goodbye blogspot!

Hello!

It's time for a blog change. I'm hoping that a change of scenery will inspire more writing -- we shall see!

Here's the scoop: alyssacbaker.wordpress.com

Thanks for reading!!

graduation weekend in santa barbara

Two weekends ago we celebrated the most recent Westmont alumnus in my family.

Pride is an understatement when it comes to describing how I feel about Kelsey graduating. I love the mess out of that girl and for a zillion reasons that I don't know how to articulate. I've realized as I've gotten older how much I treasure my two younger sisters as friends as well as role models -- birth order not really seeming as indicative of who is the wisest/most knowledgeable about things. Kelsey has become like an older sister to me over the years and I am so proud of what she has done at Westmont: the friendships she has made, the people she has touched with her smile and laugh, and the positivity and kindness that guides the way she lives her life.

And I sat next to Libby, my youngest sister, as we watched Kelsey graduate. And I'm so proud of her too -- making it through her first year of college and the friends she made, the choir she joined, the dorm life she participated in, the major she has embraced and taken on as her own, and the ways she is becoming independent and more confident.

I came away from the weekend thankful for two of the biggest gifts in my life -- my sisters. Words don't do justice to what the two of them mean to me.

Congrats to you, Kbakes!

the small as the big

There isn't a chapel talk that captures what we do on Sundays, or Tuesdays for that matter. The beauty, the messiness, the complicatedness, the discussions about how to organize potluck dinners and what to do about kids running around dumping bubble solution all over the paddle balls and "carritos".

I find myself immersed in a culture obsessed with big-ness and success and grandiose plans to change the world, and sometimes that makes me feel so small and insignificant.

I want to change the world, too. Believe me, I do. I want immigration reform to happen so badly, I want to be the tough lawyer fighting for human rights in Los Angeles or the history teacher who helps her students learn about the huge failures of our history and where we went wrong and what we can do to make it right. I want to be in the college alumni magazine of "50 Inspiring College Graduates Who Are Making A Difference!!"

But I'm learning that the difference isn't always from the CEOs and the executive board of directors and presidents.

The difference is the woman who paid for a mariachi band to play a mexican happy birthday party song for me at the park two weeks ago.

The difference is playing the Ellen De Generes heads up game in the park with kids who don't know the Madonna songs but give themselves the points anyway and who will always guess your age as somewhere between 45 and 52.

The difference is homemade pozole, shared together. A red velvet cake that couldn't stay glued together because I put too much cream cheese frosting. A table filled with rice, and beans, and tortillas, and homemade guacamole.

If I were to give the chapel talk about what a difference all of these small and seemingly insignificant things make, I would say this: the mariachi band showed me love in a different language, the heads up game gave me the gift of laughter and connectedness, the food shared together is a taste of the Kingdom and proximity to Jesus....and to me, it's all profound.

So, I cling to that profound-ness. As counter-cultural as it may seem -- I proclaim it as profound and meaningful even if the stories aren't told in the newspapers or chapels or newsrooms. I claim this truth that there is much sacredness in my life right now, specifically in that place called the park on the westside, and it's nothing close to being small.

easter selfies

these two.

i'm really, really, REALLY glad we're related.

some kind of faith reflection

they said i had to draw a line in the sand: in or out; biblical or unbiblical; all or nothing.

the words sting. something inside me aches.

i want to take this book with me to all places, let it breathe freedom and hope and love and peace over me and over everyone i meet. i want it to be a beacon of hospitality, without lines and labels and in or out.

my hands held this book as a little girl in sunday school who won the sword drills and memorized so many of its verses. who read it to herself, heard its words after dinner, sung its poems on Sundays.

on some days this book is held with shaking hands, hands that are angry, or frustrated, or weary. some days this book is held by a tired twenty-something getting out of bed twenty minutes late thinking about what she's going to wear.

this book has been held in the classroom -- in the debates and class discussions, the one on one meetings with professors, the quiet stillness around Coy Pond. the verses have been worded, the messages interpreted, the comfort spoken.

for me, this book has been a source of stress too -- it held tears and confused thoughts, scribbled verses written in journals with question marks and pleadings for clarity. it is beautiful, yes, but equally puzzling, sometimes terrifyingly puzzling to me.

i love this book, this B-I-B-L-E-yes-that's-the-book-for-me. i struggle with it, wrestle with the meanings and the contexts and the high callings and the stories it tells. i haven't studied it enough to make sense of levitical laws and why patriarchy lasted for so many years, i still skip over passages of the Old Testament when given the choice, and i've never read the full book of Revelation from beginning to end.

Sarah Bessey, in her work Jesus Feminist, says:

People want black and white answers, but Scripture is rainbow arch across a stormy sky...I want you to wrestle with the Bible. Do it. Wrestle until, Jacob-like, you walk with a limp ever after, and you receive the blessing of the Lord.

i like the idea that we're supposed to limp a little in this faith journey.

i don't want a fear based faith. i want one rooted in love -- love for self, love for others, love for this Jesus that gave everything up to be with me, with us. and in this love based faith, there's room for questions, room to interpret experiences, room for doubt and tears and loneliness, for triumph and joy -- it's all embraced, all understood, all valued.

