"I Hate You"

We hear it often enough. From pouting Toddlers and angry teens. From flashing eyes and flying fists. From pieces of cardboard held up on sticks. Even, sometimes, from somewhere deep within us- somewhere dark and dirty and slightly foreign.

I've written before about my thoughts on Nathaniel Hawthorne, and I do think he's a great author, but I don't necessarily agree with his ideas. For instance, at the end of his most well-known book, The Scarlet Letter, he suggests that maybe, deep down, love and hate are the same thing.

Way to be literary and mysterious and philosophical, Nathaniel, but nope!

I know because I've experienced both.

There was a time when I fantasized a bit about hurting someone. They still deserve it, actually. They deserve to be publicly disgraced, to go to jail, maybe. To be utterly beaten to a pulp.

And they probably never will.

In writing this, I can almost feel it again. That pressure building up inside me.

But you know what this person doesn't deserve, yet desperately needs? Jesus.

And Jesus is love. Aka, the hardest possible thing to offer an extra-evil person.

So: I think our country has a hate problem. Obviously.

And since I can't change the country for another seventeen years (and even then, how much can a vp change a culture that's been building for decades on centuries?) I'll forgive that mystery person I've been talking about.

I'll forgive every time I feel that tight, hot anger building up again. Thankfully, it hasn't done that for a long time. But, like grief, hatred likes to just pop out every so often. Just to remind you that it's there if you ever want it back.

I don't.

Some might say that if we just stop hating each other, the cycle will stop. I think we also need to stop being so hateful to each other though.

Decent people, loving people, spread love and decency. Jesus people spread Jesus.

Jerks foster hate, and hateful people capitalize on it.

Bottom line: don't be a hateful jerk!

1. Can you handle that? 😉

~Dolly

To Save Someone

I was stressed this morning. So, I climbed into my bed, and while I lay there with a Chihuahua curled up by my head, I realized that I'm tired quite often.

I think it's because I have a strong desire, something probably hardwired into me, to save the world. Well, not the world, exactly, but people. People who don't think they need saving. People who are struggling through life, just like I am.

Maybe my world is small, but I will defend it fiercely. Because my world is made of people, and people are worth it. Worth my time and energy and slowly-falling-apart heart. They're worth all those things to Jesus. Worth His effort and pain, His position, even His life. They're worth it, period.

So, I try. I text someone, message someone, invite them somewhere they probably can't go, just so they know I'm thinking of them. I try to tell my world of people that they're worth it. Worth it to me, worth it to Jesus. Worth it, period.

Obviously I can't save everyone in my world, even if it is small. But I can remind someone that they matter, matter to me, and matter in the world.

That's the extent of my abilities.

I want to save each person I love; from themself, from their fears, their circumstances, their past and their future.

However, I can't save people, not really.

But maybe I can give them the confidence, remind them that they are worth the effort of saving themselves.

Because you are.

From the core of a heart that will never not be breaking for someone,

~Dolly

Grieving Me

I've been ridiculously tired lately.  The kind of tired and that makes me stay in bed all day, and still sleep through the night. The kind of tired that means my apartment is a wreck, and my dishes haven't been washed for at least a week.

It's humiliating.

I've been so ashamed of myself. I have no job, my apartment is a mess, and I still haven't finished my GED test. I feel like a failure.

But honestly, I've felt like a failure for a long time. It mostly started in high school, when due to a combination of hard subjects, bad materials, and clueless teachers, I ended up dropping out of some classes.

 Through all of that, I still held on to my dream. I'd love to be a counselor in Eugene, listening to people's stories, getting to know them, and maybe even being able to help some people.

But if High School was hard, life afterwards has been much more difficult. Every time someone asks me what I'm up to, all I can respond with is, "I live in an apartment on our property, with a chihuahua." And every time I wither a bit inside.

My friends are going to college, making friends, getting jobs... and I sit and pile up dirty dishes.

Humiliating.

Discouraging.

Shameful.

I am, every day, defeated.

A friend and I are working on starting a cupcake business that does events. Perfect for me, since I can usually focus on something for a couple of days, even when I'm low.

And that excites me, I guess. Planning is fun.

But I've been completely drained since we started actually planning and brainstorming. It's ridiculous, I mean, I finally have a reason to maybe not call myself a failure. If we can pull it off, I mean.

But mom and I were talking today, and she brought up a good point.

I'm grieving.

Grieving for my future, for my self that feels destroyed.

