Used to Write About...

Sometimes I wonder what I used to write about... Sometimes I wonder what it was. Sometimes I wonder what things used to beckon to be spoken. Sometimes I wonder who I was.

Because now when I look through my blogroll, I see one basic theme. Now when I look through my blogroll, I see the struggling heart of me.

Sometimes I wonder what I used to write about... Sometimes I wonder if that's all still me. Sometimes I wonder what one day will be... Sometimes I wonder if this will always be me.

Different.

It shouldn't hurt to be different, but it does. It shouldn't hurt to be me, but it does. It shouldn't hurt to be on the outside, but in. It shouldn't hurt to be different, but it does.

Anger.

I am not an angry person. Rarely am I angry, or do I stay angry. But there is an underlying anger that rests in me. It underscores so many of my thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. Sometimes it lays aside and lets me live more freely, but it still lurks there, it awaits, it bursts. It angers in my stomach, it knarls up inside. It angers about so many things, it angers everywhere.

I'm not angry about the "accident", I'm not overly angry at the man. But I'm angry at the aftermath, I'm angry at everything. I'm angry at how it changes things, I'm angry at how it doesn't end. I'm angry all of a sudden. I'm angry for a long time. I'm angry at the car one drives, I'm angry at the store clerk, I'm angry at the stranger in line, I'm angry at the church. I'm angry at the events taking place, I'm angry because they shouldn't. I'm angry at the words I think, I'm angry at the words I say. I'm angry because most don't see: I'm angry undercover. I'm angry that now, that's me.

I'm angry because I'm angry. I'm angry because it's grief. I'm angry because it doesn't end. I'm angry because it's me.

Pearls & Chacos.

Today I wore pearls and chacos. It reminded me of my Outdoor Divas post.

And made me smile.

Feelings Matter.

God made me... with feelings. He made me special, unique, and for himself. He made me in his image. In his image, who roars through thunder, angers at the nations, and compassions on his lambs. His image which contains creativity and intellect, as well as emotions and feelings.

Let me be okay with feelings. They are mine. They are His. They are are in-check, but they are real. And it's okay that that they are real. It's okay that I don't only just think, that I am not only logic, that I don't shut off my heart. It's okay not to just tough every thing out or bury it away. It doesn't make me an alien, it doesn't make me wrong, it doesn't make me less. It makes me His. It makes me, me.

So let me be that way. Don't try to round them off, make me feel like they don't matter, or put them aside to be like you. They don't make me alien, they are me.

So when I feel sensitive, when I feel sad, when I feel anger, when I feel hurt. See me, appreciate me, love the depth of me. When I am elated, when I am intense, when I am joyful, when I am calm, breathe in this too as me. God gifted me with feelings, and it's okay.

But please, let it matter. Let it matter how I feel and who I am. Do not try to overshadow this or dumb it down. How I feel is important, it does matter. It's not wrong, it's okay. It's me.

A Season of Wait.

There are times in life where we go through different seasons. Seasons of joy, seasons of school, seasons of hard, seasons of kids. Seasons can be emotional or physical based on our present circumstances. But they are seasons, and for that I am glad.

For knowing they are seasons means they are temporary, they are hopeful. It means that there is a sign on the other end, an expectation to come, a change in heart and spirit. It means they are revolving and necessary and growing within us.

Yesterday, Kate and I were talking about seasons and that we're glad life works in seasons. Because it means that the present circumstances are temporary, which brings a sense of relief, meaning and hope in them.

I am in a season of wait. I feel like I have lived a lot of life in the 'season of wait.' I wait for jobs, wait for callings, wait for friendships, wait for diplomas, wait for family, wait for fulfill.

Wait is hard work, wait is a conscious effort to live each day. Wait is a walk of faith and endurance. Psalm 27:14 says "Wait on the Lord, be strong and take heart, and wait on the Lord." It recognizes the season of wait. It recognizes we don't just wait, but we wait on the Lord. It recognizes discouragement and bids strength and courage in it. It gives substance to the season of wait.

As I live in the season of wait, I know that there is more and there is hope. Because "he who began a good work in [me] will carry it on until the day of Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:6). God is not done. So I wait.

Noah's Rain.

