My husband, Rich, and I were recently on vacation and we visited one of the churches in the city where we were staying. My father-in-law was with us and no matter where he is, he never misses Mass, so off we went that Sunday morning, for worship and promises of eating breakfast at Denny’s afterward. My father-in-law also loves his eggs and home fries.
Mr. Paras had been to this particular church many times before with his wife, who passed away in 1995. Even though he had not been there in several years, his sharp memory led us down a busy thoroughfare, through traffic lights, and on a side street right to the church. The building struck me from the moment we pulled up. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen in church architecture. It was an A-frame building, so looking at it straight on was like staring at a big capital “A” or a triangle there in the cityscape. Much of the front of the building was dedicated to a painting of Christ. The tall cathedral, which reached toward the sky with a sharp angled roof, made for a very elongated portrayal of Jesus, but all the same, the depiction was stunning. I’d never seen Jesus presented this way, but then again, I was far from home.
One can feel uneasy visiting an unfamiliar church. What do you do? Will you know the hymns? What are the customs? However, I soon felt welcome and at peace inside this place. Outside and on the drive to the church—actually, for most of our outings on this vacation—our environment had been crowded and noisy. But inside the church, all was calm. To be nestled in such a busy city, this sanctuary, with the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows, brought me such sweet joy. I felt close to God. I bowed my head and spent a few quiet moments in prayer and meditation. With my eyes closed, it was as if only the two of us were there: just me and the heavenly Father.
In keeping with the geometrical design of the building, the inside of the cathedral was as striking as the outside. Tall triangular windows lined either side of the sanctuary. It was a very modern church, so different from the little white clapboard Methodist church that I attend in the Hudson Valley. Even the figures—Jesus, the disciples, angels—depicted in the stained glass were different from what I was accustomed to, their bodies drawn very long, with many lines and angles, but still as beautiful as any I’d ever seen. I was glad my father-in-law had insisted on not missing Mass. I was happy here.
After the service, which included a wonderful sermon and familiar hymns accompanied by a small orchestra, we exited the church into the bright sunshine. I felt so blessed that I wanted to say a few words to the priest. I found him bidding his parishioners farewell at the door.
I told him that I truly enjoyed the service there at the Guardian Angel Cathedral. And if I am ever in Las Vegas again, I hope to return.
I leave you with Psalm 16:11—You have made known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.
—Kim Paras
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Kim's Notebook
I have been thinking about Eve, the famous Eve from the book of Genesis, and after years of despising her, I’ve decided to cut her some slack.
Eve—wife of Adam, mother of Cain, Abel, and Seth—has been consuming my thoughts of late. It began a few weeks ago when I was driving to work and came upon a car with a license plate beginning with the letters EVE. What came to my mind first was Eve of the Bible. And my train of thought went like so: Eve, snake, apple, sin, pain and suffering.
I didn’t think much more of the license plate until a few days later when, on the same route, I found myself behind two cars with New York plates beginning in EVE. One of the cars was in my lane; one was in the next lane. That’s peculiar, I thought.
It was quite likely just a coincidence, but the part of me that likes to overthink began wondering if God was trying to send me a message—a message coming my way via New York license plates. I thought:
Does God want me to think about Eve? And if so, what about her? Since my childhood Sunday school lessons, I have disliked Eve. Somewhere along the way, I got it in my head that our world would be free of pain, sin, suffering, and all evil if Eve, weak-willed Eve, had not eaten fruit from the tree that God told her not to eat. Think about it. She had the beautiful Garden of Eden at her disposal, with everything she could want, and the one thing God tells her not to do—well, Eve goes off and does it, and drags poor Adam down with her. That thinking has stuck with me for years.
Back to those powerful license plates, I wondered:
Maybe God wants me to reread the Book of Genesis. I have not read it in many years, and maybe there’s a message in the story of Adam and Eve that God wants me to think about.
Or perhaps God is telling me that I’ve been behaving Eve-like. Oh gosh, am I that terrible? I thought. I didn’t like that possibility and quickly decided that God was not accusing me of acting like Eve.
I wondered if God was trying to warn me about snakes or “bad apples.”
Then my mind went to gardens, and I tried to figure out if there was a message there. For a few minutes I thought of the Garden of Eden and tried to imagine what it looked like all those hundreds of years ago. And then, on my earnest search for what God was trying to tell me, I recalled another garden, the one at Gethsemane, where Jesus spent time praying in his last hours before being seized by Roman soldiers.
