On 2009.

2009 has been a rough year, a sad year. A year of lots of transitions. Lots of hardships. And lots of changes for me and for my family. Truthfully, it has also been a year in which I have seen the blessings of the Lord in my life in some fruitful ways, but it will always be marked as a hard year, still, in my heart and mind.

But all in all, 2009 is done. Over. Emptied out of all of me.

I was writing about this today in my journal and noted:

"...everything I've been through still lingers. Because God doesn't work in in days, in years, in segments of time..."

Lord, enable me to keep trusting. Enable me to keep loving your grace and finding your compassion. Enable me to grasp and always see the blossoms and blooms more than the weeds and the thorns. And Lord, lay to rest this year.

His Hazelnut Coffee.

I'm sitting with my feet propped in front of the fire at Panera, my body cushioned in the big leather chair beneath me, and my fingers typing on the keys. My Bible and journal coat the table next to me, stacked underneath this phenomenal read of mine lately The Church Ladies by Lisa E. Samson. It beckons me. But I've got a Hazelnut coffee already dripping in me and a Cobblestone Muffin padding my morning caffeine. It's my favorite thing in the morning. To cove away at Panera in the quiet of others muffled voices, wrapping around me just like the soft blue of my new North Face fleece.

I've been thinking about lots of things. About starting my new journal endeavor: Letters to My Daughter, and waiting for just the right time to prime it. And thinking through the beauty of this Church Ladies novel, and how it calls all great literature and self from me. From its literary prose to its profound way of connecting women from the churches of Mount Oak and its dealing and walking with grief. It clamors me with its portrayal of mid-life women and marriages and the role of prayer. The role of prayer most of all. Of these women's Monday Nights prayer, propelled by the stirrings of a widow who knows nothing of shy, but outfront walks in the Lord's way and slowly ripples it into the lives of other women who simply are called to come and pray. To eat, fellowship, share the real, and pray. And I want that. I need that. I love that.

I've been thinking about scriptures and verses that are pricking and prodding at me. About Proverbs and Agur's straight words in Chapter 30 about children and fathers. About His Eye Is On The Sparrow and it's lyrics sung so evoking in Sister Act that it continues to linger in me and on my itunes. And how this book I'm reading pointed out and connected the verse of God watching the sparrow, and that in Matthew 10, He's watching the sparrow fall (p.102), but the Lord still knows the sparrow amidst the fall... and what that means to me.

I'm thinking about life and my responses to it. How to be in relationships and take responsibilities in it. How to garden my heart with good, and reap the harvest of what I choose to sew. How to walk carefully through it, learning to prune what needs to be prune, accept what weather and wisdom comes, even if it's not want I want to grow or want to hear. I've been learning to want to be wrong sometimes, and want to stand corrected. I've been asking my roommates to do so to me, and close friends, and a few relatives. To tell me not just what I want to hear, but what I need to hear. To call me out, even it if hurts both of us. I want to be someone who is willing to be jarred and slowly, though it takes time, learn to accept what is truth and wrestle with myself to cut away the pieces of me that prickle at it. I want to be someone who sees my own faults and my own defenses and my own hardened heart as much, or I should say, as more, than what I see others. And that when I tell stories, I tell not only my own part, but portray the whole of the story. In truth, also examining and giving what others may see in me and where I should stand corrected. I want to be someone who grows a garden and is willing to let grow what comes, to cut away the chaff, and to see the smallest of flowers that beckon to bloom along the way.

I am learning.

And God keeps cutting away the chaff. By use of himself and his people. For that, I am thankful. And will continue to be wanting of chiding and cutting until I am useful in His hands.

And I want to be someone who learns how to stand in the gap. How to stand in the gap for me, in myself, and for others. Who sees where others need me to stand in the gap of their lives, and protect and speak on their behalf. To acknowledge what is just in life and relationships and be a protector of them. And to do so also for myself and in my life. And to have the courage to take response to stand and bridge the gap myself when it is needed. Whether its what I want to do or not. But because it is what's right and honorable to do.

This long flow of words may be confusing to readers, but it is necessary for me. It is the words of my journal put to a much nicer, neater, flowing context that the last days of pages actually portray. It is the thoughts and stirrings of my heart through long hours driving, and moments of Garrett's napping, and me learning of what God is teaching me. It is the calm of my heart on this Panera morning, and letting the quiet of His hazelnut coffee speak to me.

Me, SunDried Tomatoes, & Home.

I know I am home when I am doing this: cooking with sun-dried tomatoes. They are my all-time favorite ingredient. And I know I am home in Charlotte, when I can buy them in bulk from a beautiful section of not just a grocery store, but Harris Teeter -- "my Harris Teeter" as I ordained it and later found that is also how it is marketed. To the point that I even had mom take my picture by 'my' Harris Teeter when she came to visit that May. So I went to Harris Teeter, the 'Taj ma Teeter' as it is coined in South Park, and bought sun-dried tomatoes in bulk.

Cooking with whole wheat pasta, organic chicken, and a smearing of garlic alfredo fused with oregano, basil, and a hefty amount of sun-dried tomato and garlic pesto, I elaborated on my pasta favorite and spooned it into my Italy bowl. Add a glass of Moscoto, a good napkin, and my winter burning candle 'warm vanilla and sugar', Alison Krauss, and writing again on this blog, and then I know, I'm home.

Song In The Battle.

"And this is my prayer in the battle

When triumph is still on it's way

I am a conqueror and co-heir with Christ

So firm on His promise I'll stand"

~ Desert Song, by Hillsong

And They Came.

Once again, I steal from Sara. In It's a Wonderful Life, George is at the bottom of his barrel and the uncle says to the villagers, "George is in trouble" and they came.

I am still struck by this craft. "And they came." Because all I see is the friends who flew in to care for the funeral. I don't think I'll ever get over this, or minimize its magnitude.

"And they came."

From Washington State, from California, from Colorado, from Indiana, from Illinois, from D.C. My friends, who have very little money, bought emergency plane tickets, booked it on over to Grand Rapids, and showed up for me. No mention of the cost. No care of the dollar. No concern about their work, their schedules, their own schemes and cares.

They simply, came.

I will never be given a more special gift. Some landed for less than twelve hours and saw none of their own friends or family while 'home'. One dear friend showed up with her mom, only for me to find that her mom had gone to visit her in D.C. and when they heard the news, they both booked tickets back to come and share with me.

I can't imagine. I can't ignore. I can't not see such a special gift. Such an imploring message of my friends. I would have never thought, I would have never expected. But I will never forget.

And so that line from the movie comes back through Sara Groves last night, and it is its own message marked clear. For when I think of it, I think of my friends, and I think:

And they came.

The Cot.

Sara Groves shared a statement from Rwanda: "You better have four good friends" because in Rwanda the ambulance consists of a cot with four friends that carry it.

She remarked on this cultural analogy, saying that we all must have these 'four good friends' because sometimes we all spend time in the cot, and sometimes we are the carrier of the cot.

I loved this encompassing picture of friendship. I love being able to be willing to be in the cot and accept and be loved by friends. And I pray some day I am strong enough to carry the cot too.

Estrangement & Awareness

I have never understood families that live with estrangement. Stories are told of sisters who don't talk to sisters, parents who don't talk to children, and relatives who purposefully don't see each other for years. I've heard good Christians remark on their own families with this same notion and always wonder what came to be and how they can live with the divide.

I am standing on this bridge of a change of phase in my life and reflect on this notion. I think I have never understood it because the family I grew up in lived with a great awareness of each other. We lived with a way that put the other, that put family, before the self. And this awareness called for compassion, consistency, caring, and a selfless desire to hope the best and care the best for the other. As decisions and thoughts were made and formed, it was always a family decision and nothing was made without the family in cohesion about it. We were a unit, one.

The starkest story to prove this point was my twenty second and twenty third birthdays. Both birthdays, I cried. The twenty second I was a college graduate, living under my parents roof, with no job. Feeling the void of leaving college life and seeming to have nothing to prove my worth as a result. So I struggled. Most people forgot it was my birthday, barely any cards or phone call received.

And I walked through the lodge house in the morning and mom was packing a cooler and dad was washing down the boat. Mom smiled and matter-of-factly stated, "Your dad was thinking about going boating today. We were thinking maybe of going to Gull Lake. What do you think?"

Dad wasn't thinking about boating. Dad was thinking about me. It was his way of caring and reaching out to me on my birthday. He knew that my favorite thing in the whole world was to go boating, especially on a different lake. So he passed it off as commonality, but really, it was his 'dad' way of caring beyond measure and lifting me out of my birthday and making it be special.

My twenty-third birthday was the same. Another year back under my parents roof, no friends around, a job quit and none ahead, and feeling like a failure. I remember saying "I don't even have a cool car to drive. I just wish there was something, anything, cool about me right now." But dad, once again, was hooking up the boat and just so 'decided' it might be a nice day and he was getting antsy and wanted to go boating on a different lake. So 'he just so happened' to put a few skis and life jackets in and mom 'just so happened' to pack some Diet Cokes and Doritos so we 'just so happened' to go boating on my birthday as a family of three.

These special memories of family awareness are held so special to me. A deep, caring sense of each other and each other's needs and talking and communication, and silent concerns shown through remarkable ways.

