I can't call this a desert.
Neither is it a valley.
I am being cared for.
I can see the sun. Feel the warmth of its rays on my back.
This -
this journey I have been on for the past year -
this has been an ascent.
I am climbing a mountain.
Taking steps towards a summit.
With a heavy pack on my back and blisters on my heels and sweat dripping down my face.
I feel close.
-
I know I will reach the top and realize there's only a resting place there.
But it is a goal.
Today, that summit is what I strive for.
-
Because I see His face.
And I hear His voice.
And I feel Him moving.
I'm just ready for an overlook.
For a place to stop and rest and enjoy the beauty of His creation.
-
I understand that I would eventually need to get moving again.
But I have a deep desire to rest.
-
This has been one of the hardest summers of my life.
I understand I am being tried and stretched.
All for a purpose.
-
I have been climbing for a while now.
And it keeps getting steeper.
The way keeps getting harder.
I am tired.
-
But this is not a valley.
This is not a dry season.
-
This is a climb
Monday, September 7, 2009
summer skin
Time used to creep by.
At fifteen, I thought I would never be an adult. Walking through the cold rain, hood over my head, I was ready for life to happen. For things to get going.
-
I don't know when it happened.
But life got a move on.
And days are melting together now.
-
It has been years since I met you.
And years since I loved you.
It's been years since I visited there,
and months since I've seen you.
-
I fell asleep one night,
and when I awoke,
it was September.
-
Tonight, I am dealing with mixed emotions.
I am mourning the loss of summer.
I am not the only one who took for granted the days of wavering sun light and iridescent heat.
The only one who failed to take advantage of long evenings and late mornings.
Of watering holes and soccer fields.
What happened?
Where is the time going?
-
I am also rejoicing in autumn.
Arriving gently, on the wind first.
In the clear, starry night sky.
We feel the difference in our bones.
And we know it is coming.
Because there is nothing like fall in Kentucky.
-
I am shedding my summer skin.
I am trying to remember what happened to me this summer.
Who I met.
What I did.
How I changed.
And suddenly, the last three months feel like a lifetime.
-
May this next season in all of our lives leave us changed.
May time never go by so quickly that we fail to experience, to taste, to see, to feel.
May we risk.
May we trust.
May we love.
At fifteen, I thought I would never be an adult. Walking through the cold rain, hood over my head, I was ready for life to happen. For things to get going.
-
I don't know when it happened.
But life got a move on.
And days are melting together now.
-
It has been years since I met you.
And years since I loved you.
It's been years since I visited there,
and months since I've seen you.
-
I fell asleep one night,
and when I awoke,
it was September.
-
Tonight, I am dealing with mixed emotions.
I am mourning the loss of summer.
I am not the only one who took for granted the days of wavering sun light and iridescent heat.
The only one who failed to take advantage of long evenings and late mornings.
Of watering holes and soccer fields.
What happened?
Where is the time going?
-
I am also rejoicing in autumn.
Arriving gently, on the wind first.
In the clear, starry night sky.
We feel the difference in our bones.
And we know it is coming.
Because there is nothing like fall in Kentucky.
-
I am shedding my summer skin.
I am trying to remember what happened to me this summer.
Who I met.
What I did.
How I changed.
And suddenly, the last three months feel like a lifetime.
-
May this next season in all of our lives leave us changed.
May time never go by so quickly that we fail to experience, to taste, to see, to feel.
May we risk.
May we trust.
May we love.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
awakened
Slowly -
Consumed.
Submerged -
Body covered, ears filled.
Breath is stolen.
Watery world -
Murky with guilt, dark with sin.
Noises amplified.
Voices of the past whisper and chide.
Struggling for the last word, to get ahead one last time.
But their efforts are in vain.
And through the echoing,
beyond the grips of the watery grave,
you are called out.
A voice -
demanding revival.
"Come out," He calls to you.
And you rise.
Peeled away from the very grips of death.
Extracted from a tomb,
Redeemed.
He calls you by name as He reaches.
And you are reborn.
Alive again -
the grime left behind in the empty burial ground.
Gasping for air -
a new breath to fill your lungs.
You are clean.
And you are free.
For you have been called by name.
Resurrected.
Awakened.
Consumed.
Submerged -
Body covered, ears filled.
Breath is stolen.
Watery world -
Murky with guilt, dark with sin.
Noises amplified.
Voices of the past whisper and chide.
Struggling for the last word, to get ahead one last time.
But their efforts are in vain.
And through the echoing,
beyond the grips of the watery grave,
you are called out.
A voice -
demanding revival.
"Come out," He calls to you.
And you rise.
Peeled away from the very grips of death.
Extracted from a tomb,
Redeemed.
He calls you by name as He reaches.
And you are reborn.
Alive again -
the grime left behind in the empty burial ground.
Gasping for air -
a new breath to fill your lungs.
You are clean.
And you are free.
For you have been called by name.
Resurrected.
Awakened.
Risk
I was weighed down.
Heaviness. On my chest, on my shoulders, on my heart.
A pressure I felt upon waking,
A burden I carried, even as I laid down to sleep.
I moved slowly under the load.
And as my world slowed down,
I began to hear.
I was being challenged.
Tried.
Pressed further /
Risk, the quiet voice encouraged.
But I tried to untangle my own mess.
To lay down my own load.
Only to tangle it further,
to trip over my pile of "stuff", I had not successfully gotten rid of -
but only off-loaded /
I found myself questioning:
The motive of the Father.
The purpose and existence of that, which acted as my burden /
But I listened.
To the still, small voice /
Listening is not easy.
Listening does not always relieve you of a burden or a load.
But tonight, all He was requiring of me was attentiveness.
To hear Him and act upon that /
And in the very moment I did so,
acknowledging my incapability,
risking that, which I valued too highly anyway,
entrusting Him /
A butterfly,
orange and black wingspan,
floated by my face on the wind
Delaying, hovering, before flying away
Disappearing from my sight /
Healing
Growth
Transformation /
It was never about the burden itself.
It was about trust.
Risking what was most precious to me,
allowing the Lover of my Soul to take care of my life /
It was He who called it a wellspring
And He is a guardian /
I awoke this morning
unfettered
unencumbered
one thousand years older /
Heaviness. On my chest, on my shoulders, on my heart.
A pressure I felt upon waking,
A burden I carried, even as I laid down to sleep.
I moved slowly under the load.
And as my world slowed down,
I began to hear.
I was being challenged.
Tried.
Pressed further /
Risk, the quiet voice encouraged.
But I tried to untangle my own mess.
To lay down my own load.
Only to tangle it further,
to trip over my pile of "stuff", I had not successfully gotten rid of -
but only off-loaded /
I found myself questioning:
The motive of the Father.
The purpose and existence of that, which acted as my burden /
But I listened.
To the still, small voice /
Listening is not easy.
Listening does not always relieve you of a burden or a load.
But tonight, all He was requiring of me was attentiveness.
To hear Him and act upon that /
And in the very moment I did so,
acknowledging my incapability,
risking that, which I valued too highly anyway,
entrusting Him /
A butterfly,
orange and black wingspan,
floated by my face on the wind
Delaying, hovering, before flying away
Disappearing from my sight /
Healing
Growth
Transformation /
It was never about the burden itself.
It was about trust.
Risking what was most precious to me,
allowing the Lover of my Soul to take care of my life /
It was He who called it a wellspring
And He is a guardian /
I awoke this morning
unfettered
unencumbered
one thousand years older /
Sunday, August 23, 2009
thoughts
I've been having a lot of thoughts lately.
Thoughts that don't necessarily connect.
Or make sense.
Unfinished, uneducated, irrational.
I have thrown open the windows and am airing out the dusty confines of my mind and my heart.
-
If we approach our lives from a logical standpoint, as Christians we should know there is absolutely nothing for us to worry about.
We have given our lives to Christ.
And Christ loves us. He is pulling for us. He has plans for us.
If we surrender, then what happens next is not so much in our control anymore.
But we risk becoming apathetic. Living lives of inaction or stagnancy.
"God's got it under control..." does not mean we are no longer responsible for the way we live our lives.
It means that our energies are spent pursuing God and drawing closer to Him. And when our hearts are so close to His, we can trust our own judgement. We can look at the chaos of our worldly lives and know that He did not create pain, but He will use it. That He did not intend for us to be lonely, but He will meet us there.
-
I dropped out of college this semester.
I couldn't make my school schedule coincide with my work schedule.
And I found myself with thousands of dollars of unplanned bills.
So I withdrew from classes.
And I am faced with the first fall season without a campus life in four years.
But I don't know what God wants from me.
He's calling me to DO something. Action. Move. To get involved. To be passionate.
What does that look like?
He's calling me to love people. That's always been what He's asked of me.
Now He's emphasizing investment.
Personal relationships that go deeper than hanging out on Friday nights.
More than where you live and what you do and where you grew up.
This is harder than it sounds.
-
I am learning.
I am learning that I know absolutely nothing.
That I think way too highly of myself.
That I am impatient.
I am learning what I need.
And what I want.
That these lessons are not specific to any age or maturity level...
these lessons are a part of life.
Lessons we must continue to learn.
Questions we must continue to ask, if we are to continue to grow.
-
My life today is a direct result of desperate prayers.
I am not sure when God began to answer them ... because maybe He's been answering them all along.
I am nearsighted. Unable to see what He is doing in the big picture.
All I remember is desperately praying for friends. For community. For a place where I belonged.
All I know is that one night in February, a dear friend harassed me into coming out to Jessamine Co. on a Thursday night. And that led me here. To this place.
I continue to pray. To pester God about it.
-
He is doing something huge right now.
He is doing something new.
-
I am unsure of His plans for me.
But He knows my heart's desire...
my desire for fellowship, for a husband, and a family.
For purpose and creativity. For a little coffee shop or a community center...
-
I find myself thinking metaphorically.
I am running.
We are running.
I will continue to run.
And you will keep running.
We will all run.
And one day...
you and i, we might fall into step with each other.
Running in the same direction.
The way I will love you will be different than any other.
We will not distract each other from our race... but, instead, encourage.
Challenge.
Support.
I am running my race. And you are running yours.
But God will have seen it fit for our races to become the same... seen it fit for us to have a partner.
-
Which means that my only worry is to continue to run.
To pace myself.
To breathe.
To be the right person.
To run my race.
Because I believe that God knows the plans He has for us.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
noise
Even when it is quiet around us... there is still noise.
I sit here in what I have come to call "silence".
But the fridge is humming.
The air conditioner is blowing.
Even when I am driving, I might be quiet.
But the radio is on.
-
I am always looking for signs.
Rarely stopping to listen.
Seeking God in the noise and in the mess.
Knowing He is there.
But because of the chaos, not hearing Him fully.
Like when you have the radio blaring... and underneath all the volume, you hear your phone ring.
He is whispering.
Whispering so quietly, it requires us to come close so we can hear.
-
What would happen if we started to turn it all off?
All the noise.
All the visual chaos.
Started to pare it all down.
Peel it all away.
Unplug. Disconnect. Shut down.
-
Because He is there.
Underneath it all.
He's being quiet, because He wants you to be quiet.
He's whispering because He desperately wants you to draw near.
-
This is not to say that He is not capable or willing to rise above the noise.
Very often, our Father will demand your attention.
His voice will boom and echo. He will rattle the windows.
Tonight, He was a voice over my shoulder, talking in my ear.
I almost missed Him.
He spoke through Jon and through Granddad.
Proverbs from wise men about running races and pulling in the same direction.
-
But He is whispering.
A steady rhythm under all the music.
I sit here in what I have come to call "silence".
But the fridge is humming.
The air conditioner is blowing.
Even when I am driving, I might be quiet.
But the radio is on.
-
I am always looking for signs.
Rarely stopping to listen.
Seeking God in the noise and in the mess.
Knowing He is there.
But because of the chaos, not hearing Him fully.
Like when you have the radio blaring... and underneath all the volume, you hear your phone ring.
He is whispering.
Whispering so quietly, it requires us to come close so we can hear.
-
What would happen if we started to turn it all off?
All the noise.
All the visual chaos.
Started to pare it all down.
Peel it all away.
Unplug. Disconnect. Shut down.
-
Because He is there.
Underneath it all.
He's being quiet, because He wants you to be quiet.
He's whispering because He desperately wants you to draw near.
-
This is not to say that He is not capable or willing to rise above the noise.
Very often, our Father will demand your attention.
His voice will boom and echo. He will rattle the windows.
Tonight, He was a voice over my shoulder, talking in my ear.
I almost missed Him.
He spoke through Jon and through Granddad.
Proverbs from wise men about running races and pulling in the same direction.
-
But He is whispering.
A steady rhythm under all the music.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
pedestrian
Perhaps this has been my problem for months now.
God has developed in me a love for His creation.
And it has been months since I've immersed myself in it.
My problems, my worries, my fears are backed up in me... piled too high, too deep for me to navigate on my own.
I am a pedestrian at heart.
Going on foot.
Solvitur ambulando.
It is solved by walking.
-
I imagine myself staring at a trailhead.
Shoulders heavy-laden.
