Blown away by the wind.
Destroyed by the water.
Burned in the sun.
My hands are gray, full of ashes.
What I thought was worthy... what I thought was precious...
In my hands, powder and dust.
Cupped hands, ashes sift through my fingers.
Because what is worthy
What is precious
are the calluses.
the fine lines from laughter.
the deep wrinkles from the sun.
the blisters on my feet.
muscle's fatigue.
-
If God is in the world...
And we are here...
then God is among us.
We are constantly in the presence of God.
And we come in contact with His gifts every day.
-
Yet here we are.
Stockpiling the gold.
Worshipping plastic.
Unaware of how lavishly we have been adorned by His love.
How richly we've been clothed by His grace.
-
So we offer to You, all we think we are worth.
-
But You have stooped low,
to wash our gray, sooty hands.
Making us clean.
-
You bind the wounds inflicted by this world.
Put salve on the blisters we've worn on our skin...
On our heads You have placed a crown.
-
And for our ashes, you have given us beauty.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Wall
I hit the wall last night.
We all knew it was coming.
It happens to me like clockwork every semester. My heart feels full... I feel like I'm on the right track. Life still doesn't make sense, but the challenges I'm faced with are manageable.
This time, I had found my tangible calling.
As a child of God, I am called to love people.
I had found a way to incorporate taking care of people with my career.
And I was elated.
But I hit it last night...
face first.
Like running into a corner in the dark.
I didn't see it coming.
The wall.
-
I sat there in my desk.
She hadn't said anything new at all.
No new information that caused me to reconsider.
Nothing fresh and overwhelming.
But in my weakness, in my fatigue, in my loneliness...
my mind started playing tricks.
It was as if I were sprinting,
And ran headlong into a brick wall.
-
I had pushed "fast forward" on the tape of my life.
And was confused by all the blurriness.
I had tried to guess the mystery.
To figure out the plot.
And my finite mind only saw obstacles.
Only saw impossibilities.
-
I folded in on myself there in the classroom.
Mentally staring up at a wall that towered into the sky.
Menacing. Taunting. Logical.
I left class with an extensive take-home test in my hand.
And for the first time, wondered if I could make it.
Doubted I had the courage. That I had what it takes to do... whatever it is I was trying to do.
I thought about quitting.
See what a wuss I am?
What a coward I can be?
I wondered, almost immediately, if there was an easier route.
-
Aren't we all always looking for the easy way out?
Do we ever find it?
There are easy detours. But they are temporary and eventually lead to hard roads again.
Because life is not about getting by without scrapes and sore muscles.
Life is not about who can come out on the other side the cleanest.
-
And I forget this.
Standing in the face of the wall.
I lift my face and my mind projects far, far past my control.
Far, far past my ability.
My knowledge.
My wisdom.
-
I am such a hypocrite.
Seriously.
I tell you I believe in a divine plan.
In soul mates.
I believe He has a plan.
He knows the way I take.
-
Why in the world do I worry?
-
I worry that I don't have what it takes because, well, right now I don't.
Today I do not have what is required to be a social worker.
But I dont have to be a social worker today.
If I so passionately believe in a plan, then I must also believe that part of that plan is to equip me.
To prepare me.
-
The only thing that is required of me right now
is to keep going.
-
Because I can't stumble onto His plan, if I've planted my feet firmly in defeat.
If I give up.
-
So all I have to worry about today is getting over that wall.
-
2 Samuel 22:30 (Msg)
"Suddenly, God, your light floods my path, God drives out the darkness ... I vault the high fences. What a God! His road stretches straight and smooth. Every God-direction is road-tested. Everyone who runs toward him makes it."
The NKJ says "and by my God, I can leap over a wall".
-
I decided to get it under control tonight.
The things that are in my control, that is.
So I got a few numbers for my service project hours.
I applied for the appropriate programs.
Knocked out my stupid poli sci homework in an hour.
I washed my bedsheets. And I washed the dishes.
I made dinner.
I made coffee.
-
I'm still standing in the face of the wall.
But it doesn't look so tall anymore.
It doesn't stretch so far into the sky...
I've begun to climb.
-
And I will climb until I get over it.
And I will run again.
Headlong into His grace.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Emptied
I hit "E" today.
I had been flirting with the red line for days, weeks.
Exhaustion. Confusion. Decisions. New schedules. All drained me... used up all my energy, my fuel.
I didn't realize how dangerously close I was to empty, until today.
When I finally got there.
When I finally reached the end of myself.
It happened in the middle of the gym.
Not physical exhaustion.
Because I ran my heart out.
No, it was mental exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion. Psychological.
-
Tonight was the first Wednesday of the month.
That meant that a very large family was gathering across the Jessamine Co. line.
And they were calling my name.
Somehow, I have always known I can run there when I need to feel safe.
When I have tears that need to be shed, this is where I go.
It is my safe place, my haven.
My God is everywhere in this world. In every nook and cranny.
But I feel Him there. I always have.
-
So I drove. I couldn't get there fast enough.
And I walked in, sat down, and felt myself sink.
The tension left my muscles.
I felt the tears well up in my eyes.
I had sought Him.
And found Him.
Not because I was in a church building. But because I had deliberately pursued Him, with intention.
-
They opened with the song Desert by Hillsong:
"This is my prayer in the desert
And all that's within me feels dry
This is my prayer in the hunger in me
My God is a God who provides...."
-
There came the tears.
God had beckoned me there, to comfort and hold me.
And He didn't waste any time letting me know.
-
When things go awry, when our world turns to chaos, we must teach ourselves to return to the heart of worship. To remind ourselves that He has offered all of Himself to us. And it is more than enough. His cup is bigger than ours.... and if we accept the gift, we will overflow.
We must come to Him with an empty cup.
Lift it up high.
"Fill us up, Father".
-
The song ends this way:
"I know I'm filled to be emptied again
The seed I've recieved I will sow"
-
However, we do not fill up to remain forever full.
If we did not know what emptiness felt like, we would not know the joy of being full. The satisfaction of being satisfied.
So we are filled up.
We are called to go pour out into the world.
And return again.
With empty cups raised high.
I had been flirting with the red line for days, weeks.
Exhaustion. Confusion. Decisions. New schedules. All drained me... used up all my energy, my fuel.
I didn't realize how dangerously close I was to empty, until today.
When I finally got there.
When I finally reached the end of myself.
It happened in the middle of the gym.
Not physical exhaustion.
Because I ran my heart out.
No, it was mental exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion. Psychological.
-
Tonight was the first Wednesday of the month.
That meant that a very large family was gathering across the Jessamine Co. line.
And they were calling my name.
Somehow, I have always known I can run there when I need to feel safe.
When I have tears that need to be shed, this is where I go.
It is my safe place, my haven.
My God is everywhere in this world. In every nook and cranny.
But I feel Him there. I always have.
-
So I drove. I couldn't get there fast enough.
And I walked in, sat down, and felt myself sink.
The tension left my muscles.
I felt the tears well up in my eyes.
I had sought Him.
And found Him.
Not because I was in a church building. But because I had deliberately pursued Him, with intention.
-
They opened with the song Desert by Hillsong:
"This is my prayer in the desert
And all that's within me feels dry
This is my prayer in the hunger in me
My God is a God who provides...."
-
There came the tears.
God had beckoned me there, to comfort and hold me.
And He didn't waste any time letting me know.
-
When things go awry, when our world turns to chaos, we must teach ourselves to return to the heart of worship. To remind ourselves that He has offered all of Himself to us. And it is more than enough. His cup is bigger than ours.... and if we accept the gift, we will overflow.
We must come to Him with an empty cup.
Lift it up high.
"Fill us up, Father".
-
The song ends this way:
"I know I'm filled to be emptied again
The seed I've recieved I will sow"
-
However, we do not fill up to remain forever full.
If we did not know what emptiness felt like, we would not know the joy of being full. The satisfaction of being satisfied.
So we are filled up.
We are called to go pour out into the world.
And return again.
With empty cups raised high.
Monday, January 26, 2009
what if
What if?
What if God is a storyteller.
And we are the characters in His story.
-
Over time, we have turned the story of the cross into a story about us.
A story that centers about us, our lives, our accomplishments, our sin, our need for grace.
We sing about God's love for us.
And His need for us.
And His plan for us.
-
What if...
we are a part of His story.
A part of His story that He loves deeply.
Characters He has created for His purpose.
-
This life is very real.
Nothing fictional about it.
-
But like Don says in Blue,
there is a reason we are drawn to stories.
"And there it was: setting, conflict, climax, and resolution. As silly as it seemed, it met the requirements f the heart and it matched the facts of reality. It felt more than true, it felt meaningful. I was starting to believe I was a character in a greater story, which is why the elements of story made sense in the first place."
-
Ever since the fall...
we've been pretty selfish.
On small levels.
On epic levels.
And just the idea that we are characters in a story that is not about us,
drives some of us crazy.
Makes us not just a little bit uncomfortable.
-
Like supporting actors.
The story might not be complete without us.
But our role is not vital.
Not central.
We... you and me... we are not the main character.
We are not the hero.
-
What if,
God has a specific plan for each of our lives.
But it, the plan, is meant to be interconnected with other plans.
To be a part of the biggest plan.
To glorify God.
The involved Narrator.
-
The God who opens up the skies and pours rain on the earth.
Who opens up the skies and sends down a dove.
Who looks upon lovers and encourages them...
Who speaks and blinds and raises the dead.
-
Not just a big Voice from Heaven.
But a God who walks among us.
A hero.
-
The story is about Him.
And His love.
And His grace.
-
So when we pray...
when we ask what our purpose is...
what if
it is simply to tell His story?
What if God is a storyteller.
And we are the characters in His story.
-
Over time, we have turned the story of the cross into a story about us.
A story that centers about us, our lives, our accomplishments, our sin, our need for grace.
We sing about God's love for us.
And His need for us.
And His plan for us.
-
What if...
we are a part of His story.
A part of His story that He loves deeply.
Characters He has created for His purpose.
-
This life is very real.
Nothing fictional about it.
-
But like Don says in Blue,
there is a reason we are drawn to stories.
"And there it was: setting, conflict, climax, and resolution. As silly as it seemed, it met the requirements f the heart and it matched the facts of reality. It felt more than true, it felt meaningful. I was starting to believe I was a character in a greater story, which is why the elements of story made sense in the first place."
-
Ever since the fall...
we've been pretty selfish.
On small levels.
On epic levels.
And just the idea that we are characters in a story that is not about us,
drives some of us crazy.
Makes us not just a little bit uncomfortable.
-
Like supporting actors.
The story might not be complete without us.
But our role is not vital.
Not central.
We... you and me... we are not the main character.
We are not the hero.
-
What if,
God has a specific plan for each of our lives.
But it, the plan, is meant to be interconnected with other plans.
To be a part of the biggest plan.
To glorify God.
The involved Narrator.
-
The God who opens up the skies and pours rain on the earth.
Who opens up the skies and sends down a dove.
Who looks upon lovers and encourages them...
Who speaks and blinds and raises the dead.
-
Not just a big Voice from Heaven.
But a God who walks among us.
A hero.
-
The story is about Him.
And His love.
And His grace.
-
So when we pray...
when we ask what our purpose is...
what if
it is simply to tell His story?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Suð Í Eyrum
I can hear it.
I feel it.
Like an army of raindrops making their way down a mountain.
Like a thousand rustling leaves.
A single heartbeat.
It is faint.
And there are days when I believe it has died.
But I can hear it.
And there are days my body shakes with it.
It has taken up residence in my chest, coursing to my fingertips, hovering behind my ears.
There are moments when I catch a fleeting glimpse of it.
It is as if...
for one brief moment...
all the world moves in sync.
As if we hear the same rhythm.
And our muscles respond.
And we move.
Together.
It is a brief moment.
But it is what feeds hope.
Then the world returns to its chaos.
A song that seems to have lost its cadence.
But I heard it.
And I have felt it.
I live and work for the moment when we move together again.
As one body.
A drum beat...
bare feet hitting the floor...
dust being shaken loose...
ice cracking...
the world will quake.
Some of us have found our rhythm...
I can only describe it has a "sliding into place".
Like a toddler with a puzzle.
We push and move and turn until the piece finds its spot.
Where we belong.
Where we fit.
The body sways.
Gracefully.
Passionately.
Aggressively.
We move.
Extending our arms, lifting our legs.
We spin in circles with our faces lifted to the heavens.
There is a rhythm.
I hear it.
I feel it.
It is carried to me on the wind.
It rises from the core.
It is elusive.
But it is intrinsic.
It is anticipatory in nature.
It grows.
And weakens.
Swelling.
Requiring participation.
And with a great roar -
A thunderous boom -
We will clap our hands.
The world will move as one body.
In rhythm with one song.
There are days when I feel it.
Days when I hear it.
I feel it.
Like an army of raindrops making their way down a mountain.
Like a thousand rustling leaves.
A single heartbeat.
It is faint.
And there are days when I believe it has died.
But I can hear it.
And there are days my body shakes with it.
It has taken up residence in my chest, coursing to my fingertips, hovering behind my ears.
There are moments when I catch a fleeting glimpse of it.
It is as if...
for one brief moment...
all the world moves in sync.
As if we hear the same rhythm.
And our muscles respond.
And we move.
Together.
It is a brief moment.
But it is what feeds hope.