Other decisions were made and noted as such: curling in the family room to talk about how we all felt about changing churches when I was in elementary school, or touring a new house on Ivanrest to see how we all felt about moving.

But its this family awareness that is necessary, that keeps one together. Its the need for communication, care, and concern, that puts the other before the self. At any age, at any stage. It is this matter that makes all feel important, keeps estrangement at bay, and makes ones family feel like family.

Recapture My Sleep.

The last few weeks, I really haven't been sleeping at all. I wake up all through the night, sweat pouring from me, and rarely get enough slumber to go by. This past week, I've had several nights with two hours max of sleep, waking and rolling and sweating and puffing pillows over and over. I run a noise maker, take sheets off, sleep in less fabric, read, write... anything to try to get some rest. But still end up in a wade of sheets, my tank top drenched, and the blaring red of the alarm staring at me with numbers I don't want to see.

Finally, after the past night of less than two hours and cooking banana bread at 4 in the morning, I woke up with defeat about trying to slumber. NyQuil and other PM drugs just weren't cutting it.

So I prayed. I finally prayed and wrote down and surrendered myself to the Lord's plan for my rest and wrote and prayed: "Lord, recapture my sleep. Retake my nights."

And last night (though I did dose on more NyQuil) I slept. Thoroughly. From 10 pm to 7 am. With my sheets still in tact. And no sweat. Even wore flannel pajama pants (gifted from my roommate) and never sweated once. And woke up with the beautiful feeling of complete rest.

Lord, thank you for taking my sleep. For retaking my nights. For capturing my rest. I praise you.

Garrett Says...

Like the old saying and TV show Kids Say the Funniest Things, I copyright Garret Says the Funniest Things. I might be in trouble for "nanny exploitation" for sharing about him, but somehow, its worth it to make you smile :)

1) So the family cat has fleas. Yes, fleas! And I freak out about it. Long story short, the whole house has been invaded with fleas and I've been bitten like crazy. Anyway, after weeks, they finally took the family cat to the vet to get it treated. He (Eli) came back looking like this:

A couple days later, I was wearing my vest and at the end of the day, Garrett looked at me and said, "Is that Eli?" It took me and his mom a minute to understand and then we both burst in embarrassed and hilarious laughter. He thought we shaved off Eli and made his cat hair into the lining of my vest!

2) So when I got the news from my dad Friday about the trial (plea bargain), I teared up with relief and joy and was crying on the phone to my friends. Garrett, serious as can be, walked up to me on my knees and said, "Miss Christina, what is that coming out of your eyes?"

I just simply smiled and was touched and said, "Miss Christina is so happy that she is crying. Can you give Miss Christina a happy hug?" On which he complied. :)

3) He slipped his dad's size 13 brown woolen slippers on and heaved up the stairs. Literally with me laughing behind, his legs puffed and stretched to lift the massive shoes up and land them on the next step without falling over or loosing the slippers from his feet. And he said, "Look, I'm a man!" Right, Garret, right... :)

4) His parents keep plastic protective encasing on the doorknobs of the basement. Yesterday, he snuck it into his hamper instead and played a joke about 'where the doorknob could be'... He finally looked inquisitive and mischievously at me and said, "I think a monster came a took it off!" Oh, you are so silly!

Emergency Contact.

Ever been filled with tears filling out doctor's forms? I well up and burrow in denial, until that form faces me.

Emergency Contact: ______________ Phone: ________ Relationship: _______

After my mom died, I went to the doctors, and for about 4 months straight, just left it blank. Every time, the doctors and nurse and hospital staff asked about it, and I always just said I'd fill it in next time. And cry beneath my eyelids.

I don't have one. I don't have a mother. I don't have that automatic deferral of the person who loves you and cares for you. Who knows all about you and gets your emergency information.

I don't want my family to get another phone call like that, nor does our relationship spur 'emergency contact.' No spouse to defer to, no children to write in the blank. No one to fill in their name.

So I wrote down my aunt, and knew she'd oblige. We live states away but at least I know she could take the call if needed. She picks up her cell phone. Knows the medical lingo. And really, knows a lot about me now days too.

So today I finally put a name in. Almost 8 months later. And cried still. Sitting in the hospital room chair, and the doctors office corridor. Just a routine check-up appointment. But everything about it screams to be that nothing is any longer, routine. Because it sparks two things: 1) Emergency and 2) Contact. And leaves me hurt about both and neither.

Today I Feel...

"Today I Feel Silly (and other moods that make my day)" is a children's book by Jamie Lee Curtis. I've read it several times, and then again today to Garrett. But today I wanted to add my own post, or write my own version of this prose of poetry for myself.

Because today I feel... only qualifies on piece. It allows different emotions each day, which is a definite gift. But it also suggests or limits me to one emotion today.

If I were to re-write this book right now for myself, it would say:

Today I feel...
... sad
... laughing
... angry
... calm
... shut tight
... burdened
... snuggled
... loved
... lonesome
... sorrow
... betrayal
... giddy
... talkative
... dreamy
... enclosed

And the list would go on and on, each matched and paired with sentences and instances to collaborate the emotion with the spark that spurred it, or sometimes no spark at all, just the emotion over taken me as its self.

I don't want to be ruled by emotion. But at times, I also must honor them. I must honor them because it is often how God speaks to me. But I also must be aware of them because they are also something that get to me.

Some people say to shut them off, to let them out, to feel each pull and tug, or to just press forward. The suggestions are endless. However, right now, simply today I feel...

Wear Red.

I called my dad this morning and said:

Wear Red.

Because whenever he goes to a trial or lawyer meeting, we talk about what he should wear. Red is his favorite color, but until today, we always thought it was too flashy or too proud or too boasting or too attention-getting.

But today, I called at seven in the morning and said that I just had one thing to tell him about today:

Wear Red.

Because today was our day. Today he needed to walk in like he's got one more punch to throw. One more fist to fight with, and that guy had better watch out. Because today, he's got to walk in and let them know who owns the place and whose boss.

So today was a day to:

Wear Red.

Extinguish the Arrows.

"... take up the shield of faith,
with which you can extinguish
all the flaming arrows of the evil one..."
Ephesians 6:16

This verse is has such vivid picture imagery. Literally, 'flaming arrows'. Like watching a clip from First Knight or Braveheart or any of those other valiant, consuming, courage-requiring movies. Its such a powerful picture of the Devils piercing jabs. Intent. Hard-written. Striking to destroy. Poignant in perfect aim. Marked "to steal and kill and destroy" as John 10:10 writes it.

These verses have been prayed over me several times this fall. As deflective words. As passages pushed through the fist of the fight. As my friends and family taking up shield against and for me. To stand against the Devil's schemes.

His arrows are ignited. Fired. And often hitting. But I am thankful to this command of the Armor of God. That it is relevant, real, and mine for the grasping. That it is my duty to each morning, each new day, to grab and armor myself with the helmet of salvation, the sword of the spirit, the buckle of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, and cup my feet in the gospel of peace. I am thankful for fellow knights and soldiers who fit theirs with me, or hold up my sword of shield at times to deflect Satan from me.

This armor of God needs to be become more of me. It needs to be harder metal on my chest, and a larger shield in the clutch of my knuckles. It needs to become something more inward, too, that I see myself as strong enough to stand in it, like David as a child dressed in the large, mighty warriors wardrobe. But me wearing it and holding it and keeping it. Requiring the recognition of the Evil One. And being faithful and sustaining to deflect him. Because I am armored and confident and standing, in the Armor of God.

Aprons in Heaven.

I hope that there are aprons in heaven. If there are, my mom is wearing one. She probably already has a collection.

It just gives me hope to know that maybe there are aprons in heaven. I know then, that she is waiting there for me and will wipe her hands across the front pockets and then hug me as I arrive. Praise God for aprons in heaven.

On Wearing Black.

Enough said.

---
On Wearing Black
I was reading a book from a student; one paragraph caught my attention more than any other. Ever since, it has caused me to pause, ponder, and receive comfort that acknowledgement was given. It was the book Grieving the Loss of Someone You Love, by Raymond Mitsch and Lynn Brookside, where in the introduction, they discuss the process of grieving. I write the paragraph below:

There was a time, not so many generations ago, when people routinely

expected a family to "go into mourning" for a year or more after the death of

someone close. It was tradition for people to wear black for an entire year

following the death of a loved one. Wearing black was more than just a formality.

It was a way of reminding themselves and those around them that they were

still in a fragile state and needed to be treated with special regard.

This paragraph has soothed me and offered me a place to lay my burdens. It has allowed me to acknowledge my hurt, feel the space, and be okay with letting that rest.

It also burrows in me and furrows my brow... because of the needing of people to care, to be there, to not forget. The need for people to come beside, to do something, even if they don't know what to do. To simply not slide away or let me dangle. It is this which causes me to come to this writing, this cry, this statement on wearing black.

So into my mourning, my fragile state, my wearing black. My mother hated black. We had actually just talked about it the week before her death, how we both hate it. We both love color, a sign of life. So on the day of her funeral, us three girls were decked in brights -- whites, pinks, oranges, and an array of bursts even from the boy's shirts. We celebrated life, her life and the life given to us by the cross.

But as I read this paragraph from the book, it made me want to creep back into my closet and clothe myself in black. Not because I like the color, but because I need people to know and accept the fact that I am hurting.