For the dreams, and even plans that should be so feasible, but are so completely impossible.

For a life I thought I could have, but probably never will.

It stings.

I'm grieving.

Shame helps nothing.

Right now I'm waiting it out, and getting ready for a new future. A future that's hopefully feasible.

Asking God for a reason, a destiny to follow.

Thanks for taking the time and energy to read. I don't have answers today, but they will come. I hope!

~Dolly

Rebel

I recently hung out with someone, and afterwards was trying to figure out why we didn't connect as we have in the past. We couldn't find things to talk about for the most part, and we didn't particularly agree on what to do. Our time together wasn't necessarily awful, it was just exhausting.

In going over it with one of my confidants later, I realized that before, we connected over our mutual rebellion against some of the same subjects. For instance, we both disagreed with strict Church or parental rules, and we both got that ridiculous teenager joy of knowing we had gotten away with something.

I also realized that though I feel passionately about many things, and stand up against some things very strongly, I'm no longer a rebel.

I haven't given up, I've overcome.

I don't have to fight to try to get out of a box, because I'm not being shoved in one. I'm still in a box, because I'm a finite human, but I made this box and it's comfortable and it has enough space for me to turn around in. I don't have to fight: there's nothing to push against.

It's interesting that such a large part of my previous identity has faded away.

But, it makes sense. I don't go to a Mennonite church anymore- therefore I follow the rules that I create for myself, not the rules that the church makes me follow. (Nothing against Mennonites,  this is just from my personal experiences/feelings.)

I live in an apartment, and while I still respect my parents standards and wishes, they're not here to tell me what to do.

I used to say that I was doing these things because I believed in them. Wearing the head covering, wearing skirts, speaking and acting with decorum, these things were foisted upon me as a child. I defended them, but I still mostly did them because I had to. Now I am doing them because they are mine; it is my choice to speak, act, dress, live a certain way.

I don't need to rebel anymore.

I hope you don't have to, either.

~Dolly

A Creative God

A couple weeks ago or so, one of my cousins got married in Spokane, Washington. Since all the Aunts, Uncle and Cousins came out for the first Smucker cousin wedding, we had a reunion too, but that was up in Bonners Ferry, Idaho, and it was afterwards.

While we were there, the fuel pump on our truck went out, so we got to stay an extra day with my uncle's family up there. I decided to have a mini-adventure, and went to school with my younger cousins.

It wasn't nearly as awkward as I thought it'd be.

Anyway, (I'm actually approaching my point here!)

The high school teacher gave a mini-lecture on writing, which fired me up. I grabbed my cousin's notebook and a pencil and started scribbling. And when I reread it, I thought, "Ya know, this could be a blog post!"

And then our truck got fixed and we went home the next day and I left it behind!

Fortunately, I have an awesome Aunt Twila, who mailed a couple of ratty notebook papers to me with a little note on the envelope saying that these were "good words". Now they are in my hand, so I can type them up and you can read them, if you want.

Spiritual gifts fascinate me. They're a sort of Heavenly psychology- instead of personality types and traits, they're these divinely - appointed abilities, custom - fit to each of god's dear ones.  Each of us has a unique place, a unique combination of supernatural characteristics that give us a specific spot in God's story. It's awesome! 

But, I think even more interestingly, each gift represents an aspect of God's character. My gift of mercy can help me see people through God's eyes, while someone else's gift of knowledge can give them a much clearer view of truth than I may ever have. That's why church is so important- none of us can fully represent God's character alone. We're too small. But with all of us standing together and operating in our understanding of God's individual traits, we can better represent Him as a whole.

To be honest, this gets me kind of hyped up. There's something about realizing what a small part you play, but that it's intrinsic to a much larger whole. And by "larger" I mean intergalactic. Because our God's that big.

Moving on, though, (because I can't think of a better transition) one of God's traits that absolutely intrigues me is His creativity. The study of His mind is very personal to me, because it seems to be a tad bit overlooked. I guess that's understandable. God's creativity, in the sense that I mean, isn't really the thing that we base major doctrines off of. But knowing that God thinks the same way I do, (just. . . to the nth, because, you know, He's God) makes Him so much more relatable!  And no doctrine, no matter how true, can match the thrill of getting to know a Being so beyond human grasp.

Now, hang on for a moment. This is the good stuff. This is why I love having a creative God. Here goes:

This fantastical. . . Being, Who's always been, Who has more power than I could ever dream of, Who literally is the only thing keeping our little Earth-rock from spinning out of control, this God had an eternity to wait until He made everything. I would get bored. But, of course, God didn't. He was busy.