Then the world returns to its chaos.
A song that seems to have lost its cadence.
But I heard it.
And I have felt it.
I live and work for the moment when we move together again.
As one body.
A drum beat...
bare feet hitting the floor...
dust being shaken loose...
ice cracking...
the world will quake.
Some of us have found our rhythm...
I can only describe it has a "sliding into place".
Like a toddler with a puzzle.
We push and move and turn until the piece finds its spot.
Where we belong.
Where we fit.
The body sways.
Gracefully.
Passionately.
Aggressively.
We move.
Extending our arms, lifting our legs.
We spin in circles with our faces lifted to the heavens.
There is a rhythm.
I hear it.
I feel it.
It is carried to me on the wind.
It rises from the core.
It is elusive.
But it is intrinsic.
It is anticipatory in nature.
It grows.
And weakens.
Swelling.
Requiring participation.
And with a great roar -
A thunderous boom -
We will clap our hands.
The world will move as one body.
In rhythm with one song.
There are days when I feel it.
Days when I hear it.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Two Figures
Years ago, we went to Cincinnati to visit a museum. A free museum. With my mom's best friend.
At the time, i couldn't imagine anything more boring. I remember being itchy and hot and my feet being tired. There was a Monet there that year. And all I wanted was to go home.
On Saturday, about fifteen of my friends and I piled in our cars and headed north to Cincinnati again.
It had been a few years.
This time, I was excited.
This time, I couldn't wait to get inside the huge building with tall ceilings and the maze of rooms.
We climbed the road to the museum, alongside Mount Adams, and a skating pond where boys were playing hockey.
-
We walked into the museum and all scattered, finding the art we loved.
-
And found ourselves staring at the same painting.
-
I walked close and then stepped away.
My eyes focusing on the colors, the lines.
My mind focusing on what it was my eyes couldn't see.
-
Everyone began to whisper.
'This is the most romantic thing I have ever seen.'
I smiled.
Over and over again, I heard it said.
It was a painting of 'a couple who had been together forever'.
-
I lingered for a while after everyone moved on.
Because in that painting, I could hear the wind blow.
I felt as though I had stumbled upon something secret.
A private moment.
I could hear the trees singing...
-
Vincent never tells us whether this couple is in love.
Hey never tells us where they are.
Or where they are going.
-
But somehow we know.
-
Museums are no longer boring to me.
I don't get tired or itchy or hot.
All I can think about is how one day, a long time ago, someone sat before a canvas.
Someone created the work before me.
From a white canvas.
-
Someone sat down to tell us a story.
-
And decades later, I would know the wind was blowing.
At the time, i couldn't imagine anything more boring. I remember being itchy and hot and my feet being tired. There was a Monet there that year. And all I wanted was to go home.
On Saturday, about fifteen of my friends and I piled in our cars and headed north to Cincinnati again.
It had been a few years.
This time, I was excited.
This time, I couldn't wait to get inside the huge building with tall ceilings and the maze of rooms.
We climbed the road to the museum, alongside Mount Adams, and a skating pond where boys were playing hockey.
-
We walked into the museum and all scattered, finding the art we loved.
-
And found ourselves staring at the same painting.
-
I walked close and then stepped away.
My eyes focusing on the colors, the lines.
My mind focusing on what it was my eyes couldn't see.
-
Everyone began to whisper.
'This is the most romantic thing I have ever seen.'
I smiled.
Over and over again, I heard it said.
It was a painting of 'a couple who had been together forever'.
-
I lingered for a while after everyone moved on.
Because in that painting, I could hear the wind blow.
I felt as though I had stumbled upon something secret.
A private moment.
I could hear the trees singing...
-
Vincent never tells us whether this couple is in love.
Hey never tells us where they are.
Or where they are going.
-
But somehow we know.
-
Museums are no longer boring to me.
I don't get tired or itchy or hot.
All I can think about is how one day, a long time ago, someone sat before a canvas.
Someone created the work before me.
From a white canvas.
-
Someone sat down to tell us a story.
-
And decades later, I would know the wind was blowing.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
loaf of bread
I walked into my only on-campus class on Tuesday afternoon.
Familiar hallways. Familiar classroom. Familiar, uncomfortable desks.
This is my last semester at this school.
I waited for the professor to show up. I talked to a few people in the class. Anything to break the uncomfortable silence that always falls between new students.
I looked around the room and noticed people. Wondered who would last the semester. Wondered if there was someone in this room that would one day change the world. I wanted to know their names... and I wondered who I'd become friends with by May.
The Carol walked in. Ms. Stiles. She started babbling about how it only took her 15 minutes to get to campus from Hamburg. About cataract surgery. And how next Tuesday we won't have class.
She explained the syllabus. And her attendance policy. Which is, "you get six absences. No more. If you want to take a mental health day, take a mental health day. It's up to you. But six is all you get."
I smiled.
I always worry when I like my professors right off the bat. The pattern has been, the ones I love on the first day, I loathe by midterm, and have taught me more about life by finals than many other people in my life combined.
I like Ms. Stiles.
Here we go.
So she tells us about her 30 years in social work. And about how we are required to have 25 hours of volunteer work for this semester. That teaching Sunday school doesn't count.
I left that class with that feeling in my chest, like my reservoir had just been filled.
I went back to class today. Having had a particularly hard day. I had lost the full feeling. I was empty.
Drained.
Desperate.
Lonely.
Worried.
I tried to push my emotions down. Shut them off. Tune into my logical mind. But I am not good at that yet. So I prayed.
Does it make me crazy that I have to pray for protection from myself?
I waited for Ms. Stiles to walk in. She had lost her keys. So she took off her coat. And left again. Only to come back, triumphantly dangling her keys from her fingers.
And so we began.
-
We all introduced ourselves.
The refugee from the Congo sat next to me.
The Iraq vet behind me.
The little lady from Mexico across the room.
Beside the ex-felon.
And the Vietnam combat nurse.
And the twenty year old with the colored markers.
-
I sat and listened.
And I felt my tank being filled.
Stories of what they wanted to do with their degree... what led them here in the first place....
And I wondered again if there wasn't someone in this room that might change this city.
-
Then Ms. Stiles started talking.
"Social workers get dirty".
And she had my attention.
"I start all my students in practicum off with folding clothes. I had a student one year tell me that she wasn't going to school to learn how to do laundry. And I showed her the door. If you are not willing to fold clothes for little kids to wear, I don't want you here."
I almost cried.
Ms. Stiles laughed. "Got it?"
We started talking about LCSW and psychologists and about field work and volunteer time. About how many fields go hand in hand and how people need help from a lot of sources.
"A social worker's job is more about helping people get a loaf of bread than understanding why they don't have that loaf of bread in the first place."
I laughed at this.
Considering the only counselor I know, does both for most of the people he comes in contact with.
"Social workers work mostly with the poor."
"When they have no one else to talk to, we are there."
And then....
"I see a lot of nursing majors come through my door." Ms Stiles smiled. "They say: I HATE biology, I dont know why I chose nursing, I just want to help people. Without biology."
It was as if she had been talking to me. About me.
"I just want to help people."
-
I left slowly today.
After her announcement that next week we would have a new classroom. OSB 305.
I walked out into the cold and got in my car.
The full feeling had returned.
-
It might be a stretch to think that a little, middle-class, white girl could cause a lot of change.
And it might be a stretch to think that this is what I will do for the rest of my life.
But this makes sense. On a level that things haven't made sense on in a very long time.
Because I just want to help people.
Sing for those who have no voice.
-
In twenty years, we will see if I was right. If this is what I was meant to do with my life. There's no way of knowing today.
(And you can remind me of this full feeling when thing get really rough over the next few years.)
-
I got in my car and remembered Ms. Stiles saying that we would meet in room 305 next week.
And I laughed.
Room 305 in the Oswald Building was where I had my first college class ever.
History 109 with Mr. Hinkle.
-
Things will end where they began.
Familiar hallways. Familiar classroom. Familiar, uncomfortable desks.
This is my last semester at this school.
I waited for the professor to show up. I talked to a few people in the class. Anything to break the uncomfortable silence that always falls between new students.
I looked around the room and noticed people. Wondered who would last the semester. Wondered if there was someone in this room that would one day change the world. I wanted to know their names... and I wondered who I'd become friends with by May.
The Carol walked in. Ms. Stiles. She started babbling about how it only took her 15 minutes to get to campus from Hamburg. About cataract surgery. And how next Tuesday we won't have class.
She explained the syllabus. And her attendance policy. Which is, "you get six absences. No more. If you want to take a mental health day, take a mental health day. It's up to you. But six is all you get."
I smiled.
I always worry when I like my professors right off the bat. The pattern has been, the ones I love on the first day, I loathe by midterm, and have taught me more about life by finals than many other people in my life combined.
I like Ms. Stiles.
Here we go.
So she tells us about her 30 years in social work. And about how we are required to have 25 hours of volunteer work for this semester. That teaching Sunday school doesn't count.
I left that class with that feeling in my chest, like my reservoir had just been filled.
I went back to class today. Having had a particularly hard day. I had lost the full feeling. I was empty.
Drained.
Desperate.
Lonely.
Worried.
I tried to push my emotions down. Shut them off. Tune into my logical mind. But I am not good at that yet. So I prayed.
Does it make me crazy that I have to pray for protection from myself?
I waited for Ms. Stiles to walk in. She had lost her keys. So she took off her coat. And left again. Only to come back, triumphantly dangling her keys from her fingers.
And so we began.
-
We all introduced ourselves.
The refugee from the Congo sat next to me.
The Iraq vet behind me.
The little lady from Mexico across the room.
Beside the ex-felon.
And the Vietnam combat nurse.
And the twenty year old with the colored markers.
-
I sat and listened.
And I felt my tank being filled.
Stories of what they wanted to do with their degree... what led them here in the first place....
And I wondered again if there wasn't someone in this room that might change this city.
-
Then Ms. Stiles started talking.
"Social workers get dirty".
And she had my attention.
"I start all my students in practicum off with folding clothes. I had a student one year tell me that she wasn't going to school to learn how to do laundry. And I showed her the door. If you are not willing to fold clothes for little kids to wear, I don't want you here."
I almost cried.
Ms. Stiles laughed. "Got it?"
We started talking about LCSW and psychologists and about field work and volunteer time. About how many fields go hand in hand and how people need help from a lot of sources.
"A social worker's job is more about helping people get a loaf of bread than understanding why they don't have that loaf of bread in the first place."
I laughed at this.
Considering the only counselor I know, does both for most of the people he comes in contact with.
"Social workers work mostly with the poor."
"When they have no one else to talk to, we are there."
And then....
"I see a lot of nursing majors come through my door." Ms Stiles smiled. "They say: I HATE biology, I dont know why I chose nursing, I just want to help people. Without biology."
It was as if she had been talking to me. About me.
"I just want to help people."
-
I left slowly today.
After her announcement that next week we would have a new classroom. OSB 305.
I walked out into the cold and got in my car.
The full feeling had returned.
-
It might be a stretch to think that a little, middle-class, white girl could cause a lot of change.
And it might be a stretch to think that this is what I will do for the rest of my life.
But this makes sense. On a level that things haven't made sense on in a very long time.
Because I just want to help people.
Sing for those who have no voice.
-
In twenty years, we will see if I was right. If this is what I was meant to do with my life. There's no way of knowing today.
(And you can remind me of this full feeling when thing get really rough over the next few years.)
-
I got in my car and remembered Ms. Stiles saying that we would meet in room 305 next week.
And I laughed.
Room 305 in the Oswald Building was where I had my first college class ever.
History 109 with Mr. Hinkle.
-
Things will end where they began.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Winter
I always find myself sitting down to write before the first day of school.
It's a method of marking time.
How I feel today, compared to the end of finals week.
What I know and forget.
-
This is beginning of my fourth year of college.
I should be almost done.
But I am nowhere close. Nowhere near.
But this is my last first week of school at the community college.
I've been saying that for a year now.
But this time, its real.
This time, I really will never go back.
-
And I find myself feeling apprehensive.
This is the beginning of the end of my security.
So much of what I know will soon change.
My world... is about to undergo a makeover.
And I am nervous.
-
I am in a funk.
A winter season.
All the beauty seems to be in hibernation.
All my boldness, all my courage, frozen over.
-
It is time for a change.
For soil to be turned over.
Progress to be made.
-
But everything is going to require great leaps of faith on my part.
-
I'm not saying anything new here.
You sit there, reading, thinking "She's been talking about changing for 21 years now!"
And I have.
I'm a connoisseur of good intentions, of grand ideas, of bold moves.
-
I collect them.
And look at them.
And they gather dust.
And take up space.
-
That is bad.
-
I am being called out.
-
I was given a book by one of my best friends the other day.
A book that was given to my mother by my grandmother.
The year I was born.
A book that may very well be my saving grace.
A book that has traveled through women's hands for twenty one years, to land in my lap.
The Father's way of saying, "I know what I'm doing with you. Just pay attention."
-
I pulled out Don Miller the other day.
That's the kind of mood I'm in.
Blue.
Like Jazz.
A true, free form of self expression is what I am looking for.
-
Friends,
I want to play the cello.
No kidding. What would it be like to learn to play music?
I want to dance.
And to continue to run and sweat and work towards a goal.
And I am so sick and tired of sitting here telling you exactly what I want to do and then retelling you and telling you again in a different way.
