On Love and Brokenness

On Love and Brokenness

Thoughts by Ryan Billington

February, 2010

What is it—miracle or devil—that causes us to believe in love?  What is it—miracle or devil—that begs inside of us to believe in hope?  What is it—miracle or devil—that compels us to believe that good wins out?

For though love is true, we know it is not life that loves.  Nature is chance, and life begets neither compassion nor pardon for the living.  And we love not life, for we see the tragedy and injustice that life brings both to the good and the wicked, that time and chance really do happen to us all.  No, it is not life we love, but the people that life brings our way.  And because of these two undeniable truths that live etched in our veins, there lives—in our hearts—another.  This third truth we live, breathe, see, and feel, yet it struggles to find expression.  Often the greatest truths are those beyond the description of mere letters.  Truths of light.  Truths of black.  And this third truth is an enigma wreathed in both—light shadowed by darkness.  The best bound to the broken.

Love is not happiness.  Love does not win.  The way of love is better, it’s path fuller.  But the choice to love is a choice to be broken.

Deep inside the inner soul of humanity lives a knowing, a feeling that something about the human condition is broken.  Tragic.  Melancholic.  The human story is the search—giving, receiving, experiencing—love.  And love… love is a journey—a journey that contains the best, the fullness, the essence of life itself.  Yet it is a path that whispers of an ache.

For though love is the most powerful of forces, love is a gift.  A choice risked to be given, a risk chosen to be received.  And some of those dearest to us will not take it.

True life is inseparable from love, for by choosing one, we find it requires the other.  The brokenness of life, the broken quality that yields the tragic nature of the human existence is simply this—if we love, we will be broken.  And from this knowledge comes one of the most beautiful decisions any could make:  to love despite the risk, despite the coming heart break.  There is beauty in such a decision… beauty in such pain…

The beauty of love is shown in suffering.

Life of a Student Missionary

Life of a student missionary

By Ryan Billington

Written in November, 2009

            “I am a student missionary.”  A phrase with a thousand different meanings to a thousand different people.  Missionary… personally, I think the word sounds a bit detached from the modern world, as if it jumped into the 21^st century out of the pages of a dusty old book from the 1800s and walks around today, towing with it connotations of responsibility, and a feeling that the words “revival”, “tent meeting”, and “evangelistic series” should soon follow.  But that’s just me.

For most students, the word is very much a mystery, an enigmatic plane ticket to unknown opportunities far away from College Place and onion fields, and far away from home.  And for the hundreds and hundreds of students that have grasped that ticket to the far, far away, it is memories of those long months that have forever shaped who they are.

            Many imagine the exotic—doing great works, the awe of a new place, people, or culture; it’s easy for the mind to cling to expectations of something new, awesome, and transcendent on the other side of the world.  And yes—it does seem incredibly new…  Yet despite the 6-inch praying mantis on my porch, dodging the 3-foot bunch of bananas hanging from my ceiling, and the jungle threatening to burst upon the school campus, it seems the person experiencing these things is still me.  Myself.  Here.  In Pohnpei.  I went half way around the world for something transcendent, yet here I am—with the same favorite foods, bad habits, joys, relationship difficulties, and self-addiction.  Apparently, who you are follows you around the world.  It’s difficult to escape from yourself.

Though my surroundings keep hinting that I am in a completely different world, the sledgehammer blow must be awarded to the change in what I’m supposed to do.  I haven’t turned in any assignments in the last four months, or dodged a car while crossing College Avenue, or worried about making enough money to pay for next quarter, or wondered if I have enough time to make it through the cafeteria line and finish the assignment for my one o’clock.  Apparently, teaching as an SM comes with different responsibilities, expectations, and very different struggles. 