Bessey says it again best:

Choose freedom. Choose the freedom of living loved, far from their debates and fence lines and name callings, and the belittling, divisive stereotypes. Extend the gift of freedom and grace, second chances, and more grace, just as you have received them.

i stand here, and i want to shout from the rooftops that this is what i choose: freedom of living loved. freedom to live loved: with this book in hand, as well as experiences and conversations and people-made-in-the-image-of-God manifestations of his Kingdom.

i choose freedom in the complex answers, the paradoxes and most difficult passages. i choose to read this book with eyes pointed towards love and justice and peace, and nothing less. i choose to live in the tension of wrestling and walking with a limp (and i write that knowing that it is hard, and sometimes so scary).

in choosing this, i leave the lines in the sand behind and i don't look back, i just run forward.

none of it goes to waste

Maybe the discovery happened during the years I spent working at a senior retirement community. Maybe after the many repeated conversations, answers to questions, looks of confusion and frustration...maybe that's when I started to fear forgetting.

Or maybe it's because of Latin America -- a semester there that had such a significant impact on me, so many relationships and stories that I didn't know how to fit into a less-than-fifty-pound suitcase or in a 60 minute coffee date with a friend. I knew I was going to forget some things, and that thought was a little terrifying. I journaled constantly -- and on one occasion when walking home by myself and considering the risk of getting robbed, decided to take my journal out of my purse in case it was stolen. Money seemed frivolous compared to the thoughts and words my journal held.

I came across my Nicaragua journal the other day and remembered something I hoped for -- I don't say prayed for because I don't know if I ever did actual pray for it. I would like to think I did but I hope for a lot of things that I don't bring to God, so I'm not going to give myself the benefit of the doubt on that one. I wrote that I wanted this experience to be a part of who I am.  I didn't want it to make me act in a certain way necessarily, but that it would influence the ways I think, how I relate to people, how I see differences and commonalities in which to connect. I wanted to remember the people and what they taught me, remember their laughter, their straight faces or blank stares. I wanted to remember those conversations.

And three years later...part of the fear is realized: I have forgotten parts of Nicaragua. I don't remember all the names. I don't remember all of the emotions, or the conversations that led to the tears or to the laughter or to the smiles. I don't remember each day's activities like I had wanted to.

But three years later...I think God answered the prayer that Nicaragua would be a part of who I am. Maybe I don't remember every conversation, every song we sang in Spanish, every miscommunication. But it's because of Nicaragua that I spent time last week researching immigration reform, it's because of Nicaragua that I view the nature of immigration and deportation differently. It's because of 10 days there and three months living abroad that I want to speak Spanish and engage with a community that comes from a different culture than my own.

I'm thankful that three years later I know those conversations still matter and they're still informing the way I see the world and how I invest in the things I care about. I wish I could hold onto all of the details, but I'm realizing that's less important than letting the details do the work that they already do: shaping and paving the way ahead.

Latin America is only part of my life experiences (which is not a huge number considering I'm a twenty-something), but I hope and pray for the same result from other experiences in my life: how I grew up, my family, my education in California and Massachusetts, my work now in medical billing, the relationships I'm building here. I hope three years from now I can also reflect on how today's experiences shaped me for the future.

I fear forgetting, obviously. But I'm more committed to giving up that fear and allowing experiences to shape me into the kind of person I want to be. When my faith feels small, I cling to this kind of God: one who works in mysterious ways and is committed to his people and that nothing in his kingdom goes to waste -- even the little details like pick up truck rides on a starry-night and the way laughter came after stumbling through verb conjugations. I believe that none of it goes to waste.

a prayer (of sorts)

I want to live a faithful life.

I want a life of community, deep investment in relationships and people, learning new things and digging into new places and listening to stories.

Sometimes in the midst of that I get discouraged by what I am giving up in this pursuit of a faithful life. 

I'm giving up simple answers, planned itineraries, 

I'm letting go of certain expectations,

I'm hoping and trusting that desires and dreams will be answered -- but giving up the idea that they'll happen in any of the ways I have envisioned they would.

I forget, or don’t always acknowledge that there is sacrifice, and there is the constant nagging of comparison towards others’ whose faithful lives look dramatically different from my own. And sometimes I feel like I’m caught in a race going the slow and steady pace while others are on the sprint course.

The thing is, deep down I know we’re all on a similar course – even if it doesn’t feel that way.

I wonder..

What is a faithful life? What does it look like?

"Your decrees have been the theme of my songs wherever I have lived.

I reflect at night on who you are, O Lord; therefore, I obey your instructions. 

This is how I spend my life: obeying your commandments.

Lord, you are mine!

I promise to obey your words!

With all my heart I want your blessings. Be merciful as you promised.

I pondered the direction of my life, and I turned to follow your laws"

[Psalm 119:54-9]

The laws, I remember, are good. The laws are the Sermon on the Mount, the touching the bleeding woman, the resurrection that happened one Sunday morning, the breaking bread and drinking wine together. 

And I want that for my life: for resurrection to happen, for community to be fostered, for healing to transform. 

Some days I need to remind myself of that -- and remind myself that I believe in a God who knows and does all those things and got ahold of my heart with his pursuing love and kindness. I must remember that when the trusting is difficult and the questions are complex and I'm disappointed in the unmet expectations.

This is how I spend my life: obeying your commandments

I'm grateful that obedience is creative -- it's expressed in the most mundane parts of life and the most exciting. I want a faithful life of creative obedience, colorful obedience, authentic obedience -- seen in all the different parts of my world.