I was thinking about this yesterday, and finding myself in Noah's shoes, and reflecting on his journey. There were stages that came to me:

A Time of Obedience: I knew that I had to be done at Calvin. I knew it. I fought through emotions and logical, and dug into conversations, and felt the Spirit heavy upon me. It was a decision four years in the making, but I knew staying at Calvin would be an act of disobedience. I just knew it.

But I wanted to keep my contract anyway, at least through the summer until I found something else. I thought deeply about holding onto it just for the security of the fall-back, but I knew in my heart that God was asking me to be obedient.

So when I quit my job, it felt like Noah. "Ordering the wood" was my mantra. Because I knew that to the outside world, it looked ridiculous. Who quits their job in this economy? That's crazy! That's insane. Like Noah's neighbors, I knew the world would laugh at me. But handing in my contact was like the first phase, "order the wood" in my steps of obedience.


A Time of Storm: For Noah, this was forty days and forty nights. For me, it has lasted a lot longer than that. The past five years have seemed to be storm in my heart, restless and thundering, but also seeing sunshine and shadow through it. The past year has been the tumultuous tyrant of the storm. It has seen the death of a student, the death of my mom, my brother hurting his leg, my sister going through loss, my brother-in-law breaking both of feet. It has seen me exhausted in my job, fill a seat in court, pained over relationships, and say good-bye to friends. Noah's storm was physical, but mine was wave after wave of emotional.


A Time of Promise: This is the stage I long to enter. Where the earth is calmed and replenished and trees begin to bloom and green spreads throughout the land. It's the season where flowers grow, rainbows are given, and covenants are made. I long to feel all of these things in the fullness of my life and live in the shelter of it all. I long to see God's covenants restored in me and experience a time of sustained joy, peace, prosperity, and rest. I long to see his promises fulfilled in me and my heart renewed and refreshed. I long to feel the warmth around me in community and close relationships. To see my gifts used and fulfilled in a way that replenishes them as the are gifted. For Noah, this was a season where the rain brought good and new.

I look out the window with a dove in the air, waiting and wondering if replenish will come from Noah's rain.

Learning to be Family.

I feel like we're in this process of learning to be family. None of us knows exactly what that looks like or how to begin to assess what we are. So we are awkward and trying and creating and talking and doing what we can. But we are learning to be family.

So Proud.

"Her children arise and call her blessed

Her husband also, and he praises her."

Proverbs 31:28

When people ask about how I felt at the funeral, all I can say is that I was so proud. I was bursting. I thought maybe I wouldn't make it down the isle, and was prepared for so, but instead I marched down with my head set and shoulders tall. Because I was so proud to call her my mother, so proud to know her, to grasp the intimacy of her, to be called her daughter, to be connected to her. I was so proud of the traits she possessed and the qualities she displayed. I was proud of her laughter, her quieted heart, her fierce devotion, her prayer-filled lips, her fighting backbone, her calming spirit. I was proud of her for one who gardened, who tended to roses and crops and the earth with great dignity and understanding of it as cultivation and creation. I was proud of her wild let-go spirit of freedom roaring on the boat on the Lake Michigan waves. I was proud of the way she cheerleaded for everyone, kissed each of my cousins, hugged even the toughest teens, and welcomed women to tea. I was proud of her devotion to family, her purposeful life. Her concern for her Bible Studies and her consideration for the elderly. I was proud of her need and desire to bake from scratch and cook our favorite meal. Proud of her love of being a grandma and her delight in being just that. I'm proud that she'd purposefully and carefully plan lunch dates, vacations, and everything in between. I'm proud that she lit candles, cherished traditions, and cared for others so deeply.

I was proud of every little thing she ever did for me. Walking into my classroom with mint M&M's on a hard day, saying "You're 'mint' to be a teacher" and the cards that lined my file cabinets that she sent in way to encourage. Proud of her caring about me to pray some nights at midnight, holding my hand while I struggled and she fought for me. Proud of her flying to see me so many times in Charlotte, and caring so deeply about doing so. Proud of how many books she carefully bought for me, how many carepackages she intentional packed for me, and how many cards were underlined for me. Proud of the fact she learned to e-mail just before I went to college to make sure she kept so closely in touch, and pasted all the e-mails into books when I graduated; then got a Verizon plan to match my own so we could keep in touch the next year. I'm proud of the wisdom she imparted and the grounded insight she discerned to offer. I proud that she listened so intently, to everything from my rantings and ravings and complaints and joys and highs, to knowing the little details about my friends. I'm proud of the fact she protected and stood up for my singleness and held me closer to her heart in such a way. I'm proud of the fact she knew my favorite places, my favorite restaurants, my favorite teas.

