fit (noun) - the particular way in which something fits around something else

I’ve felt out of place here in Schenectady since we got here roughly three weeks ago, and although life is making little nano-steps toward normalcy, it is probably the slowest adjustment process I’ve experienced. A small and somewhat humorous example of this is last Saturday night, when Eric and I were deciding where we should go to church the next morning. The first question we faced was this: should we go to a Lutheran church, or Reformed? We decided on the latter, as last week’s Sunday morning adventure took us to a subdued Lutheran congregation in a hot, un-air conditioned sanctuary. (Not that air conditioning is a deciding factor by any means when looking for a church… but we decided to keep looking anyway.)

In many areas of the country, finding a reformed church can be hard, as RCA churches can be few and far between. Yet ironically enough, Eric and I moved out of one cluster of Dutch people only to plop into another. It’s definitely not Holland, with polite little churches on every corner and prim, pretty tulips lining the streets… but there are windmills on some of the street signs here, and the pastor of the church we decided to visit last Sunday was a native of Kalamazoo, MI. He’d also gone to seminary at Western, and we figured we’d have some good conversations starters if we went to his church, as Holland was (literally) common ground for us. But we must have missed something while we were scouring the website, because when we showed up to the church, we were the only people under 60. (Not to mention the only people NOT wearing pastel: I was in deep blue, Eric in bright orange!!!)

Of course, as is typical of outgoing Dutch people, half the congregation had introduced themselves to us before the service started, and the other half did so afterwards during the time of fellowship. We met some sweet old ladies and their wrinkled husbands, and we did get to talk of Holland for a while with the pastor. But the consensus, as we drove out of the parking lot, was that though this was a very nice church, we were not old enough (or pastel enough!) for this to be home.

Which, as I said, is how I feel in general in Schenectady: out of place and not at home. When I am in a particularly morose and melodramatic mood, I imagine that this town is to me what Paul’s mysterious “thorn in the flesh” was to him. I imagine that I am somehow like the tortured, beautiful writer of so many epistles, plagued by a misery invisible to the world but acutely sharp and vivid to me.

Gosh. What a dork. Moving to this shriveled, sour town was a decision I made, not the “messenger of Satan” that Paul describes. And so I tell myself, “Kate, you have no thorn. Stop moping. Get a grip and pull yourself together.”

But then I think about what comes after Paul’s mention of his particular agony: his confession of God’s love for him. This strength “made perfect in weakness” is God wanting to blow Paul’s mind with His wholeness and beauty. It’s not that He makes us miserable to make himself look good (because the misery isn’t his, remember, it’s that messenger from the bad guys). It’s just that we can see it better when we are desperate for something good. Like I am here.

So maybe I’m doing the wrong thing when I try to ignore this stupid ache I get when I think about living in Schenectady and not in Holland, or Appleton. Maybe I shouldn’t just try to pretend I’m perfectly happy. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do not like this town. I don’t belong here any more than I did with the pastels and wrinkles of the church we went to last Sunday.

But (and I think this “but” is important) I love being married to Eric. Sure, I have no life… except the opportunity to write to my heart’s content. I’m stuck in a hotel room… but it’s free, and I’m not here forever. I have no job… but I also have no monetary worries, thanks to a husband who is working (AND I have an interview next week!!!)

I’m weak… but at the same time strong.

This “but” that keeps showing up is the word that shifts the focus from the thorn to God’s explosive majesty. It is the key to seeing an inconceivable love; a strength somehow made perfect in weakness.

Wow.

That’s incredible.

It’s crazy, too, because I never saw God quite from this perspective before. I never would have WITHOUT Schenectady. And if I can continue to look to where the thorn points instead of only at the thorn, my vision widens, expanding to a scope beyond that of my own little misery. Like Paul’s mysterious thorn, my unhappiness becomes a vessel for God’s majesty to fill and overflow.

In my head, the image that goes along with this is a bucket. Paul is this nice, full, bright plastic pail, happy with God in his life. Then the bad guys come along with their “messenger from Satan” (this thorn thing, right?) and they stab it into the bucket. Out goes the water… but then God is there, pouring His love back into Paul from an endless supply. So it never gets empty, and God is glorified because his immeasurable splendor and benevolence are just that much more obvious.

And, when you put it that way, I guess that I’m okay with living in this town. I’ll try to be a bucket. I’ll try to let my mind be blown by God’s overwhelming goodness… the goodness that’s here in Schenectady. 

"And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure. For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me. And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong." (2 Cor. 12:7-10)

adjust (verb) - to alter or move something slightly in order to achieve the desired fit, appearance, or result.

I got a postcard today from one of the most wonderful  people you could ever know, and now I can’t decide what to do with it. First, I stuck it on the wall by Eric’s desktop, but when I went into the kitchen to make lunch, I couldn’t see it anymore. I moved it to the refrigerator, and that worked until I sat down on the couch: from there, all I could see were cupboards. So then I tried moving it to the table next to the bed, which is right across from the couch, and that was great… except that the postcard was so tired from its long journey across half of the U.S. that it just kept sliding down flat on the tabletop, and no amount of delicate positioning by me was going to make it stay up. (Here is the postcard, btw… it's Lake Michigan!)

I’m worried that this all makes me sound like a lunatic, and I promise you I am not. The walls of this hotel are just very dull, and the picture on the front of the postcard is a spot of brilliant color and memory for this room. And believe me, this place needs it: all it has is shallow finery and empty décor.  

Well… wait.

It’s not completely fair for me to say that.

There is a small, well-loved pink stuffed dog on one of the pillows on the bed. That’s good.

There are some daisies (picked from a garden somewhere on the campus of Albany-SUNY) sitting in a glass on the counter. Also good, despite the somewhat questionable mode of their arrival.

There are some speakers on a desk, and a subwoofer under it. Good, again.

 Not empty. Full. Not shallow. Deep.

Full, because they are pieces of our life, and we are living it to the best of the flimsy knowledge and shaky ability of a new adam and eve. And deep, because there is much more to them than a curious housekeeper would ever guess.

Behind the pink dog is family, tradition, and laughter. The glass holds, not only daisies, but also thoughts of twenty-one summers. The speakers don't just play music, they play memories.

And my little postcard? It’s hope. It is something to remind me to look at the pieces of my life the way God looked at the world when it was new.

Some things are empty. Some things are shallow.

But some things are good, too.

Beauty in the Broken-  ness Keep the pieces. Treasure them  when the sun catches untarnished spots, when the sun sparkles them. Live them- they are yours, they are shaped by Light- their edges keen and earnest, their corners cracked by Love.