A quick opinion based off four short months of experience—I think teaching is job loaded with the potential for struggle.  I struggle to cover material, to teach that material well, to decipher a way to make that material interesting for thirty-some different viewpoints, to find healthy expectations for students’ performance and ability to do work, and to control a classroom of 30 high school students only slightly younger than me so that learning might triumph over chaos.  I struggle to inspire a desire to learn, to connect personally with these kids of mine, to inspire hopes and dreams, to show them a God who breathes and wears contacts… it’s a very intimidating experience to be handed the attention of a hundred different teenagers for nine months.  The sobriety of being entrusted with such responsibility beyond the betterment of yourself hits you fast.  It’s as if I suddenly, and unwillingly, have been pushed into the selfless lifestyle Jesus calls us to.  My job, my responsibilities, my struggles are all supposed to be about bettering a hundred high school students for nine months.

I think selfless struggle is the pixie dust of the SM experience.  It’s the potion that, should I chose to drink it, could cause this year to have such a huge effect on who I am or may become.  A wise person once said that our greatest struggles often become the cornerstones of meaning in our later lives.  But I think that is only true if we’re struggling to better someone other than ourselves, that it’s only true if my energy is being deposited into something from which I cannot expect any sort of return.  I put hours of effort into lessons, lectures, graded papers, and class materials, hoping that my students might choose to benefit from what I hope to give them.  But I have no power to force them to choose to benefit from my work, or to see my effort to help them, or to see my hopes for their friendship.  The choice is theirs.  Its like one of those blue mail drop boxes… once I drop a letter in, I have yet to find how I can force the drop box to give it—or anything—back. 

A guy named Rob Bell says that “Love is a giving up of power.”  Perhaps that explains why the SM experience has wrapped—somewhere inside of it—insight into the mystery of why love and service are so connected, of how Jesus lived a life of such selfless service.  It’s really hard to continue pouring your life and self into something you don’t love. 

Perhaps the mystery of selfless service, of humbly handing out pieces of yourself because of a desire to better others, contains insight into what a God with contacts might look like. 

Of the vulnerability, investment, and risk of such a God…

Of the vulnerability of relationship…

Of the hurting power we hand to those we love…

Of the ability of the human heart to ache…

Of the brokenness of humanity… 

Of why selfishness is so safe… 

And of why selfless struggle carries such an unnervingly large power to change us.  

Disconnect

Disconnect

12/19/07

By Ryan Billington

            There is a disconnect in life—a gap between the lives we envision ourselves living and how that vision is played out on the canvas of reality.  We, despite towering expenses of energy and effort, are not what we try to be.  This principle proves true for all, save a very few odd exceptions.  Mentally, physically, socially, relationally—we are not, have not, do not, and can not do or be what we desire.  From these inadequacies come elements fundamental to humanity:  achievement, failure, desire for self-improvement, disappointment—even depression, the ultimate mental struggle with darkness, doubt, and failure. 

The frame of disconnect that I am referring to, however, is the social facet of this almost universal truth.  So often the portrayal of ourselves—through the avenues of gesture, word, and deed—that we instinctively, as if by default, display is not set by what we ourselves see as admirable and good.  Instead, it is set by social “requirements”—expectations set in the mind of us, the responders, that produce such stereotypical action if only because such action is safe, tried, proven.  Perhaps for some, confidence is lacking, particularly in the mental and communicative abilities to comprehend, process, and respond in a desired fashion.  I find myself aboard that boat quite often.  A fear of silence—of time between the message and the response—seems to dominate actions.  Or perhaps a desire to display particular admirable and desirable personal characteristics changes the way we act around the unfamiliar and ever changing social setting.  This assumption explains the fear and anxiety felt in the unchartered social setting. 

But why?  Why is there a gap between who we are and whom we display?  An individual with an extraordinary array of interesting ideas, talents, and skills is cornered into silence and must fight to break free of the very real and present chains that create tension and restrain a natural way of interacting.  And why is this so?  Simply because the individual is around a large group of his fellow mankind.  I believe that inside the soul of each individual is a most fundamental and basest of fears—the fear of being alone.  Rejection, dislike—the fear of being unwanted and undesired has touched every soul that has set foot on this planet.  Why is that interesting individual intimidated into silence?  Because this fear is waiting—waiting for justification, for proof that the ghosts and whispering doubts of his soul are correct and true.