I couldn't write enough words to describe, discern, and give depth to my love and admiration of my mom. But I know others who know her could agree and add their own instinctive list. The amount of lives this one woman touched was innumerable. She was a woman who spent her life in the same town, and inside the home, yet she was a friend, a confident, an encourager, an inspirer, a wife, and a mother to more people than one could ever know. Her life bloomed and blossomed like the roses in her yard, bringing life and color and vitality and beauty to many.

On arrival to funeral home, the pastor came and asked if it was okay if he used Proverbs 31 as the text for the funeral. He never knew, but this was the passage written on my heart the entire weekend. At the funeral, he said in his 30 some years of funerals at a mega-church he had never used that passage, but thought it fitting for Janice Wever. I only could inwardly beckon how intensely I agreed and needed it. She was a wife of noble character. She was a Proverbs 31 woman.

The funeral home was decorated with more flowers than they had ever received, and the church opened its Celebration Center only the second time in history for a funeral. The place was full, filled with people who endeared her and flowers like jewels in her crown at the front.

I held my dad's arm as we walked down the isle. Looking forward and towards her, all I could think was I was so proud.

Scattered.

I live a scattered life. I flit and flutter from thing to thing right now and life runs in crazy zig-zags. My brain chases trails but always scurries to the next before finalizing the initial. So I'm driving on my cell phone then texting as I hang up, I'm writing myself sticky-notes and trying to mentally record words and phrases in my head to make sure I remember them too. I run home to check e-mail, facebook, and voicemail. My planner is fully of places to be and things to do but there is little fluidity between them. I'm resolving life here, planning for life there, prepping for a classroom, and gathering technology and necessities for life in between. Right now, I am living a scattered life.

I roam from place to place. Currently, I have three homes: Danielle's condo, my dads, and my sisters. I spend about a third of my time at each these past couple of weeks. Months ago, it used to be that my "home" was here, at Danielle's place. And I would come home to the feeling of "ah, home" and settle. Now instead I hustle around and leave with papers splattered still across the counter, from days ago, and run to another "home" for the hours of the day. In less than two weeks, I will add another "home" to my list of three, making the fourth with some girls in North Carolina. So I will have stuff present or stored at Danielle's, my dad's, my Charlotte residence, and my new classroom, not to mention the fact that in December I'll need to move again.

I have scattered friendships. This doesn't diminish them in anyway, or show lack of dependence or deepening to them. It's simply a fact. I have friends in Grand Rapids, most are connections to individuals rather than groups, but give life and depth and strength to my world here. Then I have solid and long-lasting friendships distributed across the globe. From Colorado to California to Washington to Indiana to Illinois to Morocco to Carolina to Kentucky to the Philippines, these friendships sustain me. They are a quality of depth that reach and linger in and throughout phone conversations and pieces of life. They are years in the making, but years holding too. All of these friendships, near and far, are symbols and gifts to me. They are good, they are blessings. They are scattered. [I love you girls!]

So I live this scattered life. It's okay for now. I don't want to take away from any of the friendships, no matter how close or remote they are. I need them, and I like to think and hope at times, they need me. But I would like to pair down the rest of it. To have my boxes in one place, my to-do list more reasonable, my 'central' life in one location. My heart a bit more focused. I read once that Jesus had a focused heart (Just like Jesus, Lucado), and that is what I aim to be. It's hard to be truly loving and deep in community and dedicated in commitment when one is scattered all over and seemingly thinly doing any of the mentioned. But that's okay. For now, I'll do my best, scattered.

He Who Walks.

A friend gave me this little book this week and I carry it close. I glean from it, I relish it, I find myself in it. It is such a gift to the heart and in hearing his story, Jerry Sittser enlarges and brings a depth of human understanding to mine. From Jerry Sittser's A Grace Disguised (I'll add more as I keep reading):

"Loss strips us of the props we rely on for our well-being."

