"The right thing to do, according to Jesus, is never the easy thing. It's never the most convenient of expedient thing; it's always a little more difficult. Christianity demands something that the world would never ask of you." -- Matthew Sleeth, Serve God, Save the Planet, as referenced in Relevent Magazine "Trade In The Lies", Nov/Dec 08
I know this will be a running blog post, which I will make much more clear and fix at other dates.... but the convinction in me calls me now to start writing it.
Ignorance is one thing. And yes, I do believe at many times, ignorance is bliss.
But when you are not ignorance any more, I believe you are held accountable and responsible for the things that you know.
When you are not ignorant to slave labor, when you are not ignorant to trade practices, when you are not ignorant to abuse, when you are not ignorant to poverty, when you are not ignorant to the injustices in this world... you are held accountable.
One day, we will meet Jesus and be accountable for the life we lived on this earth. And in that day, we need to be able to stand free of the convictions that have compelled us on this earth. We need to be able to stand with our Bible planted firmly against us, quoting the words of Isaiah and the prophets and Jesus alike, demanding that we speak up for injustices.
It is one thing to be ignorant, it is another to know.
To know the facts, the faces, the statistics, the stories. And still turn a blind eye to them. To still shop at that store, to still carry a racists tune, to still turn a deaf ear, to still gorge ourselves in ourselves.
To know is to be held accountable. To stand knowing you are the face of justice, you are the wall which speaks. The voice which calls and beckons, or the face of righteaous anger. You are the justice which is held accountable for righting the wrongs in this world.
To be ignorant is one thing.
To be aware and unashamed or live without conviction and still make the choices is another.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Snapshot.
Thank you, my friends Bekah & Kate, for a snapshot of all things good tonight. :) Of flatbread speckled with cajun chicken, garlic, cheeses, and spreads. Of laughter about mall dressing rooms, blog-stalking, and our obsession with lotions. Of giving into our Dutch cheapness while craving Coldstone, which comes especially funny after a decently elegent dinner with wine. :) Of sharing your lives with me ~ the sincere, the funny, the prayful, the playful, the warmth under lights, the cold blustery snow. Thank you for the goodness you bring to my life all year round. And the snapshot of that tonight. You bless me.
Incarnate The Truth.
Tonight on my drive home I heard Chuck Swindoll preaching on three words. Three words that he said he heard as a young lad and that have continued to topple around in his mind many days. "Incarnate the Truth." He spoke about these words, giving depth to their language and adding Biblical background for the phrase. That you can talk about love, faith, etc. all you want, but until you see it in the flesh, it has no meaning. That we speak of faith, but when it is played out in the biography of Abraham, that faith becomes a living being who then has the opening to speak into our lives. And the same with lust and Samson, warrior and Braveheart, obediance and Ruth. And so tonight as I tuck away for bed, these words now ring in my head. Do I 'incrarnate the Truth'? What does it look like to do this? How do I 'incarnate the Truth' as I know it: Jesus Christ, the living gospel? Do I incarnate Truth to my students, to my friends, to my family? With these thoughts, I tuck away....
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Greater Is He.
"I'll rise
Out of these ashes
I'll rise...
Greater is He
Who is in Me..."
~Shawn McDonald "Rise"
These words washed over me tonight. Shawn talked about them, explaining them with far more precision, depth, meaning, and understanding than I can attempt to bring in my monologue, his husky voice protruding far past the lyrics and through the hallowed out crevices in his soul where the Holy Spirit has carved out space and moves within.
But to me the words were awash with a reminder. That greater is he who is in me. That the things I toil after and feel so tired from, the things that exhort all energy and enthusiasm, the things that lure me and lurk after my soul, the things which chase me down until I am crumpled at his feet... These are the things that are the human of me. The things that are woman, are feminine, are the points of my life in which I am not physically able to exhurt more than I have offered.
But he who is in me is greater. He who is in me pulls from the depths and comes up triumphant. He who is in me is the constant Creator, the orchestrator of lessons. He who is in me holds control of every classroom he has materialized. He who is in me is the justice that fights for the inferiations, the passion that pours forth like colors erupting, the tender heart who snuggles ones close. He who is in me is the greatest goods. The greatest things that are in me which could ever be shown to mankind. These great things that I think I possess at some points, are him. It is he who is in me who shows himself in these forms!