It was thoughts of Gethsemane that brought to a stop my whirling thoughts. In the Bible, we read in a few passages where Jesus went off on his own to have quiet prayer with God. It is a wonderful lesson—taking time out of the day to talk with God—and one that I do not act on enough. My prayer life is not what I wish it would be, and I tend to blame my busy schedule. But as I thought of Jesus, I was reminded that if Jesus, whose job it was to save mankind, could find time in his day to connect with God, certainly I can.
As for Eve, I realized that I had to stop blaming her. After all, another of Jesus’s great lessons was forgiving others. And besides, Eve was only human.
I leave you with Matthew 26:36-38—Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.” He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.”
—Kim Paras
Eve—wife of Adam, mother of Cain, Abel, and Seth—has been consuming my thoughts of late. It began a few weeks ago when I was driving to work and came upon a car with a license plate beginning with the letters EVE. What came to my mind first was Eve of the Bible. And my train of thought went like so: Eve, snake, apple, sin, pain and suffering.
I didn’t think much more of the license plate until a few days later when, on the same route, I found myself behind two cars with New York plates beginning in EVE. One of the cars was in my lane; one was in the next lane. That’s peculiar, I thought.
It was quite likely just a coincidence, but the part of me that likes to overthink began wondering if God was trying to send me a message—a message coming my way via New York license plates. I thought:
Does God want me to think about Eve? And if so, what about her? Since my childhood Sunday school lessons, I have disliked Eve. Somewhere along the way, I got it in my head that our world would be free of pain, sin, suffering, and all evil if Eve, weak-willed Eve, had not eaten fruit from the tree that God told her not to eat. Think about it. She had the beautiful Garden of Eden at her disposal, with everything she could want, and the one thing God tells her not to do—well, Eve goes off and does it, and drags poor Adam down with her. That thinking has stuck with me for years.
Back to those powerful license plates, I wondered:
Maybe God wants me to reread the Book of Genesis. I have not read it in many years, and maybe there’s a message in the story of Adam and Eve that God wants me to think about.
Or perhaps God is telling me that I’ve been behaving Eve-like. Oh gosh, am I that terrible? I thought. I didn’t like that possibility and quickly decided that God was not accusing me of acting like Eve.
I wondered if God was trying to warn me about snakes or “bad apples.”
Then my mind went to gardens, and I tried to figure out if there was a message there. For a few minutes I thought of the Garden of Eden and tried to imagine what it looked like all those hundreds of years ago. And then, on my earnest search for what God was trying to tell me, I recalled another garden, the one at Gethsemane, where Jesus spent time praying in his last hours before being seized by Roman soldiers.
It was thoughts of Gethsemane that brought to a stop my whirling thoughts. In the Bible, we read in a few passages where Jesus went off on his own to have quiet prayer with God. It is a wonderful lesson—taking time out of the day to talk with God—and one that I do not act on enough. My prayer life is not what I wish it would be, and I tend to blame my busy schedule. But as I thought of Jesus, I was reminded that if Jesus, whose job it was to save mankind, could find time in his day to connect with God, certainly I can.
As for Eve, I realized that I had to stop blaming her. After all, another of Jesus’s great lessons was forgiving others. And besides, Eve was only human.
I leave you with Matthew 26:36-38—Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.” He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.”
—Kim Paras
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Kim's Notebook
My husband, Rich, and I had a good laugh at ourselves the other day. And in the process, I was reminded of how strong a feeling love is.
It was a Sunday afternoon and Rich had gone for a bike ride, heading south toward Pine Island. Around the same time that he left, I went for a run, heading north. When I got back from my run, I knew that Rich was home because his bike was in the driveway. Before going into the house, I went to the backyard to cool down and stretch. Then I entered our house through the basement door and headed straight to the laundry room (an important detail as you will soon see).
Apparently, at about the time I was going to the back yard, Rich came out the front door and sat on our porch to wait for my return. I usually enter the front door after my runs, but I had not on this day. When I had not returned home, or so Rich thought, he became concerned and went off to look for me, walking along Pulaski Highway toward Mount Eve Road.
It was a warm, slightly humid day, and Rich knows that I have a condition called neurocardiogenic syncope. It is not as serious as it sounds. But it means I have low blood pressure and can faint without much warning (though I take medicine to prevent that). However, I am supposed to avoid getting too hot, and I have to be careful not to become dehydrated.
