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.

Anything to Anybody.

Today I am not going to be anything to anybody. I am not going to be a listener. I am not going to be a supporter. I am not going to be a friend, a confidant, a carer. I am not going to be on my cell phone; I am not going to be on my e-mail. I am not going to care or be carrier of others, or wonder what that looks like for them. Today I am going to take care of me. Today I am going to absorb myself in myself and completely block out all others. Today I am not going to worry if I am saying too much, saying too little, or caring if I ask reciprocal questions. Today, I am just going to care about me.

~~
PS -- and to all of you who do read this, I do appreciate how much you continue to care for me in these months, and how much you do let me care about me. Thank you for the gift of grace.

Sabbatical.

I'm taking myself on a Sabbatical today. And you have no idea how good it feels. I write from a little bakery and cafe, tucked away in some unknown town in South Carolina on my way to Charleston. The seat cushions are decorated with cheerful colored strips, bright colored gerbera daisys are potted in collaberating clay vases, woven baskets are hug from above, and boutique-style mugs and trickets shelved for sale line the walls. It is the most beautiful, refreshing place I have been since leaving for Charlotte.

Pastries and delicacies spread through cream flats, sprawling their way beneath the glass, lined for onlookers to behold and dream and wonder and glimmer as they pick their chosen out. I find a grace stretch across me, catering to this place and letting it awash me. The fifty year old woman aproned behind the counter endearing, polishing off orders and delights for customers, and caring enough to come around and chatter with me. The others spread service with contented smiles and add a few extra creams to my coffee, just for me. And my apple tart and blueberry muffin sit beside me, asking me to be delighted. To see possibility in them, and reclaim this piece of the day.

So it is morning. The beginning of my grace, the beginning of my sabbatical. It is morning, the part of the day where I have turned my phone off, released myself from duties or being, and simply am walking away to free me. To let myself rest, to smile when I want to, and frown when I need to. To gather treasures in a basket and link and sew them away, back into my heart, and piece together what is broken. This morning is the first day of my sabbatical. And today I will be free to be me.

Lipstick.

I'm wearing lipstick for you today, mom. I haven't been able to wear it besides your death. But today, I'm wearing lipstick.

You and Kelly would be proud of me today, mom. My purple jacket bought for me on the sidewalk sale in South Haven last year is donned. Calming, strengthing, and prideful I wear it, decorated with your choice of purple, gray, and silver beaded pearls from Premier.

I wear it proudly.

My stance is tall today, my head is held high. In your purple jacket, your pearls, and your lipstick on my lips.

You would be proud. And that makes me proud.

~
I add to this the verse that went through my head this morning: "She is clothed with strength and dignity, she can laugh at the days to come." Proverbs 31: 25. This is the verse the Lord wore over me this Friday.

I Am Not A Bet.

I wasn't going to write this, in fear of slander, but due to a few urgings, here is the story...

They put a bet on me. The teacher next door to me in the hallway came to my door yesterday. I told him I resigned. He said, "You're kidding." I said, "No, I did." And he stuck out his hand, as if to congratulate me and smiled and was excited from ear to ear and said, "YES! I Won! I Won!"

I looked at him dumbfounded and blinking and said, "Excuse me?"

And he was so excited he was nearly jumping up and down, and he was yelling about it, "Yes! I won! We put bets on who would make it and I knew you wouldn't make it this year. I won! I won!" He laughed and screamed and was so excited.

I stood at my doorpost, my mouth gaping, my head lead down and forward in shock, disbelief, and hurt. I didn't know what to say or do. I just stood there humiliated, hurt, shocked, and like someone punched me.

I walked into my room, put my kids in their seats, and quieted the class. This took a minute or two, and when it was quiet, I heard through the closed door and walls his voice booming through the hallways, passing so loud to other teachers from one end to another, "YES! I won! I won! I knew she wouldn't make it! Only one more teacher to go..."

He was elated. I was furious and crushed. I told my students to remain quietly in their seats and that I would be right back. I walked out, and called his name. He didn't turn around. I called again, and strove up to him in a bee-line and said, "This is completely disrespectful. This is inappropriate and I will not be treated this way."

He laughed and shrugged it off as if it was funny and he was just so excited that he won.

I was furious. I stomped to the assistant principals office, but she wasn't there. Then to the Principal's office, but he wasn't there either. The secretary asked if something was wrong, "I said yes and that I needed a principal.

She sat me down, I started to cry. She went and found another assistant principal who listened and was angry at the whole situation, which now had to be documented and I had to give statements for employee relations.

But in the midst of it, all I could think, all I can think, is that I am not a bet. I am not a joke. I am a human being. And I deserve to be treated and respected as such.