And when I am dry, when I am weary, when I emptied of all passion, fight, and tenderness... He is still in me. He is my rest. He is my place of quiet, of solitude, of arms held wide. He is in me in my emptiness. He who is in me will use this vessel of emptied me in the world. And he will come forth, once again, like the dawn, and spill in full, fluid, flooding motion.
Out of these ashes
I'll rise...
Greater is He
Who is in Me..."
~Shawn McDonald "Rise"
These words washed over me tonight. Shawn talked about them, explaining them with far more precision, depth, meaning, and understanding than I can attempt to bring in my monologue, his husky voice protruding far past the lyrics and through the hallowed out crevices in his soul where the Holy Spirit has carved out space and moves within.
But to me the words were awash with a reminder. That greater is he who is in me. That the things I toil after and feel so tired from, the things that exhort all energy and enthusiasm, the things that lure me and lurk after my soul, the things which chase me down until I am crumpled at his feet... These are the things that are the human of me. The things that are woman, are feminine, are the points of my life in which I am not physically able to exhurt more than I have offered.
But he who is in me is greater. He who is in me pulls from the depths and comes up triumphant. He who is in me is the constant Creator, the orchestrator of lessons. He who is in me holds control of every classroom he has materialized. He who is in me is the justice that fights for the inferiations, the passion that pours forth like colors erupting, the tender heart who snuggles ones close. He who is in me is the greatest goods. The greatest things that are in me which could ever be shown to mankind. These great things that I think I possess at some points, are him. It is he who is in me who shows himself in these forms!
And when I am dry, when I am weary, when I emptied of all passion, fight, and tenderness... He is still in me. He is my rest. He is my place of quiet, of solitude, of arms held wide. He is in me in my emptiness. He who is in me will use this vessel of emptied me in the world. And he will come forth, once again, like the dawn, and spill in full, fluid, flooding motion.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
And They'll Wave To You
Put your pretty dress on
It's time for you to go to the dance
Tie your hair in ribbons and lace
And wear pearls 'round your neck
All the pretty princes will see you
All the pretty princes will see you
Someday, someday...
And they'll wave to you
And they'll wave to you
~ Rosie Thomas "Pretty Dress"
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Wound of Grief.
For most of my life, I have been sheltered from death. I mean sheltered in a real, true way. In the way that I was unable to know the depth of sorrow and pain that such deep loss brings. In a way that held me distant from experiencing death as others experienced it. My great-grandparents died in my teen years, but there is still a distance in their passing.
But this year has been different. This year, the thought of it brings memories flooding back and feelings I can't escape from. It brings all the sights and images to mind, the true intensity of grief, and the bleak stare at times as I aim to see through the fog at hope.
My grandpa died last year. Eighty years old of a heart attack. He drove himself and my grandma to the hospital in the midst of it. I still remember the day exactly. Everything about it, from the phone calls, to walking down the hospital halls in confidence, to feeling a literal tidal wave of emotion nail me against the wall as I came to his waiting room. I can remember crying so uncontrolably that I couldn't get my shoulders to stop heaving. The faces... the hugs... the waiting... the last moments I spent tucked inside his hospital room, just him and me, holding his hand and talking to his so gingerly that I knew sacred space was made.
This past September/October, I lost a student. He was the first person under the age of 80 that I had a relationship with whose body no longer splashes in waves. I will never forget standing in the greeting line, unable to look at the faces of his friends in fear of sharing too much of my own grief, or walking my students to the funeral of their friend. The impact of his life, and his death, walks with me nearly every day still, 2 months later. I can't begin to describe it, nor will I try, simply for confidentiality sake... But even as his teacher, it still hurts me more than I am able to admit.
And today, I lost another man. He's my great-uncle, but holds more significance than that title grants [my grandparents on that side died before I was born, so he lingered a bit in their place.] We used to sing them Christmas caroles, eat Werthers caramels, go to the park, and be covered in their prayers. He and his wife [who is still living] truly capture the title of saint. I mourn for him, though I know it was his time and he is with Jesus.
Still, that dull ache is the reopening of a wound. The wound of grief. I wonder if it ever truly heals... or if life simply canters on... and we are stitched and opened, stitched and opened.
