Bucket List

My bucket list...

Build a very big snowman.
Teach someone something.
Learn to blow glass.
Chase a storm.
White water raft.
See a whale.
Sleep on the beach.
Give something away.
Find home.
Skydive.
See the Northern Lights.
Surf.
Dance.
Laugh. A lot.
Open a coffee shop.
Spend the rest of my life with one man.
Raise a big family.
Go overseas.
Ride a camel.
And an elephant.
Tell a story.
Be willing.
Sheer a sheep.
Run a race of any length.
Have an answer.
Be bold.
Buy a little black dress.
Excel at one thing.
Cut down my own Christmas tree.
Go to a movie by myself.
Be good at one sport.
Grow a garden.
See wild horses.
Learn a second language.
Spend time working as a bartender.
Finish school with a degree.
Take a ride on a sailboat.
Not be afraid of the mirror.
Or what people think about me.
Ride a train.
Make people feel special.
Make sure my sisters know how beautiful they are.
See.



This list will be added to. And subtracted from as things are accomplished. Which I have every intention of doing. The goal, however, is not to complete the list, but to ever remain ambitious. Courageous enough to stretch the limits of who you are and what you do. Inspired by a very wise man, this is not about the false summit. As told in the life's work of another man, now passed, the treasure is in the journey.

Shattered

Our prayer lately has been that we would come broken before the Father.

That we would remember that it is not about us, but about bringing Him glory.

That above all else, we'd seek His will, His plan.

But the more I think about it, I feel as though I've approached the throne room, chipped and cracked.

A battered version of myself.

Suffering some minor disfiguration. Some long, shallow cracks that do not penetrate the surface.

I am proud.

I've tried to disguise it, just as most of us do. And I've approached the Father saying, "here I am! Broken and humbled." But the vessel of myself is still in one piece. Still carrying my pride, my sense of self, my reservations.

Tonight I feel as if He's calling us to be not only broken... not to just come to Him in bad shape... but to come to Him shattered.

Come to Him with palms outstretched, holding the pieces of ourselves, dashed to shards. Unrecognizable. Indistinguishable. An unworthy vessel, unable to hold on to that which separates us from the Holy One.

"Here are the pieces of me," I say.

"I don't know how to put them back together again."

"Put me back together again. Make me resemble you. Turn what I've destroyed into a work of completion."

But when we are shattered and we bring the pieces to the Father, we must bring the pride too.

Like the woman with the alabaster jar.

Who brought herself and shattered herself at His feet and poured all she had before Him.

"Here are the pieces of me... make me whole."

And He will throw our pride, our mess, our intentions, our selfishness as far as the east is to the west...

I imagine a pleased Lord writing everything down. I am standing, watching, ashamed. Only to stare in disbelief as He grins (pleased with Himself, very much like a child) and folds the paper into an airplane. Reaches back with a mighty shoulder and lets the paper, with all our shortcomings, all our inadequacies, fly away... fly away to seek the point where west becomes east. Never to find it.

Or a Father gathering our pieces in His callused hands.

"See? I love you even when you look like this..."

We must come to Him shattered.

Reflection

This has been one heck of a week.

Most days I've felt as though I were treading water. Not making any progress. Just wearing myself out in one spot. This groove I've hollowed out for myself is no longer comfortable... too deep, too wide, and I need to get out. To scream and hear my own voice echo, to run and see the world fly by, to grow wings and rise higher and higher - gain perspective and vision.

Tonight was no different.

Until I went out with my family. With my little sister who is learning how to smile and my third sister who is dealing with her fifteenth year with much more grace than I did.

Over chips and salsa and music, things changed. As they do every time we get together. A new layer of our family is pulled back, a new dimension to our relationships is built. Between life lessons and compliments in Spanish... I left the dinner table better than I had come to it.

But unlike normal, the night was not over.

The Festival Latina is in town this weekend.

Streets have been blocked off.

Music is blaring.

The courthouse property smells like beer and cigars.

I can only understand a few of the words spoken around me.

And unlike normal, I slipped into a comfortable state of being.

As if I was lulled by the quick words of the people around me, the words I didn't understand. Mesmerized by what I learned from facial expressions and hand gestures. Entranced by the fireworks display that almost trumped the Fourth of July.

At one point during the fireworks display, we looked over to one of Lexington's tall buildings.

The windows were dark.

What was inside did not matter.

The dark panes of glass suddenly came to life, reflecting the fireworks exploding in the sky.

Over and over again the windows would fall dark and then illuminate again with purples and reds and then shudder when the fireworks popped and boomed.

And I thought to myself how the church should be like those windows.

How it is not what we are that is awesome. Or great.

We are only dark windows.

Made to reflect His light.

Made to shudder in His presence.

To draw people's attention to the awesome display of glory and light that He is...

That is our purpose.

To be a reflection of what is good and awesome about our Father.

Grappling

There's a story to be told here.

A sequence in a movie where the music is loud and the scenes flash by quickly...

Most of the time I feel like I am grappling for the wind.

I just want to hold it in my hands.

I am so restless today.

Nothing is wrong.

But I get the sense that an idea, my purpose, a great awakening is leading me on a chase...

Love Letter

I live for the weekends.

Not for some reasons you might think.

Not because I don't have to work.

Or because of bars and clubs and late nights.

No.

Because of my family.

Because of nights like last night.

At the end of twenty-four hours devoted to talking to Jesus...

we gathered.

Breaking bread.

Or... cutting mushrooms and rolling out pizza dough.

And we ate together.

And gathered around a precious brother who will soon leave us for a whole year.

And I sat back and watched as the sun set and eight brothers and sisters danced in the streets until twilight.

I know I will never forget these years.

Or these people who have been my dearest friends, my closest loves, my family for the past twelve months.

So often relationships spin their wheels - splattering mud but never gaining ground.

But we have been blessed.

And our Father is blessing us with more.

As new family members join, I am amazed at their confusion.

"Family? I'm family? But I've only hung out with you all a few times..." And we just shrug.

We fall in love easily around here.

I thank God every day for the brothers I always wanted but never had. The men I see growing into men after God's own heart. The handsome men I'm proud to call my family - the character I see building. The ways they make me laugh, feel safe, and protected...

And I laugh, knowing that it was always God's intention for the women in my life to outnumber the men. I already have three wonderful sisters. But the Father has added almost a dozen more. Women I admire, who I love with all my heart. Women I dance with and joke with and stretch with (spiritually and physically).

I live for the weekends because that is when I see these people.

This is when I feel whole.

When I feel loved.

And when I am in my forties, or in my sixties, I will remember. And hopefully still be experiencing the love of these children of God.

Words will never be adequate.

But this is my love letter to you... my brothers and sisters.

You have stolen my heart.