Shelter

Five miles into the woods... on a trail that would extend 270-some more for the three boys.

We'd already gotten lost. Already had an injury. We were hot and tired and hungry.

And as we slowly climbed down the last leg of the trail to the campsite... we heard the thunder.

It clapped. The lightening flashed dimly.

We threw our packs to the ground. Pulled the tents and the tarps and the hammocks out.

But it was too late.

We heard the rain coming like an army of soldiers. Like a wall, or a wave, we were bent over the tent, almost having it completely set up. And it hit us.

By the time the tent was standing up, we were soaked down to our underwear.

Water was dripping down my neck, down my shirt. And I looked up at Liza, who was just as wet, and I started laughing.

What else was there to do?

Our tent was filled with water. Our bags were getting wet. Our shoes were squishing. No one could tell the difference between the rain and the sweat. All the grime was washed from my face.

We huddled under a small, yellow tarp with two corners tied to two trees. We held up the other corners with our heads, the boys took off their shirts, we put on hats... and we laughed. And shivered.

It was only 5:30. The rain wasn't stopping. And so we decided to grab our things and head back UP the trail to a cavern we had passed.

All I could think of was Moses. He wanted to see the glory of God and so the Lord protected him in the cleft of a mountain and covered Moses with His hand as He passed by....

Our overhang was probably fifty feet wide, thirty feet high, and twenty feet deep. The ground was covered in dry sand. And there was dry wood and boulders everywhere.

We rung out our clothes and put on dry shirts. The boys built a fire and Pat made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We dried our shoes out on the rocks around the fire, and pulled out the crank radio to try and see what the weather would be like the next day.

The sun began to set. The rain persisted. We laid down our sleeping bags and fed the fire. Two of the boys boiled water for hot chocolate, and cranked the radio again.

The only radio station that would pick up was one that was playing opera.

So the sky was black. And the rain was pattering on the leaves just outside the cavern. The fire was crackling and we were finally getting warm and dry. And as we were drifting off to sleep, the haunting sound of the opera music lifted around us.

Liza looked up and we all smiled. "I've never loved opera music so much in my life," she said. And we all agreed.

We all fell asleep then, as the radio slowly lost energy and the sound of the singing faded into the steady rain.

Words will never be able to express that moment.

A moment from a movie.

That made the whole, wet, difficult day worthwhile.

A moment that I will never forget as long as I live.

A moment, sheltered and protected in the cleft of a mountain...

Love you, Bye

On Monday we rolled out of bed and headed to Cracker Barrel for a last supper... or... a last breakfast. The boys piled into the mini van with their fort-some pound packs and we filled our bellies with pancakes and hit the road.

I hadn't adequately psyched myself up for this.

A month. No Caleb.

I was quiet on the ride to Tennessee, thoughts of what being without him would be like.

No emails. No phone calls at the end of the night.

The day before we had locked up the dorm building for the last time.

We had bought bungee cords and I had bought his last Chipotle for a month.

On Monday, after four hours in the car, we signed papers at Pickett State Park and drove to the trailhead.

We took pictures and laughed over the roaring noise of the seventeen-year cecadas in the trees above our heads.

And we shouldered our packs... and started hiking.

The next day, after rain and injury and getting lost and freezing during the night, we shouldered our packs again and set off on the trail.

This time... we would go two separate ways.

Liza and I would head back to the van.

The boys would head north on the Sheltowee Trace.

And so we stopped where the paths diverged. "What is it that Caleb always says before he leaves?" Liza asked. I laughed. "Loveyou,bye. Real fast like that," I told her.

I felt my eyes filling up with tears. And so I kissed Caleb on the cheek. Told the boys to be careful. Told Paul I'd come get them tomorrow if they needed me to...

Grabbed Caleb's hand and then turned toward my trail.

"Love you, bye!" I yelled real fast.

And we walked ahead.

I'll see him again in a few weeks.

I didn't adequately psyche myself up for this.

Rain

Of course it would rain today.
Two years ago it was raining too.
As I got my first tattoo and the world lost another young life.
Two years ago today was a Thursday.
It rained that whole weekend.

Today is Sunday. And it's been raining all day.
Today is also Mother's day. And there's one mother out there who is terribly heartbroken on this two year anniversary.
My heart goes out to her tonight.
I only wish the sun could have shone...

I don't remember who I was back then. I remember some thoughts I had. I remember waking up that third morning of rain to a phone call... that shut the door with an ominous thud. I was an eighteen year old with one semester of college under her belt, one tattoo, living on Long Avenue in a room painted purple. I was a little less than a year into a job that payed more money than I knew what to do with. But I don't remember what I wanted to do with my life. Or who I thought God was. Or how I felt about being alone. I remember being a peculiar person in a peculiar stage in life...

And in that regard, not much has changed.

I am twenty. With five semesters of college, and a degree, under my belt. Three tattoos later... each one represents another lesson learned. Another permanent fixture of my identity. I've lived in three other rooms since that purple one... and am coming up on three years in the same job (except the money isn't quite as sufficient as it used to be). The plan is to go the nursing school. I believe that God is in the wind, that He is good and merciful, and that the more I try to understand Him, the less I do.

Today, it is raining.
I wish the sun would shine.

Because I need some light to be shed on this darkness.

Because I still have no idea what I'm doing.

"Strange how hard it rains now. Rows and rows of big dark clouds. But I'm still alive underneath this shroud..."

I sat down here tonight in this coffee shop, by myself, to try and collect my thoughts. But I'm as creatively constipated as you can get... all the ideas, the thoughts, the contemplations are there. And they ar backing up... causing me discomfort. Part of my thought process, my decision-making process, my way of life is to get this stuff out. And it's not coming. It's only a matter of time before I remember how to use my words...

But tonight all I know is that it's raining.

What does that even mean?

A New Decade

I just turned twenty.
As I told my dad last night, it's only weird when I think about it.
Nothing feels different. I didn't wake up yesterday morning with a new sensation, or should I say 'feeling the loss' of my childhood.
But people tell me I'm old now.
And I laugh a little.
I've felt old for a long time.

In my old age... I still make endless notes when no one is looking at work. There are so many things that run through my head in a day. We concluded last night that its a genetic issue... thinking too much that is.

I've been thinking about infection.
Infection in the body. In the soul. In the mind.

How suburbs are not the problem; just as money isn't the problem. It's the love of, the attachment to, the use of (insert vice) that is a sin. The moment we begin blaming something inanimate for our downfall... the deeper we sink.

We need the world to quiet down. We need to slow down... to listen carefully. A lot is being said. We just don't hear.

We adapt to the rhythm around us. Whatever is playing in our ears... our bodies will eventually become in sync with. This is the method I rely on when I go running. But it's also the truth that is evident in our lives. The faster our bodies go, the faster our minds go. And our souls get lost in the shuffle.

Delicious ambiguity.

A man named Lonely.

I'm a college graduate.

We succeed and climb to the top. If we are smart... and wish to live long, fulfilling lives... we will go back down to the bottom and do it again. This is the scariest part of the journey. Requires different muscles, a different mentality. To start over, we must be humbled. And none of us have any interest in being humbled.

This week is an anniversary. Of lost hope, of heartbreak, of a horrible car accident. Amazing how time changes things. How people change. Next month my insurance premium will go down by 50%... this is the best change of all.

Out of these things... maybe one will spark an insightful post.

But probably not. There will be something new tomorrow. It is a new decade. I'm praying for new inspiration. New ideas. New vision.

Emotional Revolution

I am supposed to be writing about biofuels. But I always do my best writing here when I'm supposed to be writing somewhere, or about something, else. That's just the way of it.

Life is not easy. I'm wondering how we ever came to the conclusion that it was supposed to be?

All I know is that my 66 year old grandmother has been in the hospital for a month... and a 15 year old boy died the day before yesterday after spending weeks in a coma...

I know that we are faced with questions that have no answers. And we are thrown into this cycle of life that is continuously changing...