With everything I think I need.
Everything they've told me I can't make the trip without.
At first, the going is easy. Paved, clear-cut. You tell yourself, the way the pack hurts your shoulders is normal. You will adjust.
But the trail narrows as you climb higher.
Overgrown.
Uneven.
You look ahead, look up.
And everything you are, seems not to be enough.
-
At what point do you start to put down your load?
To drop your pack, to lay down your map.
To begin to travel light,
to move freely.
-
The world looks different to those who are not carrying a burden.
-
I'm leaving my burdens at the trailhead today.
I will walk my problems out.
My blood will circulate.
My lungs will fill with air, and empty again.
My muscles will stretch.
My skin will smile... kissed by air that has not been filtered, sunlight that has not been manufactured.
-
This is my remedy.
I am, by definition, a pedestrian.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
the belly
I imagine that Jonah fought.
That he saw the massive body of the slimy fish coming at him, jaws open, gills opening - shutting.
I bet Jonah swallowed a lot of water.
Thought he was going to die.
In one fluid, devastating motion the fish swallowed him.
Whole.
And dove.
Deeper.
I bet Jonah waited.
To drown.
To be digested.
But it never happened.
-
Have you ever been snorkeling?
I remember as a little girl being in Destin, Florida.
We would spend all day on the beach.
Rent flat bottom kayaks.
And snorkeling gear.
I didn't use the snorkeling gear much, because it rubbed my nose raw.
But I distinctly remember the first time I went underwater.
And how the rest of the world faded away.
Everything was muffled and blurred.
Quiet.
Still.
Nothing else existed.
-
The Lord sent a big fish (or whale....) to swallow up Jonah.
And in the belly of that sizable fish,
I believe the rest of the world faded away.
Everything was muffled and blurred.
Quiet.
Still.
Nothing else existed.
-
Jonah ran.
The Lord followed.
Stole him away from his tragedy,
and hid him away quietly.
Made him be still.
-
The fish was not a punishment.
Not a scaly manifestation of the Lord's wrath.
Quite the opposite.
The belly of the fish was a sanctuary.
The safest place in the world...
a holy place.
-
The Lord loved Jonah.
So much that he plucked him out of despair.
Out of a churning sea.
Out of the hands of death and betrayal and sin.
His remedy was creative.
And terrifying.
Life-saving.
-
I find myself, today, wishing a fish would scoop me up and swallow me whole.
If only...
so I could have three days and three nights of quiet.
Of stillness.
Of one on one time with the Lord.
-
I am not Jonah.
I have not been running from the Lord.
If anything... I've been running towards Him.
After Him.
But my ears have been filled with noise.
And the chaos of my life is reverberating off my ear drums...
so loud.
Deafening.
I sometimes cannot hear His voice.
-
It's time to put on the snorkeling mask.
Let it rub raw the space between my nose and lip.
Let the fish God sends, swallow me whole.
And keep me safe for a few days.
That he saw the massive body of the slimy fish coming at him, jaws open, gills opening - shutting.
I bet Jonah swallowed a lot of water.
Thought he was going to die.
In one fluid, devastating motion the fish swallowed him.
Whole.
And dove.
Deeper.
I bet Jonah waited.
To drown.
To be digested.
But it never happened.
-
Have you ever been snorkeling?
I remember as a little girl being in Destin, Florida.
We would spend all day on the beach.
Rent flat bottom kayaks.
And snorkeling gear.
I didn't use the snorkeling gear much, because it rubbed my nose raw.
But I distinctly remember the first time I went underwater.
And how the rest of the world faded away.
Everything was muffled and blurred.
Quiet.
Still.
Nothing else existed.
-
The Lord sent a big fish (or whale....) to swallow up Jonah.
And in the belly of that sizable fish,
I believe the rest of the world faded away.
Everything was muffled and blurred.
Quiet.
Still.
Nothing else existed.
-
Jonah ran.
The Lord followed.
Stole him away from his tragedy,
and hid him away quietly.
Made him be still.
-
The fish was not a punishment.
Not a scaly manifestation of the Lord's wrath.
Quite the opposite.
The belly of the fish was a sanctuary.
The safest place in the world...
a holy place.
-
The Lord loved Jonah.
So much that he plucked him out of despair.
Out of a churning sea.
Out of the hands of death and betrayal and sin.
His remedy was creative.
And terrifying.
Life-saving.
-
I find myself, today, wishing a fish would scoop me up and swallow me whole.
If only...
so I could have three days and three nights of quiet.
Of stillness.
Of one on one time with the Lord.
-
I am not Jonah.
I have not been running from the Lord.
If anything... I've been running towards Him.
After Him.
But my ears have been filled with noise.
And the chaos of my life is reverberating off my ear drums...
so loud.
Deafening.
I sometimes cannot hear His voice.
-
It's time to put on the snorkeling mask.
Let it rub raw the space between my nose and lip.
Let the fish God sends, swallow me whole.
And keep me safe for a few days.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
NYC
There was never a question that God wanted me in New York City this summer.
But here I am, on the other side of the four-day trip, and I am wondering exactly what His purpose was for me there.
-
New York was exactly what I expected. Tall buildings, lots of people, loud noises, yellow taxi cabs.
Everyone keeps asking me to "write" about my trip.
We are all used to life-changing mission trips. Where amazing things happen, you learn profound lessons, you see life change.
To come home from a mission trip, with great experiences but no mind-boggling revelations... is a new phenomenon.
But isn't that the way life is?
Sometimes, the Father just wants us to be present.
To attend.
To do His work without immediate, or obvious, results.
To work and be obedient.
-
He is teaching me lessons about my heart.
About how to work with people who are different than I am.
About how much I love the people I am doing life with.
About how far a smile can go.
About how much work He has done and will continue to do in me.
-
Right now, I can close my eyes and see the towering buildings. Dizzy and reflective against the sky. I can hear the honking horns and the sounds of thousands of people shuffling down the street. I can feel the wind that hits your body just a few seconds after the train flies by on the underground track.
I can see the face of a photographer in Union Square, hear the laughter of a homeless man from Jersey, and feel the heaviness that hung in the air around Ground Zero. I can smell the honey roasted nuts and the hot dogs and the mountain of trash that gets piled on the curb at the end of the night.
I tried to count how many granola bars, water bottles, and packs of gum I passed out over the four days I spent in NYC. How many pies I cut at the Bowery. How many people I smiled at on the corner of 96th and Amsterdam.
I will never know just what our work did in the city of New York.
But that is not the point.
He told us to go.
And we went.
And He will continue the good work He began.
Because He is faithful.
But here I am, on the other side of the four-day trip, and I am wondering exactly what His purpose was for me there.
-
New York was exactly what I expected. Tall buildings, lots of people, loud noises, yellow taxi cabs.
Everyone keeps asking me to "write" about my trip.
We are all used to life-changing mission trips. Where amazing things happen, you learn profound lessons, you see life change.
To come home from a mission trip, with great experiences but no mind-boggling revelations... is a new phenomenon.
But isn't that the way life is?
Sometimes, the Father just wants us to be present.
To attend.
To do His work without immediate, or obvious, results.
To work and be obedient.
-
He is teaching me lessons about my heart.
About how to work with people who are different than I am.
About how much I love the people I am doing life with.
About how far a smile can go.
About how much work He has done and will continue to do in me.
-
Right now, I can close my eyes and see the towering buildings. Dizzy and reflective against the sky. I can hear the honking horns and the sounds of thousands of people shuffling down the street. I can feel the wind that hits your body just a few seconds after the train flies by on the underground track.
I can see the face of a photographer in Union Square, hear the laughter of a homeless man from Jersey, and feel the heaviness that hung in the air around Ground Zero. I can smell the honey roasted nuts and the hot dogs and the mountain of trash that gets piled on the curb at the end of the night.
I tried to count how many granola bars, water bottles, and packs of gum I passed out over the four days I spent in NYC. How many pies I cut at the Bowery. How many people I smiled at on the corner of 96th and Amsterdam.
I will never know just what our work did in the city of New York.
But that is not the point.
He told us to go.
And we went.
And He will continue the good work He began.
Because He is faithful.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
surprise
have a surprise for you."
I could hear a smile in His voice.
"What is it!?" I asked, excitement and curiosity filling my own.
"Close your eyes," He instructed.
I did.
"What is it?"
"Hold out your hands," He told me.
"But what is it!?" I held out my hands, obediently.
"I told you, it's a surprise." He laughed quietly.
"Give me a hint," I pleaded.
"But that would ruin the surprise."
"Just a small hint... or... can I guess?" I couldn't sit still. My fingers opened and closed and I opened my right eye, only a little bit.
He wouldn't be able to tell I was peeking.
"Dont peek!" He covered my eyes with His own hand. "It's not ready yet.... just wait. Hold still. Trust me, you'll love this."
I waited for what seemed like forever.
I listened to Him, somewhere beyond my closed eyelids, working faithfully.
Anticipation grew.
Grew into impatience.
I called out my guesses. Trying to solve the mystery, to end the waiting.
I threatened to open my eyes. To close my hands. To leave.
He listened to my words, increasing with aggravation. He didn't quit, however.
Whatever work He was doing, He continued.
I could feel Him standing over me, then.
The coolness of His shadow, cast over me.
I was quieted. My His presence, by the love I knew He had for me.
In my impatience, I had forgotten that what it was I waited for ...
was a gift.
I uncurled my defiant fingers.
The furrows in my brow relaxed.
He was near. Singing over me.
In my hands He put something that was both heavy and weightless.
Cool and warm.
Smooth and rough.
"You can open your eyes now," He whispered.
It had been so long since I'd seen His face.
I looked into His eyes, almost forgetting the gift in my hand.
"Surprise," He smiled.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Michael
I almost didn't sit down to write this.
But the thoughts are running too rampant in my head.
I logged onto Facebook last night and the majority of my friends' statuses clued me in on what had just happened.
Michael Jackson had a heart attack. He had passed away.
Overshadowed by the King of Pop's death, was the passing of Farrah Fawcett.
On the same day.
-
I was immediately disgusted.
Pop culture is something I am hit in the face with almost every day.
On the internet. In my office. On the radio.
But it is something I honestly try to avoid. Dodging it in the tabloids, turning the dial on the radio.
I am not exactly sure when our culture began to revolve around other people's lives.
But we are an obsessed society.
I'd go so far as to say our obsession is a sickness.
But last night, after I checked CNN for myself, the disgust slowly melted into sadness.
-
But not a normal sadness one might feel when they've lost a friend.
I didn't know Michael.
America is "mourning" today for the loss of one of its greatest pop icons.
But we didn't know Michael.
-
How can you mourn someone who you did not know?
-
I am sad today because a life ended yesterday that may or may not have had any real witnesses.
The person Michael Jackson really was, was a stranger to us.
He was one of the most talented artists in pop music history.
Iconic.
Insanely talented.
-
Terribly sad.
-
The young Michael's face is the one that is imprinted on my mind today.
And I wonder what happened?
Because no one knows.
No one knows why he so drastically changed his physical appearance.
No one knows why he did what he did in his later years.
Because we are not obsessed with who celebrities are.
We are obsessed with who we want them to be.
Who we expect them to be.
-
I am sad today, because a fifty year old man died in California yesterday.
He had brothers and sisters.
And children of his own.
A father who he may never have gained approval from.
But those who claimed to love him most... those who, today, are declaring that June 25th 2009 was the day music died...
had no idea who he was.
-
This is an epidemic in our culture.
Deriving from a single grain of gossip.
A desire to find fault in perfection,
and find perfection in the midst of normalcy.
To point the finger of blame and accusation and judgment away from ourselves, our lives.
-
America will mourn today.
The kind of empty mourning that happens when you truly have no idea what you just lost.
But the thoughts are running too rampant in my head.
I logged onto Facebook last night and the majority of my friends' statuses clued me in on what had just happened.
Michael Jackson had a heart attack. He had passed away.
Overshadowed by the King of Pop's death, was the passing of Farrah Fawcett.
On the same day.
-
I was immediately disgusted.
Pop culture is something I am hit in the face with almost every day.
On the internet. In my office. On the radio.
But it is something I honestly try to avoid. Dodging it in the tabloids, turning the dial on the radio.
I am not exactly sure when our culture began to revolve around other people's lives.
But we are an obsessed society.
I'd go so far as to say our obsession is a sickness.
But last night, after I checked CNN for myself, the disgust slowly melted into sadness.
-
But not a normal sadness one might feel when they've lost a friend.
I didn't know Michael.
America is "mourning" today for the loss of one of its greatest pop icons.
But we didn't know Michael.
-
How can you mourn someone who you did not know?
-
I am sad today because a life ended yesterday that may or may not have had any real witnesses.
The person Michael Jackson really was, was a stranger to us.
He was one of the most talented artists in pop music history.
Iconic.
Insanely talented.
-
Terribly sad.
-
The young Michael's face is the one that is imprinted on my mind today.
And I wonder what happened?
Because no one knows.
No one knows why he so drastically changed his physical appearance.
No one knows why he did what he did in his later years.