For a whole forever, God planned. Sort of a holy drawing-board. He sat and decided to stripe His zebras. To make cats the floppiest mammals. To make dessert flowers so small we can't see them- they're just there because He felt like it.

And then, I think God got so excited about His ideas He had to talk about them. And in His still, small voice that can melt worlds, God spoke. And as He talked about His fantastic ideas, because He's God, they happened.

And God, with all His power that I can't imagine, holiness I can't grasp, and creativity without edges, decided He wanted me here. Me, with my depression and anxiety and physical deformities and incapabilites and everything else. . . He decided that I was worth His time and His effort, so He planned me out- frizzy hair to missing fingers. The God of everything came up with the idea for me. And He decided I was worth the effort it would take Him to make me and win me. Somehow, my being in Heaven someday is so important to God that He risked all the pain I put Him through, (He knew what He was getting into) and God. Made. Me.

If He can invest so much, maybe I can live through today. Since He risked His heart in starting the beat of mine, I can learn, just a little today, about the beat of His heart that's big enough to hold all of us and strong enough to break for each of us.

 Apparently He thinks I'm worth His time.

I know He's worth my life.

May you find the same to be true for you. God thinks you're worth His effort and risk, and whether or not you believe it, I do.

~Dolly 

In Review

Wow... I've officially had a blog for a year!

So far there've been:
3 Facelifts
23 Posts Published
55 Facebook Followers (Increase the number here) 😉
and a LOT of Things learned. Things like:
How to use emojis on blogger 😑😶😀😏🌝😻🙀😸💓💁💚💛💜 (etc., etc.)
How to make posts accessible
How to write clearly
and very importantly, How to be honest. Because that's hard, especially here on the interwebs.

I've shared about my dreams and struggles and other stuff. Not everything of course, but. . . enough, I guess. So here's where my life's at now:

I'm still living in the little shop apartment with Bailey. It's been fun! Not exactly sunshine and roses though. My house is a mess, (and I don't say that lightly) Bailey and I both have anxiety issues, and I really hate washing dishes. If I'm not careful to regulate Bailey and my routine, she has an annoying tendency to pee on my clothes or poop on the floor. And until maybe a week ago (when my best friend saved my knees and back from hours of scrubbing) the bathroom floor was covered in dried kitten diarrhea. It smelled amazing! 🙄😷😑

I've mostly graduated high school. . . Just the scariest part to go! #GED #MathAndScience I'd love to get a job, honestly, but finishing the GED test comes first. And then learning to properly keep house. As in, consistently. And then, maybe I'll believe I have what it takes to enter the workforce! Of course, that's all my plan. God might very well have something else up His sleeve, and if so, I'll probably kick and scream and then write a lovely blog post about His plan- once I settle down.

Spiritually I feel like Habakkuk, crying,

How long, LORD, must I call for help, but you do not listen? Or cry out to you, 'Violence!' but you do not save? 

Why do you make me look at injustice? Why do you tolerate wrongdoing? Destruction and violence are before me; there is strife, and conflict abounds. 

Therefore the law is paralyzed, and justice never prevails. The wicked hem in the righteous, so that justice is perverted.

These verses just. . . resonate with me. I know I'm not the only of God's small ones that raises a cry. We look around and then shout, "Daddy God! Look! Violence- people are killing each other and wounding hearts and look at all of us down here bleeding! Government isn't working, we don't trust our leaders, and right and wrong are so tangled we can hardly tell what's what! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?"

And of course, we know He is listening. I think. 😕 He must be, because I believe His reply to Habakkuk is still valid for me, right now.

“Look at the nations and watch— and be utterly amazed. For I am going to do something in your days that you would not believe, even if you were told. ..."

So, I'll try to wait. I'm watching.

Y'know, all this time I thought Habakkuk was just kinda. . . stuck in there. Like filler material with a conveniently laughable name. In fact, I felt that way about most of the minor prophets. Then, of course, I gave myself a challenge of reading through them all. (Not for any spiritual reason. I just wanna be able to say that I've read the whole Bible except Song of Songs so I can quit being such a disappointment to our youth pastor.)

But it's been good. And now I hafta go home to my house and quit using my parents' internet.

Goodnight everyone! I might not know you, but I love you! If that makes sense. . . Whatever. Byeee~!

~Dolly

A Poem

Dedicated to my fellow suicide-fighters.

