Genesis

Here's the essay I wrote that I've told a few people about. So. here ya go.

My Foundation

            It may not be blatantly obvious, but I don’t wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t celebrate Mardi gras, I don’t know how to celebrate Kwanzaa, let alone spell it, and I can’t even tell Japanese from Chinese. My heritage is simply this: All of (white) Europe got together, had a little shindig, and I was thrown in there. For those who don’t know me, I’m English, German, Swedish, Norwegian, and a little French. My ancestors who came to America weren’t too set on keeping traditions, I think. The roots they established really play no role in my day-to-day life. To out about my heritage, or lack thereof, I had multiple discussions with Mema (pronounced like mee-maw), my maternal grandmother. She is the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, and probably the most influential person in my life thus far. Mema has helped shape me into the person I am today, but not without help. Though I’ve only been here for seventeen years (and some-odd days), I’ve faced my fair share of tragedies and successes. I will freely admit that I cry, I get upset, I’m a little stubborn sometimes, I like laughing until my stomach hurts, and I enjoy music too much to be healthy. Tragedies, successes, and character traits have only made my interest in music and “theology” more apparent. Through difficult times, I’ve found one answer to every question I’ve ever wanted to ask. Many would label me as “religious” or “spiritual,” whereas I would describe myself as passionately in love with a God who has changed my life. What’s happened and what I’ve been born with may not equally contribute to the composition of who I am, but they’re the very foundation of my being.

             Every stable, long-lasting building is built on a strong foundation. I may not know a lot about buildings, but I know that in the same way, families must be built on values, morals, and a connection that very few outsiders can understand. I never knew much about my great-grandparents on either side of my family, and I’m not really close to most of my uncles or aunts. Sure, they’re all awesome people have supported and encouraged me, but none of them have had nearly as much impact in my life as Mema has. I should say “did,” because she passed away on June 28, 2010. As my mom called me, voice trembling, telling me the news, I sat there, bewildered. Mema fought terminal colon cancer for seven years. She endured numerous rounds of chemotherapy, experienced discomfort and pain, yet she never complained. She’s the type of person who will fight until the bitter end, but accept any change as God shapes her life according to His perfection. I hate that I still use present tense when describing her, but I know she’s still alive—she’s within every single person that ever knew her. She lived to make others’ lives easier, or at least more enjoyable. While she was alive, people could immediately sense her compassion and kindness. She may not have knowingly done so, but her life completely encompassed Matthew 5:39-42—“someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.” She only considered others’ wants and needs, thinking of herself last. At her funeral, dozens of people showed up on a hot Sunday afternoon, dressed brightly and looking almost jovial. She wanted to be celebrated on a Sunday afternoon, so her friends could go to church, then out to lunch, then back to church for her memorial. They didn’t show up to mourn a life lost, but celebrate a destiny finally finished. Sure, my family and I really miss my mema, and I get tears in my eyes just thinking about her, but I had (and still have) a peace about her leaving. Somehow, I hardly cried at her memorial. She never did care much for people glorifying her, though she deserves it, and I never saw her fear death. After facing cancer for such a long time, it was like reaching the end of a novel. It was an end that had to be faced eventually, and instead of running from it, she embraced it as a new beginning—the beginning of eternity. During my visit to Georgia, where she lived, I went through her belongings with my aunt and Mom. The things I took were a few sweaters, music pins, a Talking Bubba doll, and a white rose from her memorial. I literally hid the Bubba doll from my cousins, because the eight year olds would take it only because it’s fun—that doll meant more to me than anybody could ever understand. Mema and I would sit for hours in her living room, giggling and talking back to Bubba. After, we’d go to the piano, and she’d play the “Fast Slow” game with my siblings and me, changing the tempo according to our dances and steps. I never really acknowledged her musical gifting, seeing as she and Papa (her husband and my grandfather) were voted “most musical” for their senior class of high school, she worked as a music teacher, and was an amazing pianist. After retiring, she was in the bell choir at her church, and always held a great respect for music. Though she never taught me how to play piano, or told me the difference between tempo and rhythm, she subtly encouraged me musically. My mema doesn’t share just a name with me (hers being Pauline Mae Robinson, mine being Leah Pauline Thomas), but a passion for music.

