A Matter of Perspective

I have taken it upon myself to preserve and circulate some important family history. I am creating a new (digital) edition of a little booklet written by my great-great-grandmother, Hripsime Kassarjian. She was an incredible woman of God. Her book is my window into her world ... and it satisfies my grief at having been born after she had gone to be with our LORD. Here is a piece of her life, in my hands.

Life can cloud us, can't it? The sludge of negativity and discontentment slows us down. That moment-by-moment comparison game always yields a winner and a loser. I get so quickly sludged down into a kind of 'slough of despond,' as in Pilgrim's Progress. It starts out innocently enough, and then turns fatal. The lies which draw me deeper into myself, my pity, my heavily-guarded pride ... will sludge me into the bottom of the slough, unless a hand reaches out to pull me back to the grassy banks.

Sometimes, that hand is reaching out from eternity. As I transcribe her story, I cannot help but see how small and ugly my attitude and problems really are. She survived four wars - and the Armenian genocide. She was separated from her brother for forty long years, believing him to be dead. Her years as a school girl were spent as an orphan, not sure of her birthday, without the comfort of parents to love and support her. She and her classmates spent their days between class and hiding in barricades from the Turkish soldiers who came to kill. When the Muslim Turks sought to obliterate the entire race of Armenian people [due to a primarily religious conflict], she kept her faith. She understood that her very life rested in the hand of God. He kept giving it back to her. She kept praising His name. Her hand reaches out to me even now ... pulling me out of the dirty mire of self-pity and into the light.

You may be wondering about her name. What does it mean? Here are her words, from the preface:

"I was named after an Armenian princess (the daughter of an Armenian King). She was a very beautiful young girl, eighteen years old, who had become a Christian at the end of the third century, A.D.

There was a prince, the son of a Gentile king, who intended to marry her, if she would give up her faith in Jesus Christ. He tried to persuade her for some time, but without any result; so she was put in jail. Everyday this prince would visit her to find out if she had changed her mind; her answer was always the same. She would say, “It is far better to die for my dear Savior, Jesus Christ, than to marry a Gentile prince.” Finally, she died in jail. She was called a saint. Of course, I am not worthy to bear her name, but many parents like to name their daughters in memory of that dear princess, who held fast her faith and her deep love for Jesus Christ, her Savior."

All worthiness aside, it is a fitting name for a woman who held so strongly to her faith and her Lord in spite of all obstacles, a lifetime of suffering, and overwhelming grief. Between the lines of her story, there is a deep love for Jesus. May that love speak to me right now, today, and tomorrow, and into eternity.

..Rain..

"For after all, the best thing one can do 

when it's raining is to let it rain." 

- H. W. Longfellow

I have had a long absence from this little blogspot, but the longer I stay away the more the themes of life stay the same. The very difficulties that I write myself out of come back, haunting, returning to see how well I have learned the lessons of yesterday. The cycle of life and struggle and death and eternity will always be the same: a ring of endless light, as Madeleine L'Engle wrote. But to see the light through the struggle, now that is a challenge. Sometimes even the rain can blur my view. I've made plans for the day, I've done everything I can to order my piece of a disordered world, and then I step out the door and ... it's raining.

The pitter-patters and the rushing of a the little rivers sound so peaceful. The rain has come after a long summer drought. It's not enough. But for right now, today, it is. Suddenly I stop hearing my own selfish thoughts, my frustrations, all the drama in my little tiny world. It's raining. For a moment, the world has stopped turning and I just listen.

Suddenly I forget that my dearest grandparents are dead and gone. I forget the loneliness of being home without a husband for thirty-six straight hours. I forget the pain of watching a friend lose their loved one to cancer. I forget that the dog had spread mud from one end of my house to the other, wagging her furry, shedding behind. I forget that I was discontent with myself, my appearance, my attitude. For a moment, the world is nothing more than a beautiful place where God sends down rain, both on the just and the unjust alike. The transcendent beauty of this truth is enough.

When the rain stops, the birds come out and sing and the grass looks greener. The trees are rushing in the breeze, as if to dance because they've had a nice drink. The world goes back to its turning, spinning, whirling state. But I do not. There is something about the rain that makes all things new again... even inside of me, where sin and selfishness so quickly take root. The rain has made the soil in my heart soft, so that the Gardener can pull the weeds out. He can make all things new again.

The troubles of the day, of the week, of the year, can be forgotten. They can be laid at the feet of the Master Gardener. He can cultivate them into something more beautiful than I could ever imagine, if I will let Him. But first, I must stop, and let it rain.

.Far More.

