the haberkerns

Posted on Tuesday November 8th 2011 at 02:04pm.

I recently read an interesting book. The title is vague—something about a thousand pieces and a million miles—and is really not the point. The latest thought piece by Donald Miller was a timely prompting to consider my life as a story. A good book, a good movie, a good story includes an intriguing plot with conflict and tension. But, as Miller points out, millions of Americans (can I skip the inference and go ahead and insert “American Christians” here?) live very non-confrontational lives void of tension. He’s not promoting an attack on a roommate or spouse fueled by post-teenage angst. Reality TV has a monopoly on that nonsense. What makes a good story, Miller says, is when a character (hey, that’s you!) is required to overcome adversity. Imagine yourself comfy on your favorite chair. You’re watching a movie, any movie. You get acquainted with the main characters from the start by eavesdropping on his or her life. You learn their desires—that guy they long for through the window of their fancy New York office, or the Holy Grail they exchange their professor gig for to don a leather jacket and tiptoe behind tribal chiefs ripping the hearts out of terrified prisoners. In the first twenty minutes, the plot is peachy (ish). You know what the character wants, what you really want. And then things take a little turn. The situation gets sticky. The guy who makes you twitterpated is inconveniently marrying your best friend. The bloodthirsty tribal chief captures the woman you pretend you don’t love but who is actually kind of your girlfriend. Conflict. Characters in books and films chase their conflict. They face it head on. And ultimately, they overcome. Jenifer Lopez gets her trophy husband; Indiana Jones gets the grail and the girl. What kind of story would it be if the main character didn’t go for it? A bad story. And that, Donald Miller says, is what you and I live when we don’t face adversity, when we don’t overcome, when we let our mountains of desire blend into the scenery. I don’t want to live a bad story. I want to be scaling my mountain of desire, not watching it pass in my review window. Now imagine yourself before the brilliant, shining, glorious throne of God. You’re dead at this point (sorry), and God says tell me a story. Um, okay, you’re trying to think of a really great story about a friend who overcame a huge challenge and saved a bunch of starving kids in Africa. Tell me a story about you, he says. Well, you begin: I had the best clothes in high school. I worked really hard and finally got my dream car. Oh! I bought a house, and it was big enough for each of my children to sleep in their own room. And I won an award for selling the most Gillette razors anyone in the world has sold, ever.   Did you feed my sheep? He asks. One. Did you clothe the guy who was naked or smile at the girl with self-inflicted wounds? Did you really know me? Did you follow that little twinkling dream I buried inside your heart? Or listen to me whisper, “Do it. Go for it. I’ll take care of you?” * As we navigate our second year of marriage, Christian and I hope to make inspired decisions that shape our life together, living a story graced with passion and adventure. This summer, Christian came to me with something in his bucket list for the past four years: Seminary. Eh, That’s not really my idea, I thought, considering the creative writing nonprofit I’ve been building for the past year. He asked me to sit with the idea, offer it up in prayer, and see if my sentiment changed. I loved him enough to entertain the idea. A transformation happened from the moment I held that seemingly random proposal to go to seminary in my hands, stretching them out in offering, a small voice within me asking “Is this right?” Somewhere as the next several days fell from the calendar, my heart said yes. Spending three years wrapped between the pages of scripture uncovering the buried truths of biblical history is something I want, too. The very thought of quitting our life in Atlanta and moving to Boston for seminary makes every atom in my body shiver in excitement. But going to seminary isn’t actually a haphazard decision to incite some semblance of adventure in our life together. We’d been pursuing that all year with an interview for a motion graphics firm in Denmark, rummaging for jobs in New York and LA, and