You find yourself in your very last week of college... ever. A life you've known for four, maybe five years, is coming to an end. There will never be this many people around again. No more community bathrooms or parking tags or greasy cafeteria food. And maybe you wonder what life outside those walls will feel like...

Or you're stuck in a job you hate. Or starting a new one that terrifies you. Or you love your job but dont make enough money.

You want to buy an engagement ring, but can't even make ends meet. Maybe you want to take her on a date, but life is just too crazy, people are too demanding. Maybe you want to sleep in your own bed tonight, but she, your other half, needs you by her side.

Maybe you're facing a move. A change of location. Or you feel unsafe in your own home. Maybe you've become static... and this place where you are is no longer where you need to be... but leaving just doesnt seem like an option. Or maybe your heart is somewhere else entirely. And your body just hasn't caught up yet.

Maybe you are worried about the world... your mind is filled with thoughts of sustainable living and nonrenewable resources and energy efficience... about those who labor to give you your lifestyle... about being selfless and innovative and free.

Some of us are angry at God right now.

Some of us have just succumbed to the tears... all but let our bodies collapse beneath us.

Others are enjoying the sunshine today.

Our minds are consumed with thoughts and feelings.

We are stressed and stretched too thin and we are scared.

Or we are excited.

Or we miss you.

Or all of these things rolled into one.

Life is not easy.

I've heard you're supposed to take it one day at a time... but I haven't learned how to do that yet.

All I know is that I can't resist the revolution... with this unpredictable life, these unpredictable people, these haphazard ways of living... there's no telling where we'll end up.

But we count on His grace.

And we cling to hope.

And we treasure peace as if it were worth more than gold...

The Archives

I am sitting in Coffea Island. I'm supposed to be doing computer homework, but have gotten distracted. A barista just put on Alison Krauss, I am drinking a bottomless cup of Peaberry coffee, sitting in the sunlight coming through the blinds.

In my distraction, I logged onto Myspace for the first time in months. I had one task in mind. I went and opened up my blog archives and started reading.The earliest one dates back to June 2006. On paper, that doesn't seem that long ago. A little under two years. But I started reading what I had written, and felt as though I was reading about a stranger's life.

I remember all the experiences. I remember all the people. But I dont remember what all the subtle references mean. But what amazes me... is how much people can change. Our fears, our anxieties, our residence, our friends, our language, our music taste, our dreams. There is one blog that has a list of about 50 things I wanted to accomplish before I die (you know, the typical bucket list). As I read through them, I realized that the only ones that still resonated with my new heart are the ones I've already done. Does this mean it's time for a new list? Or time to celebrate?

There are people who were an intrinsic part of my life two years ago, who are nowhere to be found these days. The Beaver Creek house stands empty, with a drained pool. My green room still smells like the candle Ellen gave me. But we dont live there anymore. We don't dance down the hallways or hang air fresheners from the ceiling fans... my room at the Hays house is no longer mine either. I gave back the garage door opener and changed my address. I don't go to Starbucks anymore. The lessons I learned as a college student fresh out on her own, about cheap prices at Walmart and the best route to work are of no use to me now.

There are lessons that I learned back then that I've already forgotten. These are the lessons we all learn... and relearn... and teach others... and then forget again. Lessons about God and love and loneliness.It's been two years since that first blog. And I am nowhere near the girl I was then.

Except for the part about being a hippie. I laugh about that now... knowing I had no idea what that meant the first time I said it. The first time I felt the twinge in my heart for dirty feet and breezy skirts... how could I have known that would get me here? To this place?

In a few years I may go back and dig into the blog archives again. This one, from April 19th in 2008, may be completely foreign to me. I may have changed so much again that most of my words are those of a stranger...

But isn't that the beauty of life?

Where Your Heart Is

All our lives, most of us struggle with issues of identity.
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
We can take classes on the subject. We go through therapy because of this. Halfway through our lives we go through a crisis. Relationships break up, bad habits are formed. Our lives can be drastically changed just by the pursuit of the answer to these sorts of questions.
And the repercussions are not always negative.
Sometimes... we run into an answer that is infinite. And we come to grips, are satisfied with, our ever-changing, fluctuating, shape-shifting, evolving self. Those of us who accept change so graciously are lucky. And few and far between.
An old Creole proverb says: "Show me who you love, and I'll show you who you are."
Perhaps it is the secret to life...
While it is important to search the inner workings of our souls, to turn inward and figure out what the heck is going on in our hearts, delving into a kingdom belonging only, and specific to ourselves. Perhaps the secret is to turn outward.

See who we surround ourselves with.
Who do we seek out?
Who, what, do we surround ourselves with?
With whom are we the most comfortable?
Where are we the most at peace?
Who do we love?

Yesterday afternoon, I spent a few hours at Keeneland. This is a tradition in my family, way before I was ever legally allowed to gamble. The past few years I have started going with friends instead of family. Yesterday, my sister, my roommate and a few friends of ours got breakfast and then drove to Versailles Road. I knew, before ever reaching the first gate, that we were in for a ride. Because of my past experiences, I knew what the expect. The traffic. The cops. The parking. The programs. The beer and hotdogs. The silks. The trust fund babies. The girls with high heels and short dresses. The expensive sunglasses. And I was comfortable, because I understood. I knew what I was in the midst of. I could determine the wealthy from the wanna-bes, the regulars from the first-timers. I knew when to go to the concession stand, how to bob and weave in the "traffic" of people. I knew when to hold my breath to keep from inhaling cigar smoke. Comfortable.

But I found myself leaving, knowing that I had enjoyed myself. That I had been able to hold my own. That, had I placed any bets, I would have won a little bit of money. But I was not at home. I did not feel like it was safe to be myself. Or that anyone around felt it was safe to be themselves either. A good place to spend the afternoon... but as we turned back onto Versailles Rd, I knew I was glad that was not my life.

After church, Caleb told me we were going on a date. "Where?" was my first question, always feeling a little apprehensive about surprises. My mind went through all the possibilities, and could not come up with anything. His eyes were bright with excitement. "Come on, " he said. "We're gonna be late! Get me to 64 east."

Those were the tell-tale words. 64 east. I started to laugh.

In Powell County, Clay City, last night there was a bluegrass concert. J.D. Crowe and the New South.

The sun had started to set. Once you're on 64 east, the landscape starts to change. Houses are farther apart. There are more cows. Less power lines. More tractors. The rolling hills of Kentucky were crowned with golden sunlight, the wind whistled through the back windows. Caleb put on his sunglasses. The sun hit our faces as we drove farther east, taking the Parkway and hanging a left, following homemade signs to the park.

We pulled into a gravel parking lot, got out and walked toward a barn. As you got closer, the gravel crunching beneath our flip flops, the sun shining off a flooded pond, you began to hear a banjo. People were standing around in Carhartt and baseball hats, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. We walked past everyone and into the barn. Dim light, smoky air. An older woman sat at the front door with the family dog selling tickets to the show. Later, the music would start. Banjos and mandolins and fiddles. Fried apple pie and cowboy boots and banjo-pickin'. Just a group of people, no pretension. No one was putting on airs or pretending to be something they weren't. Simple people. Dirty people. People who were asking themselves the same questions I was asking. We were the same.

We left around 11pm, laughing at the strange turn of events that had landed us in Powell County on a Saturday night. The stars were bright overhead and the grass was wet with dew.

I drew the correlation on the drive home. Feeling utterly content and amused and at peace.

Who do you love?

Where is your heart?

Ordinary Days

Think about it.

Stop and think for a second about the day your life changed.

Maybe you got a new job. Or lost an old one. The day you started college, or the day you graduated. The day your first child was born. Or the day your last child left home for the first time.

Maybe you met the person you would spend the rest of your life with. Or you signed papers that said you didn't want to spend your life with that person anymore. Maybe it was a day spent at a cemetary...

Or maybe it was the most ordinary of days.

If you pause for a minute, and you choose to retreat into your mind... you will remember a day.

