For the ones who helped me learn to breathe again.
I never expected this blog would be important to anyone. Not even to me.
It's been more than nine years since I started writing here; when all of this started, I just wanted a place to be angsty. I've mentioned before that I have chosen not to delete any of my old posts because it keeps me humble...but I also would not recommend traveling back there to find out what I am talking about. I realized last night when I was giving the web address to someone that I haven't talked about why I called this "I Am But Grass" in actual years. When I was in high school, Isaiah 40:8 stopped me in my tracks: "The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever." I wrote that verse in colored Sharpie on my bedroom wall after Nat and I painted our room, and my OCD brain fixated on the words enough that I was inspired to start writing under that title.
The eras of meaning behind I Am But Grass have been marked by significant events in my adolescence and early twenties. To start, consider the existential thinking of a 16-year-old writer with zero awareness of the real world, only knowledgeable in Bible trivia and I Love Lucy quotes. Oh how I relied on the words in this verse when friendship after friendship ended due to my inability to socialize healthily. So many lengthy journal entries on a public forum, full of references to the promise of a steady and faithful God; what I lacked in real world perspective, I made up for in adolescent faith.
Now think of a 19-year-old writing major filled with confusion when she realized just how much of her understanding of history and social constructs had been distorted by quiet bigotry. Honestly horrifying, my previous willingness to exclude based on religion or lifestyle; no matter the intention behind it, bigotry is bigotry. I don't think I thought of it at the time, but in hindsight, the meaning of that passage and this blog slowly began to shift to cover the marginalized and the mistreated people who came into my awareness. The fact that the word of our God stands forever applies to the commandment to love your neighbor as yourself, and it took the kindness of progressively thinking NWC classmates to show me how I had been choosing not to apply that commandment to every person I encountered.
For a time, the 21-year-old film enthusiast lost sight of the meaning behind I Am But Grass. Sure, the year I wrote weekly from dusty Wyoming cliffs and sun-kissed windows in the Learning Commons did shape me more clearly as a writer for that time, but it left much to be desired in the search for justice and love. This time period can be somewhat redeemed by the documentation of our TENTS: Something Built Together film project that spanned the summer before and both semesters of my 21st year. Our first and most sought-after goal with that project was to tell stories that represented people with unseen struggles. Looking at where the cast and crew of that project are in their lives now, I would love to see what we would do with such a passion if given the opportunity to do it over again. It would not surprise me if we had ten times the motivation to seek inclusive and compassionate storytelling.
I Am But Grass also carries the burden of a college graduate's loss of words...and limping faith. I look back at the 2016-2018 era with some level of mourning, if I'm being honest. My fear of speaking up when my views were shifting and my passions were in a smoldering pile of ashes still saddens me. On the other hand, that period of time also represents an extended held-in breath of air. In these moments of searching and asking quiet questions, I couldn't find anything or anyone to help me carry the weight of my cynicism and brokenness. Or rather, I didn't go looking very far to find relief. The word of our God may stand forever, but I was crawling in the opposite direction, dragging my bag of dissatisfaction with the modern church behind me. I didn't know how to breathe properly anymore, nor how to ask someone to help me come back.
GUESS WHAT. You probably have already guessed, but I'll tell you anyway. This latest era of I Am But Grass is my favorite one so far. I can't tell you how grateful I am for the ReNew family who keeps coming back here to read and then talk to me about my words later. I'm not entirely sure why they are here...for so long, I doubted that anyone wanted my words in the first place. To read the words of someone you hardly know and to get to know their heart through words is a risk that apparently some dear people in my life have chosen to take. When I started writing again after such a long period of silence, it was because I had finally found the people who reached out and held my hand, talking me through letting out that breath I had been holding for so long that I had to relearn how to breathe properly. They said (and continue to say over and over), "You are loved, you are safe, you are welcome." I can promise you I am crying as I write these particular words. If you have ever learned how to breathe again, you understand why.
On Tuesday, I got into a conversation with my small group about this blog. Someone asked me how the people from my childhood react to my words here. I couldn't tell you, honestly. Most of you who fit into that category have been absolutely silent this past year. The majority of the responses I have gotten have come from college friends and my current church family. And here's the thing: this era is all about finding the materials to build bridges between the people who taught me to think one way and the people who showed me the bigger picture. I'd say it is safe to assume that most of you reading these posts are part of the Church...and most of my words have been for you first, even if you haven't been listening. Or are you listening and I just can't hear your thoughts?
This era is all about the promises of a God Whose words stand forever. In 2019, these words have been telling me, "I love you, your identity is who I made you to be. Serve tirelessly, but find rest in Me. Love fearlessly, but find refuge in Me when that love isn't as safe as it should be.
To every single person who has been here since the angsty era...I love you. How did you make it this far? I barely did.
To the friends who kept coming back when I was first learning what I had missed...I treasure your unfailing kindness. The road to finding how to truly love like Jesus does would have been rockier without you.
To the faithful readers who stuck it out during my weekly public journals...bless your patient hearts. Without you, I wouldn't have made it through the panic attacks on the dorm room floor or the quiet questions by a camp fire in the cliffs of Haven on the Rock.
To the mostly unknown audience of my creative plateau era...thank you. We made it, it just took a while for me to realize that.
And to every single person who is still here after nearly nine months of gathering supplies for a bridge...won't you build with me? To reference the TENTS project...let's build a tent where everyone can be together for a while. Let's make this a safe place to live and love and learn from each other.