With Rich out looking for me along the highway, I came upstairs from the laundry room to ask how his bike ride went. I first looked for him in the kitchen and living room. No Rich. I looked in our bedroom and the bathrooms. He wasn’t there. “Where’s your dad?” I asked my stepson. Richard Jr. didn’t know, but said, “He was here a little while ago.” I checked the basement and went back outside. My husband’s bike was still there. I looked in the backyard and peered out at the pool. By then, I was starting to worry. Where could he be? Worst-case scenarios began playing out in my mind. Opposite of me, Rich has high blood pressure. I thought, “Did he have a heart attack?” I kept walking through the house, checking rooms I had already checked.
After a few minutes, I heard the front door open. I went to the living room. There was Rich! He laughed and said, “Have you been here all along?” I gave him a tight hug. We both were fine, and there had been no tragedy as my imagination had tried to lead me to believe—but I still felt relief, and I was reminded at that moment how much I love Rich, and how much he loves me.
Later, I thought about how God loves me—loves all of us—even more. I find my husband’s love for me to be an amazing thing. To think that God loves each us many more times than that, it is an awesome thing to try to comprehend, but what a wonderful blessing it is.
I leave you with John 10:14-15—I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me—just as the Father knows me and I know the Father—and I lay down my life for the sheep.
—Kim Paras
It was a Sunday afternoon and Rich had gone for a bike ride, heading south toward Pine Island. Around the same time that he left, I went for a run, heading north. When I got back from my run, I knew that Rich was home because his bike was in the driveway. Before going into the house, I went to the backyard to cool down and stretch. Then I entered our house through the basement door and headed straight to the laundry room (an important detail as you will soon see).
Apparently, at about the time I was going to the back yard, Rich came out the front door and sat on our porch to wait for my return. I usually enter the front door after my runs, but I had not on this day. When I had not returned home, or so Rich thought, he became concerned and went off to look for me, walking along Pulaski Highway toward Mount Eve Road.
It was a warm, slightly humid day, and Rich knows that I have a condition called neurocardiogenic syncope. It is not as serious as it sounds. But it means I have low blood pressure and can faint without much warning (though I take medicine to prevent that). However, I am supposed to avoid getting too hot, and I have to be careful not to become dehydrated.
With Rich out looking for me along the highway, I came upstairs from the laundry room to ask how his bike ride went. I first looked for him in the kitchen and living room. No Rich. I looked in our bedroom and the bathrooms. He wasn’t there. “Where’s your dad?” I asked my stepson. Richard Jr. didn’t know, but said, “He was here a little while ago.” I checked the basement and went back outside. My husband’s bike was still there. I looked in the backyard and peered out at the pool. By then, I was starting to worry. Where could he be? Worst-case scenarios began playing out in my mind. Opposite of me, Rich has high blood pressure. I thought, “Did he have a heart attack?” I kept walking through the house, checking rooms I had already checked.
After a few minutes, I heard the front door open. I went to the living room. There was Rich! He laughed and said, “Have you been here all along?” I gave him a tight hug. We both were fine, and there had been no tragedy as my imagination had tried to lead me to believe—but I still felt relief, and I was reminded at that moment how much I love Rich, and how much he loves me.
Later, I thought about how God loves me—loves all of us—even more. I find my husband’s love for me to be an amazing thing. To think that God loves each us many more times than that, it is an awesome thing to try to comprehend, but what a wonderful blessing it is.
I leave you with John 10:14-15—I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me—just as the Father knows me and I know the Father—and I lay down my life for the sheep.
—Kim Paras
Monday, May 16, 2011
Kim's Notebook
If I were to describe in a few words different flowers, I would say that roses are romantic and velvety. Petunias are pretty and resilient. Impatiens are delightful and delicate. Tulips, my favorites, are lovely, elegant, strong, and graceful.
One of the many things I love about this time of year is seeing the tulips rise to the occasion, lifting their heads high while still maintaining a sense of humility. A tulip, with its curved, silky petals and long, green stem and leaves, is like the beautiful girl who doesn’t know how beautiful she is. She can be doing nothing more than standing alone feeling the sun warm her face, and those who happen to see her find themselves doing a double take. Yes, the tulip is a true work of beauty.
My own tulips are taking their time in reaching maturity this year. While those of my neighbors have already bloomed, my tulips—about a half-dozen of them planted near our front walkway—are a little more than halfway into their springtime resurrection.
I pass them at least twice a day and make a point of checking on their progress. Day by day, I think I see a little bit more growth, the stem reaching higher, the green covering of the buds gradually changing to pink, hinting at the color that will reveal itself soon. I don’t touch the tulips for fear of hurting them. It is like spotting a butterfly in its chrysalis. The small butterfly is in there, a living, breathing creature preparing to make its debut, but it’s not quite ready to greet the world. The butterfly, like the tulip, will appear when the time is right.