"I wanted to pray but had no idea what to say, as if struck dumb by my own pain."

"I did not go through pain and come out on the other side; instead, I lived in it and found within that pain the grace to survive and eventually grow. I did not get over the loss of my loved ones; rather I absorbed the loss into my life, like soil receives decaying matter until it became a part of who I am."

"We do not always have the freedom to choose the roles we must play in life, but we can choose how we are going to play the roles we have been given."

"God has become a living reality to me as never before. My confidence in God is somehow quieter but stronger. I feel little pressure to impress God or prove myself to him; yet I want to serve him with all my heart and strength."

"I learned to live and mourn simultaneously."

Dangerous Gift.

Writing is a dangerous gift.

I say 'gift', because I believe it really is a gift. Not everyone can mince and splice and create with words to design feelings and images and meanings and pictures and everything in between in a way that others can almost tangibly touch what is written on the page. But I have been privileged to be entranced in some people's words, and sometimes even find it in my own.

But I also say it's dangerous. Because it can implore so many things and be used for so many motives and be interpreted in so many contexts. It can be manipulated, it can be hurtful, it can be jarring like a sword or so emotionally intense that it can cause others to weep as if they understood.

In my years writing, I have seen it be this way. I have written something that hurt someone so deeply that I will never forget how painful words can be, even when not intended. I have written pieces that remind me of feelings and emotions so understood that years later I can still identify the time and place and rawness of my heart. I have used words as prayers, used them as comfort, used them as poetry, used them as gifts, used them as emotion. Sometimes my words are elated, sometimes they are gutted, sometimes they are responsive, sometimes they bring response.

In my writing, I remember that words can be so many things. So I try to protect what is dangerous, filter what is corporate and what is personal, and sift to say the things that are important to be said. Sometimes I am embarrassed at the power behind my words, or unsure of how much emotion I should allow to be unveiled. Sometimes I hold back; sometimes I wish I had more to give.

So as you read my words, know that I acknowledge that writing is a dangerous gift. That I do filter before I post, and weigh it even afterward.

And also, that I know this series on grief is especially painful and necessary, but the depth of everything does not lie on these pages -- sometimes detained for me, and sometimes for you.

Recipes.

The first time I 'cooked' in the Philippines, I kept asking my roommates "how much?" As in one tablespoon? A cup? Five ounces? And I couldn't understand why there weren't measurements and how they cooked without them.

We were creating a stir-fry with everything from garden-grown vegetables to Peter Pan peanut butter. The pan was dabbled with oil and then things just kept getting cut or spooned or emptied in. There were dashes of this, clumps of that, and everything in between. With the final shake of ginger or sprinkle of chili powder, it was about done. And then we all sat down and had a fiesta of a meal in our cubby of the home. It was beautiful, it was special, it was unique.

It was also beginning of a life lesson that came from recipes. I learned there how to create without thinking, how to become courageous without concern, and lean back and enjoy the carelessness of it. Whether the end result was a perfect mix of soy and peanut sauce, or if the rice ended up sticky and bland, it didn't matter. It was the fun of the experience that counted.

Now days, I hate using recipes. But I love to cook. Forget baking, it ties me down and locks me into spoons and cups and careful heating times. But cooking, oh cooking. It means I can just start grabbing ingredients off my shelves and throwing them together. It means no matter what color peppers, no matter how much chicken, or what kind of spices I staccato on the top, I get the art of it. I get the art of letting go and just having fun. Creating from nothing. Enterprising to something.

As much as cooking like this is an art, today I was also struck at its comparison to life. How life isn't a recipe. It doesn't call for "one house here" or "two kids here" or "add job here" or "one husband now" or "let sit for five years." Instead, it gives us the opportunity to add dashes of things, to mix up the orders and styles of life, to take it, let loose, and divulge in the process. It allows for colors to spring up and speckles of zest to show. It's like creating enticing, gourmet food with the most creative and courageous of chefs. And letting the art of it, to yourself, go.

Transition.

I hate transition. I hate packing my life up again; I hate seeing and knowing that I am still transient, feeling rootless and belonging-less, and knowing I'm still trying to find my way in this world. I hate feeling like I'm always on some adventure, waiting for the adventure to 'fit me' or find me. I hate always trying, always knowing that 'new' keeps coming around the corner. I hate transition.