I will continue to do my job. I will offer laughter where needed. I will feel joy where given. I will hug my nephew, swim in the sea, and sing with the chorus. I will not choose sorrow. But I will let it be. I will let it take me at times. I will let myself pause in the push of this world.

We offer 3 days (in American society) for the loss of a loved one. I took more. I will continue to do so, to guard myself against this world that expects me to just man-up and robot myself back into function.

There is pain. There is hurt. But there is joy, and there is laughter. What I need to know is that these are all okay... but that others still understand that, even when I am feeling fine and doing well, right now I am fragile. And wearing black.

Getty Music.

I fell in love with this couple artist down here. They are amazing. A mix of Irish Celtic music and modern worship put to hymns. They are the couple who wrote the popular "In Christ Alone." And this song, By Faith, is now a new favorite.

“By Faith”
Words and Music by Keith & Kristyn Getty & Stuart Townend

By faith we see the hand of God
In the light of creation’s grand design
In the lives of those who prove His faithfulness
Who walk by faith and not by sight.

By faith our fathers roamed the earth
With the power of His promise in their hearts
Of a holy city built by God’s own hand
A place where peace and justice reign.

Chorus:
We will stand as children of the promise,
We will fix our eyes on Him our soul’s reward
Till the race is finished and the work is done
We’ll walk by faith and not by sight.

By faith the prophets saw a day
When the longed-for Messiah would appear
With the power to break the chains of sin and death
And rise triumphant from the grave.

By faith the church was called to go
In the power of the Spirit to the lost
To deliver captives and to preach good news
In every corner of the earth.

By faith this mountain shall be moved
And the power of the gospel shall prevail
For we know in Christ all things are possible
For those who call upon His name.

Heritage of Faith.

I was praying earlier today, and then talking to my aunt about it later, and realize and recognize what heritage of faith I have.

When I think through my lineage, I am pounded with blessings of inspiring women who were so rooted that the family tree is bound into the ground so strong in faith that it cannot shift.

I think of women like my Great Aunt Mil. There is no one like her. She is the epitome of so much of a woman that I inspire to be. I hope I grow old like her, age like her, live like her. I hope I live in a way that blesses and counts blessings and seeings the mountains out my window rather than the drapes inside. That lives prayer, inspires prayer, and walks in prayer. That is a warrior of such in all kinds and definitions of the terms. That picks up her pen to write relatives and missionaries, still hand written notes though her hands are wilting aside. That honors me with her stories and words, and loves her family and grandchildren and nieces and nephews and myself with my cousins so commitidly that it is admirable. I hope I greet another as she on a cold Christmas day to carols with my hands clasped to my chest in thankful joy. I hope I remember and bake people's favorites pies and dishes, and still welcome anyone to my table. This woman is a saint, and no less. A woman of faith and prayer. A legacy I want to live.

Or my Granny Smith, my great-grandma, who in her nursing home would still always say with a smile that she was just waiting for God to take her home. Who's body had given way and yet whose soul was still strong with story and spirit. Who's soul was claimed by Christ immediately upon her arrival as her faith proved so deeply.

Or my mother. That woman no one could compare. Not enough words to describe her faith. Her morning rise to prayer. Her before-bus-stop huddles with us to pray in the mud room. Her prayers for me through the days, the dinner table. Or conversations, her Bible Studies, her taking people into her home. My mother knew God and loved God and lived with God. This woman of faith is my bedrock.

And now I look to others also. To people like my Smith aunts who hold so strongly and foundationally to their faith that they do not allow me to lack. That they call me out, call my strength out, and drill in me the power of faith and this heritage that I have.

When I was at South Christian, I sang on Grandparent's Day with three other friends, a quartet performance of "Find Us Faithful." As I write this blog down, and am grounded and reminded by these women (and others in my heritage) who live such a legacy of faith. And these lyrics come back to my head:

We're pilgrims on the journey
Of the narrow road
And those who've gone before us line the way
Cheering on the faithful, encouraging the weary
Their lives a stirring testament to God's sustaining grace

Surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses
Let us run the race not only for the prize
But as those who've gone before us
Let us leave to those behind us
The heritage of faithfulness passed on through godly lives

Chorus:
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fire of our devotion light their way
May the footprints that we leave
Lead them to believe
And the lives we live inspire them to obey
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful

After all our hopes and dreams have come and gone
And our children sift though all we've left behind
May the clues that they discover and the memories they uncover
Become the light that leads them to the road we each must find

Transforming Follower.

I have been listening to more sermons online than should ever be allowed. At five-thirty or six in the morning, I'm already in bed, several days in a row, trying to listen to sermons and examine websites to surf churches. Literally, it feels like church shopping.

As I sit here, even now typing this blog, another pastor is streaming online to me. But all of this compels me to look back at different churches that I've been too, and why I found that place or ended up there. Whether my Christian Reformed Church growing up, or Wesleyan church in college, or the United Methodist Church in Charlotte, or emergent Mars Hill church after that, or undenom Crossroads for the remainder, or Presbyterian churchs since then. And now I smile as I look at this list. Because it reminds me of what is important to me, and what my Grandma and I have always talked about. That denominations aren't my favorite, really at all. I kind of despise them, literally. (Its even how I ended up at Taylor -- because it was undenom.) And my Grandma and I used to always talk about this, how we don't like denominations, but we care more about the hearts and minds and grasping of the Bible and worship at a church than the rest.

And it has me thinking this morning of Crossroads. Because it is foundationally what I am looking for: a place of Transforming Followers of Jesus Christ. I loved the worship of Crossroads; I loved the people; I loved my Community Group. But what I loved more than anything was the testimonies of the Transforming Followers of Jesus Christ.

Nearly each week, someone would stand and give testimony of God's deliverance and active work in their life. Each week, it was a gift. A reminder of what God is doing, and can do, and has done in the lives of his people. A reminder of how he chases us and bumbles us down on the ground to himself. How he redeems us and exalts us and renews us and love us. It is a reminder that God, my God, is active and alive and transforming his followers still today.

There was nothing so active or encouraging in my life in a church than these blips of hope and joy and truth and reality of our God.

~
Back before I found Crossroads, I had mapped out major points for worship, for the pieces I am dedicating to commit to finding a church to:

1. Holy Spirit: an active recognition of the work of the Holy Spirit, and belief that he still works and is active and moving today in the world and in our lives.

2. Worship: that the worship (narrowing to music here, forgive me) rocks and moves my whole being, that simply being in the midst of the worship and music is an act of worship itself. (And, if I can be distinct, that it is full of praise and hymns and sung loud and boldly and joyfully with guitars and keyboards/piano, and whatever else leads the soul to proclaim the reality of the awe of God.)

3. Prayer: that it foundational. Essential. Recognized. The breath of the Church.

4. Community: that the church operates as the First Church of Acts. That they fellowship, give, live, share, and become a part of each other's lives. That the commitment is there to gather and carry each other in the mire and celebrate and rejoice with each other in the liberties. That hugs are given and intercepted amongst the Body.

5. Women's Ministry: that there is this element for me to be given fullness through. That it is a way to plug in for me, but also be ministered to. That I can connect with other women and be enveloped in and through them in my life.

6. Global Vision: that there is a commitment to the global world. That this element of missions is understandable and plottable. Truly, local mission is also important, but my heart is also to pursue the tangible, practical release of the "captives from prison" and Isaiah 61. Specifically and especially to Africa, Kenya.