An ordinary day. You hit the snooze button, not wanting to get out of bed. You took a shower, maybe. Dressed accordingly for the weather. Got in the car, turned on the ignition. Headed wherever it is your normally go.

And then there would be that day. The day that changed things forever.

A day it rained a little harder than normal. A day the roads were unusually slick.

A bright September morning, a doctor's appointment.

A cold day in March, the first day of spring.

The first day of June.

A warm Sunday at the end of September.

A Tuesday night or a Thursday morning at the end of March.

We expect holidays, an anniversary, a special occasion, or a birthday to be significant milestones in our life.

But what happens when an ordinary day turns into a day you will never forget?

When you get in the car one Saturday in May, covered in paint, and lose control on a wet country road.

When the bright September morning was suddenly filled with xrays and talk of surgery, and ashes filled the sky in New York.

A cold night in March when something died, and even though it was the first day of spring, it began to snow.

A warm night in June when a family sat down and altered the course of all their lives.

A sunny Sunday afternoon, eating lunch with a group of people that would become a family. Meeting the one who would become my favorite. My love.

A Tuesday night, opening the mail. Plans shattered, new options explored.

A Thursday morning. Angels began to dance.

Even the ordinary days are extraordinary.

Remember that as you roll out of bed on this day.

Jesus and Hybrids

I was driving to work this morning, having just left the hospital where I drop off and pick up files. The sky was gray, but no rain had come yet. I didn't want to go to work, or school. It was a morning to sleep.

I was almost to work when a big old SUV pulled up alongside of me. I let off the gas a little, and the SUV kept going. North Carolina tags.Just a few seconds later I was beside the SUV again. I felt someone looking at me. So I turned to see who it was.

In a big old tan SUV with North Carolina tags sat a man who looked more like Jesus than anyone I have ever met. He had a beard halfway down his chest and his hair was matted and completely wild. He just stared at me, slowing down as we got to the stoplight. Not a creepy stare. Just steady eye contact. This wild man with a gaunt face and intense eyes just stared at me until I turned into my office parking lot.

I got into the office and laughingly told my coworkers that I had just seen Jesus driving down the road. Nettie looked at me and shrugged. "Maybe someone's trying to tell you something." I smiled. Amy looked at me and I knew some criticism was coming. I do not like to take criticism with my breakfast. It was way too early for that. But it came anyway. And not the way I'd expected.

"Well," she said. "I'd say that if Jesus were here today he wouldn't be driving at SUV." I almost choked. "He'd drive a small, economical car. Probably a hybrid." She laughed, but was completely serious.

I shook my head and said, "You're right. He probably wouldn't drive an SUV. He'd ride a bike. Or the bus."

She didn't like that answer very much. And so all day Tuesday, I thought about this. I laughed a little, wondering if this hippie man with a gas-guzzling sports utility vehicle from North Carolina knew what he got started....

And I was frustrated. How many of us think this way? That Jesus is just like us. Clean. Pale. Upper middle class. With good teeth. I remember Him telling us that we never know when we are entertaining angels. I remember Him saying that what we do for the least of these, we do for Him.

There's not a blessed thing wrong with driving a hybrid car. I like them. But I think, if we met Jesus today, He'd be riding down the road on a bike, wearing beat-up Chuck Taylors and a flannel shirt. He wouldn't have a dental plan and he might be a little leathery from all that work in the sun. But He would smile at you. He would want to take His lunch break with you, because He thinks you're special. But when you eat together, you might not want to sit downwind. My guess is He wouldn't have been able to shower for a few days.

Just an idea.

Doodles and Scribbles

Yesterday evening was wonderful.
The work day had lasted eight hours too long. The sunshine had been tempting me through the blinds (that my coworkers repeatedly close, so only stripes of light get through). Someone had turned the thermostat up to 75 degrees... I had office fever. And when 3pm rolled around, I bolted out of the building.
I rolled down my window. Turned up the music. Drove home with my arm hanging out the window and got things ready for dinner.
I spent half an hour on the phone with an old friend.
I ate a good dinner with my roommate.
And then we drove to the park.
We were outside for hours. Walking laps around the park... slowly, but deliberately. Only stopping to smoke cigars she had brought home from Seattle.
We drove away with the windows down and went to Coffee Times to get drinks. We sat down at a table together and a book on the shelf behind me caught my eye.
"The Very Giant Book of Doodles". Taro Gomi.
I opened it.
It was a very giant book of doodles.
Not your average coloring book.
There were animals. The instructions were to put clothes on them. There were people with dialog bubbles. "What are these people saying?"
I turned the page.
Most of the page was black. "What is in the grass?"
There was a page with a squiggly line.
"This is a mountain. Draw a mountain climber."
And for some reason... I almost started crying.
Turned one more page.
It was blank.
"Draw something beautiful."
I almost bought the book. A twenty dollar coloring book. Somehow, I had been touched by a coloring book! It took me a minute to figure out why.
And then my roommate said something that made me realize.
She made a very offhanded comment on how smart my children would be. How much they would love to learn, how creative they would be.
And I realized how easy a coloring book like this would be for a five year old. When asked to draw something beautiful, he would not sit back and contemplate how to draw something beautifully. Instead, he would pick up a crayon and draw a flower. And it would be beautiful, because flowers are beautiful.
We are too analytical.
Too cynical.
Somewhere in the process of growing up, a wall went up between our brains and our creativity.
We made things complicated.
The beauty of life is in the doodles and scribbles.
I think I may go back and get the book for myself... tear down that wall separating me from my imagination.
And then, one day, when I have kids...
We will sit down with crayons and draw a mountain climber.
And a flower that is beautiful.

Glory

Sunday, March 2nd, 2008

Today has not been a good day.

The reasons are numerous, but even as I sit down to write, they feel silly. Petty. Unimportant.
But my day was still bad. And so here I am... trying to make it better. Talk it out. Tell you what I’m learning. Tell you how short I’ve fallen, how far I have to reach.

I told Larry about my struggles. We’re told to seek wise council. He’s the closest thing I have. He told me all this sounds like healthy emotional struggling.

And then he said something wise.

"The struggling is what makes us feel alive."

I cried today. I don’t cry a lot. When I do, I’m embarrassed. I try really hard to control it, to keep the tears from getting out of control. I managed to only let a few tears be shed today. But that’s not a healthy practice. We cry for a reason. There’s a purpose behind the tears we shed.

So we started talking about church. Or... "the Church". Or "going to church". Or all of the above. We talked about spreading ourselves too thin. About recognizing when we are spent. When what we have has been used up, our resources, wisdom, words are depleted.

And this is what we came up with.

We are the church. That’s not a new idea. The church is not a building. We are the church. You are the church. I am the church. They are the church. We are not many churches. We are one church. One body. One purpose.

What is our purpose?

Do you even know?

We are sick of the way the Church behaves. We have misrepresented our Jesus. We have been horrible ambassadors, leaky vessels of His love.

This is not a new idea either. We know we are sinners. We know we are not pure.

We just forget.

We forget that it is grace, and only grace, that separates us from the whore. From the murderer.
From the abuser.

We haven’t come up with a new idea yet. How is it that we all know these things... and yet fail to remember?

We get wrapped up in religion. In the "politics" of religion. Consumed with ideas of righteousness and purity... holding others to higher standards than we hold ourselves. There are a few of us who have abandoned so-called "religion". We declare that Christianity is not about the steeple or the translation of your Bible. And then... we woke up one day and had turned spirituality, had transformed our non-religion, into a religion all unto itself.

A change has to be made.

I went driving this morning. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I began to pray out loud.

And I prayed until I’d reached Wal-mart.

Prayed for you. Prayed for me. Prayed for the Church. Prayed for my broken family. Prayed the way I usually pray.

And then I asked Him to show up.

The way things are, just aren’t working. The way we think, the way we love, the way we seek Him... just wasn’t working anymore.

I told Him we expected Him to be here.

Not just hoped. Not just believed.

Expected.

We are spread thin. In the process of loving others, we’ve forgotten to love ourselves. We’ve forgotten to love the ones we stand beside.