[This posting surrounded with grief mimicks several of my friends, who have lost loved ones one after another. With you my friends, I linger at your side.]
But this year has been different. This year, the thought of it brings memories flooding back and feelings I can't escape from. It brings all the sights and images to mind, the true intensity of grief, and the bleak stare at times as I aim to see through the fog at hope.
My grandpa died last year. Eighty years old of a heart attack. He drove himself and my grandma to the hospital in the midst of it. I still remember the day exactly. Everything about it, from the phone calls, to walking down the hospital halls in confidence, to feeling a literal tidal wave of emotion nail me against the wall as I came to his waiting room. I can remember crying so uncontrolably that I couldn't get my shoulders to stop heaving. The faces... the hugs... the waiting... the last moments I spent tucked inside his hospital room, just him and me, holding his hand and talking to his so gingerly that I knew sacred space was made.
This past September/October, I lost a student. He was the first person under the age of 80 that I had a relationship with whose body no longer splashes in waves. I will never forget standing in the greeting line, unable to look at the faces of his friends in fear of sharing too much of my own grief, or walking my students to the funeral of their friend. The impact of his life, and his death, walks with me nearly every day still, 2 months later. I can't begin to describe it, nor will I try, simply for confidentiality sake... But even as his teacher, it still hurts me more than I am able to admit.
And today, I lost another man. He's my great-uncle, but holds more significance than that title grants [my grandparents on that side died before I was born, so he lingered a bit in their place.] We used to sing them Christmas caroles, eat Werthers caramels, go to the park, and be covered in their prayers. He and his wife [who is still living] truly capture the title of saint. I mourn for him, though I know it was his time and he is with Jesus.
Still, that dull ache is the reopening of a wound. The wound of grief. I wonder if it ever truly heals... or if life simply canters on... and we are stitched and opened, stitched and opened.
[This posting surrounded with grief mimicks several of my friends, who have lost loved ones one after another. With you my friends, I linger at your side.]
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Spiritual Buffalo
Once again, why I love Sara Groves. I copied and pasted this from her website as it hit me squarely and truly, again putting words to my thoughts. Especially after conflicting conversations about "Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger" (by Ron Sider), use of time, etc. Thank you, Sara, for speaking out.
"There is a scene in the movie Dances with Wolves where the Sioux are on a much anticipated buffalo hunt. As they come up over a hill, they are shocked to see a field full of buffalo carcasses. The tragedy of that moment is that where the Sioux use every piece of the buffalo—the bladder holds water, the bone makes a tool, the skin is a covering for a tent- whoever has done this has taken the best part of the buffalo for himself and has left everything else to waste. There is no way to make good use of all that is lying in this field.
I was so convicted when I went to Africa that I am not using all of my spiritual buffalo. I have developed this one side of my personal relationship with God. I go to church, I have incredible worship, and I listen to incredible speakers. I have money to buy devotionals, and leisure time to do those devotionals. I have spent a lifetime grooming a personal faith in Christ, but have I been taking the best piece of the buffalo for myself? There has been a joy in discovering the good use of my life. There is a reciprocal redemption that happens when we enter into stories of helping our neighbor—not just around the world, but in our own communities. When I came home from Africa, instead of feeling guilty for my life, I began to hear God in a very clear way say, ‘that thing carries water, that thing makes a tool, that is covering for a tent.’ There is a beauty to the good use of a life, and to the acknowledgment that everything you have and do has a Kingdom purpose."
"There is a scene in the movie Dances with Wolves where the Sioux are on a much anticipated buffalo hunt. As they come up over a hill, they are shocked to see a field full of buffalo carcasses. The tragedy of that moment is that where the Sioux use every piece of the buffalo—the bladder holds water, the bone makes a tool, the skin is a covering for a tent- whoever has done this has taken the best part of the buffalo for himself and has left everything else to waste. There is no way to make good use of all that is lying in this field.