As I continue to look ahead to find an "im"perfect church, I continue to look for the things listed above, but I also add this element: that it is a place of constant, continually, committed Christians who are compelled to be transforming followers of Jesus Christ.

~~~
P.S. If God has a sense of humor, I will end up at this church I am listening to now. Because it just so happens that the whole video/podcast is screaming Joshua 1: Be Strong and Courageous. :)

Covenant God.

I was standing in a wedding a summer ago, bright and cheery with a sunshine yellow dress beaming above black and white spectacular shoes and bright pink petals bursting in my hands. And one line startled me, and still stands out to me today:

"We covenant..."

It was their marriages vows. We covenant. I love this word picture, this symbolism and the depth of its meaning. Because, we do covenant.

To covenant is to surpass all other forms of dedication, promise, commitment, and ideal. To covenant is to give wholly, to supersede all else, to have a process of osmosis that blends such together that they are molded as one. A sealed pledge as dictionary.com states it.

I was listening this morning to my Beth Moore Bible Study: Believing God and this contract of covenant was listed again. In the word LORD, as in all capitals. When the word LORD is written as such in scripture, it is signaling the Yahweh, the God of the Hebrews, the Covenant God. It signifies that it is the God of I AM and the God Who IS. It pledges that we are God's and he is ours. The Covenant God.

I am captured and captivated by this pledge. By this statement and gift of knowing God and being bound and gifted unto him. That I am His and He is Mine. That beyond all else, He is mine and pledges to hold me in his grasp. Forever. Forever I remain in him and am sealed in the love and strength and of his Covenant. He will not, and does not let me go.

I am covenanted His.

I used to teach an Old Testament Bible class to my seventh graders. It began with the Covenant and ended with the the Covenant and this concept was the thread that strung everything together and held it through. God and his people. Covenanted together. From Abraham through Jesus, where He introduced a New Covenant.

I am in awe of this Covenant. I am embedded in it. I am bound by it, honored through it, grasped into it, and held tightly in it. I am covenanted to God. And he is covenanted to me.

He is my Covenant God. And I am Covenantly His.

Advent on a String.

In my room, there strings a long line of white, bird-stamped cards with gold etching. Each is clothes pined delicately in a row, and dangles in numerical succession. Champagne J.Crew ribbons dangle from each end, with their softness casting the simplest of poetic beauty to the chain of light.

It's a gift from my roommates. Twenty-eight numbered cards, each with personalized messages in scrawled handwriting. One for each day of advent.

They schemed behind my days and plotted their gift as a surprise, each dividing cards and ideas, to offer the blessing to me this season.

They knew this year would be hard.

But they intended to bring a small piece of light, of beauty to each of my days of advent. To offer grace, love, mercy, and care abounding during this season. To serve as infinite reminders that they are present and care.

The delicate notes paint everything from Puritan prayers to personal messages to personality traits they see in me. In their penmanship and partnership with me these days.

I am gifted by them. By the golden hue of birdsong cards. By the three women who crafted them.

Rebuke.

Explaining my frustration and escapade of the church/prayer situation last night, I was kindly rebuked and reminded of something Rob Bell spoke in a teaching years back. That if it is a church, the Holy Spirit is at work there. Therefore, one must not be critical or critiquing or hardened. It's okay to not attend there, but to outright judge or demean is to put down the name and people of Christ. This reminder, serving as a kind-hearted rebuke, was good for me. And for the Church.

Take Me As I Am.

I went to a church tonight. Everyone was dressed in their suits and ties still, at six pm. The lighting was spectacular, the hymns mimicking, and the area dignified with gold bows and ornamented wreaths. The sermon was on prayer. About how prayer is to be reverent, dignified, and the leader should speak slowly and precisely when conducting community prayer.

I leaned over to my friend and said, "Do they ever pray without being articulate here?"

She looked at me as if it was heresy to ask that.

And all the prayers were just that: articulate. They were precise, well-spoken, glorified in language, and pattern.

Anger boiled within me. Prickling through my furrowed brow and contorted face. The pastor quoted prayer passages from the Old Testaments and New, all of them rehearsed prayers and spoken at the synagogues and used as patterns for the congregation now to model.

A sermon on prayer. And no speaking of the Psalms. No honesty heart cry. No murmur or protruding screams of the soul. No deep movement of the Spirit.

Just reverence, rehearsal, precision. Well-spoken.

Surely, there is a time for this.

But there is also a time for heart cry, for blustering words, and moments of wordlessness.

This was me, this is me.

The close of the evening was for the suited, red-tied pastor to lead the congregation in corporate prayer, them echoing his sentiments on their own in the solitude that he left between sentences.

You cannot ask a girl who lost her mom to conjure perfect prayers. You cannot ask for words and sentences to be rehearsed so they sound well-spoken and refined.

I made it half way through the solitude/corporate prayer. Until I quietly, masked by a pleasant smile, dismissed myself from the pew, scrambled to my car, and fell apart with my head hitting the steering wheel, tears busheling down my painted cheeks and inaudible sounds screaming from my soul. I wrenched with tears, I wrenched with prayer.

Not dignified or refined. Not rehearsed or precise. Not well-spoken or beautified.

Just me. Cut out and dried, crying and bent over my steering wheel in the dark, shaken, angry, and heaving.

I sometimes wonder from an 'outsider' what it looks like to be in a church, what the reactions would be.... like what if I would have walked up their to the staged pulpit carved of perfectly sculpted wood and just fallen on my face or knees, and cried out right there in church with whines and my fallen self.

I would have like to see the startled faces and reaction of me, this women spread and fallen and crying in pained prayer.

I would have like to see this reaction. Take me as I am. As God does. As I am.

~~~
Amendment: I amend this post. Not to change my beliefs or thoughts. But to add an angle on the prism. I spoke this week with my community from this church and found their grace giving. Learning that my friend and I had misunderstood each other in my question about "articulate prayer" and that they believe that the elders would have come around me and wept with me in my distress... So I figured an amendment may be neccessary to temper my outrage.

Moving...Again.

I am so sick of moving. Moving is such a lonely feeling. Its packing alone, driving my car alone, driving a Budget truck alone. Making phone calls to find help alone. And getting little help, so still alone. (I did find someone finally, though, and he was a blessing and helped with a joyful, grateful heart.)

Moving is once again feeling lonesome. Feeling nomadic. Feeling like I'm still not established, and still wandering. Moving is seeing that my dreams seem to never embellish to reality.

Moving is more scratches on my furniture. More chunks missing from my favorite heirloom piece. More pieces of me left and discarded.

I realize I'm not alone. I realize people care and are helpful. And I love my roommates. But my stuff is scratched, it's still in the truck because I have no one to help me unload it, and it's another temporary living situation, again. So I will re go through all of this in another six months.

So, I'm discouraged and feeling it.

Miss Christina Bear

So Garrett and I have these funny moments together. One of them that has carried on was from a few weeks ago. I was walking with him through the park and he was laughing as I would run ahead and yell, "Run Garret Baer, Run!" and repeat this over and over as he would catch up and fall behind, catch up and fall behind.

His last name is Baer, so it fits perfectly.

But, little did that homonym transfer as he ran ahead finally and yelled, "Run, Miss Christina Bear, Run!"

And now, when we are laughing or when he is being silly, he always refers to be in his default as "Miss Christina Bear." How cute is that? :)

Damsel In Distress.

So here's my embarrassing moment of the week. So this guy I know overheard that I needed help moving. I am pretty embarrassed that I don't have even one person who is available on Wednesday to help, so I was asking at church yesterday morning to some friends. Anyway, so this guy overheard, and, despite me telling him I'd figure it out, decided tonight to e-mail all of his friends at the seminary and ask for help for me. So yes, I get this e-mail forwarded from one of them, letting me know that he pulled this crazy stunt. So sweet, yes. Thank you for being the church to me and getting me help. I'm laughing about it still now. :) But still, sending my name off to a bunch of seminary guys and then having them help me move, how embarrassing is that? :)

Make It Special.

As I approach these new holidays, I am trying to find ways to Make It Special for me. To add the simpilicies and details that enamor my heart and soul and make it smile. To create and embelish on new traditions for myself to carry over to neighbors and friends and dollup on every year.

So this year, so far, I'm starting with:

~ Buying a new, beautiful, wonderfully made Christmas stocking just for me. Maybe even splurge on something fantastic from Pottery Barn or another deeply invested store...

~ Celebrating with candles for each moment that I am home. Lighting them over breakfast and dinner and simple times of readinig or discussion.

~ Possible designing and offering a New Years Day brunch to all of my closest friendships and companions. Sparing no expense or detail. Coffees, teas, pastries...

Any other great ideas for me.... for new traditions or festivities or specialities?

Get Me Through December.

"Just get me through December
So I can start again...."
~ Alison Krauss "Get Me Through December"

We were walking through Michaels tonight, gathering craft ideas and sauntering through rows of ideas and ornaments. And for the first time this year, the sadness sank. The Christmas without the love. The just showing up for family gathering and bearing through the changes. The slapping of things together in Charlotte to try and make it celebratory.

I thought it would be fine. I thought that holidays would simply be noted as a 'big day' but since they would be so prepared, that the ache wouldn't be intense. But instead today, sadness is creeping and emotions elusive in me.

I have been trying to think through these holidays. To gather myself together and learn to start to face them this year and knowingly prepare. To grant myself the space to make them special for me, and establish my own traditions. As a single person, moving and floating. As one who bypasses the meaning of home. As a daughter without a mother. As member of a dismembered family. I've been trying to brainstorm and make up good things for me and give myself things to look forward to.

But mom won't have my ornaments on the tree. They'll be sucked still in boxes. Her Snow Villages won't light the mantle. She won't greet me at the door, excited that I've come home. She won't wipe her hands on her Christmas apron with the pine cones and holly. She won't play Mannheim Steamroller. Her house won't smell like cinnamon candles, burning all day long. She won't have planned and prepared something special for us, and be so glad to see her blessed family all gathered together.

No. Instead, I will wonder what I can buy to decorate a temporary house. And drive home to a Christmas party that continues to change dates depending on everyone's values. And be faced with the open ache of my changing family. And I will drive and do it alone. I will think of my own traditions, which have less meaning when they are only for one. I will share Thanksgiving morning by myself and spend the weekend loitering, trying to fill it with something that I could name special.

And I will suck it up through December. I will gouge myself to bare it. To forget all the emptiness, the ache, the need for her hug and love and candle and that she would really care so deeply that I was coming home and clear her calendar to love me.

God, I miss her. Just get me through December.

Simple Pleasures.

Sand crunching beneath our feet, morning mugs in hand, we strode in sneakers and the sea. Playing the question game, and all taking our turn to share. This particular Saturday morning, the question was: What are your simply pleasures? My roommates embraced the question on our walk on Myrtle Beach. We flitted and flirted with our answers, having so much fun and enjoying the day. My list warms my heart with just the thought of the goodness there....