We’ve broken commitments and promises... we’ve begun something wonderful, with ambition and passion, and let it fizzle out...

Far too often, we forget our purpose. We forget why we were created in the first place.

And more often than not, we behave like whores. Like Gomer. We are sinners. He has loved us, taken us in, shown us grace. And we run away again... returning to our promiscuous behavior and lying in another’s bed. We are cheating on our Christ.

A change has to be made.

On an individual level.

No more blanket statements.

No more "church-wide" commitments.

No more holiday offerings.

On an individual level, a change is required.

You must change.

I must change.

I must know, love, and be committed.

You must know, love, and be committed.

If you do, and I do, and they do so...

That will be enough.

I encourage you, today, to remember.

Remember you were created to bring Him glory.

Whatever that looks like...

Bring Him glory today.

Derivation

The Buddhists believe all our negative feelings derive from fear. Guilt, anger, most sadness, aggression.

We are fearful people.

That's not a very attractive, powerful thing to admit.

But there are some of us who live in a constant state of fear. Whether that fear is violent or subtle... it is there.

Fear of rejection.
Fear of inadequacy.
Fear of abandonment.
Fear of the unknown.
Fear of failure.
Fear of change.
Fear of challenge.

Of course, there is not one, true, steadfast rule that applies to our emotions. Our emotions are inconsistent. Our emotions are unreliable. But think about it.

We are afraid we are not good enough. That things will happen to us like they happened to our parents. That we we didn't study hard enough, we don't look good enough, we didn't do the right thing, we did the wrong thing, we spoke or didn't speak.... The list goes on and on.

There's a different kind of fear, as well. The kind of fear I've felt for a few days when I walk into my room and see my sliding door pried open. Or hear noises outside my window. Or walk into the dark apartment by myself. Or hear a storm siren or my neighbors yelling again. This is a different kind of fear. A fear that is equally hard to live with. A fear that is equally paralyzing.

And I can't help but think that we are not meant to live this way.

I can't help but wonder, if we pulled the plant out by the roots, what that would mean for so many people... If fear was eliminated, how would our lives be different? Even in the most simple aspects of our lives:

If we weren't afraid of sleeping in, would we sleep better during the night?
If we weren't afraid of gaining weight, would we enjoy the food we eat?
If we weren't afraid of being hurt, would we love all the more passionately?
If we weren't afraid of being lied to, would we trust, or have better judgement of our own?

It just makes me wonder. Makes me wonder about healthy fear. About fear that causes exhileration... or fear that inspires awe. The fear that gets our blood pumping, calling us to action or to awareness. Fear can be a good thing. It's when the emotion overtakes us... planting itself deep beneath the surface... that it becomes dangerous.

We are taught the fear of the Lord. A recognition of His power and His presence. We fear the Lord because we cannot do what He does. We sinned, and forgot how to love how He loves. A healthy fear.

But fear can turn into a disease. Infecting everything. Spreading quickly. It is rampant because we cannot conquer it on our own. We are weak against it. Our own defenses are not enough. But that is why we are not alone.

Do not be afraid.

All of us are driven by different things. But I want you to find hope. I want you to be able to reach over and flip on the light, sleep in your bed without feeling fear, reach for his or her hand and know that love is scary, but it should not terrify you.

My words for you today are ones of hope.

Psalm 91. http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=psalm%2091;&version=65

Because we love Him, we are protected. So often we associate protection with our physical bodies. But His protection is not so limited. Of every aspect of ourselves, it is our hearts, our souls, our spirits that need to be shielded. And therefore, it is our hearts, our souls, our spirits that God seeks to protect.

This might not make any sense.

You probably don't agree with me.

I'm not sure I agree with myself.

But it was a thought... I pray you find hope today.

Find security and safety in the shadow of His wing.

Bones and Scars

If there ever was a family that knew about broken bones and scars, it would be ours.

Between us, we've had surgeries and stitches. We've had casts and broken bones and steri-strips. We've wrecked cars, fallen on pavement and into coffee tables, had metal drilled from eyes, broken windows, removed large splinters. We've been run over by bicycles and fallen off decks.

I cannot help but be proud of scars. We call them "battle scars" around here, because they all have good stories. Each scar represents some crazy time in our life or another.

A cast was removed yesterday. After two months... eight weeks today.

I am thankful for our bodies' ability to heal.

I am more thankful that we serve a God creative enough to give us scars so we'd remember.

Remember the lessons learned during recovery. Remember that pain does not always last. That our bodies are not immortal, but are entirely imperfect.

And that, in the end, He will get us through.

Storm Chasing

I am inspired right now by my little sisters words. She reminded me of storms. I am amazed at how much I miss sometimes... about what I've missed out on in the past two years since I've been gone.
She's grown up so much.

I remember storms... they are like milestones. I remember the first time I had to go into a hallway and cover my head with my arms. The first time we had to go to the basement. The first time, when lightening struck, and Dad opened the front door.

We would stand on the front porch and watch the rain beat onto the ground... the yellow light from the streetlights catching the rain and making it glisten like snow. We would stand on the porch until we started getting wet, until a plastic lawn chair was blown into the yard, or until the storm siren had been wailing for a few minutes too long.

There was a tornado that ripped through Winchester the season before I moved there (twelve years ago). It took the steeple off of the church my Dad would be working at. And there hasn't been a tornado touch down since then.

But I've always looked.

Waited for the green sky... the still blades of grass... listened for the sound like a train. I've always wanted to chase a storm.I was standing in my apartment last night when the storm siren went off... so loud that my heart skipped a beat. Tornado watch.

Secretly, I felt a rush of excitement. An unspoken deseire to rush to the window and watch. Later, I would be lying in bed and the electricity would silently flicker out. Lightening would strike a parked car and set the alarm off. Thunder would boom and send my kitten running for cover under my bed. I would lay there, counting how many miles away the storm was. Holding my breath when I felt the first vibrations of thunder. Plugging my ears when the sirens went off again at 2 am...

Tornado warning.

I don't particularly like the rain. The bottom of my pants get wet. My car slides and spins. The parking lots flood. But after Olivia's words, I remembered something.I remembered a walk I took with Dad--four years ago now. A walk in the rain at midnight. Talking about life, how fast it was moving, how slow it seemed to be going by. I think back to the girl that took that walk. And I realize that Olivia must feel this way. (Except she's smarter than I was.)

I remember a dinner date... the parking lot flooded, him driving up in his car, following him to dinner.

I remember a surprise birthday party that was accented by thunder and lightening and sirens.

I love looking up at the sky and watching it churn. The moist, warm way the air feels. The calm before the storm. Holding your breath in suspense. Knowing you should feel some fear. Only feeling awe.

I think that I've been chasing storms all my life.

Seeking after the power of God--the strength in the wind.