Each time I move, I transition. It's a family joke now about how well I do in transition. (My dad and I counted once how many times I moved from leaving high school until where I live now, and it's some place around 23 times -- where I actually unpacked a suitcase and stayed for a couple weeks at a time.) We all know I falter for a few weeks before the transition is finally made, and then once it's made, I do fine. But it's that fragile, tight-rope time beforehand of packing and apprehension and coming change that eats at me. I used to cry about it a lot more, but lately I/we laugh about it a lot more cause its like "here we go again" and my dad just asks where the trailer has to get my bed and where it has to drop it off this time. :)

This time, I'm transitioning again. I hate it still, but on a whole new level. I hate it because I know I have to go. I hate it because I love the Carolinas and being a "Carolina Girl" but this change is spoiled by so many things that loom out there. I hate it because I can't even go a day without talking to my family and I already go through intense withdrawal in that, so I already feel that dread and curse that is coming when weeks go by. I hate it that I'm leaving them here and that I'm off to 'new adventure' while they still have to trudge through the rest with me only partially united. I hate it that I'm going through all of this without my mom fighting behind me (in a way of gut-rooting support and courage). I hate it because it's filled with apprehension, fully on the job level, the living level, the everything level. Not knowing what I'm going into or what I'm doing or if I have the strength to make it. I hate it because its filled with the unknown and a lot of blind faith. I hate it that I'm doing it alone. I hate it because it even exists, but has to be done.

I hate transitioning. I hate it because it just doesn't fit me. I'm a nester, a home-body, a person needs roots and to love deeply. Surely, those of you who know me well also know that I need adventure and all the glories and thrills and wide open spaces that come there... But I also need some place to be always come back to...

Some place that no longer lingers in transition, but labels itself "home."

Wearing Black.

I am re-posting this, again. Maybe some month I won't. Hold it dear.
---
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.

Remarks on Grief.

In this turmoil that I ride, the highs and the lows, I started a list to help others claim the responsibility to journey with people in their grief. The list is from my own experience, but can possibly be transferred pretty easily to others. So take note, and then when you know someone who hurts, take heart:

~ If you don't know what to do, do something! Don't ever do nothing.

~ Simply, Be. The greatest gifts to me are the friends who just let it be okay that it hurts. Those who stood hours against the wall at the funeral home and never walked away, or who have sat for five hours without end while I just talked or cried or released. The gift of just "Be" is something no friend can ever compare to.

~ Never ask "how are you" unless you are prepared to hear. It's the stupidest question someone could ask you, especially when they ask lightly, or in passing, or just are feeding for information that adds to the gossip train.

~ Be personal. Write a note, write a story, write a memory. These little things inside a pile of envelops are something one cherishes.

~ Keep caring, keep calling. The grief doesn't end after two days. It doesn't mean that there won't be fun phone calls or great days to talk about, but it also doesn't mean that won't be hard phone calls or aches to be shared.

~ Listen. Listen to how they feel, why they feel that way, the stories they share, the pieces of that person they love. Listen (and don't try to share your own stories in between).

~ Remember: You Are The Giver. You give calls, meals, prayers, and listening. You give time, heart, and random gifts/notes. You are not the taker. The person in grief is piled so high with themselves they can't take more on. They have nothing left to give. And in this giving, remember the aspect of giver -- note that therefore even the "thanks" that might be polite or deserved is void and not required. You give of yourself in humility, unconditional of the response.

Wears on Me.

It's been 13 weeks. That is, for those of you not mathematically inclined, three months plus 7 days. You would think that with three months and seven days under our belt that things would look differently and that there wouldn't be that growing, intense ache of everything we feel still.

Let me be honest, it still hurts. Deep. Painful, pulling, aching. Most people can't take this, aim to ignore it, or goal to gloss it over with light conversation instead. This is hard and hurtful. I don't want you to understand, but I want you to let it hurt, to let it be, to let me just admit that it is still this way.

Yes, three months have past. Yes, I am making plans and adventures and trying to keep my head up and move on. We all are. But just because we're trying to keep positive and push forward doesn't mean that we don't consciously "put our right in front of our left." That one-step mentality isn't over.