Because we are not obsessed with who celebrities are.
We are obsessed with who we want them to be.
Who we expect them to be.
-
I am sad today, because a fifty year old man died in California yesterday.
He had brothers and sisters.
And children of his own.
A father who he may never have gained approval from.
But those who claimed to love him most... those who, today, are declaring that June 25th 2009 was the day music died...
had no idea who he was.
-
This is an epidemic in our culture.
Deriving from a single grain of gossip.
A desire to find fault in perfection,
and find perfection in the midst of normalcy.
To point the finger of blame and accusation and judgment away from ourselves, our lives.
-
America will mourn today.
The kind of empty mourning that happens when you truly have no idea what you just lost.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Kickball
God's still, small voice is sometimes not so still and small.
The earth is jam-packed with His presence.
But we become accustomed to Him.
Hours, days, weeks will go by and we will fail to see Him.
And then one day...
He is evident in every small blade of grass, every song lyric, every casual word, every passing stranger.
-
Last night, Jon reminded us that the hardest work of hope is the waiting.
Tonight, sitting on a bed with a dear friend, I was reminded that everything happens for a reason. We are all connected. Everything we do circles back around.
Driving to Togethership, I passed him on the sidewalk. My first english professor in college. The one who taught me about John Prine and called me a fundamentalist Christian and told me I was the best writer he'd ever had.
I sat in their living room floor, listening to Rob Bell. A Nooma video I'd watched years and years ago. Like a joke you already know the punch line to... somehow, I heard it with new ears.
-
Did you know God is good?
Not just righteous and almighty and omnipresent.
Good.
That He is not only interested in the smallest details of your life, He is invested.
He is creative.
He is funny.
He is to be feared.
One of the best writers once said He wasn't safe.
But He is good.
-
I sit here tonight, with more thoughts in my head than I could ever convey.
Thoughts about waiting.
And giving up.
Of trusting.
Of stability and loyalty.
Of peace.
-
Why is it that while I'm walking down Maxwell Street, my thoughts make sense and flow ...
but I sit here and they jumble up in front of me. Disintegrate in my hands.
Some thoughts, perhaps, just aren't meant to be verbalized.
Some lessons, are intended to be internalized.
-
Tonight, I want you to go to a place where you can be still.
Where you can come close to God.
Let Him hold your face in His hands.
Be reminded that He is good.
And because He is good...
What He has in store for you is better.
-
I am hit, square between the eyes, with the realization that I have no idea what is going on.
In the midst of it all, I am unable to see the plan that is unfolding.
It is not until later, it will not be until later, that I will see.
And I will know.
-
For now, I have hope.
I am full of hope.
The earth is jam-packed with His presence.
But we become accustomed to Him.
Hours, days, weeks will go by and we will fail to see Him.
And then one day...
He is evident in every small blade of grass, every song lyric, every casual word, every passing stranger.
-
Last night, Jon reminded us that the hardest work of hope is the waiting.
Tonight, sitting on a bed with a dear friend, I was reminded that everything happens for a reason. We are all connected. Everything we do circles back around.
Driving to Togethership, I passed him on the sidewalk. My first english professor in college. The one who taught me about John Prine and called me a fundamentalist Christian and told me I was the best writer he'd ever had.
I sat in their living room floor, listening to Rob Bell. A Nooma video I'd watched years and years ago. Like a joke you already know the punch line to... somehow, I heard it with new ears.
-
Did you know God is good?
Not just righteous and almighty and omnipresent.
Good.
That He is not only interested in the smallest details of your life, He is invested.
He is creative.
He is funny.
He is to be feared.
One of the best writers once said He wasn't safe.
But He is good.
-
I sit here tonight, with more thoughts in my head than I could ever convey.
Thoughts about waiting.
And giving up.
Of trusting.
Of stability and loyalty.
Of peace.
-
Why is it that while I'm walking down Maxwell Street, my thoughts make sense and flow ...
but I sit here and they jumble up in front of me. Disintegrate in my hands.
Some thoughts, perhaps, just aren't meant to be verbalized.
Some lessons, are intended to be internalized.
-
Tonight, I want you to go to a place where you can be still.
Where you can come close to God.
Let Him hold your face in His hands.
Be reminded that He is good.
And because He is good...
What He has in store for you is better.
-
I am hit, square between the eyes, with the realization that I have no idea what is going on.
In the midst of it all, I am unable to see the plan that is unfolding.
It is not until later, it will not be until later, that I will see.
And I will know.
-
For now, I have hope.
I am full of hope.
dialogue
I have never questioned Your love for me.
Through all the trials and pain and obstacles I have faced, I was always certain.
I have never doubted that Your plan was best, that Your will was divine.
But from the beginning, with the exception of a few moments of clarity along the way, I simply have not been able to see.
Sometimes I have been unable to know and see Your will for what happens next.
Sometimes I resent You. For leaving me here. For sending others out. For giving them adventures.
Sometimes I feel left out. Not good enough. Ignored. Bored.
And I realized last night that I have not sought any of that, which I desire so deeply.
I have sat here. Hands open. Waiting for life to be delivered to me. Laziness. Fear. Confusion. Uncertainty. All have kept me tied to my seat. Stagnant.
Which is exactly the opposite of what my sisters and brothers have done.
I am now compelled to move.
Inspired to seek.
I'm here praying that if I draw close to You, You'd draw near to me.
If I go out in search of my adventures - the path You've laid out for me - that You would help me find it.
... I would come forth as gold.
... my seeking heart would find You.
-
At the same time, I realize that Your will might be for me to be right here.
Right now. In this place.
-
One of Your children found me at work today.
She asked where I had put my happy face and I told her that I'd left it at home, where I wanted to be.
I told her some of what was going on in my life right now and she just shook her head.
"Sometimes you grow the most when God pins you down in one place. Just be still, Anna. Just be still..."
This is the lesson you want me to learn this season.
How to stop, in the midst of the chaos and demands and anxiety, and be still.
In Your presence. Because You... are most important.
You want to fight for me.
You have plans for me.
But I'm too busy, too hurried, too active to hear.
-
You are teaching me something.
Lots of things.
And You already know this, I don't have to tell You, but I'm still frustrated.
I still don't feel like I'm doing anything important.
Most days.
There are other days when I hear Your voice a little clearer...
And I know that I am sinful.
I am finite.
I am blind.
-
There's no telling what You're up to.
I know You are good.
I know You love me.
I know You have a great sense of humor.
So even when I'm frustrated...
I love you.
Through all the trials and pain and obstacles I have faced, I was always certain.
I have never doubted that Your plan was best, that Your will was divine.
But from the beginning, with the exception of a few moments of clarity along the way, I simply have not been able to see.
Sometimes I have been unable to know and see Your will for what happens next.
Sometimes I resent You. For leaving me here. For sending others out. For giving them adventures.
Sometimes I feel left out. Not good enough. Ignored. Bored.
And I realized last night that I have not sought any of that, which I desire so deeply.
I have sat here. Hands open. Waiting for life to be delivered to me. Laziness. Fear. Confusion. Uncertainty. All have kept me tied to my seat. Stagnant.
Which is exactly the opposite of what my sisters and brothers have done.
I am now compelled to move.
Inspired to seek.
I'm here praying that if I draw close to You, You'd draw near to me.
If I go out in search of my adventures - the path You've laid out for me - that You would help me find it.
... I would come forth as gold.
... my seeking heart would find You.
-
At the same time, I realize that Your will might be for me to be right here.
Right now. In this place.
-
One of Your children found me at work today.
She asked where I had put my happy face and I told her that I'd left it at home, where I wanted to be.
I told her some of what was going on in my life right now and she just shook her head.
"Sometimes you grow the most when God pins you down in one place. Just be still, Anna. Just be still..."
This is the lesson you want me to learn this season.
How to stop, in the midst of the chaos and demands and anxiety, and be still.
In Your presence. Because You... are most important.
You want to fight for me.
You have plans for me.
But I'm too busy, too hurried, too active to hear.
-
You are teaching me something.
Lots of things.
And You already know this, I don't have to tell You, but I'm still frustrated.
I still don't feel like I'm doing anything important.
Most days.
There are other days when I hear Your voice a little clearer...
And I know that I am sinful.
I am finite.
I am blind.
-
There's no telling what You're up to.
I know You are good.
I know You love me.
I know You have a great sense of humor.
So even when I'm frustrated...
I love you.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
the things we feel
Heart beats faster.
Rising.
Full.
What you feel consumes you.
You are engulfed in what we have come to call emotions.
Internalized,
your thoughts swim in a sea of anger and fear and love and suspicion.
Rising.
Your eyes are brimming with it.
Your ears are full of it.
-
You hand covers your mouth.
You cannot speak of it.
It remains a secret.
These things you feel most deeply.
Echoing in the caverns of your soul.
But they will remain there.
Where you can control them.
Where they are contained and tame.
-
Rise.
-
From the depths.
You feel.
You give emotions names.
Uncertainty.
Doubt.
Fear.
Interest.
Curiosity.
Passion.
Confidence.
Insecurity.
-
Your self is exploding with it.
Secretly...
You want me to know.
You want to share all this with me.
With the world.
Because there are days when it is too much.
-
You lower your hand.
Your lips part.
A song comes out...
materializing before you.
Into shape.
Color.
Weight.
Texture.
-
What you know,
what you feel,
the deepest, strongest parts of you
are suddenly real.
Tangible.
Undeniable.
Rising.
Full.
What you feel consumes you.
You are engulfed in what we have come to call emotions.
Internalized,
your thoughts swim in a sea of anger and fear and love and suspicion.
Rising.
Your eyes are brimming with it.
Your ears are full of it.
-
You hand covers your mouth.
You cannot speak of it.
It remains a secret.
These things you feel most deeply.
Echoing in the caverns of your soul.
But they will remain there.
Where you can control them.
Where they are contained and tame.
-
Rise.
-
From the depths.
You feel.
You give emotions names.
Uncertainty.
Doubt.
Fear.
Interest.
Curiosity.
Passion.
Confidence.
Insecurity.
-
Your self is exploding with it.
Secretly...
You want me to know.
You want to share all this with me.
With the world.
Because there are days when it is too much.
-
You lower your hand.
Your lips part.
A song comes out...
materializing before you.
Into shape.
Color.
Weight.
Texture.
-
What you know,
what you feel,
the deepest, strongest parts of you
are suddenly real.
Tangible.
Undeniable.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Peace
The way we change sometimes blows my mind.
The ways in which I am different today, than I was this time last year, is unfathomable.
-
I want to say that I have grown and matured and become more gracious and patient.
Not always.
I want to say I have a clearer purpose today, a more determined sense of direction.
Not usually.
I want to say I am more gentle and kind, that I sin less.
No.
-
But I am trying.
And if nothing else, I am learning.
Striving to learn.
-
I have left my real identity in the dust, only to return and shake out the dirt, reminded that God made me the way I am for a reason.
I have stepped back and examined and pruned and intentionally stretched.
I am jumped in, headfirst.
There are days, my insecurity is wiped clean away by the Voice of Someone bigger than me.
Reminding me, as Jon said a few weeks ago, that humility is not about thinking too little of yourself. But seeking the opinion of the One whose opinion matters most.
Sometimes I really impress myself.
Only to turn around and really embarrass myself.
Is this life?
I believe so...
-
But the greatest lesson I may have learned, is to listen for His voice.
To decipher between His quiet whispers and my own selfish ambition.
To recognize Him, His gentle, persistent way, even when the world around me rebels in chaos.
And last night I listened.
And the Father showed up. In a familiar coffee shop across town.
Reminding me that He has a plan.
A purpose.
That He wants something from me.
Mainly... my attention.
-
I awoke this morning with a unprecedented grasp on peace.
Perhaps, even understanding...
What it means to be hopeful.
To trust.
To stare into the face of fear, of doubt, of cynicism, of panic...
And be unwavering.
-
By the grace of God alone will we get through all the obstacles thrown our way in this life.
But I believe, with all my heart, He has instilled eternity within us...
the deepest desire to know Him...
whether we know to call it that or not.
To return to the Father.
To confess, "I am a sinner"
And know He loves us still.
The ways in which I am different today, than I was this time last year, is unfathomable.
-
I want to say that I have grown and matured and become more gracious and patient.
Not always.
I want to say I have a clearer purpose today, a more determined sense of direction.
Not usually.
I want to say I am more gentle and kind, that I sin less.
No.
-
But I am trying.
And if nothing else, I am learning.
Striving to learn.
-
I have left my real identity in the dust, only to return and shake out the dirt, reminded that God made me the way I am for a reason.
I have stepped back and examined and pruned and intentionally stretched.
I am jumped in, headfirst.
There are days, my insecurity is wiped clean away by the Voice of Someone bigger than me.
Reminding me, as Jon said a few weeks ago, that humility is not about thinking too little of yourself. But seeking the opinion of the One whose opinion matters most.
Sometimes I really impress myself.
Only to turn around and really embarrass myself.
Is this life?
I believe so...
-
But the greatest lesson I may have learned, is to listen for His voice.
To decipher between His quiet whispers and my own selfish ambition.