Thank you. Thank you so much for your love and kindness. Love you all.
It's been more than nine years since I started writing here; when all of this started, I just wanted a place to be angsty. I've mentioned before that I have chosen not to delete any of my old posts because it keeps me humble...but I also would not recommend traveling back there to find out what I am talking about. I realized last night when I was giving the web address to someone that I haven't talked about why I called this "I Am But Grass" in actual years. When I was in high school, Isaiah 40:8 stopped me in my tracks: "The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever." I wrote that verse in colored Sharpie on my bedroom wall after Nat and I painted our room, and my OCD brain fixated on the words enough that I was inspired to start writing under that title.
The eras of meaning behind I Am But Grass have been marked by significant events in my adolescence and early twenties. To start, consider the existential thinking of a 16-year-old writer with zero awareness of the real world, only knowledgeable in Bible trivia and I Love Lucy quotes. Oh how I relied on the words in this verse when friendship after friendship ended due to my inability to socialize healthily. So many lengthy journal entries on a public forum, full of references to the promise of a steady and faithful God; what I lacked in real world perspective, I made up for in adolescent faith.
Now think of a 19-year-old writing major filled with confusion when she realized just how much of her understanding of history and social constructs had been distorted by quiet bigotry. Honestly horrifying, my previous willingness to exclude based on religion or lifestyle; no matter the intention behind it, bigotry is bigotry. I don't think I thought of it at the time, but in hindsight, the meaning of that passage and this blog slowly began to shift to cover the marginalized and the mistreated people who came into my awareness. The fact that the word of our God stands forever applies to the commandment to love your neighbor as yourself, and it took the kindness of progressively thinking NWC classmates to show me how I had been choosing not to apply that commandment to every person I encountered.
For a time, the 21-year-old film enthusiast lost sight of the meaning behind I Am But Grass. Sure, the year I wrote weekly from dusty Wyoming cliffs and sun-kissed windows in the Learning Commons did shape me more clearly as a writer for that time, but it left much to be desired in the search for justice and love. This time period can be somewhat redeemed by the documentation of our TENTS: Something Built Together film project that spanned the summer before and both semesters of my 21st year. Our first and most sought-after goal with that project was to tell stories that represented people with unseen struggles. Looking at where the cast and crew of that project are in their lives now, I would love to see what we would do with such a passion if given the opportunity to do it over again. It would not surprise me if we had ten times the motivation to seek inclusive and compassionate storytelling.
I Am But Grass also carries the burden of a college graduate's loss of words...and limping faith. I look back at the 2016-2018 era with some level of mourning, if I'm being honest. My fear of speaking up when my views were shifting and my passions were in a smoldering pile of ashes still saddens me. On the other hand, that period of time also represents an extended held-in breath of air. In these moments of searching and asking quiet questions, I couldn't find anything or anyone to help me carry the weight of my cynicism and brokenness. Or rather, I didn't go looking very far to find relief. The word of our God may stand forever, but I was crawling in the opposite direction, dragging my bag of dissatisfaction with the modern church behind me. I didn't know how to breathe properly anymore, nor how to ask someone to help me come back.
GUESS WHAT. You probably have already guessed, but I'll tell you anyway. This latest era of I Am But Grass is my favorite one so far. I can't tell you how grateful I am for the ReNew family who keeps coming back here to read and then talk to me about my words later. I'm not entirely sure why they are here...for so long, I doubted that anyone wanted my words in the first place. To read the words of someone you hardly know and to get to know their heart through words is a risk that apparently some dear people in my life have chosen to take. When I started writing again after such a long period of silence, it was because I had finally found the people who reached out and held my hand, talking me through letting out that breath I had been holding for so long that I had to relearn how to breathe properly. They said (and continue to say over and over), "You are loved, you are safe, you are welcome." I can promise you I am crying as I write these particular words. If you have ever learned how to breathe again, you understand why.
On Tuesday, I got into a conversation with my small group about this blog. Someone asked me how the people from my childhood react to my words here. I couldn't tell you, honestly. Most of you who fit into that category have been absolutely silent this past year. The majority of the responses I have gotten have come from college friends and my current church family. And here's the thing: this era is all about finding the materials to build bridges between the people who taught me to think one way and the people who showed me the bigger picture. I'd say it is safe to assume that most of you reading these posts are part of the Church...and most of my words have been for you first, even if you haven't been listening. Or are you listening and I just can't hear your thoughts?
This era is all about the promises of a God Whose words stand forever. In 2019, these words have been telling me, "I love you, your identity is who I made you to be. Serve tirelessly, but find rest in Me. Love fearlessly, but find refuge in Me when that love isn't as safe as it should be.
To every single person who has been here since the angsty era...I love you. How did you make it this far? I barely did.
To the friends who kept coming back when I was first learning what I had missed...I treasure your unfailing kindness. The road to finding how to truly love like Jesus does would have been rockier without you.
To the faithful readers who stuck it out during my weekly public journals...bless your patient hearts. Without you, I wouldn't have made it through the panic attacks on the dorm room floor or the quiet questions by a camp fire in the cliffs of Haven on the Rock.
To the mostly unknown audience of my creative plateau era...thank you. We made it, it just took a while for me to realize that.
And to every single person who is still here after nearly nine months of gathering supplies for a bridge...won't you build with me? To reference the TENTS project...let's build a tent where everyone can be together for a while. Let's make this a safe place to live and love and learn from each other.
Thank you. Thank you so much for your love and kindness. Love you all.
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