I'm good at making old ideas sound new.
-
And I'm done.
-
Tonight, my heart needs a safe place.
I went to church this morning and cried a few tears.
People are amazing.
That's the greatest lesson I have ever learned.
People were created to be the best creation.
And there are people out there who are the best.
I love seeing that manifested.
-
But I am in a winter season.
Walking through a dry desert.
I am pleading for spring to return.
For a sweet drink of water.
-
Maybe I can see the ice beginning to melt,
or an oasis in the distance.
And that is the reason for my state of mind.
I am confused.
And I am lonely.
And I am uncomfortable.
-
Which means... in my experience...
that when my world finally gets its makeover,
when my life is finally turned upside down,
it will change everything.
-
So I am headed now, to a safe place.
A place where I tend to hide.
A place where He is calling me to spread my wings, to get my hands dirty.
A place that may hold all the future.
Or just tomorrow.
-
Oh that I may survive this winter.
I wait for the season of singing...
It's a method of marking time.
How I feel today, compared to the end of finals week.
What I know and forget.
-
This is beginning of my fourth year of college.
I should be almost done.
But I am nowhere close. Nowhere near.
But this is my last first week of school at the community college.
I've been saying that for a year now.
But this time, its real.
This time, I really will never go back.
-
And I find myself feeling apprehensive.
This is the beginning of the end of my security.
So much of what I know will soon change.
My world... is about to undergo a makeover.
And I am nervous.
-
I am in a funk.
A winter season.
All the beauty seems to be in hibernation.
All my boldness, all my courage, frozen over.
-
It is time for a change.
For soil to be turned over.
Progress to be made.
-
But everything is going to require great leaps of faith on my part.
-
I'm not saying anything new here.
You sit there, reading, thinking "She's been talking about changing for 21 years now!"
And I have.
I'm a connoisseur of good intentions, of grand ideas, of bold moves.
-
I collect them.
And look at them.
And they gather dust.
And take up space.
-
That is bad.
-
I am being called out.
-
I was given a book by one of my best friends the other day.
A book that was given to my mother by my grandmother.
The year I was born.
A book that may very well be my saving grace.
A book that has traveled through women's hands for twenty one years, to land in my lap.
The Father's way of saying, "I know what I'm doing with you. Just pay attention."
-
I pulled out Don Miller the other day.
That's the kind of mood I'm in.
Blue.
Like Jazz.
A true, free form of self expression is what I am looking for.
-
Friends,
I want to play the cello.
No kidding. What would it be like to learn to play music?
I want to dance.
And to continue to run and sweat and work towards a goal.
And I am so sick and tired of sitting here telling you exactly what I want to do and then retelling you and telling you again in a different way.
I'm good at making old ideas sound new.
-
And I'm done.
-
Tonight, my heart needs a safe place.
I went to church this morning and cried a few tears.
People are amazing.
That's the greatest lesson I have ever learned.
People were created to be the best creation.
And there are people out there who are the best.
I love seeing that manifested.
-
But I am in a winter season.
Walking through a dry desert.
I am pleading for spring to return.
For a sweet drink of water.
-
Maybe I can see the ice beginning to melt,
or an oasis in the distance.
And that is the reason for my state of mind.
I am confused.
And I am lonely.
And I am uncomfortable.
-
Which means... in my experience...
that when my world finally gets its makeover,
when my life is finally turned upside down,
it will change everything.
-
So I am headed now, to a safe place.
A place where I tend to hide.
A place where He is calling me to spread my wings, to get my hands dirty.
A place that may hold all the future.
Or just tomorrow.
-
Oh that I may survive this winter.
I wait for the season of singing...
Saturday, January 10, 2009
a letter...
I am waiting for you.
But somewhere along the way, waiting turned into looking.
Everywhere I go, I expect to see you.
I am anxious to meet you.
I am eager.
I have contemplated every scenario.
Every possibility seems to have entered my imagination.
What you will be like. The way you will smile. What it is that will let me know, I've finally found you.
-
But if I keep thinking about it...
if I keep expecting and looking and anticipating...
there will be no surprise.
Like watching a pot of water boil.
Or waiting for a flower to unfold.
The mystery is lost... because I am so intently looking.
-
My heart is lonely for you.
Who I believe you are.
For the life I believe we will lead.
-
I will continue to wait.
Until you round the corner, or touch my hand for the first time.
I will wait for that day when you first make me laugh.
-
But I cannot keep looking.
Because I am missing the forest for the trees.
Because when you finally do come, I want it to be a surprise.
Magic.
Like watching the sun melt into the ocean...
Subtle, maybe.
But not expected.
-
You are out there.
I believe this with all my heart.
-
And until our paths converge,
I will be the best woman I can be.
I will live my life the best way I know how.
My prayer is that you would do the same.
So when the Father sees fit to let my river meet yours,
when our rivers become one,
we will live the rest of our lives doing the best we can.
Loving as best we can.
Together.
Stronger than we would be on our own.
-
I need you.
And I am going to continue to pray for you. And want you. And be lonely for you.
-
But I will not look anymore.
-
Come, find me.
Say hello.
I will see you then.
Just as my heart has seen you for years...
But somewhere along the way, waiting turned into looking.
Everywhere I go, I expect to see you.
I am anxious to meet you.
I am eager.
I have contemplated every scenario.
Every possibility seems to have entered my imagination.
What you will be like. The way you will smile. What it is that will let me know, I've finally found you.
-
But if I keep thinking about it...
if I keep expecting and looking and anticipating...
there will be no surprise.
Like watching a pot of water boil.
Or waiting for a flower to unfold.
The mystery is lost... because I am so intently looking.
-
My heart is lonely for you.
Who I believe you are.
For the life I believe we will lead.
-
I will continue to wait.
Until you round the corner, or touch my hand for the first time.
I will wait for that day when you first make me laugh.
-
But I cannot keep looking.
Because I am missing the forest for the trees.
Because when you finally do come, I want it to be a surprise.
Magic.
Like watching the sun melt into the ocean...
Subtle, maybe.
But not expected.
-
You are out there.
I believe this with all my heart.
-
And until our paths converge,
I will be the best woman I can be.
I will live my life the best way I know how.
My prayer is that you would do the same.
So when the Father sees fit to let my river meet yours,
when our rivers become one,
we will live the rest of our lives doing the best we can.
Loving as best we can.
Together.
Stronger than we would be on our own.
-
I need you.
And I am going to continue to pray for you. And want you. And be lonely for you.
-
But I will not look anymore.
-
Come, find me.
Say hello.
I will see you then.
Just as my heart has seen you for years...
Monday, January 5, 2009
Who We Are
It is a new year.
Before us lies a blank slate.
The drawing board has been untouched.
The paintbrush is in our hands, the chalk held between our fingers.
-
Such stark whiteness causes great walls in my mind. Obstruction, found in the purity of nothingness.
I expect to find potential in the starkness. Find hope in the emptiness.
But I am overwhelmed.
With the acknowledgment of my failures. Of my shortcomings.
-
Because who I am is not who I want to be.
-
I want to be a woman with a gentle and quiet spirit.
And I want to be brave.
I want to be colorful and my words to be seasoned with salt.
I want to be intriguing.
And captivating.
-
With the beginning of the year comes potential.
And my greatest fear of inadequacy.
Of being presented with opportunities and chances to change.
To become new.
And not seizing them. Remaining static, remaining the same.
-
Oh, the Father finds me here.
Reminds me.
For anyone who is in Christ is a new creation.
The old has gone.
The new has come.
-
I know this truth.
I bear a permanent reminder.
-
Fear sets like the sun, casting shadows.
I have such a great desire to be so much more than I am.
But I don't even know where to begin.
-
Where do I begin?
What sets transformation in motion?
The magic word that causes it all to spin?
-
I have concrete goals for 2009.
-
But my greatest aspirations are abstract.
-
So much harder to accomplish.
But everlasting.
So rewarding.
-
May we find ourselves with new wings this year.
Entering this season with an easy yoke.
With simple answers and hearts full of grace.
Ready and willing to change.
To give up.
To fall.
To rise up again.
-
Who we are is not who we may be.
For we may all be made new.
Before us lies a blank slate.
The drawing board has been untouched.
The paintbrush is in our hands, the chalk held between our fingers.
-
Such stark whiteness causes great walls in my mind. Obstruction, found in the purity of nothingness.
I expect to find potential in the starkness. Find hope in the emptiness.
But I am overwhelmed.
With the acknowledgment of my failures. Of my shortcomings.
-
Because who I am is not who I want to be.
-
I want to be a woman with a gentle and quiet spirit.
And I want to be brave.
I want to be colorful and my words to be seasoned with salt.
I want to be intriguing.
And captivating.
-
With the beginning of the year comes potential.
And my greatest fear of inadequacy.
Of being presented with opportunities and chances to change.
To become new.
And not seizing them. Remaining static, remaining the same.
-
Oh, the Father finds me here.
Reminds me.
For anyone who is in Christ is a new creation.
The old has gone.
The new has come.
-
I know this truth.
I bear a permanent reminder.
-
Fear sets like the sun, casting shadows.
I have such a great desire to be so much more than I am.
But I don't even know where to begin.
-
Where do I begin?
What sets transformation in motion?
The magic word that causes it all to spin?
-
I have concrete goals for 2009.
-
But my greatest aspirations are abstract.
-
So much harder to accomplish.
But everlasting.
So rewarding.
-
May we find ourselves with new wings this year.
Entering this season with an easy yoke.
With simple answers and hearts full of grace.
Ready and willing to change.
To give up.
To fall.
To rise up again.
-
Who we are is not who we may be.
For we may all be made new.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
A New Year
I am waking up to the third day of the new year.
It is 2009. And I have no idea where the time has gone. How have the days and months flown by so quickly? I am amazed.
I rang in the new year with twenty or more of my best friends, my family. Eating, drinking, dancing, laughing. The ball dropped, pausing an extra second at the end, and most of us experienced the best New Years of our lives.
Then we all went home.
And got together again the next morning. Over coffee and breakfast and silly board games, hanging out in our pajamas. There were a few moments when I looked around and my heart swelled. We will remember days like these for the rest of our lives.
If this is any indication of what the new year will bring, my heart is glad.
Now I am home. And the expected restlessness is setting in. 363 days now ahead of me. And I want to make them count. I want to make progress. To remember them. To grow.
So my new year's resolutions? Things I want to begin, or finish, or create, or accomplish before 2010?
I keep trying to make a list. Why is this not working? This list making thing?
I want to...
1. Cultivate and stumble upon as many full and lively moments as possible.
2. Learn to say hi.
3. Smile. a lot.
4. Have to buy smaller clothes.
5. Meet you.
6. Leave Kentucky.
7. Take the perfect picture.
8. Get a new tattoo.
9. Be more patient.
10. Learn something very interesting.
11. Make As in my classes this semester.
12. Learn not to compare myself to you.
13. Spend time with my sisters.
14. Plant a garden.
15. Run, hard and fast.
16. Get involved.
17. Renew my passport. Even if I don't get to use it.
18. Have a sleepover.
19. Get my own little downtown apartment.
20. Quit my job.
21. Get a new job.
22. Start at a university. The beginning of the end.
23. Research studying abroad.
24. Learn how to knit.
25. Be part of something big.
26. Encourage more.
27. Fix something.
28. Break something.
29. Make something.
30. Do well.
These are just a few things I can think of right now. Goals. Attainable ones.
Last year, we sat at Common Grounds with my Dad on New Years Eve.
He was the only one with a resolution.
It came true this year. And changed all of our lives.
There's power in foresight, in planning.
In letting go of all our plans to let this real thing called life take its own course.
Here's to the beauty of the unknown and all that lies ahead of us.
Happy New Year.
It is 2009. And I have no idea where the time has gone. How have the days and months flown by so quickly? I am amazed.
I rang in the new year with twenty or more of my best friends, my family. Eating, drinking, dancing, laughing. The ball dropped, pausing an extra second at the end, and most of us experienced the best New Years of our lives.
Then we all went home.
And got together again the next morning. Over coffee and breakfast and silly board games, hanging out in our pajamas. There were a few moments when I looked around and my heart swelled. We will remember days like these for the rest of our lives.
If this is any indication of what the new year will bring, my heart is glad.
Now I am home. And the expected restlessness is setting in. 363 days now ahead of me. And I want to make them count. I want to make progress. To remember them. To grow.
So my new year's resolutions? Things I want to begin, or finish, or create, or accomplish before 2010?
I keep trying to make a list. Why is this not working? This list making thing?
I want to...
1. Cultivate and stumble upon as many full and lively moments as possible.
2. Learn to say hi.
3. Smile. a lot.
4. Have to buy smaller clothes.
5. Meet you.
6. Leave Kentucky.
7. Take the perfect picture.
8. Get a new tattoo.
9. Be more patient.
10. Learn something very interesting.
11. Make As in my classes this semester.
12. Learn not to compare myself to you.
13. Spend time with my sisters.
14. Plant a garden.
15. Run, hard and fast.
16. Get involved.
17. Renew my passport. Even if I don't get to use it.
18. Have a sleepover.
19. Get my own little downtown apartment.
20. Quit my job.
21. Get a new job.
22. Start at a university. The beginning of the end.
23. Research studying abroad.
24. Learn how to knit.
25. Be part of something big.
26. Encourage more.
27. Fix something.
28. Break something.
29. Make something.
30. Do well.
These are just a few things I can think of right now. Goals. Attainable ones.