I was so convicted when I went to Africa that I am not using all of my spiritual buffalo. I have developed this one side of my personal relationship with God. I go to church, I have incredible worship, and I listen to incredible speakers. I have money to buy devotionals, and leisure time to do those devotionals. I have spent a lifetime grooming a personal faith in Christ, but have I been taking the best piece of the buffalo for myself? There has been a joy in discovering the good use of my life. There is a reciprocal redemption that happens when we enter into stories of helping our neighbor—not just around the world, but in our own communities. When I came home from Africa, instead of feeling guilty for my life, I began to hear God in a very clear way say, ‘that thing carries water, that thing makes a tool, that is covering for a tent.’ There is a beauty to the good use of a life, and to the acknowledgment that everything you have and do has a Kingdom purpose."
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Trichotomy.
If this is a word, I'm using it. There is dichotomy, so why not trichotomy? :)
I read a question yesterday and it struck me. I wondered the answer to it...
"If you could attempt to do anything and not fail, what would you do?"
So it was our question of the night, last night. We all threw out our dreams and ideas and what things beckon our heart that we always wonder if we'll really be able to do... [though Laura, I'm not sure flying really counts! :) ]
As usual, I could not answer this question straight. There seems to always be a lot of history, experience, and perspective in such a question. And therefore, there were three responses that all lept into my head at the same time.
1) Go to Kenya. I would work among the women there, teaching them. I feel really strongly about using this gift and working with community development through women. Perhaps teaching about health care, family care, economics, or even English in the remote places. I'd pack up my belongings and go. Be with them, sing with them, see God in them. I'd partner with World Vision / Women of Vision, or some other respected and relief, faith-based organization, and I'd go.
2) I'd move back to North Carolina. I'd live amongst the things and places I've come to know and love so dearly, I carry them like a warm sweatshirt around my heart. The minute I touch the soil there, it feels like home. The sprawling trees, the highways lined with flowers blooming red. The mountains winding with trails waiting to be adventured. The southern drawl on the lips. The places of SouthPark and Matthews. The people who have carried me in my friendship there, from teachers to Young Lifers to my coffee shop friends to my "Charleston Retreat" favs.
I'd move back to North Carolina and I'd teach. For a few years, in a public school. Maybe even with Teach for American (again?). I'd put my heart and life on the line and see if I could do it. Reach back into the inner-city and stretch out to those kids. Or maybe even just a public school on the outskirts, like Indian Trail, and try my hand there. And then maybe someday join a ministry more particularly. If I could not fail, and I could not hurt those I love here in MI, I'd move back to the Carolinas.
3) I'd start foster care. I'd take the children into my home and welcome them. I'd buy them clothes, take them to the bookstore, sing them hymns at night. I'd pray over them, hug them, feed them, welcome them. I'd spread open my home, my heart, my schedule, and I would dive into loving this child (probably young) with all that I am. I'd be a safe haven, if only for a time, and let the love of Jesus pour out of me and into his children. I know there are complications, and things that would be so hard and challenging, but I'm willing, perhaps I want, to give up my own selfish time to spend into another. I know there are the babysitters to hire, the two-parent issue, the Saturday morning cartoons, the vacations I won't be able to just pack up and take... But if I could do it whole-heartidly, and not fail, I'd open my home and heart to foster care.
The difficulty, is none of these really mix. Even geographically, they stare at each other from separate plateaus. How does one "pick" which way to step forward? I do all the research, ask all the questions, wait, wait, wait... and pray... but I am still here, doing what I am doing. So Lord, until you say otherwise, I will wait. I teach, I dig in here in GR, and I wait. "Wait for the Lord, be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord." Psalm 27:14.
I read a question yesterday and it struck me. I wondered the answer to it...
"If you could attempt to do anything and not fail, what would you do?"
So it was our question of the night, last night. We all threw out our dreams and ideas and what things beckon our heart that we always wonder if we'll really be able to do... [though Laura, I'm not sure flying really counts! :) ]
As usual, I could not answer this question straight. There seems to always be a lot of history, experience, and perspective in such a question. And therefore, there were three responses that all lept into my head at the same time.
1) Go to Kenya. I would work among the women there, teaching them. I feel really strongly about using this gift and working with community development through women. Perhaps teaching about health care, family care, economics, or even English in the remote places. I'd pack up my belongings and go. Be with them, sing with them, see God in them. I'd partner with World Vision / Women of Vision, or some other respected and relief, faith-based organization, and I'd go.