Good Bread
Pearls
Flip Flops
Dresses & Skirts
Cottage Days
Coffee & Tea
Good Meals
Playing Piano
Good Conversation with Friends
Sleepwear
Bath & Body Works (Lotions, Candles, Body Wash)
A Well-Written Book
Looking Forward to Sunday Morning Worship
Local Cafes
Baking Breakfast
Real Mail

Quotes.

Taken from Oswald Chambers, My Upmost for His Highest:

"Launch out into reckless belief that the Redemption is completely...." (June 21)

"When once the call of God comes, begin to go and never stop going...." (September 27)

"The test of the life of a saint is not sucess, but faithfulness in human life as it actually is." (November 16)

Or Reject Him.

"The position was not, as I had been comfortabley thinking all these months, merely a question of whether I was to accept the Messiah or not. It was a question of whether I was to accept him -- or reject. My God!" ~ Sheldon Vanauken, A Severe Mercy, p. 98

How clearly this text severed my wandering. How clearly it stated my compelling to carry my cross.

Inklings.

I've been reading and drinking in Sheldon VanAuken's book, A Severe Mercy, and this afternoon, was craving the beauty of his pen pal relationship with C.S. Lewis, writing each other letters of deep self and thought, though they had never met, and keeping each other then, persistent in prayer. The character of C.S. Lewis comes through and is astounding to me, as it was to VanAuken, as he is a busy professor and acclaimed writer already at that point, mirrored and quoted by numerous theologians as the most influential contemporary of the time. But yet, Lewis writes these incredible, almost in a romantic sense, poetic narratives to VanAuken, offering open discourse regarding the Christian faith, or furthermore, the essence of belief. It is beautiful, the display of discovery woven through an intellectual literaturistic style in these letters.

As the book sat coddled on my chest, myself wrapped in blankets and nuzzled in this cold, wet afternoon with tea, admiration and desire wells with in me for friendships as such. To sit with Lewis' companions, the Inklings, and discuss theology and terms amongst a stirring glass of wine or simmering tea. Or to read such personal, provocative, and honest letters regarding the search for belief and faith from another.

There are some where I have this now, this stirring shared through in qualms by email or blog space, but a returned desire for the essence of this intellectual, bookish, theological community is awakened and drawn. It begins with Lewis and VanAuken and a realism in pen pals, and comes to fruition in what clever antidotes I can conjure up in my daily communities.

Paradox of Me.

I was writing and thinking and talking and explaining myself... constantly trying to interpret all the things that make me, me. And then the last week, trying to find a way to divulge all that I am onto paper, and finding myself unable to write or articulate, or even put language to my world and thoughts. But again, I turn to my friend Kate R, and remember her words -- you need to write, even if you just start writing about the weather, and eventually it will flow out of you. You need to write to process.

So this morning, I'm writing in reflection of her, and understanding of me. As I meet so many new people, I try to explain myself and my position here in Charlotte. I live in the bustling, wealthy suburbs of a beautiful city, covered with landscapes of trees and hills and parks. But I also screech at it at times, needing just to get out. To see the country side, to bask near the water, to hike and be dirty. I don't fit a world with suits and ties and everyone driving Lexus' and Volvos. I'm a girl who thinks nothing is more sexy than a pick-up and a Cowboy... but I want him to drink coffee sitting with me at Caribou too :)

So I make a point to get out. At least every weekend. I drive to a lake, I drive to a big park, I drive to the mountains. To release, to explore. I dig my hands in a garden of flowers and dig in, feeling the earth and letting it coat my hands with Creation.

Like Kate, I'm a country girl. I'm at home with space, with rolling hills of green grasses and John Deer tractors and deer wandering in the back yard. I love the slowness of rocking with my mom on the wooden swing and living in a house that never locks the door.

In explaning to friends, I say I grew up on twenty acres in the country, but my dad wears Nautica. So many things are a statement here. I could add that he works construction and comes home concrete covered, but drives a red corvette convertable as his main car. Or that on our twenty acers we had a beautiful underground pool, pulled each other behind snowmobiles and quads, but served more than a few feminine tea parties. There is the contrast of my family: boating and gardening and mowing acers of grass and dirty in dirt and exploring farms, but vacationing to Hawaii and playing a baby grand piano and seeing the sympohony at Pops in the Park. This is my world. This is me.

But always, the paradox. When I was looking for my first teaching job, my one rule was: there has to be a Target or Starbucks within a half an hour of wherever I am.

Because I'm a country-singing, cowboy-loving, powder puff playing, git-her-done, country girl, who... still... basks in foreign lands and travel and good coffee and nights gracing the theatre and plays downtown. Who wears pearls and dresses and heels and Rum Kiss Clinique. Who is saturated with so many things, and digs deep into all of them. That is the paradox of me.

On Writing...

I am unabashedly obsessed with everything Sara Groves. I am inspired, I am taunted, I am rebuked, I am questioned, I am called forth because of her. She is everything that seems so real and honest and I admire her willingness to put vulnerability so clearly out from her.

In writing, I am often tempted, and I would say rightly so, to hide some parts of me. Some of the real depths of what I think and feel. And at times, write moreso so my reader can feel and gain from my words than for me. This is good as it shields some from the recesses of me. But it also is something I also wrestle with.

The people I love and connect to the most don't hold back. They are real and honest and vulnerable to the core. They allow themselves to be teachers just simply in who they are, not it what they perceive others to gather from them. These are my favorite people to converse with, my favorite writers to read, my favorite artists to listen to.

Sara [because yes, I am on a first-name basis with her. I know we would be best of friends...] has a new album coming out called Fireflies and Songs. I was reading about it this morning on her website and appreciated her honesty as she finally felt she almost needed to 'step back' from observing, and regift her listeners with the truest of her. That is what I gather and gain from her.

Her producer, Charlie Peacock, called her out on it. To quote:

"I want you to enjoy God and the gift of song writing."

I've been stewing over this exact idea for months. Writing and sharing on this blog, and wondering how intimate and personal to be. How many gates and doors to open, and how many need to stay closed. But I also need to be transparent at times to connect and share and be real. Emotional writing is my gifting.

In pairing, I also have been skirting around the starting of a novel for months now. Even thinking as I embarked into this new job that it would allow this endeavor, but instead finding myself avoiding. Feeling like I don't know where to start, how to publish, what kind of story will really come of me. If writing a blog is more my writing for now than a novel, etc....

And just yesterday, I thought, I need to take the pressure off. I need to stop thinking about the final binding. I need to let the context of storyline dissipate and just rest. I just need to enjoy writing and enjoy God in it, no matter the outcome of the story. Or even play around writing stories for a while, just gather again the habit of it, no publisher in sight.

So here I am, mulling Peacocks words to Sara. Listening in to "enjoy God" and "writing." And letting him measure the honesty, vulnerability, plot, characters, influences, words, etc.

Because You're My Friend.

I was walking down the sidewalk today with Garrett, strolling our way back from Freedom Park, and I asked him to hold my hand. (I did this for obvious safety reasons for a 2 1/2 year old.) His chunky palm surrounded my fingers.

I said, "Do you know why I asked you to hold my hand?" (Thinking the obvious.)

And he said, with his big blue smiling eyes gazing up at me, "Because you're my friend."

I smiled, grinning with a chuckle and endearment. Yes, Garrett, because you're my friend.

Isn't that a beautiful picture. Isn't that a beautiful picture of me and this beautiful little boy? Isn't a beautiful picture of what friendship really is: Holding My Hand.

Drops of Rain.

I have a book on my shelf entitled The First Drop of Rain by Leslie Parrott. It's a series of short stories and excerpts of her life and journals, gathered together as reflections and thoughts and witnesses to God in the rain drops that fall and gather amidst life's droughts.

Today, I see drops of rain. As I write this, it literally is raining outside my corner bedroom window. It has been all day. But in this light, I see the rain as blessings.

I see these drops of rain puddling together just since this weekend:
-- That Saturday I got a job.
-- That Sunday I found a church that I love.
-- That Monday my roommates and I secured housing together.
-- That Tuesday I started my day as a nanny and loved it.
-- That Tonight I gathered and sang with a Kenyan children's choir at what I already call "my church" (Weddington Community Church).

These huge, puddle portions of rain are what I lay in and bask in tonight. Letting it be a shower to my soul, and noting, and dwelling in them. Thank you, Lord, for these drops of rain.

Are You My Mother?

Ever since my mom died, I find myself looking around at older women with this perception leaking from my needy brown eyes. I find myself grasping them, looking to them for support, encouragement, and someone to talk to or simply bounce ideas off from. I even so much as saw a few women at church this week who looked roughly like her and around that age, that I don't even know, and just wanted to go up to them and grasp them with a big hug, half expecting them to feel and smell like my mom and respond in the same way. I need that.

Truly, I found myself in Barnes & Noble last week just to find this children's book (Are You My Mother?) and read it, because this theme keeps bobbling up and around and in me. In referencing the book, it was less connecting to me than what I thought it was, but the phrase remains the repeating same.




I look at my aunts, my sister, my friend from Calvin High School, my Crossroads Community women, my old youth pastor's wife, my counselor, my Stephen's Minister... Like the toddler with big, looming brown eyes, asking "Are You My Mother?"