Kingdom Come

We drove in close to midnight.
I was half asleep (the car has lulled me to sleep since I was a child–especially the narrow, winding roads leading to the mountains).
I started to wake up, listening to the stereo (powered by batteries in the front seat) skip as it played on of his favorite CDs.
The roads continued to wind. The sky was deep blue, it was cold outside.
I had been fighting nerves for days. My bag was packed with my cameras, my head with stories.
I watched as his face began to change.
The area of Cumberland, Benham, and Lynch are small, old mining towns. They were built quickly for miners and their families, at the base of the mountains, in the shadow of the very machinery that was their livelihood. This machinery, this equipment, rose like monsters from the shadowed valley. Broken pane-glass windows glinted in our headlights. The wind whistled through the cracked back windows (which won’t roll all the way up) of his car. The mountains began to rise higher above my head, the outcropping hanging over the road, making me feel small and out of control.
We had returned to the mountains. A place he loved. A place I have spent years running from... only to find my heart reaching for them once again.
A place we call home.
The mountains, the Appalachian Mountains, are quite unlike the Rockies.
The Rockies demand a certain amount of respect; they rise, naked and crowned in snow, overpowering everything in their shadow. They are a vital part of the great American dream. They whisper of gold and prosperity and danger. Their crags and peaks are home to exotic animals, to stories of great triumph and trial.
The Appalachian Mountains, I say again, are quite unlike the Rockies. It would be futile to try and describe them to you. But when I close my eyes, I see a child. I see an old woman, wrapped in a quilt. I see smoke rising from a chimney. These mountains laugh. They are full of simple joy. And yet, deeper still, the Appalachians keen. Listen carefully and you will hear the mournful cry of a forgotten culture. An unloved people, a stereotyped society. Tucked safely in green mountains, which rise from the bluegrass. Lungs, blackened by the mines. Faces wrinkled by seasons spent in the fields. They do not demand attention, nor require your admiration. But they hold a secret. These mountains will love you...
I got out of the car, immediately engulfed by the night. I was nearly knocked over by the wind.
It was one of the moments that I manage to feel even as it is happening. A moment that might not mean a thing in retrospect, a moment that even now may not mean a thing to you. But I stood in Jarrod and Stephanie’s driveway in the darkness, looking at the treeline that rose behind their house. The tall, dry, naked trees rustled loudly in the wind. A moment that felt like an hour... I listened. And for the first time in a long time, I heard.
"I am here."
I would later be sitting in the car with Caleb telling him this story, and have to fight back tears.
Ever since I was in highschool, I had sought out physical evidence of God. I often resonated with Gideon, or even Thomas–needing physical affirmation that He was real, that He heard me, and that our Father could respond. As a young teenager I began to ask for such affirmation... such confirmation of His presence. I knew, deep down inside, that even without an answer that He was real. But still I asked.
And I began to feel Him in the wind. I clung to the verse in John 3 (vs. 8): the wind blows whether it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.
The strength of the wind on Friday night in Lynch, penetrated deep into the recesses of my heart. I was on a journey. I was looking for answers. Answers to hard questions. Evidence of a purpose, traces of a future. I was looking for time to spend with the man I love–I was looking for the man I had only gotten a glimpse of, the heart that manifested in his eyes. I was looking for our story.
On Saturday we went up to the State Park, Kingdom Come. We began to hike, and much to my dismay (although, I had expected it) I began to lose my breath. I was embarrassed. I was disappointed in myself. I love hiking. Love getting dirty. Love being in nature. But so often, my thorn, my ability to breathe, my "special" body gets in the way. We slowed down. We saw deer. We hiked up the amphitheater, where we stood, faces lifted upward reading the tags on the stone. Spray painted, etched, carved, drawn; professions of "love", signatures, dates as early as 1936. Our voices echoed. We hiked up even further to a massive, sloping rock. We sat down (needing to catch my breath). Caleb sat a few feet in front of me, and we looked out at the blue mountains that rose before us. He would later make a joke about our transcendental-ness. But there was nothing to be said. In the quiet. In the peacefulness. I watched him as much as I watched the mountain. And as my lungs began to fill back up with air, as the muscles in my legs began to relax, a question was answered.
Your kingdom come. Your will be done...
I picked the last trail that happened to lead us back to the road. Before we got back in the car, we went down to the playground and swung on the swings. My belly started feeling funny as I went higher and higher, and we laughed as we closed our eyes, feeling like we were plummeting to the ground.
Church was held in the Community Christian Center this morning. A brick church building, originally a Greek Orthodox structure, built at the very foot of the mountain. Caleb picked me up from the Sherman’s with bare feet. "Welcome to my home," he said as we crossed the street to the church steps.
It’s been a long time since I cried in church. It’s been a long time since I really cried at all. But I stood there, third row back (the squeaky pew), in between Wilma and Senta, fighting back tears. Fighting back the vicious tears that have nothing to do with your tear ducts, but I believe, come straight from your soul. Joey stole my heart–leaving the pulpit and approaching a quiet congregation that had "congregated" in the back pews of the sanctuary.
Love languages.
Nothing can separate us from His love.
Do not love with words or tongue, but in action and in truth.
God is love.
Love one another.
I was flooded by words that I knew by heart... not just had memorized, but that were hidden in my heart, part of the very fiber of my faith. I was still uncomfortable–uncomfortable in the sense that I had no idea what was going to happen next, or how long the service would last, or what would be required of me. But I sat there, the pew squeaking beneath me, and I was shaken.
I remembered a conversation that Liza and I had over six months ago. Talking about our calling, our passion, our future. About what it means to live by faith. About what scares us the most. Remembering that we are not called to live "comfortable" lives, but lives of un-comfort. Loving the unloved, serving the unserved, seeing the invisible... all takes courage and a large measure of faith.
I struggle with self-doubt. What do I have to offer? How could God use me and my gifts in the heart of Kentucky... thoughts and doubts that echo that of a wise woman, who 13 years ago, drove south to Harlan County to seek God’s will.
I walked out to the car last night on the way to dinner, and for some unknown reason, lifted my eyes upward. I almost fell backwards, disoriented by the number of stars in the sky. So close I feel like I could reach out and touch them...
Your kingdom come.
Your will be done.

restlessness

As far as the calendar is concerned, the new year started six days ago.We spent the last day of 2007 eating in dark, shady restaurants, visiting hippie stores, eating sushi, drinking coffee, and painting murals on walls.We talked about resolutions.
The first day of the New Year, I got a new tattoo. One that would remind me, daily, about the grace I've been given. And the grace I'm called to show. It snowed, and the world slowed down as we met a new friend and ate Thai food with chopsticks.
The other day I had a conversation that made my mind start spinning. I know what I don't want. I know that I don't want to settle down, to get comfortable, to live in the suburbs and drive an SUV. I don't want a 9-5 office job, and I don't want to miss anything.
I know what I don't want.
Then, what is it that I do want?
So I thought about it.
And I came up with this:
I want to live a simple life. I want to create. To love others. To show grace. To lead a life of example. I want to laugh. I want to wake up and work beside the man I love. I want to raise children. I want to spend my days in the sun.
I want to step into this life. Accepting the knowledge that glory comes from daring to begin.
More than once this week people have gathered in my new apartment and eaten and laughed together. Saturday morning I woke up with a prayer on my lips that God would fill my home with joy.
Five hours later my heart was filled to bursting.
Today, I am discouraged. Restless. I spent the morning and early afternoon with my loved ones. I don't like Sunday afternoons and evenings, because I never have anything to do. I leave my close community and feel lonely and alone, fighting fatigue of the mind and today... gray skies.
Tomorrow, classes start back. I go back to a job I hate. And I am afraid I will see less and less of those I love. So I called my mother on my way to pick up my sisters. I cried on the phone; the first sad tears I've shed in weeks.
I don't want to do this anymore. No more school. No more office job. Everything else in my life is beautiful. And I know that everything cannot be perfect... but those two factors are huge ones in my life. They affect my productivity and my mood. They are my dominant lifestyle, whether that is my wish or not. I don't want to do it anymore, I told her.
And then I saw it.
Someone had tagged a long, brick wall on Alumni in white spray paint. The letters were taller than me, uneven and sloppy.
Dream Big.
I started laughing through my tears.
I know that eternity has been set in all our hearts (Ecc. 3:11). I believe this restlessness, this desire for something more, is our hearts remembering. Our souls recognizing that we are called for something greater...
I am called to live an organic, simple life. Loving people and loving God. Feeding those who are hungry, looking and seeing, hearing and listening. God is calling me. Tomorrow, I will have to do the thing I do not want to do. Be in the place that tears at my heart. But that is not forever.
Something better is coming. He is preparing us for it.
Once again, I know I cannot do it alone. This restless feeling in my bones is not partial only to me... you feel it too, don't you?

Midnight

12:21 AM.
It is, officially, Christmas.
I cannot sleep.
This is not the anticipatory sleeplessness I remember.
But it is sleeplessness.
This is the first Christmas of the new season of our lives.
Right now, Kat is in my mom's bed upstairs.
Olivia, Abby, and a broken-limbed Mama are downstairs on mattresses on the floor.
Zoe, Molly, and Henry are in their crates.
Arthur just got done trying to climb up the chimney.
Dad left about two hours ago.