And so we become not ourselves, but cardboard cutouts that seek to display what we “truly are.”  I have a desire:  to be me—wherever, whenever, why ever.  To be free from walls I build in my mind that funnel social behavior into something determined by bandwagon fallacy to be acceptable; to be perfectly alright with the momentary portrayal of me to seem strange—not in a creepy or disturbing or unhealthy way, but just to be honestly me.  This is the climax of personal security.  Social boundaries and boarders are essential to life.  Insulting, offending, and disturbing others is not acceptable or healthy.  But being true to that unique originality that rests inside the hidden corners of each face and soul is a mountaintop for personal maturity.  However, I do know a mountain guide:  an excitement and willingness to explore and justify ideas outside our own way of thinking, the only safeguard to keep a mind at the mountain’s peak instead of a crevasse.

A Uniform Desire—Lost in Snow

By Ryan Billington

Continuation February 9, 2007 – Final Form November 19, 2007

A uniform desire that scampers ‘neath the skin

A search, a dream, a myth, a lie

This fallen race been given

Discerning and revealing, acquiring much in life

Sophistication and success

Dreams carried through the strife

Going on in dreamed existence till that fatal blow

Betrayed, naïve trust wounded deep

Six feet beneath the snow

What were ideals held close in youth now the planks enclose

A beauty lost to life’s cruel cold

A casualty of foes

Murdered all held close and true the world reformed in ice

Cold and hard the world discovered

Ideals would not suffice

Circumstance reshaping self, morals gone astray

Refracted beams through broken glass

The life light bent away

Displaced in darkened haze to walk, a memory scarring deep

Recompense eluding, forms

This debtor in deceit

Pleasure devised through willed illusion o’er years that past has claimed—

Attempted quench of a soul devoid;

Still yearning core remains

Antithesis of life played out, blackened winter white

Fashioned by a Master’s hands

To scar with iron spite

Choose of life, of Christ, oh soul, while time there still remains

Remember love that welcomes dear

A child seen unchanged

Tragedy of existence shown—formed for God to be

Master ‘hind this puppet’s skin—

Adrift away from Thee

Lost life lived in darkened past, is accumulation gain?

Knowledge not wisdom, wealth not worth

A youthful vision slain

Set upon the edge of life, viewing all the cost

Success, a wisp blown ‘way by years

Alone, true innocence lost

My Brother

Ryan Billington

5-8-07

Parables of Jesus

Good Samaritan Story

            Once upon a time in a city far away, my older brother, Dustin, and I attended the prestigious church grade school of Lake City Junior Academy.  Dustin and I had been close for as long as I could remember and even before, shown through photographs and parent-directed films of our youth.  My memories begin to dot the horizon of my past around the year I was in first grade.  At this time, my family recognized that I had diabetes, and our lives were forever changed.  Because of her fear and her desire to watch over me with this new and frightening disease, my mom decided to home school my brother and I my second grade year.  It turned out quite well, and my brother and I had more free time than ever before.  These days were filled with Legos, friends, special forts, gardening, and 2^nd grade Olympic games of street hockey of the youngest versus the oldest brothers. 

            The year past quickly, without many problems from my disease, so my parents decided to send us back to our local church school of Lake City Junior Academy.  The transition was painful and traumatic for me.  All my friends and found new ones, and I found myself at an odd place floating between groups of 8 to 12 year olds, looking for a niche.  The adjustment continued in a agonizingly slow way, dragging out over the next 4 years of school.  Despite the closeness that I had with my parents, home life deteriorated, and I found an explosive temper that lived inside me that lashed at those closest and most vital to my life.  God seemed distant, an object we learned of in school and in church, of who I new much of but did not actually know, a frightening enigma that determined my eternal destiny.  Everywhere I went, problems arose and it didn’t take long for me to find the common variable of all the catastrophes—I created problems.  Fortunately, I had many talents and gifts, and a mindset beyond my years that was forced upon me by my disease.  These and my family assured me of my value and that I could only attempt to live as best I could.  It was in this turmoil that this story takes place.