            To be honest, I haven’t been playing piano since I was three. I have no intentions of attending Julliard, or becoming a rock star, or ever being on American Idol. I don’t breathe out on the bass cleft and in on the treble. I do, however, appreciate music, and always have. Even now, when my mom pulls out one of her early 90’s Hillsong, Keith Green, or Maranatha Singers albums, memories of sitting in my car seat flood my mind. I listen to “Shout to the Lord” and realize that I never ACTUALLY knew the words, since I barely knew how to speak. Before this past year, I couldn’t recognize how much music is sewn into the very fibers of my being. I started doing musical theatre in fourth grade: I’ll admit, I was pretty good at it. Every year until 9^th grade I worked toward being the best triple threat possible—the ultimate singer, actress, and dancer that ever was and ever would be. I don’t know if I woke up one day to realize that memorizing monologues was equivalent to tearing out my fingernails, or pretending to be somebody else was similar to having multiple personalities, but I felt like this passion I had built myself around for five years had just left me. The direction of my “musical career” soon took a turn for the…different. The only microphone I had ever held was one to a karaoke machine—quite literally, I learned how to sing from doing karaoke. After this change of heart, I became involved in my church youth group’s band/choir. I didn’t pick up a microphone at first, but wedged myself between other kids and a group microphone. At one point, I was singled out and asked to actually sing into a microphone. From there, I leaped and bounded towards where I am now. At first I had my own microphone, then sang my own parts, then was invited to sing in the main service choir, along with studying in a music class, “Worship Leader 101.” Currently, I sing “point” (I’m given my own microphone and sing next to five trained adults) and on special occasions, am asked to lead a song…in front of the entire church. I’m not really one to brag on myself, especially in this aspect. I can’t really believe that in the past year, I’ve been given so much favor and blessing towards what I really want to pursue in life: music. There’s no reason for me to take credit in any talent I possess, any position I gain, or even any song I write. I have one true inspiration, a single source of life, a passionate love that keeps me going. Well, it’s not just something that keeps me going, but is the very core of my whole being and my purpose.

            When I began high school, I thought my life’s purpose would be theatre. Obviously, that didn’t work out. It was like I stopped chasing the thing I wanted most, and wondered why I was chasing it in the first place. Theatre was my only foundation, the thing I knew best, and what I clung to when my life fell apart. Without going into too much detail, my dad went from owning his own law firm and legal advice/Christian counsel local TV show to being debarred and left jobless. Not only that, but when my closest friends were talking about their new iPods, I was shrinking into the remnants of a once selfish, impulsive pre-teenage girl whose family couldn’t afford our house, let alone feckless wants that would be satisfied only to want again. Every part of my life was quickly ripping at the seams, and I was trying my best to hold everything together. After freshman year, the summer of 2008, I gave up completely. There was one day that I remember clearly, and I can confidently say that it was the lowest point of my life thus far. I had an argument with my dad in the early afternoon, but what it was about was irrelevant. My mom wasn’t living at home, things were on the skids, and I didn’t know what to do. For the record, when in doubt, I cry. Frustrated? I cry. Angry? I cry. Confused? Yeah, I cry. That afternoon, I experienced each of these emotions more than I knew was humanly possible. I ended up in my closet, laid out on the floor, crying harder than I had ever cried before. I was raised a Christian: I prayed every night before dinner, when I needed help on a test, or I felt like I was in some sort of danger. That day, I prayed, “God, if You’re out there, would You just hear me out for once? If You’re really there, why do I feel this way? Why would you let the apple of Your eye, Your child, the person You supposedly care about, experience such pain?” Though it happens in movies, God didn’t make my bed spontaneously combust. He didn’t send a meteorite crashing through my roof, or even send me a message in His booming voice. He stayed quiet for a little under two months. Then, like an entire orchestra coming in after what seems like an eternity of silence, I heard Him. I went to church camp, and was given a prophetic word. I was told by my pastor that I had bawled my eyes out in the dark, feeling completely alone. The two words I had cried were “Why me?”, I was ready to give up, and I had experienced the most doubt of my entire life. That night at camp, I had decided my purpose…I had no plans, there was no explanation, but whatever He told me to do, I would do. Looking back on this experience and how it shaped me into who I am, C.S. Lewis explains it best:

            Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks    in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.

I’ve been given an eternal perspective. God has allowed me to experience defeat in order to appreciate victory. He is building me into perfection, and I think that’s why I let things go so easily now. I forgive almost too easily, because I know what being forgiven feels like. He truly gave me peace about every occurrence in my life, especially the ones that made me want to cry my eyes out. I was given joy, and I think that’s why I am the way I am.
            God has consumed my life. I never knew until the last few years of her life, but He transformed Mema’s life, too. From the beginning, God sowed musical seeds into my life, knowing my calling in leading worship and music ministry. My mema truly listened to God, and fostered my talents and passions, though she may have not known it at the time. Her death has only made my outlook on life better. She taught me to live everyday to the fullest, to sacrifice for others what I wouldn’t expect for myself, and to pursue God’s plan for me with everything I am. I’ve learned that my life isn’t a beating to be endured, but a beautiful story, eloquently written by the best Author of all. My life has been no cake walk, but I wouldn’t change it for anything. Every tear shed, every word prayed, every note played, and every memory recalled has only built the foundation of who I am.