The presents are under the tree already, but I have no desire to peek.
I fell asleep on the couch earlier, by a pile of dryer-warm clothes, listening to Sarah McLachlan.
But it is quiet now.
Except for the ticking of the clock.
It is Christmas again.

Another year has gone by.
So much has happened.
We've all grown so much.
Sitting here in the silence, I find my heart at peace.

Still, my heart is crying for progress.
For growth.
To take your hand and move forward.
I came to the realization long ago that I could not do this alone.
Happiness is to be shared with others.
Even though life may change, and Christmases from here on out may never look the same, my heart is at peace with that.

And we will wake up in the morning.
Five Vaughan women.
Three dogs and a cat.
We'll brew coffee, wrap up in blankets, and watch bits and pieces of Christmas movies.
Until Larry walks through the door.

I still can't sleep.
But it is Christmas.
So, Merry Christmas to all.
My heart is with you, especially, tonight.

Christmas Love

We had Christmas with our "little family" last Monday.
An experience I won't even attempt to put into words.
As we all got ready to leave, putting on scarves and pulling out keys, Kat grabbed me and hugged me.
"Life is good," she whispered in my ear.
Life is good.
And I left the basement that night, with the deep feeling and realization, that I may have just spent Christmas with the people I'd spend the rest of my life with. A family of seven. My heart goes out to you.
I am afraid I don't express my joy enough. That I don't let those I love know just how much I actually do love them. I feel like I should apologize for my picking and my sarcasm and my complaining. I appreciate you all more than I've ever let you know. I need you more than I would ever admit. I want to keep you.I've already had a beautiful Christmas. Between tea and ring pops and pictures and Charlie Brown and the mistletoe that is sitting on my microwave...
And then walking into my new apartment on Thursday with wrapping paper in my arms, opening the door to a hyper kitten, the smell of chicken, and the sound of Alison Krauss playing in the CD player. Coming home.
I am full of joy. I want you to know I love you. My family, my friends. You are what has made my Christmas beautiful.
Merry Christmas.

Christmas

This Christmas season has been one I will never forget.
I will probably not tell this story well. Nor will I do the actions and character of other's justice. I'm in a hurry. And the dogs are running around like crazy. And voices are being raised. Someone just asked the 100th question of the night... and I am tired.
But I need to do this.
So here it goes.
Christmas was going to be weird this year anyway. We had set ourselves up for that. Planning for Christmas morning without Dad in bed next to Mom.
I tried to weasle my way out of spending Christmas Eve night in Winchester.
I am not a good weasle.
We had made plans to go to Eastern Kentucky and maybe even Northern Kentucky the weekend before Christmas. Maternal grandparents. Curvy roads. Dark living rooms and cigarette smoke and lots of greasy food. I would be moving on the 15th of December. My car had just broken down (hitting the dashboard no longer worked its magic). Finals in the midst of it all.
And then on Sunday, December 9th, things got a little weirder.

Kat and I had just finished with Togethership. It was raining. We were wet, frustrated, having emptied my bank account on gas for a car that was not mine (a gas hog oldsmobile). So Kat and I had changed into comfortable clothes and we playing with Arthur in her basement when we got a phone call.
My mother had fallen at my grandparents house. Decided it was a good idea to suck up the pain, get in the car, and drive from Nicholasville Road to Todds Road with her left foot. But she would need our help getting from the car to the basement.
So we waited.
Surely she was overreacting. No.
She got to the house and her ankle was swollen like someone had slipped a softball under her sock. Abby freaked out. Olivia and Kat helped Mom down the stairs while I kept Henry (the puppy) from eating Arthur (the cat). We got the insurance card, made my mother calm down, put a call in to my dad, made Abby stop crying, argued with my mom some more, swapped car keys...
And we took my Mom to the ER.
A broken fibula. Cast for three months. No driving. Lots of drugs. Wheelchair for a while. Then a walking boot and crutches.
We could handle that.
We'd put my mom on some calcium, get her better tennis shoes (with more tread), and draw to our heart's content on her cast.
So we thought.
Until Thursday.
As Howard left my house I got a call from my sister. Mom's fallen.
"Mom?"
"I think you need to come to Winchester."
"You fell? How?"
"Using my crutches. I think it's broken."
"What is?"
"My wrist."
So I got in my car and drove to Winchester. On the way, I called Caleb. I need patience, I told him. I need grace. We talk a lot about grace. But how often do I act on it? How often do I show it? Now, with my mother completely incapacitated, could I be gracious? Patient? He prayed for me over the phone as I drove down US 60.
I came into the house on Long Avenue and my stomach hurt. Her wrist looked like a ping pong had risen under the skin. But I wouldn't take her to the ER again. Not again. So we put ice on it. And we sat in the living room and cried. And I played with her hair. And I made fun of her for not having any balance. And we dealt with the real issue...
I would later find out that it was Olivia who picked my mother up off the floor. Stooped down, put her forearms under my mother's shoulders and lifted her up off the floor. Fourteen years old, she was there to do what had to be done.
So on Friday I took Olivia and Mom to the doctor's. Found out her arm was broken. And would require surgery.
Saturday I moved into a new apartment. I moved Arthur in on Sunday. Found out on Monday that it only takes me 7 minutes to get to work.
And last night, I spent Christmas with my best family... seven of us, needing and wanting each other, eating cookies and opening stockings and watching Charlie Brown and listening to James Taylor and taking silly polaroids. I received one of the best Christmas gifts last night... wrapped in a yellow envelope. A ring pop.
All I want for Christmas?
I want to be like my little sisters. And I want to be the best woman I can be... loving with all my heart, opening up again.
And I want to see my dad.
Even as I say that, I feel the tears coming.
More than anything I'd love to wake up too early on Christmas morning and stare longingly at the clock and wait until a reasonable hour and run downstairs and tickle Dad's feet until he rolled over, licked his lips, and told us he'd be up in a minute. Instead of running to the Christmas tree, however, this time I would just curl up in bed beside him. Let him sleep. Because that would be enough.
He'd be there.
Presents would wait.

