can ever have a place where my heart will be able to find rest and where others can create memories of their own.

Maybe I need to re-frame my way of thinking about home.  I may not have a place – a physical place – that I can always return to, but I will always have people that I can go to who know my heart and my soul.  I have people that know me and my deepest secrets, pains, and joys.  I am but a phone call, text, or quick walk away from finding comfort and rest.

If home is where the heart is, then my home will always be, first and foremost, wherever I am.  That’s home – my heart, and that’s where I long to be with my family and friends.  It’s where I can love and be loved, where I can laugh, cry, speak openly, and express myself.  Perhaps Dorothy was right – there is no place like home.  There is no place quite like the heart.

much love. sheth.

Truth: Be You

by ShethChristianity / Life / Relationships / Seminary / Truth TuesdayLeave a Comment on Truth: Be You

Going into seminary, I knew that people would treat me differently, but I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.  And I didn’t expect people to treat themselves differently.  When I was leaving my job last August I had a conversation with one of the truck drivers:

Him: “You sonofabitch, I heard you were leaving the post office!”
Me: “Yeah, I’m going back to school – I’ll be heading to Austin soon.”
Him: “No shit?!  That’s badass…what are you going to be studying?”
Me: “I’m going to seminary to become a pastor in a church.”
Him: “Oh, wow.  How very nice for you.  I am glad to hear that you will be doing that.  May God bless you on this journey.”

The moment I mentioned ‘pastor in a church’, Marty’s entire demeanor changed.  He stooped a little bit, lowered his head, and brought his hands together as if he was going to start praying.  In that instant he changed who he was – from the Marty I knew (swearing, boisterous, crude) – to this new Marty (proper, clean-mouthed, reverent).  And I didn’t like it one bit, either.

 

Honestly, I don’t like this change that people make when they discover I’m going into a church-related field because they suddenly become someone they’re not.  Marty struggles more to not swear than to swear.  People who haven’t prayed in decades suddenly have an urge to say grace over their meal when I join them at their table.  Friends want to tell me that they have a Bible app on their phone and that they’re trying to read it every day.  The cigarettes are hidden, the beer is tucked behind the leftovers in the fridge, and everyone is so polite and loving.  But it’s all a ruse, and I know it is.

The greatest thing you can do for me, and for your friends who are Christians, is just be you.  Don’t try to save face by pretending to be someone you’re not.  I love you for who you are!  I want nothing more than to meet you right where you’re at in life – praying or not, Bible-reading or not, church-attending or not.  Give me the real you and let me love you as you are, not as you think I’d want you to be.

much love. sheth.

Without Speaking

by ShethFlirting / Love / RelationshipsLeave a Comment on Without Speaking

Silently, with his eyes,
(as he watched her
tell a story he’s heard a thousand times)
he whispered
I love you

In the quiet, with his ears,
(listening to her
talk about her cousin’s wedding three years ago
and the botched bouquet toss)
he whispered
I love you

Soundlessly, with his hands,
(he did then, as he does now,
handing her a tissue to wipe away the tears of laughter)
he said
I love you

With reserve, his mouth,
(savoring the oolong tea
which she sipped that night after the wedding
with her grandmother at the lake house)
said
I love you

Faintly, as he inhaled,
(noticing the same scent of perfume
she wore ever so gently that day)
he said
I love you

He, to her,
(that night, for the first time –
this night for the thousandth)
without speaking, said
you’ll never know how much I love you

Truth: Exhausted

by ShethChristianity / Seminary / Truth TuesdayLeave a Comment on Truth: Exhausted

I finished my first year of seminary this past Friday, and I’m still at 1% – even after three days of rest.  I’m physically, mentally, and emotionally drained.

I expected a certain amount of mental fatigue since this is the first time I’ve taken a full load of classes in over a decade.  I knew there would be a learning curve, not only with the academics themselves, but with re-learning to learn.  How do I read critically again?  How do I skim 175 pages in two days?  What do I highlight and underline?

I even expected the physical exhaustion because using the brain can pull energy away from the rest of your body.  I have had to think abstractly about the filioque, attempt to use what I learned of an ancient language, write a 54 page report, read the book of Revelation with an open mind, and memorize, memorize, memorize.  And I can’t forget the papers I have had to write.  And facts to recall.  And names of long-dead white men.  And the names of living revolutionary Latinas.  And battlefields in France.