To recognize Him, His gentle, persistent way, even when the world around me rebels in chaos.
And last night I listened.
And the Father showed up. In a familiar coffee shop across town.
Reminding me that He has a plan.
A purpose.
That He wants something from me.
Mainly... my attention.
-
I awoke this morning with a unprecedented grasp on peace.
Perhaps, even understanding...
What it means to be hopeful.
To trust.
To stare into the face of fear, of doubt, of cynicism, of panic...
And be unwavering.
-
By the grace of God alone will we get through all the obstacles thrown our way in this life.
But I believe, with all my heart, He has instilled eternity within us...
the deepest desire to know Him...
whether we know to call it that or not.
To return to the Father.
To confess, "I am a sinner"
And know He loves us still.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Thirsty
Open and close my fingers.
Reach.
Grappling.
My hands are wet.
And empty.
My lips taste, but my mouth remains dry.
Thirsty.
I am thirsty.
But I cannot take hold -
that, which I need most desperately,
slips right through my fingers.
My efforts are in vain.
My energies wasted.
All for a few drops on my tongue.
-
I've been doing this for too long.
I see.
I know exactly what it is I need.
In fact, what I need has already been provided.
Given to me.
Over and again.
Like rain, it pours over me.
-
But what can I do?
How do I accept this gift?
My frantic gestures, my greedy reach, just seem to fall short.
-
I find myself, now, on my knees.
I am soaked.
There is absolutely no denying that I have been provided for.
Blessed.
Taken care of.
I just don't know what to do with it.
-
I bow my head and feel grace splashing on my neck. Trickling down my cheeks. I am washed with it, covered in it.
I lift my hands. Empty hands.
I don't have the words to explain to my Provider to explain the peace I long for, the deep thirst I need to satisfy.
I am still.
No more grappling.
No more desperation.
No more panic.
I am quiet.
-
Suddenly, I have surrendered.
My inability to satisfy my own thirst has sent me back to Him.
He must have heard what my heart was crying.
In my stillness, my quiet, my surrender -
In the abandonment of myself -
He came close.
And in my uplifted hands,
I felt Him pour His blessings.
Pooling in my cupped hands,
overflowing.
I bring my brimming hands to my dry lips, my thirsty mouth.
And I drink.
And I am satisfied.
Reach.
Grappling.
My hands are wet.
And empty.
My lips taste, but my mouth remains dry.
Thirsty.
I am thirsty.
But I cannot take hold -
that, which I need most desperately,
slips right through my fingers.
My efforts are in vain.
My energies wasted.
All for a few drops on my tongue.
-
I've been doing this for too long.
I see.
I know exactly what it is I need.
In fact, what I need has already been provided.
Given to me.
Over and again.
Like rain, it pours over me.
-
But what can I do?
How do I accept this gift?
My frantic gestures, my greedy reach, just seem to fall short.
-
I find myself, now, on my knees.
I am soaked.
There is absolutely no denying that I have been provided for.
Blessed.
Taken care of.
I just don't know what to do with it.
-
I bow my head and feel grace splashing on my neck. Trickling down my cheeks. I am washed with it, covered in it.
I lift my hands. Empty hands.
I don't have the words to explain to my Provider to explain the peace I long for, the deep thirst I need to satisfy.
I am still.
No more grappling.
No more desperation.
No more panic.
I am quiet.
-
Suddenly, I have surrendered.
My inability to satisfy my own thirst has sent me back to Him.
He must have heard what my heart was crying.
In my stillness, my quiet, my surrender -
In the abandonment of myself -
He came close.
And in my uplifted hands,
I felt Him pour His blessings.
Pooling in my cupped hands,
overflowing.
I bring my brimming hands to my dry lips, my thirsty mouth.
And I drink.
And I am satisfied.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
fearless
We all pulled into the parking lot about the same time last night.
Piled out of the cars.
Some of my favorite people in the world. In from the mountains. Over from Winchester. Down from Stonegate Way.
We were going to learn something new.
It was a perfect night. And the Vaughan men patiently taught the Vaughan women how to play disc golf.
-
My initial reaction was to balk... to hold back, for fear of looking stupid. Of doing poorly. Of messing up.
The younger Vaughan men casually played, subtly displaying their excellent skill. The two older ones, very different in personality and teaching style, quietly coached the three women. The Vaughan way. The family way. Gentle encouragement, light hearted banter, silent competitiveness.
I don't know whether it was the first hole or the seventh, but at some point I gave up on looking "good" while I played this new game. And I just played. Laughing and chasing the black lab who kept stealing my disc. Joking and putting a little more effort into every throw...
I watched my sisters.
Missing the one who is in a different country.
Amazingly proud of the two that stood before me ... so different. And so grown up.
I watched as one of them displayed behavior very much like my own.
I walked over to her, wrapped her in my signature hug, which really means "hold still, so i know you're listening to me...."
"You know what we need to learn?" I asked her.
She looked at me like I was going to say something stupid.
"We both need to learn how to not be afraid of looking silly."
I pulled away from the hug.
The look in her eyes told me I had just read her thoughts.
"I want you to learn that lesson... right now." I told her. "I didn't learn it until I was nineteen years old. I'm still learning it... years later. But I missed out on a lot of fun when I was a teenager because I was afraid people would laugh at me. People would make fun of me. That I would look stupid."
She just nodded.
I replayed scenes in my head .... of me, watching from the balcony, as my friends played tackle football in knee-deep water in South Carolina when I was 15. Of dance parties where I sat at the sidelines. Of costume parties and hikes where I refused to be bold.... to branch out and have fun.
This is a lesson we learn continuously. A lesson that is never fully learned for people like me.
But I remember the day I learned it.
And it happened pretty late in life. Late enough, that I am now a firm believer that childhood should last a lifetime.
Last night, I wanted more for my littlest sister.
At 13, almost 14, I wanted desperately to see her free from the insecurity, self-consciousness, that cripples. That paralyzes.
-
There are a lot of other fears that paralyze me these days.
A lot more uncertainties that stop me in my tracks.
States of mind, in which I find myself lingering. When I should be moving on.
-
Life is drastically different today than it was yesterday.
Will be dramatically different tomorrow than it was this time last year.
I look at the woman I am, right now.
Sitting on my new balcony, just back from a night of community, I can't help but think about who I used to be.
And thinking about that... I am amazed at how far the Father has brought me.
That realization, gives me hope that the changes that are occurring in my life right now... are going to be for the better.
Romans 8.
-
I need someone to come and wrap me up in a hug. The kind of hug that says "hold still, so I know you're listening to me".
Tell me to not be afraid to be bold.
To risk looking silly.
To reach out.
To release my grip on fear.
-
Tonight, I feel fearless.
I have heard, felt, the call of the Father to come home.
To rest in the shadow of His wings.
To relinquish anxiety and allow myself to be quieted by His love.
His call to cast all my worries on Him has been heard tonight.
-
His perfect love will cast out fear.
And in every aspect of my life, I hope to be bold.
To think outside of the box society has built.
To exceed the expectations of those around me.
To rise above approach.
To build a home where none exists.
To cultivate love.
-
Here's to a new tomorrow.
When we are different people and the world is a different place and our God remains the same.
May we rest, be still and content, in His love.
And then love.
Actively. Passionately. Without fear.
Piled out of the cars.
Some of my favorite people in the world. In from the mountains. Over from Winchester. Down from Stonegate Way.
We were going to learn something new.
It was a perfect night. And the Vaughan men patiently taught the Vaughan women how to play disc golf.
-
My initial reaction was to balk... to hold back, for fear of looking stupid. Of doing poorly. Of messing up.
The younger Vaughan men casually played, subtly displaying their excellent skill. The two older ones, very different in personality and teaching style, quietly coached the three women. The Vaughan way. The family way. Gentle encouragement, light hearted banter, silent competitiveness.
I don't know whether it was the first hole or the seventh, but at some point I gave up on looking "good" while I played this new game. And I just played. Laughing and chasing the black lab who kept stealing my disc. Joking and putting a little more effort into every throw...
I watched my sisters.
Missing the one who is in a different country.
Amazingly proud of the two that stood before me ... so different. And so grown up.
I watched as one of them displayed behavior very much like my own.
I walked over to her, wrapped her in my signature hug, which really means "hold still, so i know you're listening to me...."
"You know what we need to learn?" I asked her.
She looked at me like I was going to say something stupid.
"We both need to learn how to not be afraid of looking silly."
I pulled away from the hug.
The look in her eyes told me I had just read her thoughts.
"I want you to learn that lesson... right now." I told her. "I didn't learn it until I was nineteen years old. I'm still learning it... years later. But I missed out on a lot of fun when I was a teenager because I was afraid people would laugh at me. People would make fun of me. That I would look stupid."
She just nodded.
I replayed scenes in my head .... of me, watching from the balcony, as my friends played tackle football in knee-deep water in South Carolina when I was 15. Of dance parties where I sat at the sidelines. Of costume parties and hikes where I refused to be bold.... to branch out and have fun.
This is a lesson we learn continuously. A lesson that is never fully learned for people like me.
But I remember the day I learned it.
And it happened pretty late in life. Late enough, that I am now a firm believer that childhood should last a lifetime.
Last night, I wanted more for my littlest sister.
At 13, almost 14, I wanted desperately to see her free from the insecurity, self-consciousness, that cripples. That paralyzes.
-
There are a lot of other fears that paralyze me these days.
A lot more uncertainties that stop me in my tracks.
States of mind, in which I find myself lingering. When I should be moving on.
-
Life is drastically different today than it was yesterday.
Will be dramatically different tomorrow than it was this time last year.
I look at the woman I am, right now.
Sitting on my new balcony, just back from a night of community, I can't help but think about who I used to be.
And thinking about that... I am amazed at how far the Father has brought me.
That realization, gives me hope that the changes that are occurring in my life right now... are going to be for the better.
Romans 8.
-
I need someone to come and wrap me up in a hug. The kind of hug that says "hold still, so I know you're listening to me".
Tell me to not be afraid to be bold.
To risk looking silly.
To reach out.
To release my grip on fear.
-
Tonight, I feel fearless.
I have heard, felt, the call of the Father to come home.
To rest in the shadow of His wings.
To relinquish anxiety and allow myself to be quieted by His love.
His call to cast all my worries on Him has been heard tonight.
-
His perfect love will cast out fear.
And in every aspect of my life, I hope to be bold.
To think outside of the box society has built.
To exceed the expectations of those around me.
To rise above approach.
To build a home where none exists.
To cultivate love.
-
Here's to a new tomorrow.
When we are different people and the world is a different place and our God remains the same.
May we rest, be still and content, in His love.
And then love.
Actively. Passionately. Without fear.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Transitions
Webster says that a transition is, by definition: passage from one state, stage, subject, or place to another : change b: a movement, development, or evolution from one form, stage, or style to another.
When I hear the word, many images come to my mind. I think of exit ramps. Kaleidoscopes. Indian summers. I think of the eyeglasses that came out a few years ago that, ironically, "transition" from eyeglasses to sunglasses when out in the sun.
My life these days might qualify as the third definition.
I have made a lot of transitions in the past. Some have been made without my knowledge, some have been smooth and natural. Others have been rocky and tumultuous. You know how it is... we've all been through these "seasons".
You moved away from home for the first time.
You changed your major.
You ended that relationship.
You made the first move.
You joined the gym.
You went to the first meeting.
-
This time last year, we packed her life up. Strategically loaded boxes and tables and couches and decorations into a trailer. And we moved her downtown. East Maxwell Street. An adorable little house with wooden floors and french doors leading to the kitchen. They spontaneously bought a green armchair and a kitten.
I would spend all last summer in my younger sister's house. Walking to coffee shops, learning to cook without meat. We spent most of our afternoons on the porch swing, or in the park playing tennis. On Sunday nights we'd walk a block down to Woodland and play with a drum circle. We were regulars at Ramseys on the corner.
It wouldn't take me long to forget what life was like without Emily or Todd. And the Maxwell house became my safe haven between work and night classes. The place where I would sleep when I didn't feel like driving home.
-
I loved my apartment on Pimlico. If only because it was mine.
Any and all character in that small two bedroom apartment was added by Liza and myself. From the paintings we hung, to the incense we burned, the food we cooked, the music we played.
My kitten grew up into a cat. An ornery cat.
We painted recycling bins. We held community dinners. We were woken up in the middle of the night by the country club's storm warning. And the neighbors' late night drug deals.
-
This weekend, we are packing up the Maxwell house and the Pimlico apartment.
I found Arthur a new home.
My paintings have come off the walls. I've boxed up my books and cookbooks and taken down my curtains. I'm downsizing. Getting rid of almost everything. My goal is to be able to fit almost everything I own into a Toyota Camry.
I'm in transition.
A new living space.
A new concept of home.
-
This weekend, we are packing Kat up. Except Moe is going to drive off with all her stuff in his big, white van. And Kat is going to hop on a plane headed to Bolivia.
She's gotten her shots, raised her funds, brushed up her on her spanish.
And she will be gone. For two months. To a different hemisphere.
She is in transition.