I know none of them are not. I know I cannot put these expectations or needs on anyone. I know it is a gap that cannot be filled. But it doesn't mean that I don't whole heartily search for someone to fill her shoes, wishing so much that she was here and I could actually hug her and feel her and ask her my life questions and wrestle through it with her. I know she is the only one that is My Mother. But I miss her so much, still, that the question haunts and remains in me, as I look for other women, asking, wishing, someone could answer yes, but knowing no one can to:

Are You My Mother?

Who God Says I Am.

I'm writing the title (Abram, Moses, & David) as a reminder to myself to write this post... God is bigger than what we/I stamp ourselves. He Is Who He Says He Is and I Am Who God Says I Am.

~~~

I was driving home this weekend and finding myself with lots of time to think. In these days of wondering who I am, what is happening to me, and how to deal with it all, I find myself for the first time in probably ten years, rumbling inside about who I am.

Since probably sophomore year of high school, I've been pretty consistent in knowing my gifts, feeling my confidence, and letting other people have to deal with it. I feel strong and, though I have times where I am definitely weak, I have still recognized my gifts and abilities -- things such as teaching, nurturing, hospitality, etc.

In moving and starting and quitting a job and wandering around through these days without the strength and strong support of my mom to give grounded direction, these things in me have become much more ambiguous.

Which is tied in a double knot with the post "Scarlet Letter."

So in quitting my job, I felt like I was pegged with this bright red, velvet letter that labeled me "quitter." And that in that, because of that, this would forfeit me from lots of things in life and be the only things other people, or especially employers would see. And that I was doomed from it.

Then me and Beth Moore had a date on this long drive home and I was listening to her Believing God cd called "You Are Who God Says You Are" and letting the strength of these messages help the fight to redeem me.

One specific portion nailed me. That Abraham was called by God to be the father of many nations, and yet even with this call, he still took Hagar. That Moses was given a call to be a great leader, and even with this, he killed his brother. That David, even with his call to lead his people as a nation, was forever noted with Bathsheba.

But even with these "major failures" and "short fallings" - things that would/could stamp them with the Scarlet Letter and write them off for eternity - that God would use them for good. That God didn't write them off, or limit them, or give them a dismal future as a result of them, but that God used these men, despite these instances, to be glorifying good in his Kingdom. That God didn't take 'one' thing and let go of the calling that he had on them, but that he used that 'one thing' to teach, guide, lead, discipline, and grow them. He wasn't done with them.

This reigning truth is plastered on my heart right now. That God doesn't have to be done with me. That he is bigger than jobs and resumes and what the world may see, but that he can redeem all things.

And that, in that, he can redeem me. He can redeem my perceptions of me, my thought of me, and what he will make of me.

My roommate and I watched (oddly) Super Nanny a few weeks ago and it was about a mom seeing her son for more than his ADHD, but remembering the good things about him and why she loved him. The Nanny, Jo, created a craft where the mom took the picture of her son and wrote all around it the qualities and wonderful characteristics about him, to remind her to see more than his ADHD and outburst, but the son that she loved. It was beautiful watching this segment, the mother crying as she was reminded of the beautiful boy in the picture.

Who would think God would use an episode of Super Nanny to help redeem and speak to me? :)

But this week, I took out a little craft project for myself and did the same for me. I glued my picture to the middle of the paper, and wrote with markers all the good things about me and that God has gifted me with and wrote in the middle of the page, in big letters, I AM WHO GOD SAYS I AM.

Because I'm not what the world labels me. I'm not the lies Satan is pressing on me. I am not labeled by worlds or letters or personality tests. I am not defined by compartments or letters in a Myers Briggs quad. I am bigger than all of this, I am more. I am complex and complicated, gifted and talented, more beautiful than any of it. I am not labeled introvert or extrovert, or teacher or writer, or employed or unemployed, or working or resting, or daughter or sister. None of these things can capture all of the essence of me. Because I AM WHO GOD SAYS I AM. I am me. And I will choose to fight against anything that limits me, and my perceptions of me. I will be who God lets chooses me to be.

Because I AM WHO GOD SAYS I AM.

Laura's Letter

With her permission, I bestow the gift of this letter/e-mail from my friend Laura Mulford, written in response to my Nehemiah's Wall e-mail a couple weeks ago. It was a poignatly graceful work of art to recieve it, and in her words, I was given strength. Her words were like soft rain and given in her wisdom and knowledge and understanding of me these past few years. Thank you Laura, for prayerfully sharing them, and allowing me to share them with others.

~~~

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Christina,

I remember how you were last time, after working at that other inner-city school. I was scared for you. Now, if people who care about you and who are seeing you every day are telling you that it's time to quit, I think you should take their advice. Believe me, I've lived on small incomes for years now. It's a different kind of stressful than your current job, but I think you need to give your heart a break. You're such a talented teacher, Christina. You have a real gift, but you're not going to be able to use it if all the joy is sucked out of you. Please, take a break and do something different for a while before you become like those teachers who've been in the system for decades and have grown to hate the school, hate the students, hate teaching, and hate life in general. Give yourself some grace. Walk away. Anyone who has ever taught knows how truly draining it is. I think it's a healthy idea to do something else for a while. Think of it as a sabbatical. Give yourself a sabbath. Your life is so full of upheaval right now, I think you need some peace so you can hear God.

Working at an inner-city school, being a light in a dark place is a GOOD thing. But if it's not what God is calling you to, then it's not YOUR good thing. And that's ok. We can't individually fill every need. I think you should walk away from that school, take the nanny job or something else, and just take time to listen. That's what I thought when I read "Mysia." And it also resonated with me because of my summer... I don't know why things happened this way, but they did. Anyway, the point is that God chooses as he chooses, and we can't always see why one good thing doesn't get chosen over another. But from the way you're feeling now, I think that it's time to do a different good thing. It's ok to give yourself time to grieve and, let me just say it, be the weaker brother. You've always been strong and supportive. You helped people, wore yourself out for your students, strove to give them a global perspective so that they could change the world. You're a doer and a planner. You're a caregiver. But you don't have to be superwoman, Christina. Let yourself receive strength. Soon you'll be able to give it again, but not right now. Let other people have the blessing of being strong for you.