Last year, we sat at Common Grounds with my Dad on New Years Eve.
He was the only one with a resolution.
It came true this year. And changed all of our lives.
There's power in foresight, in planning.
In letting go of all our plans to let this real thing called life take its own course.
Here's to the beauty of the unknown and all that lies ahead of us.
Happy New Year.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
New Years Resolution
I thought, perhaps, I would sit down and make a list of the things I resolve to accomplish or complete in 2009.
It is about two hours into the new year and I am just not in a list making mood.
So.
What is my new year's resolution?
This year, I will do better.
It is about two hours into the new year and I am just not in a list making mood.
So.
What is my new year's resolution?
This year, I will do better.
Monday, December 29, 2008
predestined
I dont think about this very often.
But when I do, the thoughts pester me and will not leave me alone.
Even as I write this, I want to find a way to disable comments. Positive or negative. Because what you think is not why I write this down... Use my thoughts as a catalyst for your own. Because none of us will ever get it fully right. Not in this life. Agreeing, now perhaps, is not the point. Neither is accuracy.
I write this down because of it is part of my process.
Predestination or free will?
The question is the cause and source of many angry arguments and a lot of sleepless nights. A lot of worry and apathy stem from the profound questioning...
Do we have a choice? Or is our eternity already decided for us?
-
My thoughts on this were tilled, turned over, on Sunday when I read a passage in John. A beautiful passage about the vulnerability of Jesus. A passage that filled my heart until I stumbled across the verse that reads:
"This is why I told you no one can come to me unless the Father enables him."
In the same breath, declaring that He knew that those who left were going to do so.
-
I metaphorically stumbled.
-
Dang it.
-
It was all going so well, really. I was understanding it. The words were filling me.
That phrase felt like someone had taken a pin to my balloon. Pulled the drain from the tub.
I don't like things I don't understand.
And I didn't understand this.
-
So I wrote my mother about it. Knowing she would give me another answer, a deeply profound and educated answer, that I would not understand. But sometimes the answers are found simply in the gesture of asking. Of laying said dilemma on the table and looking at it... until it begins to look different.
Sometimes. Not all the time.
But true in this case.
-
And this is simply my opinion. There is no theological or philosophical or historical substance here. That's not how I process, not how I operate.
This is my opinion, based and formed on how I feel. On my personal relationship with Jesus. On the world as a story. A love story.
And I wonder just how simply I can express all of this.
Because it is a simple story.
-
Maybe, just maybe, we are all predestined to love Jesus.
-
When the world was first created, when God first created Adam, he was created for the sheer purpose of pure community and companionship with God.
There was no question of control or who was Leader and who was Follower.
It was the way it was.
How it was meant to be.
-
But love is not true love if it is preprogrammed.
-
And God wanted us to love Him the way He loves us.
So He gave us a choice.
A choice to stay or go. A choice to love or leave.
And we left.
We turned our backs and left a brokenhearted Creator in a garden that was meant for more than one.
Like a house, only a shell without its family.
-
This is when our issues of control set in.
Because very quickly, sinful nature took over. Discoloring, souring the pure hearts we were born with. The righteous souls we were intended to have.
Because the selfless act of relinquishing control is not something sinners can possibly do on their own.
-
And the Creator found a way to restore the plan.
He knew (for He had in fact created the hearts of men) that a piece of who they were meant to be had survived.
This meant there was still hope.
For a love story.
-
Because we were created to love Jesus.
There is eternity set in all our hearts (ecc 3:11), whether we understand its source or purpose.
-
So because of our sinful nature, we must seek out the Father. In our shortcomings, where we fail, we must go to Him. And He will enable us to hear. To see. To fall in love.
And like my daddy used to say, "we should never be afraid to ask".
-
So Jesus turns to those who have remained.
"You don't want to leave too, do you?"
Because real love is not forced.
Maybe Jesus knew the answer.
But He did not cause Peter to stay.
-
We are all predestined to love Jesus.
You see, in our free will, we have turned the world on her head.
We have walked away from our divine purpose, our design.
In a way, we have defied our own hearts.
-
But Jesus is our second chance at a love story.
Our second chance to be with the Creator again in the garden.
To see broken hearts healed.
Because love is a choice.
The Creator of love made it to be so.
-
And there's something about choosing to do what you were created to do...
-
I stopped here.
Because I am no theologian.
And certainly no scholar.
I have not combed through the Bible and tried to understand every context or conjugation or historical application.
But I have found a truth that resonates with my heart...
on a subject I think matters very little.
A subject I may never bring up again.
Because we might all agree that we are called to love the Father and take care of His children.
-
Real love is a choice.
And my heart could act no more naturally.
I feel I was created for it.
But when I do, the thoughts pester me and will not leave me alone.
Even as I write this, I want to find a way to disable comments. Positive or negative. Because what you think is not why I write this down... Use my thoughts as a catalyst for your own. Because none of us will ever get it fully right. Not in this life. Agreeing, now perhaps, is not the point. Neither is accuracy.
I write this down because of it is part of my process.
Predestination or free will?
The question is the cause and source of many angry arguments and a lot of sleepless nights. A lot of worry and apathy stem from the profound questioning...
Do we have a choice? Or is our eternity already decided for us?
-
My thoughts on this were tilled, turned over, on Sunday when I read a passage in John. A beautiful passage about the vulnerability of Jesus. A passage that filled my heart until I stumbled across the verse that reads:
"This is why I told you no one can come to me unless the Father enables him."
In the same breath, declaring that He knew that those who left were going to do so.
-
I metaphorically stumbled.
-
Dang it.
-
It was all going so well, really. I was understanding it. The words were filling me.
That phrase felt like someone had taken a pin to my balloon. Pulled the drain from the tub.
I don't like things I don't understand.
And I didn't understand this.
-
So I wrote my mother about it. Knowing she would give me another answer, a deeply profound and educated answer, that I would not understand. But sometimes the answers are found simply in the gesture of asking. Of laying said dilemma on the table and looking at it... until it begins to look different.
Sometimes. Not all the time.
But true in this case.
-
And this is simply my opinion. There is no theological or philosophical or historical substance here. That's not how I process, not how I operate.
This is my opinion, based and formed on how I feel. On my personal relationship with Jesus. On the world as a story. A love story.
And I wonder just how simply I can express all of this.
Because it is a simple story.
-
Maybe, just maybe, we are all predestined to love Jesus.
-
When the world was first created, when God first created Adam, he was created for the sheer purpose of pure community and companionship with God.
There was no question of control or who was Leader and who was Follower.
It was the way it was.
How it was meant to be.
-
But love is not true love if it is preprogrammed.
-
And God wanted us to love Him the way He loves us.
So He gave us a choice.
A choice to stay or go. A choice to love or leave.
And we left.
We turned our backs and left a brokenhearted Creator in a garden that was meant for more than one.
Like a house, only a shell without its family.
-
This is when our issues of control set in.
Because very quickly, sinful nature took over. Discoloring, souring the pure hearts we were born with. The righteous souls we were intended to have.
Because the selfless act of relinquishing control is not something sinners can possibly do on their own.
-
And the Creator found a way to restore the plan.
He knew (for He had in fact created the hearts of men) that a piece of who they were meant to be had survived.
This meant there was still hope.
For a love story.
-
Because we were created to love Jesus.
There is eternity set in all our hearts (ecc 3:11), whether we understand its source or purpose.
-
So because of our sinful nature, we must seek out the Father. In our shortcomings, where we fail, we must go to Him. And He will enable us to hear. To see. To fall in love.
And like my daddy used to say, "we should never be afraid to ask".
-
So Jesus turns to those who have remained.
"You don't want to leave too, do you?"
Because real love is not forced.
Maybe Jesus knew the answer.
But He did not cause Peter to stay.
-
We are all predestined to love Jesus.
You see, in our free will, we have turned the world on her head.
We have walked away from our divine purpose, our design.
In a way, we have defied our own hearts.
-
But Jesus is our second chance at a love story.
Our second chance to be with the Creator again in the garden.
To see broken hearts healed.
Because love is a choice.
The Creator of love made it to be so.
-
And there's something about choosing to do what you were created to do...
-
I stopped here.
Because I am no theologian.
And certainly no scholar.
I have not combed through the Bible and tried to understand every context or conjugation or historical application.
But I have found a truth that resonates with my heart...
on a subject I think matters very little.
A subject I may never bring up again.
Because we might all agree that we are called to love the Father and take care of His children.
-
Real love is a choice.
And my heart could act no more naturally.
I feel I was created for it.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
sand in my hands
I have been waiting.
I am still waiting.
I have nothing more important to say than, I want this ambition to remain.
In my mind right now are hundreds are thoughts. Goals. Realistic ones. Lofty ones.
I know who I am.
Is that rare?
No, I don't think so.
I think we all know who we are.
I think most of us don't know how to be who we are.
Or, perhaps, don't like who we are.
I know who I am.
And I think I know what the next step is.
But motivation, ambition, dedication seem to be like dry sand in my hands.
I get a big handful.
And it starts to sift through my fingers. I lose it. Am left with little more than I started with...
I am tired of that.
I am tired of a lot of things.
But today, the sun is shining. And I drove with the windows down. My hair is tangled from the wind.
And I have hope that I am known. That what is inside might be able to make its way out.
You who walk beside me must help me...
it's the only way I'll make it.
Remind me. Do not let me fall stagnant. Working forty hours and running on a treadmill and waking up to an alarm clock. Don't let me accept all of this as "normal".
This life is extraordinary.
And I want to hold it in my hands long enough to see it.
Only Happy In the Sun
I want to tell you a story.
But I don't even know where to begin.
December has sent me spiraling into something that can only be called the winter blues.
I am craving sunlight. A warm breeze. Keens and a muddy trails. Sunburnt shoulders and lungs filled with fresh air.
Am I only happy in the sun?
I wish my "happiness" were not so conditional.
But here I am, holed up in darkness, because the sun has gone into hiding at an early hour.
And it is cold.
Along with cold sometimes comes bitterness.
And in the bitter cold, we find ourselves lonely.
Without the warmth of company.
-
Seasonal Affective Disorder.
They've given it a name.
They always give it a name.
I have given it a different name.
Diagnosed myself with separation anxiety.
-
Separation from creation.
From purity.
From quiet.
From the peace I've grown to find in the stillness, the bigness, of nature.
When did I become such a person?
-
I like this about myself.
-
But along with all this ice and snow and chill comes a sense of dread. Avoidance.
I seem to have lost the ability to see beauty in this season.
And that is dangerous.
Because this is a long season.
-
And while my heart waits for the season of singing, and I am most myself on a warm spring afternoon with bare shoulders and feet, I must remember God is here too.
-
Winter has frozen my words.
I have a story to tell you...
about a wedding. About loving for a hundred years. About loving the whole world. About faces as canvases. About falling in love with family. About exceeding expectations. About dancing.
But I'm all hung up on the fact that I want to lay in the grass in the sun.
So when I get over that, when this long December is over, I will find my words unthawed.
And tell you about it all...
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Christmastime
Each year we would put up the Christmas tree and listen to Kathy Mattea and argue about which ornaments should go where.
It was a method. Nice ornaments on top of the tree. Less important ones at the bottom where the dogs could reach. Our least favorites in the back against the wall. Fill the holes. Spread out the branches. Find a tree-topper. Turn off the lights. Go out onto the porch. Admire. In that order. Every year.
-
Cinnamon rolls.
Wake up too early. Force Dad out of bed. Wait for him to get out of the bathroom.
Wait some more.
He would pad into the living room in his socks.
I remember one Christmas waking up to presents piled up to the mantelpiece.
And we would take turns opening presents until they were all gone.
Then we would pile up our stuff, take it all to our respective rooms, and then fight for the showers and hot water.
Dad would warm up the car.
And we would always take the long way to Severn Way. Dressed in new clothes. Sitting in the middle and back seats of the van, cringing at Dad's choice of music.
-
The house at Severn would be full. With boys that weren't usually there. An uncle who knew exactly where to tickle and a beautiful aunt with lots of questions.
We would guess how long it would take Marty to show up.
And roll up our sleeves to make sausage balls and cheese balls. Enough food to feed an army. No nuts for Carter. Rationed caffeine and chocolate.
Adult conversations we couldn't be a part of.
Two tables set. Little salt and pepper shakers. Unnecessary butter knives.
Steaks grilled in the snow.
Piano playing.
Oh, piano playing.
As the years would pass, more players begin to develop in our family. We would sit in the kitchen and listen, guessing which boy was at the keys. You knew not to interrupt or to make too much noise or they would stop.
And we never wanted them to stop.
-
Presents would be opened. Hugs and kisses. The boys would open their gifts and start playing immediately, but the four of us would have to wait. Wait until we got home so we didn't lose pieces, Dad always said.
We would eat dinner.
And feel sleepy.
Some years we would watch the snow fall outside.
One year it stormed. Thunder and lightening on Christmas.
-
Then Dad would put his hand on our shoulders and squeeze. Or clap his hands. " About time to head out" meant time to go now...
We would pile back into the van. Pack the presents in.
I would fall asleep on the drive home. Warmed by the heater, lulled by the sound of grown up whispering and the distinct, deep voice on NPR.
And we would be home.
Christmas would be over.