Battle of Literature

I have an urge to write, but only nebulous ideas for a subject. This sudden outburst of undefined creativity is inspired by Edgar Allen Poe, whom I have more or less despised since 4th grade.

For at least a few months now, I've been reading through American Tradition in Literature: Volume 1. It's an overview of our country's history through the writings of of its prominent citizens. Currently I am at Poe, and it's highly fascinating in some ways. See, I view literature as a chance to  become acquainted with the author, and Poe is definitely a study! His writings range from slightly dark/strange poetry, to grotesque stories of the occult/insane, to perfectly rational critiques of other authors' works. And I think I've figured him out.

Poe has a decent helping of PTSD, plenty of bipolar to go around, and a pinch of Satan worship.

In any case, I just finished an article Poe wrote- a favorable critique of Nathaniel Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales. It piqued my interest because some of their styles have a bit of overlap, in fact, some of their writings are super similar, but I prefer Hawthorne WAY more.

And of course, since I'm (borderline) obsessed with introspection and psychology, I had to delve into my own psyche.

Both Poe and Hawthorne wrote stories of the darkly mysterious, where reality and symbolism are all tangled up together until you start to question both. But Hawthorne's stories always have an insinuated point/moral, or a slight glimmer of hope, or both. On the other end of things, Poe, at least in his darker writings or emotional states, just ends his stories at the bleakest, most confusing moment. I think this style was designed to create a certain, strong emotional effect, but for me the emotion is too straightforward (always gotta complicate things!) and somehow incomplete. Poe can horrify and confuse me, but Hawthorne can hold me, hovering halfway between hope and despair with horror; he can let his characters into my head/heart where they find our commonalities. Their evil reflects my own, their struggles mirror mine. And this second effect is much more powerful for me. It's just way more captivating and well-rounded.

And you should read The Scarlet Letter.

I also think I trust Hawthorne more. While he dives into the supernatural realm, he does it with a bit of balance. He writes of fiends (demons) and Satan and witches, but with at least a vague sense of the Divine (God) in the background. Wrong and right are kept firmly in place even while they are tested and questioned. Poe's exploration into the invisible is off-kilter. Rationality is thrown unceremoniously out the window and hope is entirely dismissed. He chokes up his own talent by choosing to write with fear and confusion rather than the much more powerful literary tool of contrast.

Of course, I'm not an expert, just a nerd. 😅 And since my English IV class this past year went through The Scarlet Letter, I've studied Hawthorne much more than Poe. I'll probably go back and reread some of Poe's stories to see if I can understand them (and him) better, and then update you of any changes in my opinions stated here.

Happy Reading! (Remember the assignment I gave ya'll? 😉)

~Dolly

P.S. After some rereading, I'm only slightly less confused than I was originally. My point still stands, as far as I'm concerned.

Who Can't be Helped

This morning I called Mom with a question about a kid we know with severe mental illness. Lots of people had relatively negative experiences with him, but I always felt privileged that he was nice to me and liked me. Maybe it's because he could tell I care? Whatever the case, recently he's done some really drastic things. And he's in a mental health facility.

I asked Mom if she thinks that incurable mental illness exists; she said yes. My instinctive response was to question, "Why?" Why would God let that be a thing; let some of His precious ones live forever trapped in fear or despair, let them live alienated from other people, let them be so sick they can't even understand Him, can't understand love?

Of course, no one has an answer, not even my mother.

She did say something very interesting though, and to me it was compelling: "We try to make 'them' be like 'us' when they can't. Instead we should realize that they can't be like us, and instead of making things harder we should be making their world a safer place."

AMEN.

I just have this huge privilege and burden called compassion. At least, that's what my therapist says.

But the thing is, people are people. I mean, obviously. But the people who will always live in an alternate universe, the ones who don't see the world "normally" are still people too. They still need love even though they quite possibly can't reciprocate, or even understand, it.

They're still people.

And because institutions identify people by their diagnosis(es), because the average person has no idea, because society itself stifles vulnerable honesty, someone needs to speak up. Someone needs to say, "You are a person, a valuable human being and I love you." Someone needs to say, "This person that you discount and malign? This person is my friend and I will fight for them." Someone needs to shout, "We are people! Don't overlook us!" And we all need to say, "I see you. You are priceless."

On the flip side though, everyone has the right to remove themselves from hurt/danger. When dealing with dramatic behavior, no one can afford to be naive. Everyone absolutely deserves safety. Everyone deserves to be treated as the precious, beloved, little one signed by God, that they are.