A new living space.
A new concept of home.
-
In the middle of such transitions... the world around us often seems blurry.
Out of focus.
Our perception is off.
Our judgement, unsound.
We are bias and overwhelmed.
-
We are all, in medias res.
In the very middle of things.
-
My prayer is that our transitions, whether or not they are smooth ones, would be beneficial.
That they would take us from something good, to something better.
And that the Father would equip us - in our bewilderment, in our dizzyness - to see the world around us with unprecedented clarity.
When I hear the word, many images come to my mind. I think of exit ramps. Kaleidoscopes. Indian summers. I think of the eyeglasses that came out a few years ago that, ironically, "transition" from eyeglasses to sunglasses when out in the sun.
My life these days might qualify as the third definition.
I have made a lot of transitions in the past. Some have been made without my knowledge, some have been smooth and natural. Others have been rocky and tumultuous. You know how it is... we've all been through these "seasons".
You moved away from home for the first time.
You changed your major.
You ended that relationship.
You made the first move.
You joined the gym.
You went to the first meeting.
-
This time last year, we packed her life up. Strategically loaded boxes and tables and couches and decorations into a trailer. And we moved her downtown. East Maxwell Street. An adorable little house with wooden floors and french doors leading to the kitchen. They spontaneously bought a green armchair and a kitten.
I would spend all last summer in my younger sister's house. Walking to coffee shops, learning to cook without meat. We spent most of our afternoons on the porch swing, or in the park playing tennis. On Sunday nights we'd walk a block down to Woodland and play with a drum circle. We were regulars at Ramseys on the corner.
It wouldn't take me long to forget what life was like without Emily or Todd. And the Maxwell house became my safe haven between work and night classes. The place where I would sleep when I didn't feel like driving home.
-
I loved my apartment on Pimlico. If only because it was mine.
Any and all character in that small two bedroom apartment was added by Liza and myself. From the paintings we hung, to the incense we burned, the food we cooked, the music we played.
My kitten grew up into a cat. An ornery cat.
We painted recycling bins. We held community dinners. We were woken up in the middle of the night by the country club's storm warning. And the neighbors' late night drug deals.
-
This weekend, we are packing up the Maxwell house and the Pimlico apartment.
I found Arthur a new home.
My paintings have come off the walls. I've boxed up my books and cookbooks and taken down my curtains. I'm downsizing. Getting rid of almost everything. My goal is to be able to fit almost everything I own into a Toyota Camry.
I'm in transition.
A new living space.
A new concept of home.
-
This weekend, we are packing Kat up. Except Moe is going to drive off with all her stuff in his big, white van. And Kat is going to hop on a plane headed to Bolivia.
She's gotten her shots, raised her funds, brushed up her on her spanish.
And she will be gone. For two months. To a different hemisphere.
She is in transition.
A new living space.
A new concept of home.
-
In the middle of such transitions... the world around us often seems blurry.
Out of focus.
Our perception is off.
Our judgement, unsound.
We are bias and overwhelmed.
-
We are all, in medias res.
In the very middle of things.
-
My prayer is that our transitions, whether or not they are smooth ones, would be beneficial.
That they would take us from something good, to something better.
And that the Father would equip us - in our bewilderment, in our dizzyness - to see the world around us with unprecedented clarity.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Terrified
I am home alone. It is not even ten o'clock yet.
Tonight, I am wrestling with a lot of thoughts.
The most prominent one being whether or not I truly want to be honest with you.
-
Tonight I am wildly discontent with the direction of my life.
I am watching as my family is packing up to leave. Alaska, Haiti, Seattle, Bolivia, the mountains.
Starting just last week, planes were boarded and tickets were purchased.
Slowly, surely, faithfully, the Almighty has filled us all up. And He is sending us out. One by one.
But I am here.
In Lexington.
And I can't shake the feeling that I am being left behind.
That maybe I wasn't deemed worthy enough to be sent out.
-
This, of course, is probably not true.
Driving down Third Street the other day, I felt a rampant passion bubbling up in my chest.
The windows were down and the sun was shining. And I passed condemned building after broken down house after abandoned theater...
And I heard words carried on the wind.
I will have a love affair with Lexington this summer.
-
So starting yesterday, I made a quiet promise to myself.
I would take time.
Set aside.
God is in Bolivia. God is in Seattle. God is in Denali. God is in Port-au-Prince.
God is in Kentucky.
And I will find Him.
I will take my shoes off.
Expecting the blue grass to be on fire with His presence.
-
-
But I'm learning something about myself.
I don't know when this mentality developed.
And I don't like it. Not one little bit.
It is, perhaps, the very thing that has been getting in my way this entire time.
My entire life.
-
I sat down at a picnic table at Third and Lime, in the sunlight, and opened my Bible.
Luke 12.
I opened my journal.
I prayed with my words and tried to collect my thoughts.
Ever banking on the fact that Jesus knows my heart and can interpret my aching and my groans better than I ever could.
-
I went back today.
Sat down again.
And came to this realization.
Somewhere along the way, somewhere in between today's prayers and my deepest understanding of how good God is...
I have developed this fear of asking Him to move.
I am afraid to ask Him for patience, because I am afraid He will put me in trying situations.
I am afraid to ask Him to make me content, because I am afraid He will take everything away.
I am afraid to ask Him to fill my lonely places, because I am afraid He will make me be lonely forever.
I am afraid to ask Him to help me trust Him, because I am afraid He will ask me to walk on water.
-
What a horrible Christian I am.
Not that I am afraid of these things...
but that I have spent all this time, convincing you that I have all this faith.
All this trust.
While, almost unknowingly, I pray and yet never voice my deepest thoughts. Despite the fact that He already knows...
I don't talk about what I know really needs to happen.
Maybe He will forget.
Yeah, right.
-
What a weird place I am in right now.
Finally understanding what it means both to be in love with Jesus and to fear the Lord.
To want absolutely nothing more than to see His hand at work.
To, for once, really understand that His way, His will, is truly the best.
To comprehend grace... only because it has been given to me so generously.
To understand the simplicity that is the Gospel.
The intricacy which is Creation.
And yet be terrified...
or maybe...
-
I wonder if you have to feel this sense of terror, in order to truly know what trust is?
If trusting was a no-brainer ... if trusting was easy ...
could you call it trust?
I feel just like I'm standing in the gaping mouth of the airplane door ... parachute strapped to my back ...
terrified to jump.
It's not that I don't want to.
It's not even, really, that I don't trust the parachute that has been expertly packed into my backpack.
I'm just scared.
-
And to be honest... because, after all, I decided to be honest with you.
My confession?
I don't even know where to begin.
-
Even as I said that... these words came into my ears.
"Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee. Here am I, all of me."
-
This is my confession.
Forgive me, if I have ever seemed to have it all figured out.
Tonight, I am wrestling with a lot of thoughts.
The most prominent one being whether or not I truly want to be honest with you.
-
Tonight I am wildly discontent with the direction of my life.
I am watching as my family is packing up to leave. Alaska, Haiti, Seattle, Bolivia, the mountains.
Starting just last week, planes were boarded and tickets were purchased.
Slowly, surely, faithfully, the Almighty has filled us all up. And He is sending us out. One by one.
But I am here.
In Lexington.
And I can't shake the feeling that I am being left behind.
That maybe I wasn't deemed worthy enough to be sent out.
-
This, of course, is probably not true.
Driving down Third Street the other day, I felt a rampant passion bubbling up in my chest.
The windows were down and the sun was shining. And I passed condemned building after broken down house after abandoned theater...
And I heard words carried on the wind.
I will have a love affair with Lexington this summer.
-
So starting yesterday, I made a quiet promise to myself.
I would take time.
Set aside.
God is in Bolivia. God is in Seattle. God is in Denali. God is in Port-au-Prince.
God is in Kentucky.
And I will find Him.
I will take my shoes off.
Expecting the blue grass to be on fire with His presence.
-
-
But I'm learning something about myself.
I don't know when this mentality developed.
And I don't like it. Not one little bit.
It is, perhaps, the very thing that has been getting in my way this entire time.
My entire life.
-
I sat down at a picnic table at Third and Lime, in the sunlight, and opened my Bible.
Luke 12.
I opened my journal.
I prayed with my words and tried to collect my thoughts.
Ever banking on the fact that Jesus knows my heart and can interpret my aching and my groans better than I ever could.
-
I went back today.
Sat down again.
And came to this realization.
Somewhere along the way, somewhere in between today's prayers and my deepest understanding of how good God is...
I have developed this fear of asking Him to move.
I am afraid to ask Him for patience, because I am afraid He will put me in trying situations.
I am afraid to ask Him to make me content, because I am afraid He will take everything away.
I am afraid to ask Him to fill my lonely places, because I am afraid He will make me be lonely forever.
I am afraid to ask Him to help me trust Him, because I am afraid He will ask me to walk on water.
-
What a horrible Christian I am.
Not that I am afraid of these things...
but that I have spent all this time, convincing you that I have all this faith.
All this trust.
While, almost unknowingly, I pray and yet never voice my deepest thoughts. Despite the fact that He already knows...
I don't talk about what I know really needs to happen.
Maybe He will forget.
Yeah, right.
-
What a weird place I am in right now.
Finally understanding what it means both to be in love with Jesus and to fear the Lord.
To want absolutely nothing more than to see His hand at work.
To, for once, really understand that His way, His will, is truly the best.
To comprehend grace... only because it has been given to me so generously.
To understand the simplicity that is the Gospel.
The intricacy which is Creation.
And yet be terrified...
or maybe...
-
I wonder if you have to feel this sense of terror, in order to truly know what trust is?
If trusting was a no-brainer ... if trusting was easy ...
could you call it trust?
I feel just like I'm standing in the gaping mouth of the airplane door ... parachute strapped to my back ...
terrified to jump.
It's not that I don't want to.
It's not even, really, that I don't trust the parachute that has been expertly packed into my backpack.
I'm just scared.
-
And to be honest... because, after all, I decided to be honest with you.
My confession?
I don't even know where to begin.
-
Even as I said that... these words came into my ears.
"Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee. Here am I, all of me."
-
This is my confession.
Forgive me, if I have ever seemed to have it all figured out.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Ephphatha!
All his life, colors and temperature and texture had bombarded him.
A silent world spun around him.
All thoughts, imprisoned inside him.
Until one day.
-
The Rabbi leaned down and touched his face. His ears, his mouth, with fingers rough and gentle.
And even as the words left the Teacher's mouth,
he could hear them.
A command.
A miracle.
"Be opened..."
-
But before the sounds of the world could rush in...
Before the cries of his family reached his ears for the first time...
the Teacher leaned closer.
"You are loved".
-
Those would be the first words he had ever heard.
Words...
that when the loud noise of the world would suddenly become too much...
he would remember.
A silent world spun around him.
All thoughts, imprisoned inside him.
Until one day.
-
The Rabbi leaned down and touched his face. His ears, his mouth, with fingers rough and gentle.
And even as the words left the Teacher's mouth,
he could hear them.
A command.
A miracle.
"Be opened..."
-
But before the sounds of the world could rush in...
Before the cries of his family reached his ears for the first time...
the Teacher leaned closer.
"You are loved".
-
Those would be the first words he had ever heard.
Words...
that when the loud noise of the world would suddenly become too much...
he would remember.
The End
It is 11:04. May 5th, 2009. A Tuesday.
I just uploaded my last assignment for Political Science. I turned in my last assignment for Social Work at 3:30 this afternoon.
I am done.
Finished at Bluegrass Community and Technical College.
It has been seven semesters. Sixty-eight credit hours.
I contemplated leaving slowly today.
But once I waved to the old janitor and the security guard and met up with Liza in the lobby and said bye to Melissa in the Dental Hygiene Clinic...
I was done. Ready to say goodbye.
So I walked out of the Oswald Building. Down the steps. Out into the parking lot.
And I didn't look back.
-
I just submitted my final assignment.
And I am doing a little reminiscing.
-
I remember the day I drove into the K Lot for the first time. Lost in a sea of cars and L.L. Bean backpacks, I made my way onto BCTC's relatively small campus. Feeling small. And confused. And overwhelmed.
Then I met Mr. Hinkle.
I would meet a few more people that semester - people that would have a part, to this day, in changing my life. I would make A's. End a relationship. Turn 18.
I moved out of my parents' house that summer.
That fall I met Kip. And Ms. Humble. I met Dwaine and Brittany. I would move again. And learn what it meant to have hope in my Father. I would meet Matt and Derek and Brian.
My second spring semester I met Mrs. Johnston. And Joye. I turned 19 and my parents separated.
Summer of 2007 I ran away to Colorado.
Fall of 2007, Kat dragged me out of bed one Sunday morning to go eat Donatos pizza.
What would happen that Sunday afternoon, would be one of the most significant changes in my entire life.
I would meet Caleb. The passionate, bearded guy. He would be the head of our family. He would rock me to sleep through the next semester.
When my parents divorced. When I moved to yet another new apartment. When I tackled five more classes and made five more A's. When I turned twenty. When I learned how to take photographs... and about fair trade, organic coffee.