even a glance or two at the Peace Corps website. Those weren’t right. Those would be creating adventure for adventure’s sake. Seminary, besides being on the bucket list, is right. We, the young, married Haberkerns can light aglow with dreams of far-off countries and grocery shopping in foreign languages, but we won’t pursue empty dreams varnished in some romantic glaze. What moves us to our very core—our mountain of desire—is striving to love just like that controversial rabbi called Jesus. When Christian and I swapped “I do,” we framed our nuptials on a reading from Psalms. It says, “One thing I have desired of the Lord, that I will seek: That I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple” (27:4).  A year and a half ago, we earnestly entered in a partnership to not only love each other, but also pursue those three things—living with God, beholding his beauty (the things we can see and that which we can only feel), and to probe and prod and knock on the door of knowledge. Seminary is the opportunity to cast aside our fears (have you checked out the economy lately?), quit obsessing over how nice our kitchen is, and stick our hands in  good old-fashioned tension. I don’t for a second think that God wouldn’t be pleased with a well-lived life from the Christian who works at CNN or the Jessica who teaches writing and music. But when I stand before the throne, alone, not with my husband, or my pastor, or my really wise best friend, I want to say: God, let me tell you a good story. * Our apartment is in boxes. We are staying with my parents through the holidays, and will wave goodbye to Atlanta in late December, trailer in tow. We will spend the New Year settling into our apartment nestled between tall pines on the gorgeous 119-acre campus on Boston’s North Shore. Christian begins class in January. I start writing for the school’s theological magazine shortly after. Our family and friends in Atlanta will be missed, but I’ve said farewell before. I’m finding that pockets of my life are scattered around the U.S.—Wisconsin, Arkansas, Georgia. Christian’s roots are deeper in this city, but that soft whisper, “Come, follow me,” has become a roar in his ears. It’s time for he and I to scale our mountain.  
I recently read an interesting book. The title is vague—something about a thousand pieces and a million miles—and is really not the point. The latest thought piece by Donald Miller was a timely prompting to consider my life as a story. A good book, a good movie, a good story includes an intriguing plot with conflict and tension. But, as Miller points out, millions of Americans (can I skip the inference and go ahead and insert “American Christians” here?) live very non-confrontational lives void of tension. He’s not promoting an attack on a roommate or spouse fueled by post-teenage angst. Reality TV has a monopoly on that nonsense. What makes a good story, Miller says, is when a character (hey, that’s you!) is required to overcome adversity. Imagine yourself comfy on your favorite chair. You’re watching a movie, any movie. You get acquainted with the main characters from the start by eavesdropping on his or her life. You learn their desires—that guy they long for through the window of their fancy New York office, or the Holy Grail they exchange their professor gig for to don a leather jacket and tiptoe behind tribal chiefs ripping the hearts out of terrified prisoners. In the first twenty minutes, the plot is peachy (ish). You know what the character wants, what you really want. And then things take a little turn. The situation gets sticky. The guy who makes you twitterpated is inconveniently marrying your best friend. The bloodthirsty tribal chief captures the woman you pretend you don’t love but who is actually kind of your girlfriend. Conflict. Characters in books and films chase their conflict. They face it head on. And ultimately, they overcome. Jenifer Lopez gets her trophy husband; Indiana Jones gets the grail and the girl. What kind of story would it be if the main character didn’t go for it? A bad story. And that, Donald Miller says, is what you and I live when we don’t face adversity, when we don’t overcome, when we let our mountains of desire blend into the scenery. I don’t want to live a bad story. I want to be scaling my mountain of desire, not watching it pass in my review window. Now imagine yourself before the brilliant, shining, glorious throne of God. You’re dead at this point (sorry), and God says tell me a story. Um, okay, you’re trying to think of a really great story about a friend who overcame a huge challenge and saved a bunch of starving kids in Africa. Tell me a story about you, he says. Well, you begin: I had the best clothes in high school. I worked really hard and finally got my dream car. Oh! I bought a house, and it was big enough for each of my children to sleep in their own room. And I won an award for selling the most Gillette razors anyone in the world has sold, ever.   