I love you, Christina.
Laura

P.S. Remember our conversation on the phone? Joel 2:25 "I will restore to you the years that the locusts have eaten." I cling to this promise.

~~~

Scarlet Letter.

Twice this week, I feel like I'm branded with a Scarlet Letter. And it started last week. The woman on the other end of the phone said, "So, you were working at a school and quit...?" right out of the gate. Her first question for a job interview. I felt plagued, caught, fishing for some way to explain.

The same woman called yesterday, once again seeing me in red, as if taking the letter and placing it on me, so people from afar could see. Big and bold "She quit her job! She didn't commit!" I got off the phone, feeling hurt and frustrated, helpless in my state. I try to be optimistic about these nanny jobs, but when the lady calls and constantly reminds me that I quit and that families are going to want me to commit, I feel branded with a scarlet letter. Especially when she adds, "Well, maybe you need to think about if this is even what you want or not..." and adding her two cents which seemed to berate me and the state that I'm in.

I'm lost. I know. I can admit that. Six months ago, my life got flipped upside down. I had quit my 'stable' job at a school because of God's leading, then lost my mom, moved to a new city, living with new friends, and yes, started a job I knew I shouldn't have taken, and then had to quit. So sorry that I don't know what I want to commit to for the next two years, but really, I have no idea what I'm doing.

And now today, as I get ready for an interview with a family, a friend asked what I will say when they ask how long I'll commit and explain my last job. Once again, it was like paint brushes smearing a big old letter on me. Trying to defend myself but knowing I wear it. She tried to configure an explanation for me to say about summer and reevaluating then and examining the fit...

But I walk away, feeling branded with the Scarlet Letter.

My life verse is: "He who began a good work in me will carry it on unto completion until the day of Christ Jesus." Philippians 1:6

I reel it through my head, like a train constantly passing through. Trying to claim it as myself and like it conquers the fear, the doubt, the discouragement that has just rested and settled in me. My devotional yesterday morning penetrates this to the core:

"The Devil has two very masterful tricks. The first is to tempt us to become discouraged, for them we are defeated and of no service to others, at least for a while. The other is to tempt us to doubt, thereby breaking the bond of faith that unites us with the Father."

~ Streams in the Desert, p.390

I know the Devil and see the Devil in this doubt and discouragement, this Scarlet Letter I seem to wear. I also know that Christ has claim on me, and so as I recognize the Devil, I robe myself in His armor (Ephesians 6). Because he has the victory and ability to erase this Scarlet Letter.

Six Months.

It marks six months today.
There is nothing more to say.

Bundled With God.

All of my roommates right now are bundled with God, each picking a corner or couch, cozy under blankets amidst the chilly rain outside, and individually choosing to sit with the Lord by our lonesome. It is a beautiful thing. It is a beautiful, divine thing, knowing God gathered us here together, under this roof called home, and knowing we are all... bundled with God.

Partnership.

"Just make enough so that I can stay home."

I thought about my mom a lot yesterday and how it felt so natural to 'be like her' and if I could have called her, we both would have smiled and understood. Because I stayed home yesterday. All day, never left until seven at night. My car tucked in the driveway on the rainy day, and I released in home.

I stayed home and made it a home. Washed dishes, changed bed sheets, cleaned bathrooms, Swiffered floors, wrote, and simply stayed home.

Once in a while, mom would be able to do this, and she would be so content and blessed in it that it was as if it was a gift to simply stay home. She'd brag about her car never leaving the driveway and how sometimes for two days, it would remain. It was the most content you could hear in her voice.

I thought about it yesterday as I made this a home. Taking care to have everything in order when my roommates arrived and sitting with each as they came through the front door, listening and hearing about their day.

In my letter to my mom, I wrote that she was the 'presence of the Holy Spirit' in our home. She was steadfast, serene. I've reflected on this a lot since then, and still completely agree.

Yet this morning, and many other mornings since, I've also reflected on it with connection to my dad. Because I think it was both of them that allowed this to be this way. Mom was purposeful in it, in the use of her time, her prayers, and her way of being. But dad also was. By going off to work, he allowed her to be. By providing food for the table, he allowed her to be the best she should be.

I've wondered what my mom's life would have looked like if she wasn't 'allowed' to stay home. If she had to put up with the throngs of work and busyness and constant pull to here-or-there. I wonder what her spirit would have looked like, and how that would have looked in her home.

I am thankful that it is only wonder. That because of dad's work, she was allowed to stay home. She was allowed to be the presence of all that she was. I'd asked her about it on several occasions, asking questions about how she could be so many things for so many people, and always seem to be so steadfast, so listening, and such an incredible mom to me. And she would remark about how God blessed her and being at home allowed her to be.

There is a lot of my mother in me. There is a lot of these things, these ideals, underneath the cover of me. This longing for home, a place to create. This giving of the Holy Spirit. This way of opening the door to greet others and sit down with them, to really be. This way of making home a serene, steadfast place that always feels welcome and open.

The partnership of my mom with my dad allowed her to do so, to live as God created her to be. It was as if they lived on the Genesis creed. I don't have the partnership that allows me to do so. But right now, I am allowed to stay home. To greet my roommates, to make a meal, to sit down to call friends, to clean, to see a bit of my mom in me.

What Defines Me.

We were sitting around the dinner table tonight, loud chatter clattering about, when one friend asked another, "Do you know who you are?" His response was descriptive and poignant, finding himself giving his place amidst extremes. All explanations were based upon convictions, issues, or analytical means.

So she tossed the question back at him, and I reverberated, "So you define who you are based upon your convictions and issues? Is that what makes you, you?"

I'm sure the pressing look in my eye showed my underestimate of his definition of self, and questioning of convictions as a basis of authority for who a person is. Probably presumed to be a challenge.

So he threw it back at me, "Well, how would you define who you are?"

With little hesitation and my friend standing at my side, I said, "Well, first of all, I'm a child of God..." and he seemed to almost roll his eyes, like "Yeah, whatever, that's a given, not enough, really, define yourself..." in a way that wasn't meant to be derogatory, but instead them left me fishing for ways to appease him with my answer. So I injected how I define myself based on my values, my connections to people, my emotions, my interests...

But since then, I've been mulling over the question. Not in his response, but my own. Because I know what I value, and what defines me, and for some reason, I kept on going.

Back in college, freshman year, my roommate Emily and I decided we weren't going to let the pressure of fitting in or looking cute overtake us. So we held each other accountable to one outfit a day. Whatever you put on in the morning, had to be on for the day. That way, we couldn't be consumed with what we looked like or what we wore or what people would think about us through the day.

That grew to be habit, and I still live that way today. And the phrase that echos it was written on my closet for years to come: "An Audience of One."

Because I wanted to dress, live, act, and breathe for only this Audience of One.

So when I think back to the question tonight, "what defines me," I know this is my initial response, and I should have just let it stop there. To let the weight of the "audience of one" phrase be enough. Period. Because that's it. Knowing I am God's child and called his own. This phrase speaks power enough in itself, both to me, but also in the statement of the silence that follows it. I am his, and he is mine. That is me. That is what defines me. And that, is enough.

I Fight For Hope.

But I do fight for hope. I do fight to believe. I fight to keep files of "home" ideas and books that I like. I fight to think my family still has the potential of something to be. I fight to think that there can be opportunities and jobs for me.

But in fighting for hope, I don't know how much is just pipe dreams. Or how much I set myself up for disappointment, so I learn to self-protect. I fight to think that God has something great for me, but it is balanced out with my current reality.

So in honesty, I do fight for hope. And "fight" is exactly what I do. Part of it is inbred in me, part of it is how I was raised by my family. So part of me is fighting, part of me sees reality. But either way, I fight for hope, praying that some day I'll see.

Hope Surrendered.

My counselor asked me last week and this week the same two questions:

1) What have I lost? As if to say, what all am I grieving?

2) Do I have hope?

And herein lies my question: How do you look for hope, when all you do is surrender?

I think about all I've lost, and can name far more than this blog will allow me to reveal... but just to begin...

~ My mom (my best friend, my confidant, my supporter, my encourager, my foundation)

~ My sense of family (how we are knit, how we work, what that looks like)
In this comes everything from the dismembered family picture to the relationships that have severed and sewn... and what it looked like with us around the kitchen table.

~ My sense of home (how many times must a girl move? How many times do I continually pack up my boxes, and in return, packed up my life?)
In this adds up moving states, changing roommates, physically moving my books and boxes, mentally and emotionally restructuring what "home" looks like each time...

~ My hope for home. Because the deepest part of me long for it. For a home of my own, decorated and welcomed with my decor, with the sign of "home" from my mom, with "my" piano, my dishes, my blankets. For a place to welcome people, create a cup of coffee or tea for them, and gather with them on the couches or around the table. But every time I allow myself to be able to catch a glimmer or glimpse of this possibility, the reality is smashed, and again I have to surrender it. And just recognize that it may never be. Its not like I can pay for it as nanny, and no other job is able to come out of me and therefore a home may never be...

~ My job/career. I quit my third "adult" job last week. And it makes me wonder whats wrong with me. I thought I surrendered enough when I left my last job, but apparently not. It makes me reexamine my calling and my career, surrendering the idea that I may ever find a place for me. I want to defend parts of it for myself, that two were inner city and one had five preps, but the reality is, I keep surrendering it and have "lost" this sense of identity.

~ My finances. This is paired with the job, but a whole other issue altogether. I literally don't even open my online bank account, because I have no idea what is going on and don't want to get anxious about it. So I just live simply and let it go.

~ My friendships. Though some of these have definitely been strengthened, others have definitely been surrendered and allowed to lay to rest. It's recognizing what my friendships are, what they were, and allowing them to be and adapt. Yet there is grief and hurt understanding in some of the reality.

~ I can go on with a lot of intangibles, like hopes and dreams. Thinking by now I would have a family... I wanted to be married by age 18... And everything from kids to ideals and the things that I thought made me, me... Or to my physical self, and realizing that even that is needing help... Or to situations that are buried, now far away, like needing the encouragement of teachers back in May...

So I look at this list of all that is lost. And I know some would contradict me, or try to give positive spins. But the reality is, there is a lot lost. I look at this list and wonder: what then, is left of me?

So she then asks what it is that I hope, and if I have hope... And I wonder with this, why hope? Why does it matter that you hope when everything you hope for is ripped away? When everything you hope for is cut off, impossible, never given, or not reality? It doesn't make sense to me just to hope any more when I know that hope will just disappoint. I know that you can pile verses on here like sand on a shore, but sometimes it seems the sea shows a lot more of the sand than the shore.

Why hope for a house, when I know its impossible financially. I might as well just face it and keep packing boxes and scrounging around from place to place. Or sell the things that I have or collected or give them away.

Why hope for a husband, when it doesn't matter. When I can't even find guys strong enough to walk with God and with me.

Why hope for a niche, when my track record doesn't look so good. And I don't know if my career can fit my personality. Is everything that pays going to either bore me or wear me out?

I realize this blog sounds depressing, but don't necessarily think that of me. It's just me facing this reality. I try and not be woe-is-me about it all, or make myself a martyr, but consider it less of being bitter, and more of surrender. More of just saying "Okay God, I guess this is it... I guess this is where you have me..." And letting those dreams and ideas go and just learning not to care about them.

I told her "I fight for hope" and I choose those words wisely, because I know the importance of hope, so I fight for it. But let's look at the reality, some days it doesn't make sense. Why fight for hope, when all you do is surrender?

Everybody Has A Buddy.

Everybody has a buddy but me. Everybody has a bond with someone who is next to them, but me. Kelly has Josh, Blake has Melissa, Dad has his new girlfriend, and there I sit like the stray dog wandering around. Everybody has somebody to walk through this experience with them, but me. Everybody has somebody that sits next to them at the dinner table, to hear their stories, to share in the ache, but me. I'm not saying its easy for any of them, or pity-partying me, but some days I hate the fact that everybody has a buddy but me.

Tilling Up the Soil.

I was talking with a dear friend over tea a few weeks ago and sharing and crying and drinking from her as much as much as my tea. She is like a warm embrace, and spreads this easily to me and all the others who enter her door. Some nights there are cloth table clothes and napkins spread, and others there are grills lit or fires burning. Either way, the welcome is offered and into her hug I am given a home.

Well, this particular Saturday morning was rainy with an autumn brisk. It was perfect for the cozy comfort of her kitchen and watching her cook, with the lingering conversations of her and her husband. They are like parents to me, deeply respected and friendship woven through.

So I was asking and sharing and mulling over my soul. Expressing my ups and downs and letting it tumble out. Her gentle voice soothed over me and one expression has stained me:

"Christina, God is tilling up the soil right now, and the rain is your tears."

There was freedom given in these words. Something in it released me of my need and want and expectations, and let me see Gods use of me and this time in a different way. I have been wanting to commit myself, to plant and harvest and dig in roots. But my endeavors to do so seem to keep coming undone. So as I conveyed this, her words instead were given. They were grace to me. Allowing me to see something greater and be okay right now with me. To regard this period in my life as God tilling up the soil... which is he is. Digging and planting and plodding down seeds. Sometimes with gentility, sometimes with shovels and rotor tillers and plows beating in.

But either way, it made me see that God is at work right now, and letting that be. That in these times of devastation and concern and helplessness that I see, God is tilling up the soil and doing a good work in me. That he is preparing and pruning and scraping the soul. So it makes it easier to bare, knowing even in this, I am still in his care.

Antiqued Jar.

I want to relish it. To put the beauty of solitude in an antiqued jar and cast it as a character on my window sill, being able to dapple and dig into it as I need to. To captivate the essence of silence and peace brought to life through the roaring of waves, beating against the ocean shore. The Atlantic swells within me, it's spacious advances come to me, as if to open and beckon, release me. The wide open air releases my lungs and pulls the strain out of me, like bubble beads of water cast upon the shore until even the last had dissipated back into the sea.

I want to be back there, swimming in the seventy-eight degree water, salt on my lips and dusting white upon my skin. I want to continue to somersault and swish through the surfer's waves, with the blessing of quiet and stillness in my soul. No books touched on my blanketed sheet, no journals written, no words said. Simply hours of solitude, quiet. Just the travelers skimming the edge of the sea, and me.

I want to capture back this day. This knowing again that I do have roots and I will have butterfly wings. This unearthing of my soul, and knowing it took a day to get there, but balance it seems I have finally achieved. I won't be naive, thinking that this will last forever, and I will never mourn anymore, or cry, or be caught in anxious attacks, or feel the schizophrenic white rapid rivers of tumultuous emotions running through me -- the intensity of the low and great as the high, and how immediate it transfers from one to another. But today, I am achieved. Today I am relishing the balance. I am relishing me. I relish feeling the depth of my soul, but in the calm state of content. I relish the sedate state of my mind and gather it as gold.

I sit here, lingering over coffee under lamplight at a historical house, tucked away in Columbia, South Carolina, my last detour of this rest. I wish this sabbatical could also linger as such. I know I will go back and feel flustered with files, claustrophobic with finances, pressured to secure work, and hours comforting and calling friends. But these things aren't bad, they are just life. And I make the choice of how I look at them. I make the choice to let them bind me down upon return, or to take each in stride, marking my days and carefully creating them to be mine.

So as I relinquish and relish this gift of beauty, this sabbatical breath, I also covet it and quest to let it bide. To take it with me and continue to make it mine. To mark these coming days with it, re-entering into a life that lives with a sabbatical, sabbath rest.

Jesus Withdrew.

This morning, one passage keeps mulling around in my soul. Twirling, fluttering, and perching upon it until I quiet myself to rest and reflect.

"...Jesus often withdrew to lonely [solitary, quiet] places and prayed..." Luke 5:16

I typed the phrase "Jesus withdrew" into Bible Gateway, to discover the Lord's heart in these matters and observe the private practices of him as such. Eighth passages match these exact words, enough to testify of his endurance of need to draw himself away to pray. He would withdraw "privately" and "again" by boat, by himself, by way of mountain. At times, he would gift himself in the presence of his companions, encompassed by the strength and stubbornness of the disciples, I'm sure clattering about their own ordeals or latest of events. But many times, and often, Jesus would withdraw by himself to solitary, quiet places to pray.

I reflect on this as I sit, bundled under covers of a king size bed, squared away from social gatherings into my quiet suite, comforted by the pillows lining my bed and the words that unravel from my hands. Books sprawl around me, waiting to be rediscovered again. All of them I've read, but they are my closest of companions, my dearest of friends. They tell me others have walked this road before, they tell me that life will win. They give me the gift of grace and they embellish on the events within.

So I withdraw these days to a quiet, solitary place. I walk these streets alone, pacing the Market, dawdling my toes in at Waterfront Park, and spreading a sheet at Isle of Palms. I withdraw myself and into myself to uncover the deepness within and learn to breathe again.

"Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house

and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed." Mark 1:35