Spring and its renewal of life—the reawakening of trees and flowers from their dormancy—make me happy, pure and simple. Not just for aesthetic reasons, though I do love the blooming flowers, the sweet fragrances, the vivid colors. I love spring because it makes me think of God and how amazing His creations are. In spring, what appeared dead and gray last week is now budding bright shades of green. What was asleep is now awake. To paraphrase a bit of Scripture, what was lost is found.
Take a few minutes and look around at the brilliance of our Father. It’s no wonder that we call him the Creator. Consider the human brain and all its complexities. For that matter, think about the human heart, that fist-sized muscle pumping blood throughout our bodies. What amazing creations. And what about the vast oceans and the countless creatures, from the miniscule to the massive, that live on the floor of the seas. And consider the stars. Snowflakes. Butterflies. Tulips.
I leave you with Psalm 95:3-7—For the Lord is the great God, the great King above all gods. In his hand are the depths of the earth, and the mountain peaks belong to him. The sea is his, for he made it, and his hands formed the dry land. Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the Lord our Maker, for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care.
—Kim Paras
One of the many things I love about this time of year is seeing the tulips rise to the occasion, lifting their heads high while still maintaining a sense of humility. A tulip, with its curved, silky petals and long, green stem and leaves, is like the beautiful girl who doesn’t know how beautiful she is. She can be doing nothing more than standing alone feeling the sun warm her face, and those who happen to see her find themselves doing a double take. Yes, the tulip is a true work of beauty.
My own tulips are taking their time in reaching maturity this year. While those of my neighbors have already bloomed, my tulips—about a half-dozen of them planted near our front walkway—are a little more than halfway into their springtime resurrection.
I pass them at least twice a day and make a point of checking on their progress. Day by day, I think I see a little bit more growth, the stem reaching higher, the green covering of the buds gradually changing to pink, hinting at the color that will reveal itself soon. I don’t touch the tulips for fear of hurting them. It is like spotting a butterfly in its chrysalis. The small butterfly is in there, a living, breathing creature preparing to make its debut, but it’s not quite ready to greet the world. The butterfly, like the tulip, will appear when the time is right.
Spring and its renewal of life—the reawakening of trees and flowers from their dormancy—make me happy, pure and simple. Not just for aesthetic reasons, though I do love the blooming flowers, the sweet fragrances, the vivid colors. I love spring because it makes me think of God and how amazing His creations are. In spring, what appeared dead and gray last week is now budding bright shades of green. What was asleep is now awake. To paraphrase a bit of Scripture, what was lost is found.
Take a few minutes and look around at the brilliance of our Father. It’s no wonder that we call him the Creator. Consider the human brain and all its complexities. For that matter, think about the human heart, that fist-sized muscle pumping blood throughout our bodies. What amazing creations. And what about the vast oceans and the countless creatures, from the miniscule to the massive, that live on the floor of the seas. And consider the stars. Snowflakes. Butterflies. Tulips.
I leave you with Psalm 95:3-7—For the Lord is the great God, the great King above all gods. In his hand are the depths of the earth, and the mountain peaks belong to him. The sea is his, for he made it, and his hands formed the dry land. Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the Lord our Maker, for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care.
—Kim Paras
Thursday, April 7, 2011
“Kim’s Notebook”
During this Lenten season, I have been reading a book that talks about God’s grace, which sounds like a concept that should be easy to understand, yet I am struggling with it.
In the book, Forty Days of Fruitful Living, the author talks about the fact that God loves me unconditionally, that He gives his grace freely, and that I do not have to do a thing to earn that grace and love. It is a message I have heard many times, in other books, in sermons, in Bible study classes. I feel like when I read those words—God loves you!—that I should be moved to tears. God, the creator of heaven and earth, loves me! Shouldn’t that knowledge wipe away all my stress and worry? Shouldn’t it clear my mind of any tension or negative thoughts? But that isn’t what happens. Despite knowing God loves me, I sometimes feel as if I am sinking in all the responsibilities of my life.
It isn’t as if I don’t believe in God’s love . In fact, I do believe that I am a child of God, that Jesus died for my sins, and that God loves me and always will. I think my problem with fully grasping God’s grace is that I want to physically see God. I believe I would have a better appreciation and understanding of this Being who loves me, who died for me and then rose from the dead for me, if I could see Him.