Did you feed my sheep? He asks. One. Did you clothe the guy who was naked or smile at the girl with self-inflicted wounds? Did you really know me? Did you follow that little twinkling dream I buried inside your heart? Or listen to me whisper, “Do it. Go for it. I’ll take care of you?” * As we navigate our second year of marriage, Christian and I hope to make inspired decisions that shape our life together, living a story graced with passion and adventure. This summer, Christian came to me with something in his bucket list for the past four years: Seminary. Eh, That’s not really my idea, I thought, considering the creative writing nonprofit I’ve been building for the past year. He asked me to sit with the idea, offer it up in prayer, and see if my sentiment changed. I loved him enough to entertain the idea. A transformation happened from the moment I held that seemingly random proposal to go to seminary in my hands, stretching them out in offering, a small voice within me asking “Is this right?” Somewhere as the next several days fell from the calendar, my heart said yes. Spending three years wrapped between the pages of scripture uncovering the buried truths of biblical history is something I want, too. The very thought of quitting our life in Atlanta and moving to Boston for seminary makes every atom in my body shiver in excitement. But going to seminary isn’t actually a haphazard decision to incite some semblance of adventure in our life together. We’d been pursuing that all year with an interview for a motion graphics firm in Denmark, rummaging for jobs in New York and LA, and even a glance or two at the Peace Corps website. Those weren’t right. Those would be creating adventure for adventure’s sake. Seminary, besides being on the bucket list, is right. We, the young, married Haberkerns can light aglow with dreams of far-off countries and grocery shopping in foreign languages, but we won’t pursue empty dreams varnished in some romantic glaze. What moves us to our very core—our mountain of desire—is striving to love just like that controversial rabbi called Jesus. When Christian and I swapped “I do,” we framed our nuptials on a reading from Psalms. It says, “One thing I have desired of the Lord, that I will seek: That I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple” (27:4).  A year and a half ago, we earnestly entered in a partnership to not only love each other, but also pursue those three things—living with God, beholding his beauty (the things we can see and that which we can only feel), and to probe and prod and knock on the door of knowledge. Seminary is the opportunity to cast aside our fears (have you checked out the economy lately?), quit obsessing over how nice our kitchen is, and stick our hands in  good old-fashioned tension. I don’t for a second think that God wouldn’t be pleased with a well-lived life from the Christian who works at CNN or the Jessica who teaches writing and music. But when I stand before the throne, alone, not with my husband, or my pastor, or my really wise best friend, I want to say: God, let me tell you a good story. * Our apartment is in boxes. We are staying with my parents through the holidays, and will wave goodbye to Atlanta in late December, trailer in tow. We will spend the New Year settling into our apartment nestled between tall pines on the gorgeous 119-acre campus on Boston’s North Shore. Christian begins class in January. I start writing for the school’s theological magazine shortly after. Our family and friends in Atlanta will be missed, but I’ve said farewell before. I’m finding that pockets of my life are scattered around the U.S.—Wisconsin, Arkansas, Georgia. Christian’s roots are deeper in this city, but that soft whisper, “Come, follow me,” has become a roar in his ears. It’s time for he and I to scale our mountain.  