            It was a wintry spring day.  My brother and I had to stay awhile after school because my mom was working on some project or program.  Most of my friends had already been picked up, so there were only “big kids” around on the playground.  I didn’t know what to do, so I stuck with my brother.  Several the other upper graders were friends or acquaintances of Dustin, who was a few years younger than them.  I think they came over to ask if he wanted to play a game, or shoot some hoops.  They began to make a few playful jabs at me, wondering what I was doing and commenting how I didn’t have the skill or age to be able to play with them.  I remember feeling quite embarrassed and lost, wondering what I would do and how long I would have to be alone before my mom could take us home.  These thoughts were interrupted by the voice of my older brother, who offered some solution, said that I was his brother, and that I could play with them.  I can’t remember any details after that, such as what game we played, or even if we played.  It really didn’t matter.

            It’s been many years and most of my memories are faint.  But that day has always stood out.  I can’t remember the weather, the date, or even what grade I was in.  All I remember is the worth instilled upon me by my brother.  I was his little brother, and he claimed me regardless of how good I was, or what the bigger, “cooler” kids said.  That claim of acceptance and companionship meant the world to me.

A Crucifix

A Crucifix

By Ryan Billington

April, 2007

Introduction:

            “Without question, this is the great mystery of our faith:

                        Christ appeared in the flesh

                           And was shown to be righteous by the Spirit

                        He was seen by angels

                           And was announced to the nations.

                        He was believed on in the world…”

                                    - 1 Timothy 3:16

            The word became flesh, and made his dwelling among us… my insight into these words wavers with the wind.  At times I wonder at them, in awe of such a being and such reckless, stupid love.  He makes me laugh, and lights me up inside.  Then a few weeks later I see them, and the felten face of Jesus appears before me, like a cereal box cutout.  No emotion, no thankfulness.  I wonder about my connection with Him, and question His will and guidance in my life.  No, no; I don’t question God.  I question myself…

What am I doing?  What happened to the me that rolled out of bed in the morning for God?  Where is the next step in the ladder?  Must we remain at this impasse? 

A crucifix was made for me—but was stolen by a friend

Who labor much, who loved and lost

Whose life for me did end

Two rough sticks, a wooden cross; why reject pure light for me?

For now I hold these dirty sticks

A tortured love from thee

I’ve hidden it, I’ve forgotten it, but more I’ve rejected You—

The hands that felt the taste of steel

For my chance at life renewed

But no, not yet; I can’t take you—for people, pleasure, pride

A search I’m on to find the point

Of life on sinful side

Wasting ‘way, still I seek the scars you took for me

To find meaning in your death for love

Upon that wooden tree

Stumbling on, though cuts of Time who deals such fatal blows

My control is gone, my mind confused

A soul that’s dying slow

Doubt surrounds and failures mount, Oh God, give me a sign

For though I say that I am Yours

I doubt that Thou art mine

Oh, that I’d be only Yours, of one and steady mind

To live and choose of Thee, my Friend

To breathe through lungs of Thine

And still my choices lingers here, set for all see

You forsook heaven, eternal God

For mere chance to welcome me

Oh God, my Father, save me from my sin

That ere I see those nails and tree

I live to fish for men

Ode to a Mother

Ode to a Mother

By Your Youngest

To my mom on this day of celebration and joy

Come these thoughts of rememberance from your youngest boy

Looking back on my life, quite awestruck to see

Your self-giving heart that cherished we three

From diapers to cleaning to girls’ bouquets

To our special traditions that last to this day

Fondue, my own stocking, birthday morning surprises

Sacrifice for my joy way beyond any surmises

Remember David, Goliath, and that reclining blue chair?

You’ve shown us God’s ways, in rough times and in fair

Songs I still remember, no, I need not be afraid

For I know that my God (and sometimes worrisome mom) is watching always

Midnight low scares and convulsions galore

To trust God and let go, despite fears that you bore

Fighting a disease, our conflicts, and my anger troubles

Yet you saw a good heart, despite all of the rubble

You taught me to clean, almost cook, and not act like a slob

And why can’t I multi-task?  “Always finish the job.”