Someone with medical insight asked me this week if I still engage in life, still find joy in things, still get up okay. Yes. Seriously, yes, I find joy in lots of things and have lots of good moments, and even some good full days. But don't get the impression that underneath it everything is always good. Grief doesn't end. It doesn't mean it rules every bit of you, but it doesn't end. It is always there and looms around, waiting, it wants you. And it comes at the quickest and oddest of times. Grief and I don't go hand in hand, it is a part of me, it wears on me. Every time I think I have finally take it off, I still find clinging to me.

Mail.

I love mail. Mail of every type, every shape, every size, every significance. As long as it's personal. Junk mail, throw it out. But you get that cute card from a friend and you smile before you even shut the mailbox. Or that one colored envelope amidst the masses of cell phone advertising sheets, and you just can't wait to see what is inside. There is something so personal about a real letter or real card. A real signature. Then there is the knowing someone took the time to pick out the card, read its writing or write their own in the blank space, look up your address, purchase a stamp, and walk to the post office slot. All to think of blessing you through tangible thought. It doesn't even have to say much, it can be just a signature for goodness sake, but there is still something about it that creates joy.

My mom and I have loved mail for decades. She was a card sender like no other, and I have grasped this trait of hers. I have stacks of cards I have kept from her. Then there is the file of letters that I tuck away for safe keeping -- everything from friends encouragements, camp kids crayoned pictures, scrawled notes kept private, or exhortations from those I cherish. I love keeping them, paging through them, smiling and being encouraged by them. I get soft and gooey and giggly and excited just by grabbing the pieces and carrying them inside.

Mail. Tangible Thought. There is something so special about it; it makes me smile. :)

Nothing Can Separate.

Lately, I have been making lots of decisions and thinking about moving and jobs and walking forward.... and in the midst of it all -- in the midst of my fears about all of these things -- God keeps speaking to me "out of the storm" (Job 38:1, 40:6).

These past weeks, he has come in several ways, one of which I will share because it beckons to be spoken:

I was sitting in church and we were wrapping up at the end, singing a hymn of some sort at the top of our lungs, me shouting in with the chorus and my hands lifted in worship. And in my heart, mind, and soul, from "nowhere" (unrelated to the teaching or the song) came the passage from Romans 8 speaking: "Nothing can separate you from the love of Christ..." And it claimed truth so loudly in my heart that I wanted to shout it with joy and tangibly carry it as a banner over my head. It beckoned to be told quickly and shared and keeps billowing like a corn kernel unwrapping in my breast.

Because nothing can separate me from the love of Christ -- not a job, not the coming year, not moving. Not my mom's death, not the trials at school in the last year(s), not the changes in friendships. Not my last experience in North Carolina or teaching or loneliness there. Nothing can separate me from him, nor from his love.

Before this truth rang through my being, I was enraptured in fear and tangled in webs of warfare. (Mostly due to my past experience in NC and how difficult it was, and basically loosing my faith in the process.) But this truth set me free. It released the burden and instead carried with it the protection I was asking prayer for.

And now I claim this truth in a whole new sense, in a whole greater understanding and fierceness. Because nothing -- nothing! -- can separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus my Savior (noted Romans 8:38-40).

My Brother's Keeper.

"...everyone did as he saw fit..."

The Old Testament Scriptures mention this line several times over. I didn't realize its repetition until reading the Bible through one year, thus reading chunks and seeing the larger picture. Then, in teaching the Old Testament, I started to dwell on this phrase further.

What would happen through the lands of Israel and Judah is that the people would neglect their leader or be without strong leadership, and in return, turn from God. Therefore, as a domino effect, they would live as they desired, caring little about others or discernment, guidance, community, or rules for holy living (see Judges).

This phrase has come up to me in recent days as I dart in and out of conversations hearing flippant remarks such as, "Am I my brother's keeper?" or "Look out for #1" or "You can't care what others think, you have to do whats best for you" etc, etc.

Though there is some merit to these questions and statements, I rightly call this Old Testament phrase to mind and measure it with these multiple circumstances and conversations I have at hand.