I recently read an interesting book. The title is vague—something about a thousand pieces and a million miles—and is really not the point. The latest thought piece by Donald Miller was a timely prompting to consider my life as a story. A good book, a good movie, a good story includes an intriguing plot with conflict and tension. But, as Miller points out, millions of Americans (can I skip the inference and go ahead and insert “American Christians” here?) live very non-confrontational lives void of tension. He’s not promoting an attack on a roommate or spouse fueled by post-teenage angst. Reality TV has a monopoly on that nonsense. What makes a good story, Miller says, is when a character (hey, that’s you!) is required to overcome adversity.

Imagine yourself comfy on your favorite chair. You’re watching a movie, any movie. You get acquainted with the main characters from the start by eavesdropping on his or her life. You learn their desires—that guy they long for through the window of their fancy New York office, or the Holy Grail they exchange their professor gig for to don a leather jacket and tiptoe behind tribal chiefs ripping the hearts out of terrified prisoners. In the first twenty minutes, the plot is peachy (ish). You know what the character wants, what you really want. And then things take a little turn. The situation gets sticky. The guy who makes you twitterpated is inconveniently marrying your best friend. The bloodthirsty tribal chief captures the woman you pretend you don’t love but who is actually kind of your girlfriend. Conflict.

Characters in books and films chase their conflict. They face it head on. And ultimately, they overcome. Jenifer Lopez gets her trophy husband; Indiana Jones gets the grail and the girl. What kind of story would it be if the main character didn’t go for it? A bad story. And that, Donald Miller says, is what you and I live when we don’t face adversity, when we don’t overcome, when we let our mountains of desire blend into the scenery. I don’t want to live a bad story. I want to be scaling my mountain of desire, not watching it pass in my review window.

Now imagine yourself before the brilliant, shining, glorious throne of God. You’re dead at this point (sorry), and God says tell me a story. Um, okay, you’re trying to think of a really great story about a friend who overcame a huge challenge and saved a bunch of starving kids in Africa. Tell me a story about you, he says.

Well, you begin: I had the best clothes in high school. I worked really hard and finally got my dream car. Oh! I bought a house, and it was big enough for each of my children to sleep in their own room. And I won an award for selling the most Gillette razors anyone in the world has sold, ever.  

Did you feed my sheep? He asks.

One.

Did you clothe the guy who was naked or smile at the girl with self-inflicted wounds? Did you really know me? Did you follow that little twinkling dream I buried inside your heart? Or listen to me whisper, “Do it. Go for it. I’ll take care of you?”

*

As we navigate our second year of marriage, Christian and I hope to make inspired decisions that shape our life together, living a story graced with passion and adventure. This summer, Christian came to me with something in his bucket list for the past four years: Seminary.

Eh, That’s not really my idea, I thought, considering the creative writing nonprofit I’ve been building for the past year. He asked me to sit with the idea, offer it up in prayer, and see if my sentiment changed. I loved him enough to entertain the idea.

A transformation happened from the moment I held that seemingly random proposal to go to seminary in my hands, stretching them out in offering, a small voice within me asking “Is this right?” Somewhere as the next several days fell from the calendar, my heart said yes. Spending three years wrapped between the pages of scripture uncovering the buried truths of biblical history is something I want, too. The very thought of quitting our life in Atlanta and moving to Boston for seminary makes every atom in my body shiver in excitement.

But going to seminary isn’t actually a haphazard decision to incite some semblance of adventure in our life together. We’d been pursuing that all year with an interview for a motion graphics firm in Denmark, rummaging for jobs in New York and LA, and even a glance or two at the Peace Corps website. Those weren’t right. Those would be creating adventure for adventure’s sake. Seminary, besides being on the bucket list, is right. We, the young, married Haberkerns can light aglow with dreams of far-off countries and grocery shopping in foreign languages, but we won’t pursue empty dreams varnished in some romantic glaze. What moves us to our very core—our mountain of desire—is striving to love just like that controversial rabbi called Jesus.

When Christian and I swapped “I do,” we framed our nuptials on a reading from Psalms. It says, “One thing I have desired of the Lord, that I will seek: That I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple” (27:4).  A year and a half ago, we earnestly entered in a partnership to not only love each other, but also pursue those three things—living with God, beholding his beauty (the things we can see and that which we can only feel), and to probe and prod and knock on the door of knowledge.

Seminary is the opportunity to cast aside our fears (have you checked out the economy lately?), quit obsessing over how nice our kitchen is, and stick our hands in  good old-fashioned tension. I don’t for a second think that God wouldn’t be pleased with a well-lived life from the Christian who works at CNN or the Jessica who teaches writing and music. But when I stand before the throne, alone, not with my husband, or my pastor, or my really wise best friend, I want to say: God, let me tell you a good story.

*

Our apartment is in boxes. We are staying with my parents through the holidays, and will wave goodbye to Atlanta in late December, trailer in tow. We will spend the New Year settling into our apartment nestled between tall pines on the gorgeous 119-acre campus on Boston’s North Shore. Christian begins class in January. I start writing for the school’s theological magazine shortly after.

Our family and friends in Atlanta will be missed, but I’ve said farewell before. I’m finding that pockets of my life are scattered around the U.S.—Wisconsin, Arkansas, Georgia. Christian’s roots are deeper in this city, but that soft whisper, “Come, follow me,” has become a roar in his ears. It’s time for he and I to scale our mountain.  

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