2) I'd move back to North Carolina. I'd live amongst the things and places I've come to know and love so dearly, I carry them like a warm sweatshirt around my heart. The minute I touch the soil there, it feels like home. The sprawling trees, the highways lined with flowers blooming red. The mountains winding with trails waiting to be adventured. The southern drawl on the lips. The places of SouthPark and Matthews. The people who have carried me in my friendship there, from teachers to Young Lifers to my coffee shop friends to my "Charleston Retreat" favs.
I'd move back to North Carolina and I'd teach. For a few years, in a public school. Maybe even with Teach for American (again?). I'd put my heart and life on the line and see if I could do it. Reach back into the inner-city and stretch out to those kids. Or maybe even just a public school on the outskirts, like Indian Trail, and try my hand there. And then maybe someday join a ministry more particularly. If I could not fail, and I could not hurt those I love here in MI, I'd move back to the Carolinas.
3) I'd start foster care. I'd take the children into my home and welcome them. I'd buy them clothes, take them to the bookstore, sing them hymns at night. I'd pray over them, hug them, feed them, welcome them. I'd spread open my home, my heart, my schedule, and I would dive into loving this child (probably young) with all that I am. I'd be a safe haven, if only for a time, and let the love of Jesus pour out of me and into his children. I know there are complications, and things that would be so hard and challenging, but I'm willing, perhaps I want, to give up my own selfish time to spend into another. I know there are the babysitters to hire, the two-parent issue, the Saturday morning cartoons, the vacations I won't be able to just pack up and take... But if I could do it whole-heartidly, and not fail, I'd open my home and heart to foster care.
The difficulty, is none of these really mix. Even geographically, they stare at each other from separate plateaus. How does one "pick" which way to step forward? I do all the research, ask all the questions, wait, wait, wait... and pray... but I am still here, doing what I am doing. So Lord, until you say otherwise, I will wait. I teach, I dig in here in GR, and I wait. "Wait for the Lord, be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord." Psalm 27:14.
Lonelines, A Poverty.
We have been talking this weekend a lot about loneliness. Times where we we've faced it, times we have known it. And how very difficult, how very awful, it is.
Mother Teresa wrote, "It is easy to think of the poverty far away and forget very quickly. Today a great disease is that feeling of terrible loneliness, the feeling of being unwanted, having forgotten what human joy is, what the human feeing is of being wanted or loved. I think this is found in very well-to-do families also. We may not have people hungry for a plate or for a piece of bread in [the West] but there is a tremendous hunger and a tremendous feeling of unwantedness everywhere. And that is really a very great poverty."
“In the West there is loneliness, which I call the leprosy of the West. In many ways it is worse than our poor in Calcutta.” ”
"We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.”
These strong words cause me to pause, listen, look around, and think. What does this mean for me? What does this mean for us as Christians? Is, perhaps, the suburbs just as craving as a place as the countries we send our missionaries too? Is it a mission field in itself that we simply need to take much more seriously?
I have a theory on coffee shops. I think people go there simply because of this loneliness. Surely, we all like a good gourmet coffee now and again, or will meet a friend to chat.... But on the larger scale, we go to have people around. We pack our computers, our books, our journals, our selves, and sit by ourselves yet humanly need people around us.
In the 1950s, people parked and walked outside to their house. Creating neighbors. Saying hi to their friends as they walked in. Nowdays, we park in our garages and never have to see a stranger as we walk into our homes. I've heard of people calling for ambulences simply to have someone show up at their house. Or widows who beg the "wrong number" caller to keep talking with them on the phone.
I myself, one day in North Carolina, arrived at coffee shop (Dillworths) with tears down my face on a Saturday afternoon, completely empty and broken to the point of my loneliness that I knew no where else to turn. So I drove, crying, and calling out to God in my pain. I ended up thinking of every way possible to talk with the group of girls, twentysomething age, who seemed to be linked in their friendships. Literally, my one comment, said from behind my lonely but nervous heart, started off friendships I still hold today. But that lonely Saturday is one I will never forget, nor the many others surrounding it. I can literally remember talking with my mom on the phone on one such Saturday and remarking that the only person that spoke with me all day was the guy at the photo shop.