He loves everyone.

So should I.

Now I'm just waiting to see where this mission from God leads me.

May you all find your mission from God, that one cause that gets your pulse racing and your eyes watering, the single thing that you would fight for with your dying breath. And may you be radically victorious.

~Dolly

Empty Places

A memoir assignment in English IV landed around the one-year anniversary of my grandparent's death. Here's what I wrote:

"I love you Grandma!" a little girl exclaimed while rolling out sugar cookie dough. Flour and sugar dusted the table, as well as most of her lime-green jumper and one small eyebrow. 

"I love you Grandpa," that same girl, a little older now, thought as she climbed out of a farm truck. Her eyes sparkled as she thought of the joke they'd just shared.

That little girl was me. Years later, as I stood beside a pair coffins, part that little girl still inside me. . . died.

I clearly remember the weeks leading up to the car wreck. Grandpa and Grandma were going to go on a road trip across the United States, stopping in at friends' and family's houses on the way. Spring was coming- Easter was soon. Grandma talked of almost nothing else, and Grandpa talked of almost nothing (as usual). He still showed anticipation though, in his quiet way. Everything reflected hope.

Just a few days before they left, we stopped in for a quick visit. Grandma excitedly beckoned Mom and me over and pulled something out of her dress pocket- a cell phone! She showed us how it worked, told us how many minutes they had rolled over. Her excitement was contagious, and we all laughed before she gave me and Mom each an enthusiastic hug.

Then a few days after they left, a Friday- Good Friday- Mom and Dad called my brother and I downstairs. Somewhere in Wisconsin, there had been a random car wreck. But for us, it wasn't so random. Because Grandpa had died immediately. Because Grandma was in a hospital somewhere far away, on life support. This wasn't just a random wreck on the news. This was pain. Loneliness and uncertainty, yes; but nothing at all like random.

At first, there were no reactions. Just silence- then came quiet crying that morphed into sobbing; this was real. Dad flew out to Wisconsin that day. He came back and got me a week or so later, I think. Time blurs around these memories: there are clear scenes and moments, but no full, coherent timeline.

The hospital was comforting. Sterilely white; white walls, white hospital beds with white sheets, white ceiling, white tile floor that reflected the blindingly white lights. There were no emotions here. Everything moved on a schedule, everything was structured. Everything would be fine.

I spent a lot of time in Grandma's hospital room, and often there was just the two of us. I'd sit in an office chair that was about as tall as me and I'd color and pray. I also brought a paperback, spiral-bound hymnal and my Bible, and sang out of one and read out of the other. Days at Grandpa and Grandma's house had always been bookended with Bible reading, and Grandma and I used to sing together while washing dishes. I hung on to hope that those things would happen again.

Then on Dad and my last day in Wisconsin, a cocky young intern or something came in and started unhooking the tangle of wires and cords attached to Grandma's head. I asked why.

"Because she's just doing so much better!" he replied cheerfully, barely glancing up from what he was doing.

Hope! Maybe God wanted to help us!

We flew home shortly after that. Driving away from the airport, Mom and Dad started discussing what would happen when Life Support was pulled off. I freaked out. Uncontrollable crying; intense, sharp jabs of pain through my heart and stomach. Complete helplessness. Everyone knew this was coming. But Dad was dealing with so much that he'd forgotten to inform me of what was going on. So, I had no introduction chapter to grief- not for the wreck that killed Grandpa- not for the sustained injuries that killed Grandma.

Coming home was hard. As in, it-would-not-be-Christian-to-punch-this-person-in-the-face, kind of hard. Whom did I want to punch? Those relatives who put on an elegant display of tragic grief, the people I didn't know at all who introduced themselves just to force their grief on me, and definitely that lady who looked at me so sympathetically and insisted that things were absolutely terrible for me and I was completely miserable from being reminded of my horrible loss at every turn. "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy. . . long-suffering. . . " Sigh.

Now, as I sit in what used to be Grandma's kitchen and write about her, as I gaze out at the washroom where Grandpa used to come in to clean up and I write about him, I realize how much they taught me and how much their death changed me. From Grandma I learned industriousness, how to respectfully disagree, and the importance of loving those people you disagree with. From Grandpa I learned to wait for others to speak, to value words, to talk (safely!) to a stranger, and how to say things without speaking.