-
I wouldn't get it until much later.
Get why we cried on Christmas.
Why, when the van pulled up in front of the Long Avenue house, tears would begin to pool.
Why organizing all my new stuff and crawling into bed would make me want to cry.
We call them the Christmas blues.
They're hereditary.
-
Christmas is nineteen days away.
I haven't bought a single gift.
Put up a single light.
Decorated a single tree.
But it is snowing this morning and I have a strange itch to try my hand at an apple stack cake.
To thieve a Kathy Mattea album from my mother and put in the Charlie Brown VHS.
-
The presents will not be stacked up to the mantel this year.
This year, there will be no forcing Dad out of bed. No arguing about the holes in the Christmas tree. No fighting for hot water in showers.
This year it is different.
Because things change. And so does Christmas.
People grow up. And traditions change.
-
Last year, I opened a card and cried on Christmas. Not because of the blues. But because something suddenly made sense.
I like it when things make sense.
For the past two Christmases I have come home to my own house to spend Christmas night. And Christmas has spread further than biological family to spiritual brothers and sisters. Christmas would not be Christmas without them, the new family.
-
This year I will wake up in my own bed on Christmas morning and put a few homemade and thrift store gifts for my beautiful family in my little corolla and drive to Winchester.
Find my sisters and my mother and our Steve at the Long Avenue house. Cinnamon rolls and all.
And then find myself at Severn Way. Sadly, with a few less boys. But a new beautiful aunt to spend Christmas with. And a new beautiful set of fingers to play the piano (a girl this time... we're making progress).
I hope to spend time with my dad and our Emily and three beautiful, little girls.
I am scheming.
Planning to conjure some Christmas magic.
Because magic has nothing to do with Santa Claus.
-
Christmastime is magical.
And no matter how much we loathe consumerism, commercialism (or any "ism" so often tacked onto the season of Advent), you cannot deny it.
In the twinkling lights and the horse drawn carriages and the soft, white snow. In sledding and days off of work and childrens' giggles. In Christmas love and mistletoe. In Christmas movies and snow angels and ice skating.
-
Now, while your children are still young, teach them that Christmas is not about presents stacked up to the mantelpiece.
But about making it make sense.
The ultimate gift of a Divine life.
Christmas is about awe.
And simplicity.
The revolution is found, clearly, in Charlie Brown's story.
About making broken things beautiful.
Christmas is about that.
-
It is that truth that makes the changes bearable.
-
So whether you choose to conspire, to anticipate, to participate...
make this Christmas make sense.
-
Friday, December 5, 2008
Connect the Dots
Our lives seem to be spent running around in chaos.
Sometimes unorganized.
Occasionally unmotivated.
Often indecisive.
We wake up each morning feeling as though the only constant is that things continue to change.
Big events send us reeling.
Or it takes ten seconds, twenty years, or three points to send us head over heels.
-
Most of us are at some point of uncertainty in our lives.
(Some of you are not. And you are dancing for it... in the newness and beauty of security and love. Keep dancing. It is a beautiful dance and you have earned it.)
But for those of us who are uncertain: we are dancing too.
For hope.
And love.
And to scare fear away.
We dance for cleansing rain.
And in the holy wind.
-
We have been told, as Christians, we will experience suffering.
I've come to understand that. And also to understand the the suffering we experience is always different. Comes in disguises and in moments we'd never expect.
But suffering is not something we should seek.
Or desire.
The pursuit of suffering leads to an identity cemented in pain, in martyrdom for martyrdom's sake.
No.
I want you to tell me how bad it is.
That it hurts.
And it's hard.
But that it is worth it, and you'll make it because of God's grace.
-
As Christians we should be known for our love and be marked by our joy.
In us, others should perceive a peace that is unexplainable.
Peace, not somberness.
-
We should laugh.
And have others ask why we are able to.
Our answer will be the same, then.
That it is hard, but God is good.
-
So when times like these come and I am perched precariously on point "B", lifting my telescope to my eye in search of point "C", I am reminded of this.
That down to my core, I believe everything happens for a reason.
And that people are worth fighting for.
That we are called not to wish for peace, but to work for it, to work towards it.
That when I focus my telescope, I see my Father's Kingdom coming to earth.
-
Then one day I will look back from point Z and see all the points I crossed before.
And there will be a beautiful picture... a story...
Of laughter and dancing and danger and heroes and heartbreak and joy.
Because all the dots will have connected.
Then it will all make sense.
Sometimes unorganized.
Occasionally unmotivated.
Often indecisive.
We wake up each morning feeling as though the only constant is that things continue to change.
Big events send us reeling.
Or it takes ten seconds, twenty years, or three points to send us head over heels.
-
Most of us are at some point of uncertainty in our lives.
(Some of you are not. And you are dancing for it... in the newness and beauty of security and love. Keep dancing. It is a beautiful dance and you have earned it.)
But for those of us who are uncertain: we are dancing too.
For hope.
And love.
And to scare fear away.
We dance for cleansing rain.
And in the holy wind.
-
We have been told, as Christians, we will experience suffering.
I've come to understand that. And also to understand the the suffering we experience is always different. Comes in disguises and in moments we'd never expect.
But suffering is not something we should seek.
Or desire.
The pursuit of suffering leads to an identity cemented in pain, in martyrdom for martyrdom's sake.
No.
I want you to tell me how bad it is.
That it hurts.
And it's hard.
But that it is worth it, and you'll make it because of God's grace.
-
As Christians we should be known for our love and be marked by our joy.
In us, others should perceive a peace that is unexplainable.
Peace, not somberness.
-
We should laugh.
And have others ask why we are able to.
Our answer will be the same, then.
That it is hard, but God is good.
-
So when times like these come and I am perched precariously on point "B", lifting my telescope to my eye in search of point "C", I am reminded of this.
That down to my core, I believe everything happens for a reason.
And that people are worth fighting for.
That we are called not to wish for peace, but to work for it, to work towards it.
That when I focus my telescope, I see my Father's Kingdom coming to earth.
-
Then one day I will look back from point Z and see all the points I crossed before.
And there will be a beautiful picture... a story...
Of laughter and dancing and danger and heroes and heartbreak and joy.
Because all the dots will have connected.
Then it will all make sense.
Adaptation to Touch
Close your eyes.
Hold your hand out.
You know I just put something in your hand. Resting safely in your palm.
Keep your eyes closed.
Time will pass.
And you will forget.
You will not feel the sensation of the object on your skin. You'll become adjusted to the weight. To the texture. To the temperature.
Now I take that object away.
But you don't notice.
It, whatever "it" is, has been there so long, your body doesn't notice its absence.
-
May you not adapt to His touch.
May you find yourself ever aware of the way He shows Himself to us....
the way our Father sings, smells, dances, whispers, bellows....
And if perhaps, one day He pulls away for a moment, I pray you would be acutely aware of His leaving.
Call His name.
He will return.
Too large to fit in your palm.
So light He is carried on the wind.
-
Hold your hand out.
You know I just put something in your hand. Resting safely in your palm.
Keep your eyes closed.
Time will pass.
And you will forget.
You will not feel the sensation of the object on your skin. You'll become adjusted to the weight. To the texture. To the temperature.
Now I take that object away.
But you don't notice.
It, whatever "it" is, has been there so long, your body doesn't notice its absence.
-
May you not adapt to His touch.
May you find yourself ever aware of the way He shows Himself to us....
the way our Father sings, smells, dances, whispers, bellows....
And if perhaps, one day He pulls away for a moment, I pray you would be acutely aware of His leaving.
Call His name.
He will return.
Too large to fit in your palm.
So light He is carried on the wind.
-
Monday, November 24, 2008
Balloon
My arms are not long enough to wrap around it all...
But I need to pull it close. All of it.
And then look at it, assess it, count it. Organize it. File. Color code. Label.
Whatever it might take to understand.
I would sit on the floor, legs crossed, with a cup of coffee and I would put it all together like a puzzle.
Because, today, I am having a hard time seeing.
Not just the big picture.
I know better than to think I would ever get a good look at that....
Simply, a pattern.
A rhythm.
Perhaps, dare I even dream....
Direction.
Specific purpose.
Because, you see, "broad" is not working for me.
General ideas just don't cut it anymore.
I am cursed by cynicism.
When did I lose the childlike quality of being a dreamer?
I wonder when my aspirations became tied down with logistics...
like a balloon tied to a bag of rocks.
The dreams are there. Believe me. My mind is boggled with them.
In my head, I am bold.
When I'm driving down the road, windshield wipers smacking, headlights beaming -
I am brave then.
And I am capable of anything. Anything and everything.
I am a problem solver. I like steps. Recipes. Directions. How-to guides.
Vague does not work well for me...
And when an area of gray presents itself, I balk. Cower a little bit, crawl back in my shell.
The world, after all, is a big scary place.
I am just a woman. One woman.
I am weak. And not that smart.
And I have absolutely no clue what is going on.
So days like these, I wish I could wrap my arms around all my ideas and dreams and talents and obligations and deadlines and bills and every aspect of my hectic schedule.
Just to try and make sense of it all.
Because in the back of my head...
or the forefront of my heart...
in the recesses, the secret places, of myself...
I know a truth.
How to find answers.
I know the cause of some of my confusion is physical clutter.
I know most of it is emotional clutter.
There's a dam holding in all my tears.
I have words that are bottled up that I desperately want to share with you.
And mostly?
I have a seven hour car ride scheduled on Friday. My first road trip by myself.
And I wonder if the Father will meet me there... in the solitude.
On the long stretch of highway.
Because I have some questions.
And I want Him to untie the rocks from my balloon.
But I need to pull it close. All of it.
And then look at it, assess it, count it. Organize it. File. Color code. Label.
Whatever it might take to understand.
I would sit on the floor, legs crossed, with a cup of coffee and I would put it all together like a puzzle.
Because, today, I am having a hard time seeing.
Not just the big picture.
I know better than to think I would ever get a good look at that....
Simply, a pattern.
A rhythm.
Perhaps, dare I even dream....
Direction.
Specific purpose.
Because, you see, "broad" is not working for me.
General ideas just don't cut it anymore.
I am cursed by cynicism.
When did I lose the childlike quality of being a dreamer?
I wonder when my aspirations became tied down with logistics...
like a balloon tied to a bag of rocks.
The dreams are there. Believe me. My mind is boggled with them.
In my head, I am bold.
When I'm driving down the road, windshield wipers smacking, headlights beaming -
I am brave then.
And I am capable of anything. Anything and everything.
I am a problem solver. I like steps. Recipes. Directions. How-to guides.
Vague does not work well for me...
And when an area of gray presents itself, I balk. Cower a little bit, crawl back in my shell.
The world, after all, is a big scary place.
I am just a woman. One woman.
I am weak. And not that smart.
And I have absolutely no clue what is going on.
So days like these, I wish I could wrap my arms around all my ideas and dreams and talents and obligations and deadlines and bills and every aspect of my hectic schedule.
Just to try and make sense of it all.
Because in the back of my head...
or the forefront of my heart...
in the recesses, the secret places, of myself...
I know a truth.
How to find answers.
I know the cause of some of my confusion is physical clutter.
I know most of it is emotional clutter.
There's a dam holding in all my tears.
I have words that are bottled up that I desperately want to share with you.
And mostly?
I have a seven hour car ride scheduled on Friday. My first road trip by myself.
And I wonder if the Father will meet me there... in the solitude.
On the long stretch of highway.
Because I have some questions.
And I want Him to untie the rocks from my balloon.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Two Stories
What happens when your life suddenly turns in a direction you never would have expected?
When a single thought acts as a rudder and you feel the body, the heart, the soul, turning around... facing a new direction, a new future?
When you explore new options, embrace new ideas, accept new truths.
There is always an issue of courage. Do you have the courage to take that step? To remain standing? To extend your arms in love? To walk away? To forgive?
We are all part of a story... a big story and a small story.
There is the small story. Of who we are, what we do, who we love, where we live, how we live, what we accomplish... how we fail.
This is the story so many of us get caught up in.
And we forget about the big story. The intertwining, woven pattern of a plan. A single plan. To bring children home. To save the lost, to heal the sick, the comfort the hurting. A divine plan to wrap divine arms around a precious world and draw them all close.
We figure out how to live the small story well, when we learn out part in the big one. How what we do connects to what our neighbor does, what the child in Cambodia does, what the missionary in Guatemala does.
Our hearts know these stories. Both the big and the small. And every once in a while, when caught up in our small story, we feel a stirring. We are reminded of a divine connection. A righteous thread that links us all. And sometimes we act on that. The stirring in our souls, the echo of eternity that has embedded itself in our hearts.
It is because of the big story that He knows what plans He has for us.
It is because of the big story that when I am alone and completely confused that I know there's a purpose... that this is just a step, connected to another and another, which will one day make sense.
And when I am wrapped up in who I think I am... who I think I should be... I feel that stirring. And I am reminded of who He created me to be. And I marvel at how it has taken me so long to meet this woman. Now I notice what causes me to cry, what causes my heart inside my ribs to swell.
There are two stories.
The small one is important.
The big one is made up of all the small ones.
Every single small one is an important part.
When a single thought acts as a rudder and you feel the body, the heart, the soul, turning around... facing a new direction, a new future?
When you explore new options, embrace new ideas, accept new truths.