~~~
Scriptural References:
Matthew 12:15 Matthew 14:13 Matthew 15:21 Mark 1:35 Mark 3:17
Luke 5:16 Luke 9:10 John 6:15 John 11:54

Dressed As Me.

All I could think about was airing out my soul, so the thought of "dressing for Charleston" never occurred to me. But I laugh as I walk into Nine West on Lower Kings Street with my two dollar bills in hand, asking for change for parking, dressed in my favorite Boulder T, clam digger capris, and Adidas shoes. If anyone knows Kings Street or Nine West, you know how funny this is and why people on the sidewalk are wondering why I laugh aloud to myself.

My green Boulder T is my favorite, combined with my rustic, wrinkled, and relaxed navy clam diggers that leave strings dangling at my knees. It is my perfect "being" outfit. It's what I wore the day I drove South, the days I hike, the days like today when I air my soul.

So it's comical still that I'm dressed as such, laughing aloud and going mentally through pearls and dresses in my closet. Alas, this is me. I laugh. So make-up less and free, I walk, I laugh, I gleam. I throw my Vera Bradley over my shoulder, and walk the streets of Charleston, dressed as me.

Carolina Girls.

I saw a T-shirt today in the Charleston Visitors Center that read:

Carolina Girls Wear Flip Flops And Pearls

No wonder I love the South.

Hold It Close.

For a long time, going through her things was almost mechanical. Clothes, aprons, jewelry... they spread before me. I was calloused, lost, and unable to let it matter. Now, I hoard it all. I would I could harvest it all back, hold it close, gather it near. I want to touch the things she touched. I want to smell, love, and fabricate them as part of me. I want every teapot, every ring. Now I can deal with it. Now I can face it. The bluntness of the first introductions to her things without her has worn away like leather on a sofa. There is now room to acknowledge. There is now room to feel. There is now room to reminisce. There is now room to love. There is now room to miss. So of the things that are still left, of the things that are still present, I will carefully touch. Of things that are still hers, I will endear.

I Long For Water.

I long for water, really I do.
I put four creamers in my coffee
And I smile as I do.

I long for the breeze
Of looking at the sea
And seeing nothing but ocean
Staring back at me.

I long for water, really I do.
I put four creamers in my coffee
And I smile as I do.

Most Intimate Gift.

To my friend Kate Vasey, since I know now exactly who is and who is not allowed to read my blog, I dare share this intimate story. I dare say you would be bashful that I do, but I take the liberty to share what an incredible friend you were to me this last weekend. So I guess, in a way, in effect, this is a letter to you... and only for my closest and bestest of friends to read. I hope its okay with you.

My dearest friend Kate Vasey came this past weekend. She flew in late on a Friday night, not feeling well, but not telling me that she had been in bed sick at home that week because she wanted to be able to come to me. It was a last minute flight, first enabled for November, but the emergency friendship took a flight of encouragement as tears billowed out of me on the phone the last couple of weeks. So she cleared it with her husband, booked a ticket, and within just over a week, was hugging me close and caring over me.

We went for walks, strode through Freedom Park, sat on benches and watched the ducks. We catered tea to each other, gathered apple ingredients, and sat for long hours at a time. She hugged me, held me, and cherished me. Letting my heart be my heart and my words be whatever they needed to be said. She released me from myself.

My counselor asked this week what grief was like at this time. I told her how much I cried and how often I simply was overwhelmed with the casting of emotions each day before Kate came and the days she stood at my side. Both my counselor and I knew why: Because I was allowed to just let it all down and be held by a friendship that carries no burden with the weight of me. So already my emotions had unraveled, just knowing that the intimacy of her friendship was coming to walk beside me.

So we sat there, we talked, we shared, we cried. Well, I cried. But this gift of friendships is most cupped in the story I tell below...

We had spent the evening doing everything fun. Doing walks, strolling stores, sniffing candles, and going to the grocery store. And somewhere towards the end of it, I was beat inside by the consuming character of mourning. I tried to hide it, and smile and discuss carmeled apples, but I finally had to admit my defeat. We went home and I crawled my way upstairs, trying to hide what was going on inside. She walked up just behind and I turned around and cried, and into her hug, she came beside.

She held my hand and led me to the bed, we laid on top white coverlets, and I cried. She said nothing, just held my hand. And forever the tears just wept down my pained face. I tried to find words to describe, or something to tell her, but rarely could anything come. Just the tears that fell unashamed down my face and the squeezing of her hand around me.

For a long time, maybe nearly an hour, time stood still. I have no idea how long, but I know in those moments I was given the most intimate gift. I was given the friend who simply slid beside me in silence and held my hand while I cried.

To a friendship like this, to a grace so pure, there is nothing that a blessing as such could moreso endure. To this I am thankful, to Kate, I am freed. To the other friendships like this, my heart is with you indeed.

Thank you for friendship, thank you for the gift. Thank you for the grace, to meet me in my need.