Yes, that’s it. I need to see God, standing before me with eyes, nose, mouth, hair—just like I can see any of you. I have gone to church for as long as I can remember, but for some time now—more so in my adult years, actually—I have yearned for physical, indisputable, in-front-of-my-face evidence of God’s presence in my life.
As I read back over the words I’ve just written, an old saying comes to mind: Be careful what you wish for. If God did walk up to me right now (I write this sitting in the library) and tap me on the shoulder, I would probably drop dead in my tracks. I picture God as big and glowing and fearsome and, well, I really don’t know how to picture God, but being the scaredy-cat that I am, I’m pretty sure that coming face-to-face with Him would be more than I could bear.
Having said all that, I’ve been wondering if whether I actually have seen God, but just didn’t have the good sense to recognize Him.
Several days ago, I was driving Maggie to school. We were making our way east on Pulaski Highway when I saw not one flock of Canada geese, but three separate flocks. “Look, Maggie!” I said. The three flocks weren’t in neat “V” formations that I’m so used to seeing, but each flock was gliding forward in a moving, swirling mosaic that on the one hand looked disorganized and chaotic, but I somehow knew that the geese knew what they were doing. They looked as if they were jostling into position and communicating with one another in a language that I, of course, could not understand. An image came to my mind of God up in heaven, playing with an Etch-a-Sketch, and it made me smile. As much as I enjoyed seeing the geese that beautiful morning, I enjoyed even more sharing the sight with my stepdaughter Maggie.
A few days later, I was riding the elevator to the lobby at work. I was heading out, just down the block, to get a cup of coffee at McDonald’s. There was one other person on the elevator with me, and we happened to strike up a conversation in the couple of minutes we were together. During that brief encounter, it came up that she was originally from Georgia. I mentioned that I was from Tennessee. We laughed that we now live in New York, where as kids we never dreamed we’d end up, and then we went on to talk about Southern foods that we loved and missed. It turns out that she was headed to McDonald’s too—to buy oatmeal, she said, though what she was really hankerin’ was grits—so we talked for several minutes before parting ways. That short interaction with her made me laugh and smile. I felt as if I’d just met an old friend, and I was in a better mood for the rest of the day, all due to that chance meeting on the elevator.
Through those experiences—spotting the geese with Maggie, meeting the fellow Southerner on the elevator—did I see God? I talk about wanting to see God the way I see an actual person, but could it be that I see Him every day, moving mysteriously and gracefully like a flock of birds in the morning sky?
I leave you with Philippians 2:8-9—And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross! Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name.
—Kim Paras
In the book, Forty Days of Fruitful Living, the author talks about the fact that God loves me unconditionally, that He gives his grace freely, and that I do not have to do a thing to earn that grace and love. It is a message I have heard many times, in other books, in sermons, in Bible study classes. I feel like when I read those words—God loves you!—that I should be moved to tears. God, the creator of heaven and earth, loves me! Shouldn’t that knowledge wipe away all my stress and worry? Shouldn’t it clear my mind of any tension or negative thoughts? But that isn’t what happens. Despite knowing God loves me, I sometimes feel as if I am sinking in all the responsibilities of my life.
It isn’t as if I don’t believe in God’s love . In fact, I do believe that I am a child of God, that Jesus died for my sins, and that God loves me and always will. I think my problem with fully grasping God’s grace is that I want to physically see God. I believe I would have a better appreciation and understanding of this Being who loves me, who died for me and then rose from the dead for me, if I could see Him.
Yes, that’s it. I need to see God, standing before me with eyes, nose, mouth, hair—just like I can see any of you. I have gone to church for as long as I can remember, but for some time now—more so in my adult years, actually—I have yearned for physical, indisputable, in-front-of-my-face evidence of God’s presence in my life.
As I read back over the words I’ve just written, an old saying comes to mind: Be careful what you wish for. If God did walk up to me right now (I write this sitting in the library) and tap me on the shoulder, I would probably drop dead in my tracks. I picture God as big and glowing and fearsome and, well, I really don’t know how to picture God, but being the scaredy-cat that I am, I’m pretty sure that coming face-to-face with Him would be more than I could bear.
Having said all that, I’ve been wondering if whether I actually have seen God, but just didn’t have the good sense to recognize Him.