In losing them, I utilized what they taught me. I had to love those people I wanted to punch, and to express that love by letting them speak their grief. I had to learn to say, "I get it. I'm dealing with this loss, too," without talking, to use a simple facial expression to communicate openness and sympathy. I learned that people struggle, and I need to have patience and love them anyway. I learned that hurt doesn't come all at once, but in waves. Even now, over year later, some residual grief will wash over my heart, and its salt will sting the places that are still cut open.

But I can look back, back over what my grandparents taught me without saying a word, and forward- forward to seeing them again sometime, who-knows-when, and saying "thank you" for all the things they taught and still teach me.

You are honored, missed, still loved and forever(?) remembered. 

Am I a Good Samaritan?

Hello! Just imagine an introduction here: I have none. 😁

The Parable of the Good Samaritan

25 And behold, a certain lawyer stood up and tested Him, saying, “Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?”26 He said to him, “What is written in the law? What is your reading of it?”27 So he answered and said, “ ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind,’ and ‘your neighbor as yourself.’”28 And He said to him, “You have answered rightly; do this and you will live.”29 But he, wanting to justify himself, said to Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”30 Then Jesus answered and said: “A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, who stripped him of his clothing, wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. 31 Now by chance a certain priest came down that road. And when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. 32 Likewise a Levite, when he arrived at the place, came and looked, and passed by on the other side. 33 But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was. And when he saw him, he had compassion. 34 So he went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine; and he set him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. 35 On the next day, when he departed, he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said to him, ‘Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, when I come again, I will repay you.’ 36 So which of these three do you think was neighbor to him who fell among the thieves?”37 And he said, “He who showed mercy on him.”Then Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”

I've been reading a book Alana, one of the youth leaders at church, gave me. It's A Glorious Dark by A.J. Swoboda, and it's definitely something I'd recommend! (Like, go read it. Now.)

Anyway, in one of the last chapters, Swoboda starts talking about the parable of The Good Samaritan. Y'know, the story Jesus tells to teach us all to be "Good Samaritans" to everybody around us, right? But then he goes into a story about his friend who visited Tanzania, which is a really low-economy, physically unhealthy country. And the Tanzanians were all like, "Good Samaritans? Yeah! Those are all the people who come and help us!"

They identified with the beat-up guy!

Which slightly stunned me. I had no idea that there even could be another perspective on this story!

But what if the Tanzanian perspective is closer, and we're all just helpless people bleeding in a ditch?

Later that evening I was talking to my cousin Daisi, and told her what I'd read. We both like hearing/thinking about perspectives beyond our own, so I thought she might find it interesting. While we were chatting, something hit me, and when I passed it on Daisi thought it sounded well-thought out. I had just come up with it off the top of my head. That's a pretty sure sign someone *cough, God, coughcough* came up with the idea, and someone not being me!

Here's what He mentioned:

What if Jesus is the Good Samaritan?
I mean, He was God and human: Samaritans were Jew and gentile. Jesus was a misunderstood outcast, attacked especially by the Jews: Samaritans were social outcasts, and the word "Samaritan" was banned from being spoken by Jews. (I think. Either way, the Jews HATED Samaritans.)

And in context of a devout Jew asking Jesus a question, it makes no sense that the young hotshot would see himself as the Samaritan in this story! He'd want to admit to identifying more with a beat up guy than a... Samaritan.

Which puts a whole 'nother spin on the story. Think of it this way:
We go through life, and at some point, everyone gets knocked out by something. That tragedy, struggle, loss, addiction, etc. that leaves us completely powerless. We turn to religion (the Priest) or our learned knowledge (the Levite) for help, but they can't offer any solutions. We're disillusioned, spiritually/emotionally bleeding, and have no way to fix anything. Then a Samaritan comes...Jesus. We've heard of Him. He wants to take charge of our lives, He claims to be God, He's supposed to have done unrealistically amazing things. But He's the only one who can help and heal us.

We don't save anyone. He saves us.

Ouch. That dings the pride a bit. But isn't that kinda the whole idea of the Bible? It turns our thinking upside-down. I don't know why I always assumed this was the one story that could feed my ego a bit, because that's the exact opposite of the rest of Scripture! Scripture is about God showing me exactly who I am: nothing until He saves me and makes me everything.

Just to clarify: I am NOT gonna start saying "You're wrong! This is what The Good Samaritan really means!" Just... Scripture is deeper than any first glance, and I love when God peels back a layer to show the gems underneath.

Man, isn't our God awesome!?!

Wanna praise Him with me? 😊😇😄

~Dolly