"Far more hinged on Abraham's obedience than he first realized. Abraham came to understand that his actions did not affect him alone, but his obedience to God would impact generations to follow."                        -- Blackaby 

What you do is not about you, nor limited to you. My actions are the stone that skips across the ponds, rivers and streams in life and makes ripples in the lives of others. The choices I made on a daily basis will influence others. It's inescapable. I've heard so many people deny this simple fact. "It's my decision," they protest. "It only affects me." Nothing could possibly be so simple, so isolated. We're creatures of community, made to be social, designed to be fully human with others who share our humanity. No single act is limited to just me. I can see my whole world through a very small lens, and yet, that doesn't limit the real consequences of my small-minded decisions.


I can walk through my day intently focused on myself, my wants, my desires. There's no shortage of people, places and things to help me along the short, broad road to selfishness. In my focus on self, I become oblivious to the needs and wants, hurts and desires of the people that I claim to "love" most. They are the ones that suffer when I make myself queen of my world. Looking down from a self-made throne gives me a false sense of superiority - when I ought to be on the ground level, looking eye to eye before kneeling down and washing the feet of those whom God has given me to love. 


All too often it is something unexpected that brings me back to seeing who I really am. The chisel slips and cuts my finger. The pain wakes me up with a sense of urgency. A cutting remark from a friend or family member suddenly shows me how careless I've been. "But I didn't mean it!" is my first defense. Is that enough to excuse me from an apology? Is the Gospel of Jesus Christ suddenly not necessary because my offense was "accidental"? Hardly. Have we cheapened the power of forgiveness because we don't believe we really need to ask for it? Guilty as charged.  (Daniel 9:8-10)


God has been chiseling away the concrete parts of my conscience, and He continues to ask for more. This is sanctification - to be in the process of becoming conformed to the image of Christ. It is a process, from one day to the next. The closer I become to Him, the more ugly and rebellious my sin becomes... and it is only my perception that is changing. The truth is, the vileness of that sin has been true all along.  Far more hinges on my obedience than I realize. The least I can do is submit myself to the work that the Holy Spirit can do - it will be far more than I can ask, think, imagine, or ever accomplish alone. 


Far more. 

My November Guest

"My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.

She talks and I am fain to list:

She’s glad the birds are gone away,

She’s glad her simple worsted gray

Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,

The faded earth, the heavy sky,

The beauties she so truly sees,

She thinks I have no eye for these,

And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know

The love of bare November days

Before the coming of the snow,

But it were vain to tell her so,

And they are better for her praise."      -- Robert Frost, "My November Guest,"

We walked our little parade, dressed solemnly in black suits and ties. The ladies wore skirts and heels, wondering why they had bothered to apply the mascara that tears would soon erase. Friends and neighbors flew and drove to sit in a little chapel in Firth, NE and remember a remarkable woman of God: Miriam [Kassarjian] Badeer. We exchanged many words about her. All of them are true, yet none of them truly do her justice.

The ladies from Bible study came all the way from Omaha to remember the lady who added so much vitality and energy to their weekly group. They barely recognized me - the scrawny little girl with blunt-cut bangs that used to follow Grandma to Bible Study on Tuesdays during "cooking camp," times at her house. One woman spoke of how she had been a traveling companion to Grandma en route to a Christian Women's Conference. "Some of the things that happened at that conference were outside of my theological comfort zone," she said honestly, "but Marie always told me, "I want all that God has for me. I don't want to miss anything." She pursued God her whole life..." and then the tears broke in and stopped her briefly. 

It brought back so many memories for me, to hear the stories of others about things back in Aleppo, Syria, all the way up to her gracious attitude when she and Grandpa sold their home of 40 years and settled in GoldCrest only 10 minutes from our home. On one occasion I tagged along with Mom to go see Grandma for the first time in months. Travels had kept me out of State and away from family. I was shocked to see that her physical frailty was like I had never seen it before - she rested in a wheelchair, still smiling, praying, singing hymns when nothing else could hold her attention. She looked at me, took my hand, and said, "I want you to have the best that God can give you. Not for the glory of Noelle, but for the glory of God. We serve an awesome God."  I almost burst into tears, right there in the hallway. All the way home, I wondered what kind of faith speaks those words at the end days of life in a nursing home? And how can I cultivate that faith in my soul right now? 

I remember, too, those mornings spent in Grandma's kitchen, around the table with Grandpa and my sister Leah, reading the Bible. The day did not begin until we had opened the Bible, read aloud, done some singing and prayed for those that needed prayer. Grandma gently opened my first Bible, a little blue Precious Moments copy, and taught me how to cross-reference. Her handwriting still marks the margins of that little Bible, all over in the book of Psalms. The books that I inherited from her library are underlined with red pen where she found things pertinent to her spiritual life. I may have traded the red pen for a pencil, but those habits have become an integral part of who I am, just as they were a part of her. 

Feminism Hurts...

  ...Our love lives, among other things. It’s snake-like deceptions have crept into every area of life. The workplace is where we’d like it to be - sitting on a thousand desks looking like Doctoral degrees, shiny medals and trophies for intellectual achievements. We think that it’s separate. Surely it’ll sit content on the desk with my “good as a man” trophies and leave home life alone. Like a Starbucks latte, it carries me through the day and gets me to the end of the tunnel - 5:00p.m. and my evening of freedom. Or better yet, the weekend off with the love of my life. I’ll “switch gears,” and be the girl of his dreams as soon as I slip into a little black dress and a sultry smile.  Isn’t that how this is supposed to work?