Several days ago, I was driving Maggie to school. We were making our way east on Pulaski Highway when I saw not one flock of Canada geese, but three separate flocks. “Look, Maggie!” I said. The three flocks weren’t in neat “V” formations that I’m so used to seeing, but each flock was gliding forward in a moving, swirling mosaic that on the one hand looked disorganized and chaotic, but I somehow knew that the geese knew what they were doing. They looked as if they were jostling into position and communicating with one another in a language that I, of course, could not understand. An image came to my mind of God up in heaven, playing with an Etch-a-Sketch, and it made me smile. As much as I enjoyed seeing the geese that beautiful morning, I enjoyed even more sharing the sight with my stepdaughter Maggie.
A few days later, I was riding the elevator to the lobby at work. I was heading out, just down the block, to get a cup of coffee at McDonald’s. There was one other person on the elevator with me, and we happened to strike up a conversation in the couple of minutes we were together. During that brief encounter, it came up that she was originally from Georgia. I mentioned that I was from Tennessee. We laughed that we now live in New York, where as kids we never dreamed we’d end up, and then we went on to talk about Southern foods that we loved and missed. It turns out that she was headed to McDonald’s too—to buy oatmeal, she said, though what she was really hankerin’ was grits—so we talked for several minutes before parting ways. That short interaction with her made me laugh and smile. I felt as if I’d just met an old friend, and I was in a better mood for the rest of the day, all due to that chance meeting on the elevator.
Through those experiences—spotting the geese with Maggie, meeting the fellow Southerner on the elevator—did I see God? I talk about wanting to see God the way I see an actual person, but could it be that I see Him every day, moving mysteriously and gracefully like a flock of birds in the morning sky?
I leave you with Philippians 2:8-9—And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross! Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name.
—Kim Paras
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Words From Kim's Notebook
I was sitting in church a few weeks ago listening to the sermon, with plenty of empty seats around me, when this thought came to mind: I should invite someone to church.
It seems like a no-brainer. Of course. Invite someone to church! But I have a shameful confession. In all my years of attending church, of going to Sunday school, of taking part in various church functions, of participating in and even leading Bible study lessons, I do not think I have ever said to someone: Would you like to go to church with me?
Oh I have my reasons for not having invited anyone, and here they are. 1) I can’t invite anyone I meet through my job, because I work in Westchester County and everyone I know through work lives far away from my church. 2) I don’t invite my immediate family, because they are Catholic and attend Saint Stephen’s. 3) Outside of co-workers and family, the only people I know are my friends I know through Bellvale and Sugar Loaf, and they already go to church. So there. That’s everyone.
I was running these reasons, through my mind when God gave me a nudge. “Kimberly,” He said. (That’s what God and my mom call me when I’m in trouble.) “Are you trying to tell me that outside of those people, that you never encounter anyone else? Are you saying that in the coming year, perhaps the coming weeks, there is absolutely no possibility that you will meet someone that you can invite to join you on Sunday?”
God got me there. Truthfully, He gets me every time. Most likely, I do cross paths with people whom I could invite. And if I want to be brutally honest, here are the real reasons I don’t ask others to my church. Part of it is shyness. Part of it is, I’m afraid it will be awkward. I have it in my head that it’s going to be difficult for me to utter those simple words: Do you want to go to church with me sometime? But really, what’s the worst that could happen?. The person might say no. True, that might happen, but then what? Will the earth stop spinning? No, the worst that will happen is that there may be a couple of minutes of awkwardness, of the other person and I stammering over our words.
What else might happen? Well, if I invite someone to church, they might think I’m religious. Hmm. Well here’s a news flash. Even though I’ve never thought of labeling myself “religious,” I guess I am. Wait, I don’t guess I am. I am. Yes, it’s true! I believe that Jesus of Nazareth, who walked this earth more than 2,000 years ago, was the son of God. I believe that he was God incarnate (God in human form). I believe that he died a horrible, painful death, tied and nailed to a hard, wooden cross, and that he was buried, and that three days later he rose from the dead. I believe that he later ascended to heaven. I don’t know where heaven is, or what it looks like, or what it has in store for us, but I believe it is.
And you know, I believe that some of the happiest, most fulfilling moments of my life have been spent within the fellowship of the various church families I’ve been a part of in my life, and I believe that God would be disappointed in me—is disappointed in me—for not taking the opportunity to share all this with someone else, someone who may not have yet accepted Jesus Christ as their Savior, as the Messiah, as the Son of God. Why would I hold on to those wonderful truths, which are the core of the happiness and peace in my life, and not share them with someone else? All because I’m too timid to say: Would you like to come to church with me?
Hang on for a second … okay, done. I had to kick myself!
I leave you with Mark 1:16-18—As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will make you fishers of men.” At once they left their nets and followed him.