But honestly, I didn’t expect the emotional fatigue.  I was told (as most seminarians have been) that I needed to make sure I didn’t lose my faith in seminary.  I get it – I understand how this can ruin people’s beliefs about God, humanity, and creation.  There are times when I have had serious doubts about the whole thing; I’m sure there will be many more in my near future.  But the emotional fatigue comes from two places: first – in finally discovering who I am and who I can be, and second – learning how broken and needy this world truly is.  It’s exhausting to leave class with a broken heart day after day.  It’s exhausting realizing that I didn’t know that much about the New Testament.  It’s exhausting letting go of long-held beliefs.

For now, all I can do is rest.  All I can do is find comfort in God and what the Divine is choosing to do with me.  I don’t have all the answers (and I for sure won’t ever have all the answers).  But I can sit back, put my feet up, and acknowledge that God is doing something amazing with me even in this moment of being at 1%.  I will find my charging station.  I will find my outlet.  I will be provided with occasions to fill up and give out and fill up again.  May God give us opportunities to give until exhaustion and periods to recharge before giving again.

much love. sheth.

Truth: Companion

by ShethChristianity / Life / Seminary / Truth TuesdayLeave a Comment on Truth: Companion

When someone sees me with my Bible open in front of me they always comment how tiny it is and my reply is something like, “I bought it when I had 21 year-old eyes and could see the print much easier.  Now I have to really work to see the words.”  I’ll hold the book up to my face and squint my eyes ever-so-dramatically to show what it’s like when I read.

I bought this little travel Bible before I went on my first mission trip to Kosovo in 2001 and it’s ventured with me ever since.  Together we’ve ‘hopped the pond’ multiple times, been way down south in Mexico, and even further in to South America.  We’ve made a round trip drive of the Al-Can highway and we’ve spent solitary time in the Valley of the Gods in Utah.  Within five weeks we traveled roughly 26,000 miles through 36 states as I went through a career-crisis and attempted to be a semi-truck driver.

On all of these trips and adventures I’ve brought this Bible with me, but to be honest, even though I had it with me I never read it that much.  I would pull it out now and again, briefly read a short passage or just one verse, and tuck it back into my suitcase.  If anything, I would return to my favorite verses or passages and re-read them, but I would never be in deep study – highlighting and making notes – with this book.

Truthfully, this little Bible has been less about the words that it contained and more about the promise that it held: the promise that God will always be with me.  In all those lonely times, in those times of fear, in those times of desperation and feeling lost, God and this little book have been my constant companions.

I don’t know where we’ll head to next (truthfully, this adventure to the Lone Star State has been a big enough ride for a while), but I keep it with me and hold tight to the promises it holds on my life.  May God always remain close to us in the travels we go on in body, in spirit, and in heart.

much love. sheth.

Truth: Iffy

by ShethChristianity / Life / Quotes / Seminary / Truth TuesdayLeave a Comment on Truth: Iffy

One of the greatest things I’ve discovered in seminary is that among all these future pastors, chaplains, ministers, and leaders, there isn’t a perfect person in the whole bunch.  We’re a little scared of the future, occasionally haunted by the past, continually doubting, and constantly self-criticizing.  We wonder why we were called, whether we’re good enough, how we’re going to make it, and we question if we can even do this work.  We are broken again and again by what we see in the world and we wonder if we can make one iota of a difference.

When I was an adolescent, I had only witnessed pastors and church leaders in their finest moments – proclaiming the word from the pulpit; volunteering to build churches in Mexico; hosting casserole-laden, non-alcoholic potlucks; speaking only positive and uplifting words to the downtrodden.  In my eyes pastors were these great, holy, infallible people who could do no wrong and whom everybody loved.

I never witnessed the brokenness that those pastors experienced.  I never witnessed their crumbling relationships, their mountains of doubt, their fear and frustrations, their depression, their nagging physical ailments, their “iffy-ness”.

I’m no different from my classmates.  I admit that I feel so unworthy to be here and think I will never be prepared enough to go into the work for which I am preparing.  If, for a minute, I step back and think about who I was and what I’ve done in my past, I quickly realize that I’m not the greatest person to be doing this.  There must be someone better than me out in this great big world that is more deserving and better prepared for this than I am.

I suppose I’m writing all of this to tell you the truth about me – and about your pastors, your leaders, your chaplains, your missionaries, your seminarians – we are all just as frail, fragile, broken, scared, unworthy, and doubtful as you are.  And we need each other to make it through this world; your pastors and leaders need your endless love, your unconditional acceptance, and your unwavering support as much as you need theirs.

much love. sheth.