A family, stronger than any I'd ever known, was then born out of community.
More change....
A 'B' in Anatomy and Physiology.
Redeclaring majors.
I spent this last spring semester with an online political science class and an on-campus Social Work class.
And the first day of my last semester, I found myself in the same classroom where I had met Mr. Hinkle.
I am a new person.
With a new outlook on life.
A new confidence.
New knowledge.
Hopefully... more wisdom.
Certainly, more experience.
I sat down at the desk and the first day of class, back in January, it would be confirmed through the words of a professor.... I had finally made the right choice.
-
It is over now.
What I just told you... probably is meaningless.
That was the skeleton. I left out the who's and the why's and the parts that really matter.
Of fastings and dance parties and broken alternators and unrequited love and saying goodbye to people I would never see again. Of figuring out who I am. And who I am not. Vegetarian summers. Advocacy and double cheeseburgers. Art out of coffee cans. Falling in love with Jesus. The important stuff.
This season of my life is over.
I could do a dance, just thinking about it.
Because I can see how I've changed.
And if I learned nothing else... I learned about myself on that little campus.
-
Now, I am staring into the sleepy eyes of a long summer.
A 21st birthday.
New friends, waiting to be made.
Goodbyes to be said.
-
Now, on a Tuesday night in early May, something ended.
Only so something else could begin.
I just uploaded my last assignment for Political Science. I turned in my last assignment for Social Work at 3:30 this afternoon.
I am done.
Finished at Bluegrass Community and Technical College.
It has been seven semesters. Sixty-eight credit hours.
I contemplated leaving slowly today.
But once I waved to the old janitor and the security guard and met up with Liza in the lobby and said bye to Melissa in the Dental Hygiene Clinic...
I was done. Ready to say goodbye.
So I walked out of the Oswald Building. Down the steps. Out into the parking lot.
And I didn't look back.
-
I just submitted my final assignment.
And I am doing a little reminiscing.
-
I remember the day I drove into the K Lot for the first time. Lost in a sea of cars and L.L. Bean backpacks, I made my way onto BCTC's relatively small campus. Feeling small. And confused. And overwhelmed.
Then I met Mr. Hinkle.
I would meet a few more people that semester - people that would have a part, to this day, in changing my life. I would make A's. End a relationship. Turn 18.
I moved out of my parents' house that summer.
That fall I met Kip. And Ms. Humble. I met Dwaine and Brittany. I would move again. And learn what it meant to have hope in my Father. I would meet Matt and Derek and Brian.
My second spring semester I met Mrs. Johnston. And Joye. I turned 19 and my parents separated.
Summer of 2007 I ran away to Colorado.
Fall of 2007, Kat dragged me out of bed one Sunday morning to go eat Donatos pizza.
What would happen that Sunday afternoon, would be one of the most significant changes in my entire life.
I would meet Caleb. The passionate, bearded guy. He would be the head of our family. He would rock me to sleep through the next semester.
When my parents divorced. When I moved to yet another new apartment. When I tackled five more classes and made five more A's. When I turned twenty. When I learned how to take photographs... and about fair trade, organic coffee.
A family, stronger than any I'd ever known, was then born out of community.
More change....
A 'B' in Anatomy and Physiology.
Redeclaring majors.
I spent this last spring semester with an online political science class and an on-campus Social Work class.
And the first day of my last semester, I found myself in the same classroom where I had met Mr. Hinkle.
I am a new person.
With a new outlook on life.
A new confidence.
New knowledge.
Hopefully... more wisdom.
Certainly, more experience.
I sat down at the desk and the first day of class, back in January, it would be confirmed through the words of a professor.... I had finally made the right choice.
-
It is over now.
What I just told you... probably is meaningless.
That was the skeleton. I left out the who's and the why's and the parts that really matter.
Of fastings and dance parties and broken alternators and unrequited love and saying goodbye to people I would never see again. Of figuring out who I am. And who I am not. Vegetarian summers. Advocacy and double cheeseburgers. Art out of coffee cans. Falling in love with Jesus. The important stuff.
This season of my life is over.
I could do a dance, just thinking about it.
Because I can see how I've changed.
And if I learned nothing else... I learned about myself on that little campus.
-
Now, I am staring into the sleepy eyes of a long summer.
A 21st birthday.
New friends, waiting to be made.
Goodbyes to be said.
-
Now, on a Tuesday night in early May, something ended.
Only so something else could begin.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Why?
It is a question that keeps reverberating through my life...
send it out, it bounces against the world and comes back to me.
Why?
I hate this question.
It requires an answer.
More often than not, my answer is simply to shrug my shoulders, "I don't know why."
But sometimes that isn't good enough.
Sometimes "Why" requires a real answer.
And the reason I hate this question ... is sometimes I hate the answer.
Sometimes the answer is that really, truly, I do not know.
Not a cop out.
Not a dismissal.
I do not know.
-
This morning I woke up with a burdening sense of insecurity.
I have not felt this emotion in quite some time.
In fact, I was making steady progress towards self-awareness and acceptance.
So when I rolled out of bed this morning and the burden on my shoulders was heavier than I remembered last night...
I asked "why?".
-
More importantly these days...
"Why not?"
"Why don't you?"
-
This shifts this question, but not the answer.
Ask me "why" and I respond with "I don't know", I am simply admitting my limited knowledge. I'm unaware of why I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, why there are gallons of tears behind my eyes, why I don't love him anymore, why I won't go up and say hi, why ... why ... why...
Ask me "why not" and I respond with "I don't know", and I have failed to act.
-
"Jesus, they are hungry, please give them something to eat."
"Why don't you give them something to eat," He responds.
Why don't you....
There are fewer good responses.
Fewer acceptable excuses.
-
I can't.
Why not?
-
send it out, it bounces against the world and comes back to me.
Why?
I hate this question.
It requires an answer.
More often than not, my answer is simply to shrug my shoulders, "I don't know why."
But sometimes that isn't good enough.
Sometimes "Why" requires a real answer.
And the reason I hate this question ... is sometimes I hate the answer.
Sometimes the answer is that really, truly, I do not know.
Not a cop out.
Not a dismissal.
I do not know.
-
This morning I woke up with a burdening sense of insecurity.
I have not felt this emotion in quite some time.
In fact, I was making steady progress towards self-awareness and acceptance.
So when I rolled out of bed this morning and the burden on my shoulders was heavier than I remembered last night...
I asked "why?".
-
More importantly these days...
"Why not?"
"Why don't you?"
-
This shifts this question, but not the answer.
Ask me "why" and I respond with "I don't know", I am simply admitting my limited knowledge. I'm unaware of why I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, why there are gallons of tears behind my eyes, why I don't love him anymore, why I won't go up and say hi, why ... why ... why...
Ask me "why not" and I respond with "I don't know", and I have failed to act.
-
"Jesus, they are hungry, please give them something to eat."
"Why don't you give them something to eat," He responds.
Why don't you....
There are fewer good responses.
Fewer acceptable excuses.
-
I can't.
Why not?
-
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Blowing in the Wind
My thoughts are often consumed...
sometimes I think I can feel three thousand little hearts beating...
and I want you to know their story.
I will fight for them.
But not just for them.
I will fight for humanity.
For all the ones Jesus loves.
-
All day yesterday, I saw people walking around campus with green t-shirts and backpacks on. I'd smile, quietly, knowing that I'd see them soon. They were one of us, we were on the same team, whoever they were, wherever they were going. I could tell just by watching. I want Christians to be this way. I want to look at you (not what you are wearing, not the music you are listening to, not the bumper stickers on your car - just you.) and be able to identify you as one of Christ's loved ones. I want to know you... because you love the world. I want to recognize you... because you are full of grace.
I walked into Triangle Park and was nearly blown away by the wind.
Bob Dylan played over the loud speakers, "Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have Before he can hear people cry? Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows That too many people have died? The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind..."
We struggled to put up the tents, to secure them into the lawn so they didn't blow away. My hair was in my eyes, the leaves rustled over my head.
The forecast had said: 80 degrees, sunny, and lots of wind.
For some, it was a nuisance.
For me, it indicated the presence of God.
God was with us... because He created those three thousand little hearts that I can feel beating.
-
I stood with pamphlets in my hands, waiting for them.
The abductees.
We kept getting phone calls that the ceremonious walk had begun.
They were coming.
We waited in anticipation. I imagined their footsteps were like drum beats... creating a rhythm all of Lexington could hear, could feel.
Then I saw them.
A mass of people. All in green.
-
Our project had begun.
We laid out our sleeping bags, filled out water bottles. Some rolled up their pants legs and waded in the fountains.
We registered people, collected money, started making phone calls.
Together, we were waiting to be rescued.
We needed some to come and see us. Find us worthy of saving.
To ceremoniously lead us out of captivity.
-
Periodically, one of the volunteers in blue shirts would get up and announce some form of progress. We raised one flag after the other - indicating a step completed, a goal reached.
The celebration that would ensue was strongest amongst those of us who understood what was happening. Loudest throughout those who were invested, who were in love with the abducted soldiers of the LRA.
-
Then we were rescued.
By a man, who not only represented our government, but believed personally in our cause as well.
The media showed up - whether out of obligation, annoyance, or curiosity. Tonight, on the 11 o'clock news, the footage will be shown.
-
And our waiting turned into a celebration. Shouting, clapping, pictures, ceremoniously raising flags, hugging, and at one point... a group of people gathered in the middle of the park to pray.
But there were hundreds of people still waiting.
In cities around us, in neighboring states, there were people gathered, rallying, raising awareness just like us.
Waiting to be rescued.
So we sent a few of our people... with an address and a GPS... up to West Virginia.
Rescue Riders.
Coming to the rescue - adding to their numbers. Joining forces, voices, hands.
All over the country last night and this morning, teams have been rescued, and have sent others out to help rescue more...
-
We would spend the rest of the night in the park.
With the trees illuminated with lights.
The fountains gurgling, casting dancing shadows on the sidewalk chalk drawings.
The wind would blow all night long.
And as the city of Lexington slowly fell asleep, so did a few of us.
-
But I laid there. In a sleeping bag.
I drifted between alertness and a light sleep.
I heard as the people around me slowly wound down, crawled under blankets, laid their heads on pillows. As a guy from Asbury slowly picked away at his guitar, as the buggies flew by with their sirens on.
At some point in the night, I rolled over and looked up at the sky.
I felt so protected.
Not at all like I was laying in an open park in the middle of downtown Lexington.
But like I was enclosed... safe and dry and warm.
I felt my heart beating in my chest.
-
When the sun rose, I rolled over in my sleeping bag and watched the morning light crawl over dozens of sleeping bodies, scattered randomly across the park lawn. One person stirred. Then another.
Before long, we had the park back to normal. All tents disassembled, all trash thrown away, all sleeping bags rolled up and loaded in cars.
We left the park better than we had found it.
There was no trace of us.
Except for the sidewalk chalk drawings...
"If we don't save them, who will?"
-
I never expected to have enough room in my heart for this.
-
As Nikki and I walked away from the park today, all I could think was how last night changed my life.
How my first experience with true advocacy, might only be the very first time... the beginning of a journey.
And how I hoped the next time we all gathered for the sake of 3,000 children from Africa, it would be to rejoice their homecoming.
To celebrate their rescue.
sometimes I think I can feel three thousand little hearts beating...
and I want you to know their story.
I will fight for them.
But not just for them.
I will fight for humanity.
For all the ones Jesus loves.
-
All day yesterday, I saw people walking around campus with green t-shirts and backpacks on. I'd smile, quietly, knowing that I'd see them soon. They were one of us, we were on the same team, whoever they were, wherever they were going. I could tell just by watching. I want Christians to be this way. I want to look at you (not what you are wearing, not the music you are listening to, not the bumper stickers on your car - just you.) and be able to identify you as one of Christ's loved ones. I want to know you... because you love the world. I want to recognize you... because you are full of grace.
I walked into Triangle Park and was nearly blown away by the wind.
Bob Dylan played over the loud speakers, "Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have Before he can hear people cry? Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows That too many people have died? The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind..."
We struggled to put up the tents, to secure them into the lawn so they didn't blow away. My hair was in my eyes, the leaves rustled over my head.
The forecast had said: 80 degrees, sunny, and lots of wind.
For some, it was a nuisance.
For me, it indicated the presence of God.
God was with us... because He created those three thousand little hearts that I can feel beating.
-
I stood with pamphlets in my hands, waiting for them.
The abductees.
We kept getting phone calls that the ceremonious walk had begun.
They were coming.
We waited in anticipation. I imagined their footsteps were like drum beats... creating a rhythm all of Lexington could hear, could feel.
Then I saw them.
A mass of people. All in green.
-
Our project had begun.
We laid out our sleeping bags, filled out water bottles. Some rolled up their pants legs and waded in the fountains.
We registered people, collected money, started making phone calls.
Together, we were waiting to be rescued.
We needed some to come and see us. Find us worthy of saving.
To ceremoniously lead us out of captivity.
-
Periodically, one of the volunteers in blue shirts would get up and announce some form of progress. We raised one flag after the other - indicating a step completed, a goal reached.