There is always an issue of courage. Do you have the courage to take that step? To remain standing? To extend your arms in love? To walk away? To forgive?
We are all part of a story... a big story and a small story.
There is the small story. Of who we are, what we do, who we love, where we live, how we live, what we accomplish... how we fail.
This is the story so many of us get caught up in.
And we forget about the big story. The intertwining, woven pattern of a plan. A single plan. To bring children home. To save the lost, to heal the sick, the comfort the hurting. A divine plan to wrap divine arms around a precious world and draw them all close.
We figure out how to live the small story well, when we learn out part in the big one. How what we do connects to what our neighbor does, what the child in Cambodia does, what the missionary in Guatemala does.
Our hearts know these stories. Both the big and the small. And every once in a while, when caught up in our small story, we feel a stirring. We are reminded of a divine connection. A righteous thread that links us all. And sometimes we act on that. The stirring in our souls, the echo of eternity that has embedded itself in our hearts.
It is because of the big story that He knows what plans He has for us.
It is because of the big story that when I am alone and completely confused that I know there's a purpose... that this is just a step, connected to another and another, which will one day make sense.
And when I am wrapped up in who I think I am... who I think I should be... I feel that stirring. And I am reminded of who He created me to be. And I marvel at how it has taken me so long to meet this woman. Now I notice what causes me to cry, what causes my heart inside my ribs to swell.
There are two stories.
The small one is important.
The big one is made up of all the small ones.
Every single small one is an important part.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Tug
Time is moving by so quickly.
Most days go by in a blur and I cannot account for them. Same routine. Lack of inspiration.
Other days I am shaken awake. Reminded that there is more. That there are decisions to be made. Art to be created. My body aches for laughter and my hand wants to be held. I become aware, painfully aware, of all that rests on my next few moves.
And how little control I have over it all.
My options are laid out on the table.
I feel like I should play like the apostles and throw dice, draw straws, flip a coin. Leave any and every huge decision up to Divine Intervention. Fate. Chance. I don't want to be responsible for messing it all up... for choosing poorly, for making a bad move.
There are a few things that have been a part of my soul since my early high school years.
And the moment of truth is approaching. There are deadlines and applications and plans to make.
What I thought I was sure of, I no longer am. What I am certain of, seems to have crumbled in my hands. What was secure has loosened and weakened.
I am in a state of transition.
In Death Cab's world of Plans. Shedding skin, seeking a place where soul meets body. Where I reassure myself, some day I will be loved. But these days my heart feels like an empty room...
An empty room that is ready to be filled.
I tend to see my world in "either/ors" and "if/thens". Either I do this, or that. If I don't do it this way, then....
I give myself two options.
The red or the blue.
The black or the white.
Here or there.
New or old.
Safe or daring.
But in this world, there are rarely only two options.
And my Father has given me a creative mind. A problem-solving mind. It would be a sin not to use it until depletion...
Alan Cohen said,"It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power."
There is so much wisdom in that.
Something has to change.
The cards are out on the table... it's time to play a matching game. Who I want to be with what I want to do. How I will achieve it with the amount of energy I will need to expend. My creative sweat and tears mixed in a salty cocktail with hard work and perseverance.
And the greatest truth I have to learn is that I don't have to figure it out immediately. Or, better yet, what I figure out may not last forever.
...
Back a few months ago, I was listening to the radio and the DJ announced that city council was meeting one last time to debate the destruction of a historic block of buildings on Main Street. In the place of the buildings, someone would build a huge hotel. Having heard of this development for months already, I was disgusted. But a spark of hope ignited in my heart at hearing the block was receiving a second chance. One last time, the existence of the brick buildings would be contemplated, weighed, analyzed.
And my mind went racing. As it always does.
I had a vision.
Of every church in Lexington joining hands.
Buying a block of historic buildings in the heart of the city.
Renovating. Pooling money, time, and resources so that no one church knew whether they owned a nail or a doorknob.
Renovating into a coffee shop. A tutoring center. A music venue. Small efficiency apartments. A soup kitchen. A youth center. Run by volunteers. Decorated by amateur artists. Filled with the youth of the city. A safe place. A place it would be permissible and acceptable to be yourself, to express yourself, to play... without fear or reservation.
Redemption Block.
A place, a structure, taken to the very brink of destruction. Brought back to glorify the Lord. Redeemed.
Just about two months ago, the block of historic buildings was torn down.
And in a while, a prestigious hotel and shoppes and restaurants will rise up on Main Street. Overshadowing a park where, tonight, men will sleep on benches.
...
I haven't considered this idea since.
...
Last night I sat on Kat's front porch, bare feet cold in the October night air. Emily, Kat, and I were laughing and taking pictures. We all looked up when we heard voices, hollering and laughing, and then saw five little bodies racing toward us with arms outstretched.
Five little boys came barreling towards us, wanting to get in the picture.
Wanting some attention.
They sat down on the porch and didn't leave for half an hour.
Wrapping their arms around our shoulders. Arguing about who could beat up whom, whose brothers were still in Africa or in jail, which one of them were still virgins. They danced on our sidewalk. Tried to guess our ages. Told us tall tales of running from the cops and how they don't hit girls.
The youngest was twelve.
The oldest was maybe sixteen. A quiet boy with his hood pulled over his head. From Liberia.
When they started getting too rowdy, we sent them home. Home. A twenty minute walk down High Street. Past the pretty fountains and the high-end hotel, past the last Starbucks. We could hear them jumping around a yelling for a while.
Five little boys who knew far too much about the world and its harsh realities... heading towards home in the dark.
And Kat, Emily, and I just sat on the porch. Wondering, really, what had just happened.
Broken hearted.
And I heard it.
How He wants to redeem His children.
And I remembered.
...
I have a lot of decisions to make. A lot of problems to solve.
And I may never see such redemption in this city. But I am praying for it.
I've felt a tug.
I've been reminded.
That there are more options.
That what I do now, may not be what I spend the rest of my life doing.
Most days go by in a blur and I cannot account for them. Same routine. Lack of inspiration.
Other days I am shaken awake. Reminded that there is more. That there are decisions to be made. Art to be created. My body aches for laughter and my hand wants to be held. I become aware, painfully aware, of all that rests on my next few moves.
And how little control I have over it all.
My options are laid out on the table.
I feel like I should play like the apostles and throw dice, draw straws, flip a coin. Leave any and every huge decision up to Divine Intervention. Fate. Chance. I don't want to be responsible for messing it all up... for choosing poorly, for making a bad move.
There are a few things that have been a part of my soul since my early high school years.
And the moment of truth is approaching. There are deadlines and applications and plans to make.
What I thought I was sure of, I no longer am. What I am certain of, seems to have crumbled in my hands. What was secure has loosened and weakened.
I am in a state of transition.
In Death Cab's world of Plans. Shedding skin, seeking a place where soul meets body. Where I reassure myself, some day I will be loved. But these days my heart feels like an empty room...
An empty room that is ready to be filled.
I tend to see my world in "either/ors" and "if/thens". Either I do this, or that. If I don't do it this way, then....
I give myself two options.
The red or the blue.
The black or the white.
Here or there.
New or old.
Safe or daring.
But in this world, there are rarely only two options.
And my Father has given me a creative mind. A problem-solving mind. It would be a sin not to use it until depletion...
Alan Cohen said,"It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power."
There is so much wisdom in that.
Something has to change.
The cards are out on the table... it's time to play a matching game. Who I want to be with what I want to do. How I will achieve it with the amount of energy I will need to expend. My creative sweat and tears mixed in a salty cocktail with hard work and perseverance.
And the greatest truth I have to learn is that I don't have to figure it out immediately. Or, better yet, what I figure out may not last forever.
...
Back a few months ago, I was listening to the radio and the DJ announced that city council was meeting one last time to debate the destruction of a historic block of buildings on Main Street. In the place of the buildings, someone would build a huge hotel. Having heard of this development for months already, I was disgusted. But a spark of hope ignited in my heart at hearing the block was receiving a second chance. One last time, the existence of the brick buildings would be contemplated, weighed, analyzed.
And my mind went racing. As it always does.
I had a vision.
Of every church in Lexington joining hands.
Buying a block of historic buildings in the heart of the city.
Renovating. Pooling money, time, and resources so that no one church knew whether they owned a nail or a doorknob.
Renovating into a coffee shop. A tutoring center. A music venue. Small efficiency apartments. A soup kitchen. A youth center. Run by volunteers. Decorated by amateur artists. Filled with the youth of the city. A safe place. A place it would be permissible and acceptable to be yourself, to express yourself, to play... without fear or reservation.
Redemption Block.
A place, a structure, taken to the very brink of destruction. Brought back to glorify the Lord. Redeemed.
Just about two months ago, the block of historic buildings was torn down.
And in a while, a prestigious hotel and shoppes and restaurants will rise up on Main Street. Overshadowing a park where, tonight, men will sleep on benches.
...
I haven't considered this idea since.
...
Last night I sat on Kat's front porch, bare feet cold in the October night air. Emily, Kat, and I were laughing and taking pictures. We all looked up when we heard voices, hollering and laughing, and then saw five little bodies racing toward us with arms outstretched.
Five little boys came barreling towards us, wanting to get in the picture.
Wanting some attention.
They sat down on the porch and didn't leave for half an hour.
Wrapping their arms around our shoulders. Arguing about who could beat up whom, whose brothers were still in Africa or in jail, which one of them were still virgins. They danced on our sidewalk. Tried to guess our ages. Told us tall tales of running from the cops and how they don't hit girls.
The youngest was twelve.
The oldest was maybe sixteen. A quiet boy with his hood pulled over his head. From Liberia.
When they started getting too rowdy, we sent them home. Home. A twenty minute walk down High Street. Past the pretty fountains and the high-end hotel, past the last Starbucks. We could hear them jumping around a yelling for a while.
Five little boys who knew far too much about the world and its harsh realities... heading towards home in the dark.
And Kat, Emily, and I just sat on the porch. Wondering, really, what had just happened.
Broken hearted.
And I heard it.
How He wants to redeem His children.
And I remembered.
...
I have a lot of decisions to make. A lot of problems to solve.
And I may never see such redemption in this city. But I am praying for it.
I've felt a tug.
I've been reminded.
That there are more options.
That what I do now, may not be what I spend the rest of my life doing.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Long Avenue
I am winding up day five.
Day five of one of the strangest weeks of my life.
Not strange in a bad way.
Not strange in a way that makes me want it to end.
Strange.
Peculiar.
Not familiar.
Since Sunday night I have been living and sleeping in Winchester. In the house I grew up in. With my two littlest sisters, three dogs, and my mother's car.
I have not spent more than two nights here on Long Avenue since I moved out almost two and a half years ago.
All kinds of people have all kinds of definitions of home.
It's where your heart is.
Or your bed.
Or where you send your mail.
I have never had an emotional attachment to a house. Or an address. We moved too often as children for me to become attached to any house we lived in.
It's not about the house.
It's about what changes.
Since Sunday night I have been noticing little things. Things that stay the same. Things I remember. Things that are new. I find myself asking questions. Forgetting where we keep the measuring cups, but remembering how you have to lift and push the cabinet door under the sink to get it to close. Like how to pull just right into the driveway so you're not in the street, but you don't take out the front porch.
I remember to duck my head when going down the stairs. And how tricky it is to shave your legs in our shower stall.
One thing I have yet to get over after five days is the strange dog who lives here.
Henry.
A black puppy Olivia found in the library parking lot last summer. She named him promptly, definitely. He became a member of the Long Avenue household. But that was not my household anymore.
So I come in and there is Molly. Sweet, old Molly. She can't hear anymore. She has cataracts and still howls and whines like a banshee. Then there's Zoe. She's fat now. But still the same 3 and 1/2 week old puppy I held on my chest and fed around the clock years ago. My puppies. Familiar, hairy faces. Then here comes Henry. Galloping through the house, pawing at me like he wants a handshake. He wants to be my friend. And I want to be his.
But he's a stranger in my house.
Or... I'm a stranger in his. Either way. We step on each other's toes. And he hasn't learned that I'm the boss around here.
Probably because I'm not.
There used to be a huge recliner in the middle of the living room floor. It's gone now. I remember when it was moved--coming home to a room that suddenly was strange, suddenly was unfamiliar. Not in a bad way.
Much the same as how I've felt this week.
What you remember is not the same.
What you remember has changed. As will all things.
The back porch is where I used to get my hair cut, late on summer nights, and a boy... who is now gone... told me I was pretty.
The driveway where my first love kissed me for the first time.
I sit here now, listening to the piano music from the "good" room. But it is not Dad's fingers on the keys. They are hers... and she has a different sound, a different music coming from her fingertips.
Dinner is cooking. Piano music is playing. It is fall and the sky is dark outside the kitchen window. Things are the same.
And entirely different.
Staying here on Long Avenue this week made me think. A lot.
About where home is.
About how there are some things I'll never forget.
And while Long Avenue is not my home anymore, the little girls (who are not so little anymore) who sleep here are.
And no matter how old I get, I will remember how to make a chocolate chip pie.
And even when I almost burn the house down when boiling rice, I will know which doors to open to make all the smoke go away.
And whether I am in my own bed or lying on a king sized mattress on the living room floor, when I roll over and see her sleeping beside me because she doesn't want to sleep alone tonight, I will find myself at home.
Because home is not a place.
It's a state, a peace, of mind.