Words

I feel like I haven't had good words in ages.
This happens every now and then; my well dries up and I am left, parched and seeking refreshment.
It's not always a bad thing: this want, this dehydration. It slows me down. It makes me reach, stretch my creative arm, causing me to seek, knock, ask.
Why do I not have words?
What is it I am dying to say... but cannot?
Today I am thinking about a lot of things. My finite mind is trying to wrap around this life, all that is happening, all that is going to happen... I am consumed by thoughts of deadlines, office hours, jingle bells, kitty litter, cardboard boxes, and Christmas parties.
I just finished taking my first final of the semester. I turned in a photography portfolio last night. Monday is my comprehensive bio final, Tuesday is a comprehensive nutrition final along with a nutrition project that had some technical difficulties. Wednesday is a 100 question exam with 5 journals due. And then... then I am done. With school. For now.
Two days after that I will be moving. In that small window of time I will pack up fourteen months worth of stuff and I will leave Hays Boulevard. I want to get out and sit on my roof one more time. Light one more fire in the fireplace. Play with the garage door for a while, so I don't forget how one works. I know the day I leave, I will stand in my empty room and say goodbye. For the third time in eighteen months.
I am a gypsy.
I have no home.
There will be indentions in the carpet from my bed and bookshelf. The room will smell like me. Like vanilla candles and nag champa incense and gap body mist and sandalwood body lotion. The room will echo... I remember this feeling. I will take a mental picture. Shut the door. And I will leave.
And I will drive downtown in a car full of stuff. I will park outside a new apartment complex and I will use a new key to unlock a new door and walk into a new, empty space. This room will echo too. It will smell like cleaning agents and paint, and the musty heat pump will generate warm air. This new space will start to awaken.
Along with this new space, with the end of the semester, comes a new family member. Arthur is a 10 week old kitten who stole my heart last Saturday night. He's the color of my coat, with faint stripes and spots. He's rambunctious and energetic and loud... he likes to cuddle and play with Hershey kisses under the dining room table. He runs headlong into walls and collapses, belly up, on the couch when he's tired. He's staying at Katherine's until I move to my new space. But he will go home with me in nine days... When we will start a new life.
Soon the new empty space will be filled with smells of food, of perfume, of laundry detergent. Beds will be made, books put on shelves, art hung on the walls, dishes put away in the cupboards. We will start new traditions and get used to driving down Tates Creek Road to get home. There will be new mailboxes and new bathroom sinks. This will become my landing spot. I will make this new place my home.
Life will start to look different.
Life continues to change.
Christmas is coming and it will not be like any Christmas we've ever had before. Three of the Vaughans will have to travel to Winchester to celebrate the holiday; displaced from their own beds so that the six of us can be there on Christmas morning to eat cinnamon rolls and open stockings. There will be a new dog, my new cat, and another year of experience to be accounted for. We are looking for new traditions, new hope, new laughter. Such things are not as easy to purchase as Christmas lights or gingerbread. The process will sting a little, pull a bit at the tendons of our hearts, and stretch the muscles of our consciousness. Until we come to realize that Christmas is just another day. Christmas, just like life, continues to change. Some things will stay the same. Bulbs will go out in the string of lights, and we will have to replace them. Ornaments will break. We'll fill the holes in the Christmas tree under my mother's careful, obsessive supervision. I'm clinging to a Charlie Brown sort of hope... It may seem like I'm counting the chickens before they hatch.
But then Christmas will come and go.
My prayer is we will remember who we are again. When mistletoe will not be what guarantees kisses, once we have stowed away the excess wrapping paper, untangled the Christmas lights. Holiday spirit all exhausted, folded up, packed away. The New Year will be here. School will start again. My kitten will grow up. The world will shut down. Slipping into the gray hibernation of January and February.
All the while I will be praying. Praying for grace. That as January comes, my spirit would grow to be giving, patient, wise, and selfless; that I would embrace such change and custom and fervor, knowing that all things change.
And the dam will break.
And the water will come rushing in, quenching thirst.
And perhaps, then, words will come.
Come and stay.

Name

There is a family I know... a family I've never been particularly fond of, had any deep connection with, or had any ties to. They know my mother and my sisters (her boys used to clog with Kat, her daughter dances with Olivia). They were just that family who only listened to Bach, conservative activist republicans (not that there is anything with being conservative, an activist, a republican, or listening to Bach. It's just a bad combo.).A couple of months ago I heard that this family had decided to adopt. They have three children of their own, but they were wanting to take in a few children from Liberia. I thought it was a joke. A fleeting idea they had...Until the day I came home to Winchester and heard that the family had just picked up their new family additions. Come to find out... they've adopted at least five children from Liberia. My heart hurt. I wanted to hug the mother. I wanted to thank her for bringing these beautiful children into our world... these children who dont know their real age, who have walked across countries to get to orphanages, who live in dangerous proximity to LRA. Their skin is black as coal, their accents thick, their eyes dark and exotic...I watched the oldest daughter dance in the last ballet performance. SHe danced to a song called "Cathedral". I saw her lift her eyes and I wondered how she much feel... in this world of technology and luxury and love... does she feel like she lays her head down in a cathedral every night?And then I found out that the mother and father had given each of the children a new name. I was upset at first... wondering why you would rename a teenage girl or boy... until my own mother told me why. Told me that these children from Liberia had gone to their adoptive parents and asked for new names. "Real parents name their children. We want you to name us. You are our parents now."And I thought of the verse in Revelations, where it says we will be given a new name... of Jesus renaming Saul and Simon and Abram.

Father God, real parents name their children. Name us. Give us new names, written on white stone. So that we may be yours.

Man of the House

I don't have words to express my emotions about yesterday. Anxiety. An ounce of dread. In the twelve months since last Thanksgiving, life has changed dramatically. I wasn't sure I was prepared. I wasn't sure any of us would know how to handle ourselves and each other.

We always knew as we grew older that traditions would change. We would make new ones, old ones would dissolve, as we grew out of what we were and into who we are. This year, some of us are taller. Some of us have more lines on our faces, new ink on our skin, new experiences and more wisdom than we did on Thanksgiving of 2006.

Half of the Vaughan family is halfway across the country. The part of the family that balances out the male:female ratio. The beautiful limb of the family tree that will eventually carry on the family name. And I miss them. I miss Phil and his sarcasm, his teasing and tickling (although it's been years since he's tickled me enough to make me fall to the ground). I miss conversations with Donna, especially since my trip to their territory almost four months ago. Austin's voice has changed and I have to look up at him when he stands beside me. Carter is still learning who he is... and my heart resonates with his. It will be almost 2008 before we see them again. And I felt their absense yesterday.

We have a new addition. Somehow, the transition was seamless. A beautiful blonde who has stolen my handsome uncle's heart... she slipped in, quiet and unassuming. And before I knew it, she was sitting beside me on the floor while Olivia played with our hair. It is a special thing to be invited to a Vaughan holiday. We would have missed her had she not come. She's a keeper.

Dad had to work. There was a two hour window filled with picture taking, instructions, sandwiches, and Ray Charles. Later, I will realize that was what was missing yesterday. The piano was not played... and when Dad left, part of the holiday left with him.

But it was you who saved the day. I remember the years when you had plans of your own; "places to be", reasons to sneak out as soon as the food was eaten. You had your own time, and we loved you dearly. But back then, we had no idea who you were. The "cool" uncle? Some time between November of 2006 and yesterday, something changed. And I got to Severn Way and you were already there.

I watched you cook, scold the dog, love on Grandmom. I watched you hug a beautiful young woman when she walked in the door... I saw the look in your eyes when you talked to her. And then you sat down at the head of the table. In Granddad's seat. A sacred seat that, even on a normal day, few would dare to sit in. The man you are is no longer a stranger to me. There were moments when you sounded like Phil, moved like Dad, looked like Kat... but in reality, you were simply the man of the house. Filling the role of uncle, brother, boyfriend, youngest son... the only son who could really make it home for the holidays.

You had big shoes to fill yesterday.

I don't know what I would have done without you. When it seems like there are so few good men left in this world, I only have to think of you.

I left, thinking about next Thanksgiving, knowing that things would continue to change. We will continue to get older, wider, taller, wiser, hardened and softened and seasoned by life. Relationships will develop, our family will get larger.

And so, despite that longing in my heart for snow flurries, having to dodge arrows and bullets shot from slingshots, and the sound of the piano, played by two brothers...

I am thankful for you.

Empty Places

When we were all younger, six Vaughans living under one roof in Winchester, we would spend a few nights a week eating dinner together. The littlest, Abby, was a picky eater. We used to tease her, saying if she ate any more chicken, she'd grow wings. But every night after dinner, Dad would tell her to stand up and he would poke her belly. "Do you have any empty places?"

This weekend, I drew a new analogy about my Father God. As thirty hours ticked by, sometimes whizzed by, and I felt the growling of my stomach and the weakness in my head, I saw Him lean over me."Do you have any empty places?"

I swear I could feel Him poking my belly.

"Yes, Father... too many."

"Let Me fill them."

We must let Him fill your empty places. The places that no amount of food or drink can fill... the holes in our hearts and the hidden crevices of our souls. Let Him come, pouring His grace all over us, until we are overflowing.

And so, after thirty hours, I understand a new ritual. The discipline of attaching a physical hunger to a spiritual one. Understanding the level of need and still... being so blessed. May your cup run over tonight.

May your empty places be filled.

He is enough.