The celebration that would ensue was strongest amongst those of us who understood what was happening. Loudest throughout those who were invested, who were in love with the abducted soldiers of the LRA.
-
Then we were rescued.
By a man, who not only represented our government, but believed personally in our cause as well.
The media showed up - whether out of obligation, annoyance, or curiosity. Tonight, on the 11 o'clock news, the footage will be shown.
-
And our waiting turned into a celebration. Shouting, clapping, pictures, ceremoniously raising flags, hugging, and at one point... a group of people gathered in the middle of the park to pray.
But there were hundreds of people still waiting.
In cities around us, in neighboring states, there were people gathered, rallying, raising awareness just like us.
Waiting to be rescued.
So we sent a few of our people... with an address and a GPS... up to West Virginia.
Rescue Riders.
Coming to the rescue - adding to their numbers. Joining forces, voices, hands.
All over the country last night and this morning, teams have been rescued, and have sent others out to help rescue more...
-
We would spend the rest of the night in the park.
With the trees illuminated with lights.
The fountains gurgling, casting dancing shadows on the sidewalk chalk drawings.
The wind would blow all night long.
And as the city of Lexington slowly fell asleep, so did a few of us.
-
But I laid there. In a sleeping bag.
I drifted between alertness and a light sleep.
I heard as the people around me slowly wound down, crawled under blankets, laid their heads on pillows. As a guy from Asbury slowly picked away at his guitar, as the buggies flew by with their sirens on.
At some point in the night, I rolled over and looked up at the sky.
I felt so protected.
Not at all like I was laying in an open park in the middle of downtown Lexington.
But like I was enclosed... safe and dry and warm.
I felt my heart beating in my chest.
-
When the sun rose, I rolled over in my sleeping bag and watched the morning light crawl over dozens of sleeping bodies, scattered randomly across the park lawn. One person stirred. Then another.
Before long, we had the park back to normal. All tents disassembled, all trash thrown away, all sleeping bags rolled up and loaded in cars.
We left the park better than we had found it.
There was no trace of us.
Except for the sidewalk chalk drawings...
"If we don't save them, who will?"
-
I never expected to have enough room in my heart for this.
-
As Nikki and I walked away from the park today, all I could think was how last night changed my life.
How my first experience with true advocacy, might only be the very first time... the beginning of a journey.
And how I hoped the next time we all gathered for the sake of 3,000 children from Africa, it would be to rejoice their homecoming.
To celebrate their rescue.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Trust
I am coming off a crazy busy weekend.
And am currently procrastinating, waiting until the very last minute to take my poli sci test, staying up too late, somehow convincing myself the later I stay awake, the farther away Monday morning is.
I had a conversation on Friday night, sitting at the tables outside Common Grounds, with one of my favorite men in the world. He and I don't do much interaction when it comes to big groups. Even when we're with our family, we hug and say hi, but don't exchange too many words. But every once in a while, I get him all to myself. And we have had some of the best conversations, just me and him. Listening and talking, give and take. His eyes light up when I talk, and I know he hears me. This means the world to me... and causes me to delve deeper into my heart, leading to understanding and change.
One of the lessons I learned? A realization I caught and internalized, sitting there on High Street?
We claim to have faith.
"Everything works out for the good..."
"For I know the plans I have for you..."
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart..."
"But He knows the way I take..."
"Do not be anxious about anything..."
"Do not worry about tomorrow..."
But then we become nervous wrecks when our worlds turn upside down. We are disoriented and consumed with thoughts of the future and worries about our well-being.
But if we never give God the opportunity to take care of us, how will we ever come to understand the lengths to which is Glory extends?
How would we ever know how powerful He is, how much He cares about every small aspect of our lives, unless we give it to Him to take care of?
This is a trust issue.
One my Father and I are working out even as we speak.
So, tonight, I urge you simply to let go.
When it is all too much and your eyes cant see far enough and you are too weary to continue....
open your hands.
And am currently procrastinating, waiting until the very last minute to take my poli sci test, staying up too late, somehow convincing myself the later I stay awake, the farther away Monday morning is.
I had a conversation on Friday night, sitting at the tables outside Common Grounds, with one of my favorite men in the world. He and I don't do much interaction when it comes to big groups. Even when we're with our family, we hug and say hi, but don't exchange too many words. But every once in a while, I get him all to myself. And we have had some of the best conversations, just me and him. Listening and talking, give and take. His eyes light up when I talk, and I know he hears me. This means the world to me... and causes me to delve deeper into my heart, leading to understanding and change.
One of the lessons I learned? A realization I caught and internalized, sitting there on High Street?
We claim to have faith.
"Everything works out for the good..."
"For I know the plans I have for you..."
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart..."
"But He knows the way I take..."
"Do not be anxious about anything..."
"Do not worry about tomorrow..."
But then we become nervous wrecks when our worlds turn upside down. We are disoriented and consumed with thoughts of the future and worries about our well-being.
But if we never give God the opportunity to take care of us, how will we ever come to understand the lengths to which is Glory extends?
How would we ever know how powerful He is, how much He cares about every small aspect of our lives, unless we give it to Him to take care of?
This is a trust issue.
One my Father and I are working out even as we speak.
So, tonight, I urge you simply to let go.
When it is all too much and your eyes cant see far enough and you are too weary to continue....
open your hands.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
The Rock's Cry
I am heavy.
It took many men to roll me into place.
I sank into the ditch, hollowed out to keep me from shifting.
One side of me basks in the sun, is caressed by the wind. Whitewashed, I am passed by mourners, touched by the grieving. My every crevice can hear them weeping.
The other side is dark and cold. It is quiet on this side. A resting place. Unclean and still.
-
They carried another inside.
Rolled me into place.
I shifted, with a thud, and settled.
My job was only to keep what was outside from coming inside.
To keep what was unclean inside.
The dark side of my face slept.
-
Night came.
The sun rose.
Crossed the sky - morning, noon.
Night came again.
-
Stillness on the inside.
-
The sun rose again.
My external face began to feel the first rays of morning light, my solid matter filled with heat.
-
But suddenly
-
What was dark became light.
-
What was still, moved.
-
The quietness was filled with the sounds of breathing.
My every sand-filled pore could feel the beating of a heart.
Slowly at first.
Gaining rhythm.
-
What was this?
-
"Holy, holy, holy"
-
I did not know I had a voice.
-
I was suddenly filled.
I felt myself shake.
Something inside me
was compelled to cry.
-
Dead men did not wake.
Dead men did not move.
Dead men did not speak.
-
But he was waking.
He was moving.
And he spoke.
With a voice, which had been quiet for three days.
-
A voice, no longer forsaken.
Filled with spirit.
And authority.
-
The I Am.
-
He reached out and touched my cold, dark side.
I thought I might shatter.
-
"It is time," he whispered.
"Holy, holy, holy" I whispered.
His hand lay flat on my grey, cold surface.
And I filled with overwhelming heat.
-
The tomb, which I guarded, suddenly was filled with light.
Light, very much unlike the light from the sun.
On the outside, the trees began to hum.
And the blades of grass whistled.
-
I was rolled away.
-
And the two worlds met again.
Two beings, dressed in radiant white, bowed on their knees as He stepped out into the sunlight. From their lips came the same words I had uttered.
I could not stop.
From the very depths of me, my most solid center, the words would not cease.
I would be whispering the words for the rest of eternity.
"Holy holy holy, is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come..."
-
I watched Him walk away.
-
The two beings laid their hands on me and urged me to keep a secret.
"You will sing again," they assured me. "It is their turn now."
And I saw as the mourners came...
I longed to tell them.
"Do not cry. He has risen! Do not grieve. The Messiah has risen indeed!"
-
Holy, holy, holy...
It took many men to roll me into place.
I sank into the ditch, hollowed out to keep me from shifting.
One side of me basks in the sun, is caressed by the wind. Whitewashed, I am passed by mourners, touched by the grieving. My every crevice can hear them weeping.
The other side is dark and cold. It is quiet on this side. A resting place. Unclean and still.
-
They carried another inside.
Rolled me into place.
I shifted, with a thud, and settled.
My job was only to keep what was outside from coming inside.
To keep what was unclean inside.
The dark side of my face slept.
-
Night came.
The sun rose.
Crossed the sky - morning, noon.
Night came again.
-
Stillness on the inside.
-
The sun rose again.
My external face began to feel the first rays of morning light, my solid matter filled with heat.
-
But suddenly
-
What was dark became light.
-
What was still, moved.
-
The quietness was filled with the sounds of breathing.
My every sand-filled pore could feel the beating of a heart.
Slowly at first.
Gaining rhythm.
-
What was this?
-
"Holy, holy, holy"
-
I did not know I had a voice.
-
I was suddenly filled.
I felt myself shake.
Something inside me
was compelled to cry.
-
Dead men did not wake.
Dead men did not move.
Dead men did not speak.
-
But he was waking.
He was moving.
And he spoke.
With a voice, which had been quiet for three days.
-
A voice, no longer forsaken.
Filled with spirit.
And authority.
-
The I Am.
-
He reached out and touched my cold, dark side.
I thought I might shatter.
-
"It is time," he whispered.
"Holy, holy, holy" I whispered.
His hand lay flat on my grey, cold surface.
And I filled with overwhelming heat.
-
The tomb, which I guarded, suddenly was filled with light.
Light, very much unlike the light from the sun.
On the outside, the trees began to hum.
And the blades of grass whistled.
-
I was rolled away.
-
And the two worlds met again.
Two beings, dressed in radiant white, bowed on their knees as He stepped out into the sunlight. From their lips came the same words I had uttered.
I could not stop.
From the very depths of me, my most solid center, the words would not cease.
I would be whispering the words for the rest of eternity.
"Holy holy holy, is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come..."
-
I watched Him walk away.
-
The two beings laid their hands on me and urged me to keep a secret.
"You will sing again," they assured me. "It is their turn now."
And I saw as the mourners came...
I longed to tell them.
"Do not cry. He has risen! Do not grieve. The Messiah has risen indeed!"
-
Holy, holy, holy...
Sunrise
He had told them exactly what would happen.
You will betray me.
You will deny me.
The rooster will crow.
In three days, this will all be over.
Everything will be alright, I love you. In three days, just three days, we will be together again.
-
Then the sky turned black and the veil ripped and so did His body.
One betrayed.
One denied.
The rooster crowed.
And they took His body down from its hanging place, and they buried Him.
-
And much like we do, when we've lost a friend, a loved one, they mourned.
They probably gathered together. Couldn't eat much. Didn't sleep much. They were probably angry; at the system, at the Romans, at Pilate.
Their world seemed dark without Him. They had dropped everything. Forgotten everything to follow Him. To be with Him. And now He was gone. Their worlds were shattered. Had everything been in vain?
In their grief, they forgot His promise.
-
But three days later, the sun would rise.
The rock would roll away.
The angels would be stationed... waiting. Laughing, I think, with joy. Maybe they waited in heaven to hear from the Lord, anticipated the call to tell Yahweh's precious ones a secret. I doubt after all these years the angels had gotten tired of terrifying people; of bringing huge news that no one believed at first...
-
"Why are you looking for the living among the dead?"
The women would race home. Leaving their spices and oils at the graveside.
And no one would believe them either.
Except for Peter.
Who would race to the grave. To see for himself.
Jesus had been right. Peter had denied him three times.
Jesus had been right. Judas had betrayed him.
The rooster had crowed, his body had been broken.
-
Three days ago, Peter had watched his best friend die the death of a criminal.
Today was the third day.
-
Peter probably counted the days on his fingers.
Counted the hours. The times the sun had set and risen.
Yes, three days.
-
And there He was.
Holes in His hands. Holes in His feet.
He was hungry.
-
The Rabbi was the Messiah.
Christ was a man with carpenter's hands.
-
With the sun that morning, hope rose.
It was hope, which swelled from inside the grave.
Overwhelming it.
Just as Yahweh's love had overwhelmed the holiest of places.
-
Death was not strong enough to contain.
-
Peter had, for three days, known a world without his Lord.
-
And he would spend the rest of his life fervently pursuing the kingdom.
Compelled by the hope, which rose with the sun.
You will betray me.
You will deny me.
The rooster will crow.
In three days, this will all be over.
Everything will be alright, I love you. In three days, just three days, we will be together again.
-
Then the sky turned black and the veil ripped and so did His body.
One betrayed.
One denied.
The rooster crowed.
And they took His body down from its hanging place, and they buried Him.
-
And much like we do, when we've lost a friend, a loved one, they mourned.
They probably gathered together. Couldn't eat much. Didn't sleep much. They were probably angry; at the system, at the Romans, at Pilate.
Their world seemed dark without Him. They had dropped everything. Forgotten everything to follow Him. To be with Him. And now He was gone. Their worlds were shattered. Had everything been in vain?
In their grief, they forgot His promise.
-
But three days later, the sun would rise.
The rock would roll away.
The angels would be stationed... waiting. Laughing, I think, with joy. Maybe they waited in heaven to hear from the Lord, anticipated the call to tell Yahweh's precious ones a secret. I doubt after all these years the angels had gotten tired of terrifying people; of bringing huge news that no one believed at first...