—Kim Paras
It seems like a no-brainer. Of course. Invite someone to church! But I have a shameful confession. In all my years of attending church, of going to Sunday school, of taking part in various church functions, of participating in and even leading Bible study lessons, I do not think I have ever said to someone: Would you like to go to church with me?
Oh I have my reasons for not having invited anyone, and here they are. 1) I can’t invite anyone I meet through my job, because I work in Westchester County and everyone I know through work lives far away from my church. 2) I don’t invite my immediate family, because they are Catholic and attend Saint Stephen’s. 3) Outside of co-workers and family, the only people I know are my friends I know through Bellvale and Sugar Loaf, and they already go to church. So there. That’s everyone.
I was running these reasons, through my mind when God gave me a nudge. “Kimberly,” He said. (That’s what God and my mom call me when I’m in trouble.) “Are you trying to tell me that outside of those people, that you never encounter anyone else? Are you saying that in the coming year, perhaps the coming weeks, there is absolutely no possibility that you will meet someone that you can invite to join you on Sunday?”
God got me there. Truthfully, He gets me every time. Most likely, I do cross paths with people whom I could invite. And if I want to be brutally honest, here are the real reasons I don’t ask others to my church. Part of it is shyness. Part of it is, I’m afraid it will be awkward. I have it in my head that it’s going to be difficult for me to utter those simple words: Do you want to go to church with me sometime? But really, what’s the worst that could happen?. The person might say no. True, that might happen, but then what? Will the earth stop spinning? No, the worst that will happen is that there may be a couple of minutes of awkwardness, of the other person and I stammering over our words.
What else might happen? Well, if I invite someone to church, they might think I’m religious. Hmm. Well here’s a news flash. Even though I’ve never thought of labeling myself “religious,” I guess I am. Wait, I don’t guess I am. I am. Yes, it’s true! I believe that Jesus of Nazareth, who walked this earth more than 2,000 years ago, was the son of God. I believe that he was God incarnate (God in human form). I believe that he died a horrible, painful death, tied and nailed to a hard, wooden cross, and that he was buried, and that three days later he rose from the dead. I believe that he later ascended to heaven. I don’t know where heaven is, or what it looks like, or what it has in store for us, but I believe it is.
And you know, I believe that some of the happiest, most fulfilling moments of my life have been spent within the fellowship of the various church families I’ve been a part of in my life, and I believe that God would be disappointed in me—is disappointed in me—for not taking the opportunity to share all this with someone else, someone who may not have yet accepted Jesus Christ as their Savior, as the Messiah, as the Son of God. Why would I hold on to those wonderful truths, which are the core of the happiness and peace in my life, and not share them with someone else? All because I’m too timid to say: Would you like to come to church with me?
Hang on for a second … okay, done. I had to kick myself!
I leave you with Mark 1:16-18—As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will make you fishers of men.” At once they left their nets and followed him.
—Kim Paras
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Words From Kim's Notebook
As I write these words, it is one of those rare occasions when I have the house to myself. Ahh. Peace and quiet.
Don’t misunderstand. I love my family and love spending time with them. But here in our home near Pine Island, peace and quiet—particularly the quiet part—are foreign concepts. With a husband, four children, and our children’s friends who are here on occasion, this is an active household, one that makes for busy, albeit joyous, lives. When December 2010 rolled around recently, like many people, I thought, “The year is over already?!” Our jobs, the children, and other activities keep Rich and I so busy year-round, that it seemed we had just rung in 2010 a few weeks ago. Then all of a sudden, it was 2011. Here at the Paras home, there is never a dull moment.
That said, I am happy to experience a little dullness this evening. I ended up having the house to myself because Rich and the kids went to my father-in-law’s in New Jersey to watch football. As much as I love football (ahem), I stayed behind because I have to get up very early in the morning, and they will be getting home very late tonight.
What does a busy wife and stepmom do when left alone? Well, this one savors the temporary solitude. Other than the humming and purring of the washer and dryer downstairs, the house is quiet. And I am rather enjoying it. I decided shortly after my gang left that I would use this opportunity to cook foods that I like but that they don’t. For one, I have a pot of pinto beans seasoned with ham hocks cooking on the stove. (If my youngest were here, she would turn up her nose at the mere mention of “ham hocks.”) I am going to heat my black iron skillet in the oven later and then make buttermilk cornbread. And I made a quick trip to the grocery store earlier to buy minute steaks, which I will dredge in flour and fry in hot oil. It’s not a meal for kings, I realize, but these are a few of the foods I grew up eating in the South, and my tummy is growling right now as the smell of the pinto beans wafts from the kitchen. I am fixing them the way my mom taught me, slowly, letting them cook somewhere between a simmer and a low boil until they are tender. Had I planned a little better, I would have cooked a pot of turnip greens as well, because my better half and the kids absolutely detest the smell of turnip greens.