You taught me good listening, which I’m still not sure I do

But so many of my good things I attribute to you

From our sailboat adventures, to disease, to the future and what end

Your life has led me to live by trust for the Bestest of Friends

Homemade Bible games, angel dramas, and the Books of the Bible sing along

You’ve lived to incorporate Jesus in our lives by your daily life song

You’ve expanded my beliefs, character, and mind

 You’d give up your life so that my own I could find

You make such good food that marriage is scary

You’re a standard to which I measure those pretty college fairies

Now, we know you aren’t perfect though you sometimes try to be

Because I’m still neither Dustin nor Rufus- I am simply me

But you have a heart of pure gold, and that’s hard to ignore

For no matter the outside, the insides matter more

A mom interested in me, my life, friends, and thoughts

Is worth more than the gold over which any man ever fought

How can I sum, Mom, what you mean to me?

For the words I would need are more vast than the sea

I could write for pages, beyond a single pen and its ink

For they couldn’t begin to scratch all of you that I think

To sum it all into one, I wish you know this be true

That all I could want in a mother, I have found in you

Tombstones

Tombstones

By Ryan Billington

Sometime between 2006 and 2007

I don’t know how I got here.

Covered with cuts and bruises;

My left arm is numb and my head is throbbing.

I find myself in the bottom of a crevasse.

Something is behind me—I have to get out.

Running frantically, trying to escape this doom.

Emotions rush through me like riptides, creating a storm inside—

Unpredictable currents with no purpose or direction,

Blowing, tossing the small paper boat of my sanity like chafe in the wind.

On an impulse, I rush at the canyon wall

Grabbing at sticks and sand,

Trying to pull myself out of this prison.

But the lock holds firm.

The sand melts into emptiness, and the sticks are transformed into loose briars

That only tear at my hands.

Falling… falling yet again.

The impact sends my mind further into delirium.

Panic furthers its grip on me;

I can feel the crack running down my mind—

Reason is being fought by Panic.

I am fighting a loosing battle; I am being taken over.

What will happen when my desire shrivels to the nothingness that surrounds me?

I’ll fade away—

Becoming part of this desolate wasteland,

Melting away into the sand.

Every path I stumble up ends in another bruise, another knock to my reeling mind

Every rock and briar that I grasp collapses.

Is this it?  Will I simply fade away?

I can find no escape,

Desperately trying to hold onto the little life I have left.

Another desperate lunge, another failure.

My senses are spinning

I try to stand but instead sink to battered knees.

It’s playing with my emotions:

Panic, anger, fear

Emptiness, loneliness.

We cannot both survive this.

I can’t escape; I can’t run away.

I’ve finally found myself in the corner I’ve seen coming in the worst of my nightmares.

But they used to be only nightmares—

Then, I could wake up.

Now, I can’t.

Will I ever wake up again?

As myself?

Will it leave me?  Will I become a shell?

Without feeling, emotion, intellect, personality—

Melting into the sand of mediocrity so well that I shall simply disappear.

Fatalism—I loathe the very word.

There is always hope, but I cannot find it.

I cannot get out.

I am stuck and loosing my mind as my emotions are played with like I am some sort of toy.

Life is beautiful—

But living a deadness is like living in hell:

Seeing but never being able to create, to form, to have;

Tasting warmth to know the bitter cold;

Seeing a glimpse of the sun so that I may fathom the complete blackness in which I’ve lost my way.

God can pierce this darkness, but the damage has been done—

The scars will remain.

I must do something to escape from this crevasse

But I am forced to do nothing.

Only to sit and watch, helpless in this awful reality of the garbage that surrounds my cage.

Instead, we walk around this graveyard, this crevasse

And analyze, critique.

Why do we choose to stay here instead of running to the meadow that is over the hill?

No.

We stay and analyze the tombstones…