Sunday I will leave Winchester and home will follow me to a little apartment near the projects in Lexington. To a cat who likes to follow me to the bathroom. And a neighbor who plays their music too loud. And I will know how far to turn the sink knobs to get the water just hot enough. Or how to tilt the stereo to make it play a CD.
May you find home tonight. Wherever you are. May you feel that peace that settles in behind your ribs and the softness in your temples...
And carry it with you.
Day five of one of the strangest weeks of my life.
Not strange in a bad way.
Not strange in a way that makes me want it to end.
Strange.
Peculiar.
Not familiar.
Since Sunday night I have been living and sleeping in Winchester. In the house I grew up in. With my two littlest sisters, three dogs, and my mother's car.
I have not spent more than two nights here on Long Avenue since I moved out almost two and a half years ago.
All kinds of people have all kinds of definitions of home.
It's where your heart is.
Or your bed.
Or where you send your mail.
I have never had an emotional attachment to a house. Or an address. We moved too often as children for me to become attached to any house we lived in.
It's not about the house.
It's about what changes.
Since Sunday night I have been noticing little things. Things that stay the same. Things I remember. Things that are new. I find myself asking questions. Forgetting where we keep the measuring cups, but remembering how you have to lift and push the cabinet door under the sink to get it to close. Like how to pull just right into the driveway so you're not in the street, but you don't take out the front porch.
I remember to duck my head when going down the stairs. And how tricky it is to shave your legs in our shower stall.
One thing I have yet to get over after five days is the strange dog who lives here.
Henry.
A black puppy Olivia found in the library parking lot last summer. She named him promptly, definitely. He became a member of the Long Avenue household. But that was not my household anymore.
So I come in and there is Molly. Sweet, old Molly. She can't hear anymore. She has cataracts and still howls and whines like a banshee. Then there's Zoe. She's fat now. But still the same 3 and 1/2 week old puppy I held on my chest and fed around the clock years ago. My puppies. Familiar, hairy faces. Then here comes Henry. Galloping through the house, pawing at me like he wants a handshake. He wants to be my friend. And I want to be his.
But he's a stranger in my house.
Or... I'm a stranger in his. Either way. We step on each other's toes. And he hasn't learned that I'm the boss around here.
Probably because I'm not.
There used to be a huge recliner in the middle of the living room floor. It's gone now. I remember when it was moved--coming home to a room that suddenly was strange, suddenly was unfamiliar. Not in a bad way.
Much the same as how I've felt this week.
What you remember is not the same.
What you remember has changed. As will all things.
The back porch is where I used to get my hair cut, late on summer nights, and a boy... who is now gone... told me I was pretty.
The driveway where my first love kissed me for the first time.
I sit here now, listening to the piano music from the "good" room. But it is not Dad's fingers on the keys. They are hers... and she has a different sound, a different music coming from her fingertips.
Dinner is cooking. Piano music is playing. It is fall and the sky is dark outside the kitchen window. Things are the same.
And entirely different.
Staying here on Long Avenue this week made me think. A lot.
About where home is.
About how there are some things I'll never forget.
And while Long Avenue is not my home anymore, the little girls (who are not so little anymore) who sleep here are.
And no matter how old I get, I will remember how to make a chocolate chip pie.
And even when I almost burn the house down when boiling rice, I will know which doors to open to make all the smoke go away.
And whether I am in my own bed or lying on a king sized mattress on the living room floor, when I roll over and see her sleeping beside me because she doesn't want to sleep alone tonight, I will find myself at home.
Because home is not a place.
It's a state, a peace, of mind.
Sunday I will leave Winchester and home will follow me to a little apartment near the projects in Lexington. To a cat who likes to follow me to the bathroom. And a neighbor who plays their music too loud. And I will know how far to turn the sink knobs to get the water just hot enough. Or how to tilt the stereo to make it play a CD.
May you find home tonight. Wherever you are. May you feel that peace that settles in behind your ribs and the softness in your temples...
And carry it with you.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Cling and Clatter
It was quiet there.
So quiet, you could hear people approaching before you could see them.
You could hear the wind blow.
I swear I heard the sun dipping into the horizon.
This is why we go.
Because the white noise is wiped out. The volume of the urban city is turned off.
We are deafened by the silence.
I fell asleep on the front porch, feet propped up, letting the sun bathe my face and my legs.
Time didn't matter.
There wasn't a clock to be found in the cabin.
We woke with the sun and wound down as it set.
We ate when we were hungry.
No rushing.
Just skin.
And sweat.
Mud and grass.
We walked away with dirt on our hands and fresh bruises.
Lying by the fire the first night, no fluorescent lights drowning the stars, I watched as one shot across the sky.
And I was reminded of how all the stars are numbered.
I like to think they each have a name.
Time was standing still.
The hands of watches were rotating and no one noticed.
Our attention was captivated by the licking flames and falling stars, by roasting the perfect marshmallow, listening to howling coyotes.
Yesterday, my life returned to punching the clock and measuring days by hours and schedules.
And I want to return to the cabin.
Away from all the cling and clatter.
Listen to Ian's sunrise song.
Still, somewhere in this city, I believe I will find my peace.
Somewhere, is my hope.
My self. Carried on the wind.
I must whisper to be heard.
Stand perfectly still to be seen.
And when the chaotic world sends me spinning...
I will spread my arms wide.
Let my face lift towards the sky.
I know...
This too shall be made right.
So quiet, you could hear people approaching before you could see them.
You could hear the wind blow.
I swear I heard the sun dipping into the horizon.
This is why we go.
Because the white noise is wiped out. The volume of the urban city is turned off.
We are deafened by the silence.
I fell asleep on the front porch, feet propped up, letting the sun bathe my face and my legs.
Time didn't matter.
There wasn't a clock to be found in the cabin.
We woke with the sun and wound down as it set.
We ate when we were hungry.
No rushing.
Just skin.
And sweat.
Mud and grass.
We walked away with dirt on our hands and fresh bruises.
Lying by the fire the first night, no fluorescent lights drowning the stars, I watched as one shot across the sky.
And I was reminded of how all the stars are numbered.
I like to think they each have a name.
Time was standing still.
The hands of watches were rotating and no one noticed.
Our attention was captivated by the licking flames and falling stars, by roasting the perfect marshmallow, listening to howling coyotes.
Yesterday, my life returned to punching the clock and measuring days by hours and schedules.
And I want to return to the cabin.
Away from all the cling and clatter.
Listen to Ian's sunrise song.
Still, somewhere in this city, I believe I will find my peace.
Somewhere, is my hope.
My self. Carried on the wind.
I must whisper to be heard.
Stand perfectly still to be seen.
And when the chaotic world sends me spinning...
I will spread my arms wide.
Let my face lift towards the sky.
I know...
This too shall be made right.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Bucket List
My bucket list...
Build a very big snowman.
Teach someone something.
Learn to blow glass.
Chase a storm.
White water raft.
See a whale.
Sleep on the beach.
Give something away.
Find home.
Skydive.
See the Northern Lights.
Surf.
Dance.
Laugh. A lot.
Open a coffee shop.
Spend the rest of my life with one man.
Raise a big family.
Go overseas.
Ride a camel.
And an elephant.
Tell a story.
Be willing.
Sheer a sheep.
Run a race of any length.
Have an answer.
Be bold.
Buy a little black dress.
Excel at one thing.
Cut down my own Christmas tree.
Go to a movie by myself.
Be good at one sport.
Grow a garden.
See wild horses.
Learn a second language.
Spend time working as a bartender.
Finish school with a degree.
Take a ride on a sailboat.
Not be afraid of the mirror.
Or what people think about me.
Ride a train.
Make people feel special.
Make sure my sisters know how beautiful they are.
See.
This list will be added to. And subtracted from as things are accomplished. Which I have every intention of doing. The goal, however, is not to complete the list, but to ever remain ambitious. Courageous enough to stretch the limits of who you are and what you do. Inspired by a very wise man, this is not about the false summit. As told in the life's work of another man, now passed, the treasure is in the journey.
Build a very big snowman.
Teach someone something.
Learn to blow glass.
Chase a storm.
White water raft.
See a whale.
Sleep on the beach.
Give something away.
Find home.
Skydive.
See the Northern Lights.
Surf.
Dance.
Laugh. A lot.
Open a coffee shop.
Spend the rest of my life with one man.
Raise a big family.
Go overseas.
Ride a camel.
And an elephant.
Tell a story.
Be willing.
Sheer a sheep.
Run a race of any length.
Have an answer.
Be bold.
Buy a little black dress.
Excel at one thing.
Cut down my own Christmas tree.
Go to a movie by myself.
Be good at one sport.
Grow a garden.
See wild horses.
Learn a second language.
Spend time working as a bartender.
Finish school with a degree.
Take a ride on a sailboat.
Not be afraid of the mirror.
Or what people think about me.
Ride a train.
Make people feel special.
Make sure my sisters know how beautiful they are.
See.
This list will be added to. And subtracted from as things are accomplished. Which I have every intention of doing. The goal, however, is not to complete the list, but to ever remain ambitious. Courageous enough to stretch the limits of who you are and what you do. Inspired by a very wise man, this is not about the false summit. As told in the life's work of another man, now passed, the treasure is in the journey.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Shattered
Our prayer lately has been that we would come broken before the Father.
That we would remember that it is not about us, but about bringing Him glory.
That above all else, we'd seek His will, His plan.
But the more I think about it, I feel as though I've approached the throne room, chipped and cracked.
A battered version of myself.
Suffering some minor disfiguration. Some long, shallow cracks that do not penetrate the surface.
I am proud.
I've tried to disguise it, just as most of us do. And I've approached the Father saying, "here I am! Broken and humbled." But the vessel of myself is still in one piece. Still carrying my pride, my sense of self, my reservations.
Tonight I feel as if He's calling us to be not only broken... not to just come to Him in bad shape... but to come to Him shattered.
Come to Him with palms outstretched, holding the pieces of ourselves, dashed to shards. Unrecognizable. Indistinguishable. An unworthy vessel, unable to hold on to that which separates us from the Holy One.
"Here are the pieces of me," I say.
"I don't know how to put them back together again."
"Put me back together again. Make me resemble you. Turn what I've destroyed into a work of completion."
But when we are shattered and we bring the pieces to the Father, we must bring the pride too.
Like the woman with the alabaster jar.
Who brought herself and shattered herself at His feet and poured all she had before Him.
"Here are the pieces of me... make me whole."
And He will throw our pride, our mess, our intentions, our selfishness as far as the east is to the west...
I imagine a pleased Lord writing everything down. I am standing, watching, ashamed. Only to stare in disbelief as He grins (pleased with Himself, very much like a child) and folds the paper into an airplane. Reaches back with a mighty shoulder and lets the paper, with all our shortcomings, all our inadequacies, fly away... fly away to seek the point where west becomes east. Never to find it.
Or a Father gathering our pieces in His callused hands.
"See? I love you even when you look like this..."
We must come to Him shattered.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Reflection
This has been one heck of a week.
Most days I've felt as though I were treading water. Not making any progress. Just wearing myself out in one spot. This groove I've hollowed out for myself is no longer comfortable... too deep, too wide, and I need to get out. To scream and hear my own voice echo, to run and see the world fly by, to grow wings and rise higher and higher - gain perspective and vision.
Tonight was no different.
Until I went out with my family. With my little sister who is learning how to smile and my third sister who is dealing with her fifteenth year with much more grace than I did.
Over chips and salsa and music, things changed. As they do every time we get together. A new layer of our family is pulled back, a new dimension to our relationships is built. Between life lessons and compliments in Spanish... I left the dinner table better than I had come to it.
But unlike normal, the night was not over.
The Festival Latina is in town this weekend.
Streets have been blocked off.
Music is blaring.
The courthouse property smells like beer and cigars.
I can only understand a few of the words spoken around me.
And unlike normal, I slipped into a comfortable state of being.
As if I was lulled by the quick words of the people around me, the words I didn't understand. Mesmerized by what I learned from facial expressions and hand gestures. Entranced by the fireworks display that almost trumped the Fourth of July.
At one point during the fireworks display, we looked over to one of Lexington's tall buildings.
The windows were dark.
What was inside did not matter.
The dark panes of glass suddenly came to life, reflecting the fireworks exploding in the sky.
Over and over again the windows would fall dark and then illuminate again with purples and reds and then shudder when the fireworks popped and boomed.
And I thought to myself how the church should be like those windows.
How it is not what we are that is awesome. Or great.
We are only dark windows.
Made to reflect His light.
Made to shudder in His presence.
To draw people's attention to the awesome display of glory and light that He is...
That is our purpose.
To be a reflection of what is good and awesome about our Father.
Most days I've felt as though I were treading water. Not making any progress. Just wearing myself out in one spot. This groove I've hollowed out for myself is no longer comfortable... too deep, too wide, and I need to get out. To scream and hear my own voice echo, to run and see the world fly by, to grow wings and rise higher and higher - gain perspective and vision.
Tonight was no different.
Until I went out with my family. With my little sister who is learning how to smile and my third sister who is dealing with her fifteenth year with much more grace than I did.
Over chips and salsa and music, things changed. As they do every time we get together. A new layer of our family is pulled back, a new dimension to our relationships is built. Between life lessons and compliments in Spanish... I left the dinner table better than I had come to it.
But unlike normal, the night was not over.
The Festival Latina is in town this weekend.