Legal Pad Notes (pt.3)

You'll get sick of these by the time I'm done. But this is what happens when you work in a cubicle so far away from the windows... your mind has to find something to keep it alive... so I brainstorm. I brainstorm and then tear the page out of my notebook and bring it with me. And by the time I sit down to write it all out (so I don't lose it... all ideas are precious), the paper is tattered and torn. It's a system.
Psalters. Psalms. Poor wayfaring strangers. Gypsies. The way I resonate with them cannot be put into words.
Today is my half-birthday. The anniversay of meeting a best friend. Today is three years from then. From that one night. Of promises and assurances. Three jam-packed years of loving, growing up, growing apart, leaving, stretching, hurting, finding, seeking, seeing...
Three.
I need to find a VW van/bus. We need a diesel engine so we can convert it to vegetable oil. I saw one driving down New Circle this morning... I'm taking it as a sign.
Bad Company, "Burning Sky".
Upper room.
My heart is an empty room... I'm starting new. You do not put new wine in an old wineskin. I cannot make this new theology (dare I call it that...) fit into my old lifestyle.
Salt.
It is not easy. God bless us

Legal Pad Notes (pt.2)

Church. (Immediately, you see a steeple.)
The church, I think as it was originally intended, was meant to be an army. A rescue team (think rescue dogs and parachutes and dangerous missions where you fight the elements and save lives). In the same breath, the Church is called to be a family. To be a comfort, a provider, a lover. I think we've hardened the spirit of the church with mortar and brick... caged up a beast that was supposed to be as dangerous and as good as the Lion himself. We've become lazy... immobile, with a concrete foundation. We are too clean, too designed, too safe.
My soul is wrenched every time I drive by and the lights of a sanctuary are dark and the doors are padlocked.The Church is flesh, not brick.
What do we call ourselves then? Tell me.
"We get it wrong when it becomes anything but love, and simply doing life together."I feel a beautiful desperation, a yearning that is foreign to me. I feel myself, my heart, stretching and reaching... just to touch Him."Love is always relevant."
Read Hosea. Redeeming Love.
Our best, most spiritual, organic, blessed experiencs usually do not take place in a pew. They happen over coffee, double cheeseburgers, while smoking on the front porch, while buttering bread, sitting around campfires, over fried chicken.
We've tried to replicate, manufacture and treat what was once "Christianity". Consequently, what was once the church has turned into little more than body, brains, and blood...no soul or heart. A little like the Tin Man.
"Don't forget to be in love."
Breathe.
It all seems too much right now.
Just breathe.

Eden

I got away this weekend.
This was one of the first times since my trip to Colorado that I've been able to be outdoors for long amounts of time.
So about thirteen of us escaped out to a farm in Montgomery County.
Caleb and I went grocery shopping the night before to prepare. Who knew the feeding college students would feel like feeding the 5,000?
The weekend was full of campfires and dying ATVs and low, November temperatures. Saturday morning we woke up to a cabin that was 50-some degrees... so we all piled onto the couch and stayed there for a while, cuddled up together, trying to keep warm.
We went on a long hike on Saturday. It might not have taken so long if we hadn't decided to try a short cut home. Which consequently led us onto another farmer's property beside a landfill, only to be greeted by mad coon dogs and unidentified, white, flying birds (CHICKENS!).
The sky was full of thousands of stars every night. And a few times I would stop and stand very still... and hear nothing. Silence. Do you know what quiet sounds like? You probably haven't heard it in a while. It's deafening.
There was nothing spectacular about the weekend. No great epiphanies.
Except for when I prayed to feel God's presence...
And the wind blew.

Mirrors in the Dark

There is nothing funny about fear.
I got to thinking about this because of Halloween.
Why people pay for other people to scare them to death...
There's nothing funny about fear.
There's something hilarious about people's reactions due to fear.
There's something incredibly funny about what people are afraid OF.
But that electric terror that courses through your veins... no, man, that's not funny.

And so there is a man in my life who wrote about fear last night. He asked us what it is that we fear. My list? 1) Failure. 2)Being lost. 3). Mirrors in the dark. 4) Security alarms. 5)Being alone. 6). Myself.

Myself? Even as I wrote that, I wondered where it came from. And even as I wondered, I got the answer. I am afraid, because most of the time I do not understand myself. I don't understand why I do what I do, or say what I say, or feel what I feel. I don't understand this radical transformation that is taking place...

I am afraid that when it comes down to the wire, the weak part of my soul will go into overdrive. They say when we are put to the test, we more often than not revert back to what we know.

When Jesus extends his hand and gives me my instructions...

My gut reaction is not going to be: "Well, of course, Christ. I've always wanted to live below my means, love beyond my ability, and I don't mind being dirty and cold. Sure, I don't mind if people hate me or scorn me. I'll love them anyway, no problem."

Yeah, right.

Why do I fear myself? Much for the same reason I am afraid of mirrors in the dark. More often than not, I get a sudden glimpse at my reflection... and don't recognize myself. And then I thought of this quote... which I am sure that some of you have heard before. But as you read it, I want you to think about this. Are you afraid of yoursef? If your answer is yes like mine, why? This fear I am feeling is not a funny thing. But it could be such a good thing... signifying change and transformation that is not my own doing.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, georgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually who are we not to be? You are the child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in all of us. And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. ~ Marianne Williamson."

Legal Pad Notes (pt.1)

Just some thoughts that went through my mind today at the office... I will need you, my family, to help me elaborate and expand on these:

My prayer: "I will not lie. My heart needs to be changed just as much as anyone's. Father, take my heart and make it new."

Guilt wears off. This is the reason why donations flood in during the holiday season and then trickle off by February. We could show the public pictures of starving children, campaign for change in church services, and dish out statistics all day long. Something's missing to keep that conviction in the public's heart... a lifestyle change must occur. Guilt is not the avenue.

Part of the tragedy of the homeless is that so many of them have lost respect for themselves; they've lost their dignity to a state of utter desperation. It is our job, our calling, to help restore them.

Bus fares.

The least of these.

Giving my heart away (I am Yours, not my own).

The point is not to create an exclusive community, but to create a community that is big enough for the whole world.

What can we do to keep the public from accepting our flyers and tracts and throwing them into the next trash can, or onto the floorboards of their cars? Activism needs to become something far more than protesting and advertising... surely there's another answer.

We have to understand that we cannot change a whole generation over night. Mentality and behavior are modified over years and years... to change our mentality, to change our behavior, we must change what we believe. So pester the hell out of the adults who are stuck in their ways. And immerse the children in a new way of thinking. Teach them what our parents didn't teach us... maybe a new generation will rise from the ashes.

Our hearts are as hungry as our bellies. Our souls are as weak as our bodies.

Light in the Darkness

My heart is burdened tonight.
I'm in desperate need of some good company.
A good cup of coffee, perhaps.
I am learning that along with God's presence, with a called heart, when you are given a mission, when your soul is stirred...
It seems Satan likes to give us some special attention.
I'm trying to take a lesson from Mr. Price. I'm trying to laugh, brush it off, and press on. Persevere.
Tonight, he's attacking my self esteem.He's picking at my loneliness.
And I've asked for protection.
I am not the sort of woman that sees evil lurking behind every bush.
But I believe that one of my biggest mistakes is ignoring evil completely... disregarding it as supernatural or dramatic.
May the light outshine the darkness tonight...
Reminding me that I am glorious because He made me.
Validated by His love.
Be real tonight, Father God.

In the Beginning

The sky was heavy.
The air around her felt empty.
She was suddenly utterly aware of her skin,
And felt a hole begind to grow in her breast that, even a lifetime later, she wouldn't be able to fill.
The Lord had retreated.
The gates of the Garden were closed; an angel stood before them, shifting his weight, his eyes.
She saw an expression of pity fleet across his features and then dissolve into a light she could no longer bear to look at.
She looked at her husband, but for the first time, had no words to express her heart.
And then, not with her ears but with her heart, she heard the words she would cling to for the rest of her years.
The words she could try so hard to teach her children; the words she would always ache to hear again, but would forever only feel--as if an echo...
"Oh, beloved, how I love you."
She turned her back to the Garden, the only home, the only world she had ever known. In her heart she knew her children would know the Lord's grace.
But for the rest of her years, whenever the wind blew, she would know a great ache in her heart.