Recently I’ve been giving thought to the many subtle ways in which feminism speaks to us. It whispers in our ears more often than the Gossip in the cubicle next to you at work. The sad thing is, because it’s not as annoying as s/he might be, most of us don’t notice. We soak it up like the sunshine - thinking it’s good for us.  Has Feminism really delivered the goods it promised us as women? Are we liberated? Are we truly free to be truly feminine and truly equal?  I don’t think so.

In a sense, Feminism has defeated its chief goal. By assuming that women are not equal as long as they are different in purpose (and design) than men, it’s made “equality” and “femininity” mutually exclusive. What’s a girl to do? Most of us become as much like men as possible, and wait for the applause of other “powerful” women across the globe. In the meantime, we shuffle home from the daily grind at the office to switch roles and be good wives and moms during those few evening hours. In an effort to have it all, Feminism has given women nothing more than all the confusion, hurt, depression and isolation that comes with chasing the shadows of something we can never be.

In the process, women have suffered in their relationships, too. Life is not a stage, and all the people actors on it. We’re simply not satisfied with having to change our colors and character for every situation - be it work, home, date night, or mothering. In an effort to be all things to all people, we’re left feeling like who we truly are will never be enough.  Feminism has made women promises that it can’t keep, and it’s casualties are the women and children it professes to care the most about.  Consider this clip from “How Feminism Hurt Our Love Lives,” by Dr. Wendy Walsh:

“In some ways, we are too independent. For, we have lost the art of being interdependent.
I think the whole feminist movement is a bit of a misnomer anyway -- feminism didn’t liberate femininity. Feminism liberated masculine energy in women. It was a masculinist movement. This is a good thing. Because of masculism, er, I mean feminism, we can now procure income in the male dominated marketplace and buy ourselves any kind of life we want. Those of us who aren’t completely fulfilled baking cookies can now choose to fly jets, put out fires, or handcuff bad guys. We can also look for a cure for cancer, design computer programs, and sink basketballs, if those things suit our fancy.

“But make no bones about it, feminism did not liberate femininity. In fact, I think it did the opposite. It pushed femininity in the closet, turning feminine traits into embarrassingly weak elements of our personality -- a side that we began to show to fewer and fewer people.”  


Ladies, this is the tragedy of feminism. In an age where a woman can become Speaker of the House, and run for President of the United States, we still can’t understand why we’re unhappy. Our career choices are more easily made than the more important one of who we’ll spend the rest of our life with. We hide our feelings, keep the frilly, pretty things at home in the closet (they’re not professional enough), wear the pants and play tough in a “man’s world.” When the lights go out at the end of the day, we cry ourselves to sleep. Why? Because this isn’t what we were made to do. And we’re too ashamed to let anyone else see who we really are... afraid that they’ll see some shade of womanhood that isn’t fit for the title of CEO.

Feminism hurts. Let’s turn the tide so that women are free to be feminine again; free to be what God created us to be: different, but equal.

Einstein on Religion

"The most beautiful emotion that we can experience is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead, a snuffed-out candle. To sense that behind anything that can be experienced there is something that our minds cannot grasp, whose beauty and sublimity reaches us only indirectly: this is religiousness. In this sense, and in this sense only, I am a devoutly religious man." 

-- Albert Einstein, from the biography by Walter Isaacson, reprinted in TIME magazine, April 2007



Last night the weather was absolutely perfect. The drive home was late, but the flicker of fireflies in the grassy ditches made it well worth the fatigue. I turned off the music to contemplate another day - and all the wonder that came with it. Silence. I could hear my own thoughts, and the beliefs that were flowing out from them. Some of them were true. Some of them were not.

What is the value of quiet? How much real quiet {stillness, prayer, silence, reflection} do you experience daily? Does it bring about fear or wonder? Is it the reflection and prayer that bring us back to center, or the monster that brings out the fears that we've been running from? How will you know if you never take out those headphones?

When faced with a difficult {work} decision a few years ago, my boss gave me a piece of advice that I will never forget: take an hour or two of solitude and meditation before you decide. Seek God's wisdom and will for your life by just being still before Him. Was it hard to carve out that time? Yes. Did it make a difference in my clarity of thought? Yes. I took an hour to reflect on what had brought me to the NOW, and what God had done since that initial journey into the workforce. It was a lesson in re-centering myself; re-aligning myself with the greater purpose that He has for my life. It's the purpose and focus that so often gets lost in the daily grind, the shuffle of paperwork on my desk and the constant drippings of contention from the outside. It's Monday, and all I can think about is how tired I am.

Why am I here?

What's the best way for me to answer that question?