Streets have been blocked off.
Music is blaring.
The courthouse property smells like beer and cigars.
I can only understand a few of the words spoken around me.
And unlike normal, I slipped into a comfortable state of being.
As if I was lulled by the quick words of the people around me, the words I didn't understand. Mesmerized by what I learned from facial expressions and hand gestures. Entranced by the fireworks display that almost trumped the Fourth of July.
At one point during the fireworks display, we looked over to one of Lexington's tall buildings.
The windows were dark.
What was inside did not matter.
The dark panes of glass suddenly came to life, reflecting the fireworks exploding in the sky.
Over and over again the windows would fall dark and then illuminate again with purples and reds and then shudder when the fireworks popped and boomed.
And I thought to myself how the church should be like those windows.
How it is not what we are that is awesome. Or great.
We are only dark windows.
Made to reflect His light.
Made to shudder in His presence.
To draw people's attention to the awesome display of glory and light that He is...
That is our purpose.
To be a reflection of what is good and awesome about our Father.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Grappling
There's a story to be told here.
A sequence in a movie where the music is loud and the scenes flash by quickly...
Most of the time I feel like I am grappling for the wind.
I just want to hold it in my hands.
I am so restless today.
Nothing is wrong.
But I get the sense that an idea, my purpose, a great awakening is leading me on a chase...
A sequence in a movie where the music is loud and the scenes flash by quickly...
Most of the time I feel like I am grappling for the wind.
I just want to hold it in my hands.
I am so restless today.
Nothing is wrong.
But I get the sense that an idea, my purpose, a great awakening is leading me on a chase...
Monday, September 8, 2008
Love Letter
I live for the weekends.
Not for some reasons you might think.
Not because I don't have to work.
Or because of bars and clubs and late nights.
No.
Because of my family.
Because of nights like last night.
At the end of twenty-four hours devoted to talking to Jesus...
we gathered.
Breaking bread.
Or... cutting mushrooms and rolling out pizza dough.
And we ate together.
And gathered around a precious brother who will soon leave us for a whole year.
And I sat back and watched as the sun set and eight brothers and sisters danced in the streets until twilight.
I know I will never forget these years.
Or these people who have been my dearest friends, my closest loves, my family for the past twelve months.
So often relationships spin their wheels - splattering mud but never gaining ground.
But we have been blessed.
And our Father is blessing us with more.
As new family members join, I am amazed at their confusion.
"Family? I'm family? But I've only hung out with you all a few times..." And we just shrug.
We fall in love easily around here.
I thank God every day for the brothers I always wanted but never had. The men I see growing into men after God's own heart. The handsome men I'm proud to call my family - the character I see building. The ways they make me laugh, feel safe, and protected...
And I laugh, knowing that it was always God's intention for the women in my life to outnumber the men. I already have three wonderful sisters. But the Father has added almost a dozen more. Women I admire, who I love with all my heart. Women I dance with and joke with and stretch with (spiritually and physically).
I live for the weekends because that is when I see these people.
This is when I feel whole.
When I feel loved.
And when I am in my forties, or in my sixties, I will remember. And hopefully still be experiencing the love of these children of God.
Words will never be adequate.
But this is my love letter to you... my brothers and sisters.
You have stolen my heart.
Not for some reasons you might think.
Not because I don't have to work.
Or because of bars and clubs and late nights.
No.
Because of my family.
Because of nights like last night.
At the end of twenty-four hours devoted to talking to Jesus...
we gathered.
Breaking bread.
Or... cutting mushrooms and rolling out pizza dough.
And we ate together.
And gathered around a precious brother who will soon leave us for a whole year.
And I sat back and watched as the sun set and eight brothers and sisters danced in the streets until twilight.
I know I will never forget these years.
Or these people who have been my dearest friends, my closest loves, my family for the past twelve months.
So often relationships spin their wheels - splattering mud but never gaining ground.
But we have been blessed.
And our Father is blessing us with more.
As new family members join, I am amazed at their confusion.
"Family? I'm family? But I've only hung out with you all a few times..." And we just shrug.
We fall in love easily around here.
I thank God every day for the brothers I always wanted but never had. The men I see growing into men after God's own heart. The handsome men I'm proud to call my family - the character I see building. The ways they make me laugh, feel safe, and protected...
And I laugh, knowing that it was always God's intention for the women in my life to outnumber the men. I already have three wonderful sisters. But the Father has added almost a dozen more. Women I admire, who I love with all my heart. Women I dance with and joke with and stretch with (spiritually and physically).
I live for the weekends because that is when I see these people.
This is when I feel whole.
When I feel loved.
And when I am in my forties, or in my sixties, I will remember. And hopefully still be experiencing the love of these children of God.
Words will never be adequate.
But this is my love letter to you... my brothers and sisters.
You have stolen my heart.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Dizzy
The word equilibrium has been finding me everywhere I turn.
In uncle's blogs and anatomy books and Sunday morning messages.
This morning at Southland, Jon was talking about community. About how by not living in community, we are denying our purpose. We are denying the purpose we were created for.
Shalom. We all have heard this word - the greeting. We know it as meaning "peace be with you" or "go in peace".
Jon unpacked this Hebrew word this morning. We translate it in english as one of those two phrases. But translated literally, it means "equilibrium". A balance. Nothing missing. Nothing broken.
We, the church, are an "outpost of the kingdom of heaven". The force that restores balance. There is peace in heaven. There is peace found in our Father. If we are called to bring heaven to earth, and are created in His image, this is our calling.
I was sitting in church, thinking about this. Thinking about what happens when our equilibrium is thrown off.
Spinning.
Faster and faster.
And something makes us stop.
And we fall over.
Dizzy.
Nothing makes sense. We lose our direction. We lose our bearings.
As the church, we are called to take the shoulders of the dizzy, hold the faces of the disoriented. Calm their spinning worlds. Bring the pieces back together in acts of restoration.
Until the fluid in our spiritual ears is brought back to balance.
How often do we find ourselves without shalom?
Without peace. In a broken place. Dizzy and wobbling, wishing the world wouldn't spin so fast.
Shalom. Shalom.
Peace be with you.
In uncle's blogs and anatomy books and Sunday morning messages.
This morning at Southland, Jon was talking about community. About how by not living in community, we are denying our purpose. We are denying the purpose we were created for.
Shalom. We all have heard this word - the greeting. We know it as meaning "peace be with you" or "go in peace".
Jon unpacked this Hebrew word this morning. We translate it in english as one of those two phrases. But translated literally, it means "equilibrium". A balance. Nothing missing. Nothing broken.
We, the church, are an "outpost of the kingdom of heaven". The force that restores balance. There is peace in heaven. There is peace found in our Father. If we are called to bring heaven to earth, and are created in His image, this is our calling.
I was sitting in church, thinking about this. Thinking about what happens when our equilibrium is thrown off.
Spinning.
Faster and faster.
And something makes us stop.
And we fall over.
Dizzy.
Nothing makes sense. We lose our direction. We lose our bearings.
As the church, we are called to take the shoulders of the dizzy, hold the faces of the disoriented. Calm their spinning worlds. Bring the pieces back together in acts of restoration.
Until the fluid in our spiritual ears is brought back to balance.
How often do we find ourselves without shalom?
Without peace. In a broken place. Dizzy and wobbling, wishing the world wouldn't spin so fast.
Shalom. Shalom.
Peace be with you.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Kleenex
I do believe I gave myself until Saturday to shed these tears.
But they did not come until this morning.
I got to service at Southland and sat down to listen to a sermon about Worship.
Everything was fine. I sat in the chair watching all the people around me. The babies and the couples and the groups of friends. This morning I could pick the freshmen out of the crowd... and my eyes kept searching for someone familiar.
No one in particular. Maybe someone I didn't even know. Just someone familiar. Am I the only one who does that? The one that feels lonely in a crowd. Even a crowd whose arms are as widely outstretched as the family of Southland? I have a sneaking suspicion all I'd have to do is reach out once ... that would be all it would take.
But most days I don't have that courage.
The couple who sat in front of me caught my eye. She was cute and curvy with beautiful curly hair and a sweet face. He adored her. BIg tall strong man, reaching out to touch her shoulder whenever he could.
And I felt a twinge of jealousy. I pushed it away. It was unwarranted, unnecessary. I replaced it with a certain joy for the couple... a silent prayer that he would continue to touch her that way. That she would continue to smile.
The sermon, to a certain extent, wasn't anything extraordinary. Worship, in the greek, comes from a word that means "to kiss towards" or "to bow down before". It is not about singing. Or whether there are drums on the stage or hymnals in the pews.
Jon started talking, then, about what we do with our hands when we worship.
He made jokes and drew comparisons and explanations.
Then he got to how we raise our hands high, palms outstretched.
And he said...
"This is my little girl when she's tired and needs to know that it is safe to go to sleep."
"Or my son when we falls off the bike and scrapes his knee. It's real pain. But he needs to know that there is someone bigger than himself to make it better."
And the tears came.
Unbidden.
Out of nowhere.
I thought about my sister as a baby who used to stand with her arms outstretched, scrunching her fingers. "Uppy", she would said. She wanted to be picked up. To be held.
Usually I am able to control my tears. They stay fairly under my control, just sliding down my cheeks, making my eyes glisten. Most of the time I stay fairly composed.
But they got to my lungs this time.
And rolled down my neck.
And fell on my lips.
I sniffled, but otherwise remained silent. Face soaked and shoulders shaking.
I don't really know why. And even as I write this I feel them coming back... pushing at my eyelids and my throat. They are not spent yet. They'll come again.
I prayed. Or... groaned, hoping the holy spirit would pray for me. So often my words fall short of anything coherent. Sentences refuse to form and my mind hits a wall, and I know the words I know are not enough. So I say I'm sorry and rest in the fact that the Lord knows my heart... and knows what I'm trying to say. Even when I can't.
When we were done praying I raised up to find the sweet girl in front of me reaching over the chair to hand me two tissues.
Part of me was mortified.
I had forgotten I was surrounded by hundreds of people.
Forgotten they could see me.
But she didn't say a word.
She didn't look at me like I was crazy. Or ask to lay hands on me or even ask if I was okay.
No.
She did exactly what she needed to do.
She gave me something I needed.
In the midst of feeling lonely and overwhelmed and far too small...
God reminded me that I could be seen.
So I used one tissue and tucked the other one in my Bible.
And I plan to keep it there.
But they did not come until this morning.
I got to service at Southland and sat down to listen to a sermon about Worship.
Everything was fine. I sat in the chair watching all the people around me. The babies and the couples and the groups of friends. This morning I could pick the freshmen out of the crowd... and my eyes kept searching for someone familiar.
No one in particular. Maybe someone I didn't even know. Just someone familiar. Am I the only one who does that? The one that feels lonely in a crowd. Even a crowd whose arms are as widely outstretched as the family of Southland? I have a sneaking suspicion all I'd have to do is reach out once ... that would be all it would take.
But most days I don't have that courage.
The couple who sat in front of me caught my eye. She was cute and curvy with beautiful curly hair and a sweet face. He adored her. BIg tall strong man, reaching out to touch her shoulder whenever he could.
And I felt a twinge of jealousy. I pushed it away. It was unwarranted, unnecessary. I replaced it with a certain joy for the couple... a silent prayer that he would continue to touch her that way. That she would continue to smile.
The sermon, to a certain extent, wasn't anything extraordinary. Worship, in the greek, comes from a word that means "to kiss towards" or "to bow down before". It is not about singing. Or whether there are drums on the stage or hymnals in the pews.
Jon started talking, then, about what we do with our hands when we worship.
He made jokes and drew comparisons and explanations.
Then he got to how we raise our hands high, palms outstretched.
And he said...
"This is my little girl when she's tired and needs to know that it is safe to go to sleep."
"Or my son when we falls off the bike and scrapes his knee. It's real pain. But he needs to know that there is someone bigger than himself to make it better."
And the tears came.
Unbidden.
Out of nowhere.
I thought about my sister as a baby who used to stand with her arms outstretched, scrunching her fingers. "Uppy", she would said. She wanted to be picked up. To be held.
Usually I am able to control my tears. They stay fairly under my control, just sliding down my cheeks, making my eyes glisten. Most of the time I stay fairly composed.
But they got to my lungs this time.
And rolled down my neck.
And fell on my lips.
I sniffled, but otherwise remained silent. Face soaked and shoulders shaking.
I don't really know why. And even as I write this I feel them coming back... pushing at my eyelids and my throat. They are not spent yet. They'll come again.
I prayed. Or... groaned, hoping the holy spirit would pray for me. So often my words fall short of anything coherent. Sentences refuse to form and my mind hits a wall, and I know the words I know are not enough. So I say I'm sorry and rest in the fact that the Lord knows my heart... and knows what I'm trying to say. Even when I can't.
When we were done praying I raised up to find the sweet girl in front of me reaching over the chair to hand me two tissues.
Part of me was mortified.
I had forgotten I was surrounded by hundreds of people.
Forgotten they could see me.
But she didn't say a word.
She didn't look at me like I was crazy. Or ask to lay hands on me or even ask if I was okay.
No.
She did exactly what she needed to do.
She gave me something I needed.
In the midst of feeling lonely and overwhelmed and far too small...
God reminded me that I could be seen.
So I used one tissue and tucked the other one in my Bible.
And I plan to keep it there.
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