This loneliness hurts. I wonder how many people in the West are in this state. And how do we as Christians enter into those places and walk with them, bringing the love of Jesus and community? Lord, send us in. Open the coffee shop conversations, make room in our hearts, invite space in our existing friendships to always add another chair around the table, sleeping bag in the room, or seat in the row. May this poverty be no longer empty pockets and empty hearts, but a cup that runneth over.
Mother Teresa wrote, "It is easy to think of the poverty far away and forget very quickly. Today a great disease is that feeling of terrible loneliness, the feeling of being unwanted, having forgotten what human joy is, what the human feeing is of being wanted or loved. I think this is found in very well-to-do families also. We may not have people hungry for a plate or for a piece of bread in [the West] but there is a tremendous hunger and a tremendous feeling of unwantedness everywhere. And that is really a very great poverty."
“In the West there is loneliness, which I call the leprosy of the West. In many ways it is worse than our poor in Calcutta.” ”
"We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.”
These strong words cause me to pause, listen, look around, and think. What does this mean for me? What does this mean for us as Christians? Is, perhaps, the suburbs just as craving as a place as the countries we send our missionaries too? Is it a mission field in itself that we simply need to take much more seriously?
I have a theory on coffee shops. I think people go there simply because of this loneliness. Surely, we all like a good gourmet coffee now and again, or will meet a friend to chat.... But on the larger scale, we go to have people around. We pack our computers, our books, our journals, our selves, and sit by ourselves yet humanly need people around us.
In the 1950s, people parked and walked outside to their house. Creating neighbors. Saying hi to their friends as they walked in. Nowdays, we park in our garages and never have to see a stranger as we walk into our homes. I've heard of people calling for ambulences simply to have someone show up at their house. Or widows who beg the "wrong number" caller to keep talking with them on the phone.
I myself, one day in North Carolina, arrived at coffee shop (Dillworths) with tears down my face on a Saturday afternoon, completely empty and broken to the point of my loneliness that I knew no where else to turn. So I drove, crying, and calling out to God in my pain. I ended up thinking of every way possible to talk with the group of girls, twentysomething age, who seemed to be linked in their friendships. Literally, my one comment, said from behind my lonely but nervous heart, started off friendships I still hold today. But that lonely Saturday is one I will never forget, nor the many others surrounding it. I can literally remember talking with my mom on the phone on one such Saturday and remarking that the only person that spoke with me all day was the guy at the photo shop.
This loneliness hurts. I wonder how many people in the West are in this state. And how do we as Christians enter into those places and walk with them, bringing the love of Jesus and community? Lord, send us in. Open the coffee shop conversations, make room in our hearts, invite space in our existing friendships to always add another chair around the table, sleeping bag in the room, or seat in the row. May this poverty be no longer empty pockets and empty hearts, but a cup that runneth over.
Snuggled in Safety; Friendship.
My college friends are all still snuggled cozily in their beds, nestled between layers of blankets and the love that only these years of friendship entail. I wake this morning with thoughts treading through my head, and the gift of them in my house.
It is a gift, this sincereity of friendship. The hugs, the laughter, the questions we all ask each other. We continue to prod each other along. Seeking out the deepest heart of each other. Calling ones name even closer to the God of us all. How our layers all shed as we enter another's presense.
George Elliot once wrote: "Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keeping what is worth keeping, and then, with the breath of kindess, blow the rest away."
His words bring to language these friends of mine who savor their Saturday morning sleep. They are my "sifters", my safety. They are my sounding board. The are the ones who listen intently to my life ideas and offer only the needed remarks. They are the ones who press me to take the couragous way. Who challenge the ideals I thought were true. Who lead me on into to the Morning Light. They are my friends.
It is a gift, this sincereity of friendship. The hugs, the laughter, the questions we all ask each other. We continue to prod each other along. Seeking out the deepest heart of each other. Calling ones name even closer to the God of us all. How our layers all shed as we enter another's presense.
George Elliot once wrote: "Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keeping what is worth keeping, and then, with the breath of kindess, blow the rest away."
His words bring to language these friends of mine who savor their Saturday morning sleep. They are my "sifters", my safety. They are my sounding board. The are the ones who listen intently to my life ideas and offer only the needed remarks. They are the ones who press me to take the couragous way. Who challenge the ideals I thought were true. Who lead me on into to the Morning Light. They are my friends.
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