-
"Why are you looking for the living among the dead?"
The women would race home. Leaving their spices and oils at the graveside.
And no one would believe them either.
Except for Peter.
Who would race to the grave. To see for himself.
Jesus had been right. Peter had denied him three times.
Jesus had been right. Judas had betrayed him.
The rooster had crowed, his body had been broken.
-
Three days ago, Peter had watched his best friend die the death of a criminal.
Today was the third day.
-
Peter probably counted the days on his fingers.
Counted the hours. The times the sun had set and risen.
Yes, three days.
-
And there He was.
Holes in His hands. Holes in His feet.
He was hungry.
-
The Rabbi was the Messiah.
Christ was a man with carpenter's hands.
-
With the sun that morning, hope rose.
It was hope, which swelled from inside the grave.
Overwhelming it.
Just as Yahweh's love had overwhelmed the holiest of places.
-
Death was not strong enough to contain.
-
Peter had, for three days, known a world without his Lord.
-
And he would spend the rest of his life fervently pursuing the kingdom.
Compelled by the hope, which rose with the sun.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Veil
I represented your separation from God.
A physical reminder of how far you fall short of glorifying Him - of being good enough - holy enough.
Until that day.
When Yahweh's love became too big to be contained behind my folds.
Too powerful to be constrained by my length.
I was privy to the workings of both the world and the Holy of Holies.
I saw all who were deemed worthy to enter into the Lord's presence.
I saw how much the world needed Him.
As if the Heavens had erupted
Suddenly all the light either world knew-
radically transformed.
I, being the manifestation of separation, could no longer contain the love which swelled from inside.
Which began in the holy place
And needed more room.
In agony, in utter devotion, in purest love, the Almighty stepped down.
I saw Him reach.
He reached for you.
I was the symbol of the I Am's separation from the ones He loved most.
To get to you, I was torn. Rent, from top to bottom.
He came down to meet you. Stretched beyond the ancient and sacred confines to love you.
A physical reminder of how far you fall short of glorifying Him - of being good enough - holy enough.
Until that day.
When Yahweh's love became too big to be contained behind my folds.
Too powerful to be constrained by my length.
I was privy to the workings of both the world and the Holy of Holies.
I saw all who were deemed worthy to enter into the Lord's presence.
I saw how much the world needed Him.
As if the Heavens had erupted
Suddenly all the light either world knew-
radically transformed.
I, being the manifestation of separation, could no longer contain the love which swelled from inside.
Which began in the holy place
And needed more room.
In agony, in utter devotion, in purest love, the Almighty stepped down.
I saw Him reach.
He reached for you.
I was the symbol of the I Am's separation from the ones He loved most.
To get to you, I was torn. Rent, from top to bottom.
He came down to meet you. Stretched beyond the ancient and sacred confines to love you.
Two Thoughts.
Thought One:
"Ever since happiness heard your name, its been running through the streets trying to find you..." (Hafiz of Persia)
Happiness is not the goal.
Comfort is not the goal.
Exhaustion is not the goal.
Discomfort is not the goal.
Pain is not the goal.
Fame is not the goal.
Invisibility is not the goal.
Need I go on?
-
I heard His name... felt Him in between my shoulder blades... felt His breath on my skin.
And ever since, I've been running through the streets. Looking under rocks, knocking on doors, peering around corners. Trying to find Him.
Abba Father.
I heard Your name, caught a glimpse of You as You passed by.
And nothing has been the same since.
You see, this life is about the pursuit of Him.
And the glory of turning around and realizing that, in fact, He is pursuing you.
-
Thought Two:
The social work class I am currently enrolled in requires 25 hours of community service.
Never before in my life have I found it so hard to help people for just a few hours a week.
I am not a certified-anything.
I am not a trained-anybody.
I am not a skilled-someone.
I am an undergrad. With an Associate's degree and a weird bank of knowledge. I am good with kids. ( Sometimes. Really, it depends on the kid. ) My heart hurts when yours hurts. I want to know your name and I want you know you are loved. I want to help you recognize God and beauty's presence in your life, and watch as you fall in love with both.
That... doesn't look so impressive on a resume.
So I am working in a few different venues, getting in these volunteer hours. Like clockwork, I walk into an organization, tell them I am a social work major and I need community service time. Do they need my help? They say yes. And hand me a baby.
This just thrills my little heart. But I will laugh at the end of the semester if for some reason, it doesn't "count". ( Some say social work is about more than that. I say, social work is about doing what needs to be done.)
But something I realized tonight, after finishing some volunteer hours in Winchester, is that Read to Succeed is a dual blessing for me.
Since about the end of February, beginning of March, I have been driving into Winchester every Wednesday afternoon. I spend some time with my little sisters (who really, aren't so little anymore). I go and tutor. And then I go to the library.
Not to get more books.
To see my mom.
You see, on Wednesday nights she works at her own little desk. In the back of the library. Away from everybody.
I get her all to myself.
For once.
It's my strategy. Corner her. So she can't get away. So she really has nothing better to do.
She has no choice but to listen to me. I'm the only one there.
And then, apparently, my subconscious self decides that Wednesday nights around 7pm in the back of the Clark County Public Library, is the best time to let a week's worth of tears loose.
I cried tonight for a lot of reasons.
I cried because we didn't get to say goodbye. I cried because he cheated. I cried because his first experience with life was that people can be cruel. I cried because they are good people. I cried because she is leaving. I cried because she is grown up. I cried because he doesn't see me. I cried because I want to hold someone's hand. I cried because she is pregnant. I cried because they are getting married. I cried because I am tired.
I cried because... tonight, more than anything, I want an adventure. I need to "break the chain of routine". I am here, waiting in anticipation for the change that is sure to come.
And in the mean time, I feel like the most boring, dull person in the world.
I just laughed a little, thinking about that statement. Because I know it's not true. Because I know, in about four or five weeks, that said change is going to start happening. And I will have not even a little bit of a clue as to how to deal.
My life does not look like yours.
I don't want my life to look like yours.
I want whatever it is this crazy, loving God of mine has planned.
But even those thoughts didn't stop my ocean of tears tonight.
And I realized, I needed to be in Winchester on Wednesday nights more for myself than anything. If only so I could corner my pretty, young mom in the back of the library and steal her attention. And talk through all the crap that tends to clutter my head.
My life doesn't look like yours.
And it certainly doesn't make sense right now.
But it is 10:40 on a Wednesday night and my legs are sore from running and my heart is aching from searching and my soul is stretched to capacity it seems.
And there's nothing I can really do to change anything tonight.
And I am okay with that.
Tomorrow is a new day.
"Ever since happiness heard your name, its been running through the streets trying to find you..." (Hafiz of Persia)
Happiness is not the goal.
Comfort is not the goal.
Exhaustion is not the goal.
Discomfort is not the goal.
Pain is not the goal.
Fame is not the goal.
Invisibility is not the goal.
Need I go on?
-
I heard His name... felt Him in between my shoulder blades... felt His breath on my skin.
And ever since, I've been running through the streets. Looking under rocks, knocking on doors, peering around corners. Trying to find Him.
Abba Father.
I heard Your name, caught a glimpse of You as You passed by.
And nothing has been the same since.
You see, this life is about the pursuit of Him.
And the glory of turning around and realizing that, in fact, He is pursuing you.
-
Thought Two:
The social work class I am currently enrolled in requires 25 hours of community service.
Never before in my life have I found it so hard to help people for just a few hours a week.
I am not a certified-anything.
I am not a trained-anybody.
I am not a skilled-someone.
I am an undergrad. With an Associate's degree and a weird bank of knowledge. I am good with kids. ( Sometimes. Really, it depends on the kid. ) My heart hurts when yours hurts. I want to know your name and I want you know you are loved. I want to help you recognize God and beauty's presence in your life, and watch as you fall in love with both.
That... doesn't look so impressive on a resume.
So I am working in a few different venues, getting in these volunteer hours. Like clockwork, I walk into an organization, tell them I am a social work major and I need community service time. Do they need my help? They say yes. And hand me a baby.
This just thrills my little heart. But I will laugh at the end of the semester if for some reason, it doesn't "count". ( Some say social work is about more than that. I say, social work is about doing what needs to be done.)
But something I realized tonight, after finishing some volunteer hours in Winchester, is that Read to Succeed is a dual blessing for me.
Since about the end of February, beginning of March, I have been driving into Winchester every Wednesday afternoon. I spend some time with my little sisters (who really, aren't so little anymore). I go and tutor. And then I go to the library.
Not to get more books.
To see my mom.
You see, on Wednesday nights she works at her own little desk. In the back of the library. Away from everybody.
I get her all to myself.
For once.
It's my strategy. Corner her. So she can't get away. So she really has nothing better to do.
She has no choice but to listen to me. I'm the only one there.
And then, apparently, my subconscious self decides that Wednesday nights around 7pm in the back of the Clark County Public Library, is the best time to let a week's worth of tears loose.
I cried tonight for a lot of reasons.
I cried because we didn't get to say goodbye. I cried because he cheated. I cried because his first experience with life was that people can be cruel. I cried because they are good people. I cried because she is leaving. I cried because she is grown up. I cried because he doesn't see me. I cried because I want to hold someone's hand. I cried because she is pregnant. I cried because they are getting married. I cried because I am tired.
I cried because... tonight, more than anything, I want an adventure. I need to "break the chain of routine". I am here, waiting in anticipation for the change that is sure to come.
And in the mean time, I feel like the most boring, dull person in the world.
I just laughed a little, thinking about that statement. Because I know it's not true. Because I know, in about four or five weeks, that said change is going to start happening. And I will have not even a little bit of a clue as to how to deal.
My life does not look like yours.
I don't want my life to look like yours.
I want whatever it is this crazy, loving God of mine has planned.
But even those thoughts didn't stop my ocean of tears tonight.
And I realized, I needed to be in Winchester on Wednesday nights more for myself than anything. If only so I could corner my pretty, young mom in the back of the library and steal her attention. And talk through all the crap that tends to clutter my head.
My life doesn't look like yours.
And it certainly doesn't make sense right now.
But it is 10:40 on a Wednesday night and my legs are sore from running and my heart is aching from searching and my soul is stretched to capacity it seems.
And there's nothing I can really do to change anything tonight.
And I am okay with that.
Tomorrow is a new day.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Mississippis
Lightening illuminates the sky.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three Mississippi.
Thunder rolls across the earth, coming from inside somewhere.
Sky is black and long. Stretching farther than it did earlier in the day... clouds and arms outreached over the horizon.
-
I was driving to work on Friday morning when Katherine called and proclaimed her newfound love for morning time. "I'm a morning person, I just didnt know it!" And I felt a twinge of jealousy.
I don't know what the world looks like in the mornings. What the new sun feels like when it's low in the east. What early morning dew feels like on my bare feet. What bright morning sunshine might feel like on my skin.
Dramatic?
It feels that way, when the only light I know is light that is on its way out.
-
On Sunday I went to church and sat through service with the best man in my life.
We watched one of our favorite men play the drums.
And I watched art being formed on the stage.
Then I went upstairs to take care of babies.
I held him in my arms. Fed him. Rubbed his bald forehead as he fell asleep.
He sank in my arms as I rocked back and forth on my heels.
And I knew, on some level, I was meant for this.
-
We didn't have a scheduled meeting tonight.
Two of us missed our family desperately. So we made a few phone calls. Drove down the street and met up with our sisters and a brother. Ate and laughed and walked through the rain.
Spontaneous. Intentional. Beautiful.
-
Rain pelts down on the asphalt.
Shoes off.
Pants rolled up.
Run.
Body falls into line.
Limbs move in rhythm.
Rain pelts on my face.
I feel connected.
-
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three Mississippi.
The sky is full.
Our lives are full.
Drenched.
We must learn to see.
In anticipation of thunder, which rolls beneath our very feet.
What is beauty?
-
Beauty is life.
Being drenched by the rain.
Holding life in your arms.
Understanding, for the first time, that life is short.
-
Beauty is the Mississippis you count between the lightening and thunder.
When your breath is captured in your chest and you watch the sky...
And instead, feel all you know rumble beneath your feet.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Vessel
I am a vessel. Created for a purpose.
Filled.
But without You I am not full.
Broken, I am shattered to pieces.
Whatever I carry, spilled to floor.
Counted as loss.
Of no real worth to me. Or the world.
I am pieced back together by Your gentle hand.
Though empty and scarred
Uneven and cracked.
I am whole.
Faced with a decision.
To return -
To be filled again with that which shatters me.
That which has no meaning.
But instead I turn to You.
A vessel, I am, begging not to be filled.
But to be full.
To carry within my walls something of worth.
And You pour into me.
You do not stop.
Until I am not full,
but overflowing.
I am full now.
Of light.
Overflowing with love.
A vessel, saturated in Your presence.
A vessel.
Broken and emptied -
Again and again, only at Your feet.
I was created for a purpose.
To carry Your light.
To be a place in which You dwell.
A vessel.
A temple.
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