And I ask: Are we not only called to our individual ideas, but also to be considerate of others? Are we not only called to have godly self-esteem, but also still aim for the best of the communal mindset?

Two claims and passages play into view. One: Jesus. He lived for our life. He gave himself for us. He guarded his time with his followers, friends, and Father, but he still lived a life meant to care and cover others. The Greatest Servant of all. Quoted, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself" (Matthew 22:37-39). Or modeled: "Each of you should look not only to your own interest, but also to the interest of others" (Philippians 2:4). The New Testament bookends this idea of communal caring and consideration. Calling God to be first, but caring for others second.

The other scripture I find myself repeating often is: "As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another" (Proverbs 27:17). We like to use in modern Western culture as a catch-phrase for inspiration or athletics. But the reality is, it hurts! Iron against iron is tough, jarring, sparks-flaying, metal-grinding. It hurts, it is not easy.

So in our hearts and lives, that is what this is going to, or may look like. It may be hard to be this iron to another, to call them out or hold them accountable to Godly actions or attitudes. It may cause tenderness or hurt in that relationship for a while. But if we are called to hold our brethren to their covenants, their actions, their faith statements, then this sharpening needs to be done.

"Am I my brother's keeper?" (Genesis 4:9). This question was posed sarcastically by Cain to God in reflection of Cain killing his brother Abel, where God's wrath burned and Cain was smugly ushering the guilt and responsibility away. In response to this question, if we are the body of Christ, yes! We are called to be our brothers keeper.

As a result of viewing God as our number one and considering others second, we should then see the marks and scars of discipleship along the way. We should see it in the way we make plans, the way our conversations flow, the way we hold our friendships. This hurts, it does. It asks for a grunt-level humility and honesty and caring desire. It leads though to honor, respect, integrity, community, and embedded relationships. It keeps Christ as the center.

So does one pose the question "Am I my brother's keeper?" or "do as he saw fit"? No. No one does not. One must quest first the scriptures and measure guidance from that. And then one may quest second to see and live as He saw fit.

Why Are You So Good?

There are a few people in my life that I recently have been inwardly raising the question, "Why are you so good?"

Why are you so good, that you call every couple of days just because you care and to check on me? Sometimes about how I feel, sometimes about dates, sometimes about little at all. Why are you so good that you send me cute e-mails with pictures attached to make me smile and get me excited? Or bring lasagna to my house at 8am in the morning? Or text me during the day? Or write me hand written notes that just want me to know you care? Or plan a dinner and talk and share and just take me out to care about me? Laura, Jenny, & Missy, why are you so good?

And to other friends... to those who send e-mails letting me know that though they are going on vacation, they don't take a vacation from me.. and send cards in the mail while they are canoeing or kayaking, so I still am reminded of their love and friendship, why are you so good? To the friend who sent this gigantic package for my birthday, labeling each little thing and creating the most special moment for me in the midst of such heartache, why are you so good? Or to the one who came on my birthday into my crying hug, why are you so good? Or to the friend who planned and released in Life Escape with me, why are you so good?

In these many moments, more than I can write, I have been finding myself asking this question of those I love, "why are you so good?" I appreciate you. I see so much good in you it is overwhelming. I see you put aside your own day, your own calendar, your own desire to "move on with it" and keep being more of the Gospel than I could ever image. "Why are you so good?" I don't understand. I will never understand. But you are. And I am warmed and wrapped and welcomed in your hearts, and you in mine. You are so good.

Flowers Bloom Here.

My mom once gave me a sign that reads:

"Where flowers bloom, so does hope."

The saying was originated by Lady Bird Johnson and I cling to it in many moments. My mom gave me the sign as a housewarming gift a few years back, but we both knew the meaning and significance of it beyond that.

I lived my first year after college in North Carolina and for the first time realized what it was to live a life without hope. I taught inner-city eighth graders (gangs, guns, knives, the works) and saw this world erased from hope. I saw the world through their eyes for the first time, and heard the stories from their faces.

I can still hear one kid in the back of the room well after the school day was done saying, "Miss Wever, if your home was like that, you wouldn't want to go home either." I hear one girl's continuous pleading for me to adopt her, and that she wouldn't be a nuisance if I would just take her in and let her live with me. I see one really bright kid throw it all away to gang life by the end of the year.