Upstairs, supper is cooking. Downstairs, I have a low fire going in the wood-burning stove. I love the aroma and crackle of the fire, the warmth of which is so welcoming on this nearly single-digit cold night. I realize that in this space I often reminisce about my dad, and I hope you’ll forgive me, as so many things make me think of him, more so as I get older. As I was carefully adding a log to the fire earlier, that simple act made me think of him—Daddy, bringing in firewood from our back porch to the den and keeping the fire ablaze. Occasionally, he would straighten out clothes hangers and let my brother and I roast marshmallows, the fire licking at those big marshmallows until they were nearly burnt, melting, and gooey. Again, such simple things, but oh what wonderful memories it gave me.
I think a lot about how high-tech and busy and fast our world has become. The “no wait, get it now” society we live in is meant to make our lives easier, but I sometimes wonder if it in many ways creates stress. I hope I never lose sight of the joy that comes from simple things, like roasting marshmallows under my dad’s careful eye and cooking family dishes taught to me by my mom. More important is the love I feel from them, even from my dad who is no longer here with us. I thank God for these blessings.
I leave you with 1 John 5:14—This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us.
—Kim Paras
Don’t misunderstand. I love my family and love spending time with them. But here in our home near Pine Island, peace and quiet—particularly the quiet part—are foreign concepts. With a husband, four children, and our children’s friends who are here on occasion, this is an active household, one that makes for busy, albeit joyous, lives. When December 2010 rolled around recently, like many people, I thought, “The year is over already?!” Our jobs, the children, and other activities keep Rich and I so busy year-round, that it seemed we had just rung in 2010 a few weeks ago. Then all of a sudden, it was 2011. Here at the Paras home, there is never a dull moment.
That said, I am happy to experience a little dullness this evening. I ended up having the house to myself because Rich and the kids went to my father-in-law’s in New Jersey to watch football. As much as I love football (ahem), I stayed behind because I have to get up very early in the morning, and they will be getting home very late tonight.
What does a busy wife and stepmom do when left alone? Well, this one savors the temporary solitude. Other than the humming and purring of the washer and dryer downstairs, the house is quiet. And I am rather enjoying it. I decided shortly after my gang left that I would use this opportunity to cook foods that I like but that they don’t. For one, I have a pot of pinto beans seasoned with ham hocks cooking on the stove. (If my youngest were here, she would turn up her nose at the mere mention of “ham hocks.”) I am going to heat my black iron skillet in the oven later and then make buttermilk cornbread. And I made a quick trip to the grocery store earlier to buy minute steaks, which I will dredge in flour and fry in hot oil. It’s not a meal for kings, I realize, but these are a few of the foods I grew up eating in the South, and my tummy is growling right now as the smell of the pinto beans wafts from the kitchen. I am fixing them the way my mom taught me, slowly, letting them cook somewhere between a simmer and a low boil until they are tender. Had I planned a little better, I would have cooked a pot of turnip greens as well, because my better half and the kids absolutely detest the smell of turnip greens.
Upstairs, supper is cooking. Downstairs, I have a low fire going in the wood-burning stove. I love the aroma and crackle of the fire, the warmth of which is so welcoming on this nearly single-digit cold night. I realize that in this space I often reminisce about my dad, and I hope you’ll forgive me, as so many things make me think of him, more so as I get older. As I was carefully adding a log to the fire earlier, that simple act made me think of him—Daddy, bringing in firewood from our back porch to the den and keeping the fire ablaze. Occasionally, he would straighten out clothes hangers and let my brother and I roast marshmallows, the fire licking at those big marshmallows until they were nearly burnt, melting, and gooey. Again, such simple things, but oh what wonderful memories it gave me.
I think a lot about how high-tech and busy and fast our world has become. The “no wait, get it now” society we live in is meant to make our lives easier, but I sometimes wonder if it in many ways creates stress. I hope I never lose sight of the joy that comes from simple things, like roasting marshmallows under my dad’s careful eye and cooking family dishes taught to me by my mom. More important is the love I feel from them, even from my dad who is no longer here with us. I thank God for these blessings.
I leave you with 1 John 5:14—This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us.
—Kim Paras
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