I see them, and I see me in those days. Living on my own, by myself, completely. Feeling astray from people of faith and foundation, craving something culturally known to me, and trying everything to create a sense of belonging and community but crying with none instead.

And in return, finding my school and my life void of hope. I didn't know what that looked like before, but then I did and I hated it. It was dark. Dark. I had always wondered what my life would look like without God (because I have always known and been close to him) and I somehow imagined it would be more of a party scene; but instead, it was dark, lonely, and empty.

I bought a ring that fall that I still wear everyday on my finger. It's a thin silver band inscribed with just that word: Hope. And when I see that flower sign, or the white blocked letters on my wall, I remember what that season was like and the year(s) of restoration that took place after it - living under the roof and protection of my parents, crying everyday but still finding my mother fighting for me through love and prayer and presence. She fought for me, literally, and would hold my hand and struggle through it with me. She grasped hope and tried to give it to me with everything she had.

It took about three years for this process to come around to itself again and for me to regain a sense and a picture of Hope. But it did. Hope came back. Hope lives.

In the Bible, I Corinthians 13 speaks: "And these three remain: Faith, Hope, and Love..." And I cling to these. I understand these. I need these. I offer these. His mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23), and therefore his hope prevails.

In daisy's and day lilies, I see hope. I children playing, I see hope. In friendships so good I don't understand them, I see hope. In conversations over coffee, I see hope. In wakeboarding and tubing, I see hope. In family gathered across a cottage lawn, I see hope. In my daily thoughts and inner discussions, I see hope. In the prayers of my friends, I see hope. In designing lessons, I see hope. In my future, I see hope. In God's provisions, I see hope. In myself, I see hope.

I am thankful that flowers bloom, and that they are enriched with Hope.

Maybe Tomorrow...

Maybe tomorrow I will be the Proverbs 31 Woman. Maybe tomorrow I will start my day with sunshine and productivity and caring and reaching out. Maybe tomorrow will start a new season, where I see others more than I see me. And where I mend more than I come undone. Maybe tomorrow will be a new day.

But today... Today just let me have my bad day. Let me feel, let me hurt, let me cry, let me be. Let me care little if the blinds are shut, the people are comfortable around me, or others see my pain. Let me have my bad day for me and let it be okay that it's that way for me. So don't squirm to talk me out of it, don't be quick with my hurt, or fast to cut my ache off. Just let me have my day, my one day, where it is truly is my day, and it's okay that I feel that way.

And maybe tomorrow I'll be better. I'll try harder, I'll smile more, I'll care about it. But not today. Not today. Today's my day, my birthday. So maybe tomorrow...

Today's My Birthday...

"Today is my birthday
And all that I want
Is to dig through this big box of pictures
In my kitchen til the daylights gone...
This one here's my mama with the long brown hair..."
~ Sugarland


She should be here.

Writing in Pencil.

[Written February 3, 2009 - in my journal]

I was reading back on Shauna Niequist's book Cold Tangerines last night, and it reminded me of this phrase: Writing in Pencil. I hate writing in pencil. It mashes my fingers and smears on the page, smashes lead into my skin and makes grinding, unruly noises when sharpened. I hate writing in pencil. It's not defined enough, permanent enough, or clear enough. It's muddled letters indiscreet on a page.

But I write in my planner in pencil. Because it changes, it adapts, it adds and subtracts...

Lord, I've been trying to write my life in pencil, but moreso, not write at all. I've been trying to have no book to hold, or at least only a page or two of extra, blank pages.

I've learned. You've challenged, coerced, taunted, and crammed me. You've taken it all away and keep doing so, so that I am assured of living this way. Living in your surrender.

You've been teaching me to wait, to write in pencil. "Be strong and take heart and wait on the Lord" (Psalm 27). To wait, to surrender. Everything I thought my life would be. Everything I had hoped, planned, relied on, and prayed for. It's not there, or at least it's very different from what I expected.

So I learned and have adapted to waiting. I'm getting very used to 'writing in pencil', if I am writing at all.

Plans. Hopes. Dreams.

They are so flippant now in my book.

Wait. Patience. Surrender.

They are now my creed.

So where does that leave me? Here, with You, writing in pencil, and waiting for You to fill in the page.