So if anyone wonders about my job. If anyone questions why I quit, or if my feelings outweigh my sense of logic, let this story be told. Let you understand that my school just isn't a safe place for my kids, but it is not a safe place for me.

Because I am not a bet. I am not a joke. I am a human being.

Feelings Speak.

Some people say I feel too much, or am too sensitive, or shouldn't let my feelings be so enduring in my heart. Well, I disagree. I feel my feelings. I know my feelings. I also trust that God guides my feelings often. And here is just one more dictation of that:

This blog post in italics is copied from this August:

I once took a job that I knew from the first meeting that I shouldn't have. It was at a church and I had a terrible feeling about it from the get-go, but based on the fact that I had no other options and it seemed everyone I talked to thought it was a great job for me, I took it. It was security, it was a salary, it was a step.
I found out really quickly why I had that stubborn intuition, and that I should have followed that instead. I found out really quickly that I can't always put logic and practicality over the Spirit's guidance. It ended up with me quitting (which got messy) after about 2-3 months and tumbling through a series of hurdles in between.
I think that's why I have this fear now. Because setting foot on the campus of this new school gives me the same feeling. The same "I shouldn't be here" thing. All practicality points to a salary, benefits, a place to go everyday. And I try to reason with it -- that its a place for me to go everyday, that sixth graders could be a good change, that I can fight through it and it might get better. That its just my emotions in turmoil right now.
But I'm not sure that this is right. I'm not sure what I will do if I don't stay there. I'm not sure if I trust my emotions and intuition right now when everything seems out of wack. But I have that same feeling... which then echos with fear.

And God spoke through my feelings. And I knew it. I knew it then. I know it now. So the next time someone wants to tell me I feel too much, lean into my feelings too much, or don't see outside of my feelings, be aware of this. And be aware of the fact that I understand logic, I am made in God's likeness. I am made with a capable brain, a practical mind, and a discerning wisdom. But I am also made with my feelings. And sometimes, often, God speaks through them and with them and leads me by them.

Brown Eyed Toddler.

I feel like a toddler without her. Learning to relieve and resee life. I feel like a child who doesn't understand or know or know how. Like I keep looking up with big brown eyes, as if from a children's book, asking for my mother. Looking for direction, for help, for guidance. For her hands to hold mine and help me walk. For her voice to be supportive, directive, encouraging, calming, and genuine. For her arms and chest to be soft and smell of her, cuddling me in the embrace of safety. I feel like a wayward, lost, consumed, needy toddler without her.

Missing Her.

Two weeks ago, I narrated about the missing her part. Something in me is changing. Something in me is wrenching me to crying tears in missing her so badly it hurts. Whether it was because of the comfort of a friend near that allowed me to completely unravel, let down my walls, and just mourn.... Or if something new is upon me, I do not know. But I miss her so much that my mind rehearses David over and over...

"My tears have been my food day and night" Psalm 42:3

I cry over lots of things, but the last week, missing, needing her is the epitome of my brokenness.

Mysia.

"When they came to the border of Mysia, they tried to enter Bithynia,

but the spirit of Jesus would not allow them to." Acts 16:6

This verse has mulled around in me for weeks. I first remember settling on it teaching my eighth grade Bible class the last few years, and always wondering about it, and explaining to the kids that I didn't understand why this was. Then it came back to me recently because of a beautiful little leather book that I drink from:

"What a strange thing for the Lord to prohibit, for they were going to Bithynia to do Christ's work! And the door was shut before them by Christ's own Spirit.
There have been times when I have experienced the same thing. Sometimes I have been interrupted in what seemed to be quite productive work. And at times, opposition came and forced me to go back, or sickness came and forced me to rest in some isolated place.
During such times, it was difficult for me to leave my work unfinished when I believed it was service done in the power of His Spirit. But I finally remembered that the Spirit requires not only a service of work, but a service of waiting. I came to see that in the kingdom of Christ, there are not only times for action, but times to refrain from action. And I also came to learn that a place of isolation is often most the most useful place of all in this diverse world. Its harvest is more rich than the seasons when the corn and wine were most abundant. So I have learned to thank the blessed Holy Spirit that many a beautiful Bithynia had to be left without a visit from me."

~ L.B. Cowman

Streams in the Desert, p.362

This verse has caused me to ponder because of my recent turn of events. Can the Spirit of the Lord direct me away from things that to many others seemed to think were from him? Can his Spirit prevent me from flourishing in a land that I seem to force my spirit into? Can a place, even if it is in need of Christs work and love, be kept apart from the people who are sent there, simply because the Lord is directing the person otherwise?

In my wrestling today, this is my heartfelt wonder. Can the Spirit of God close the doors on working at Wilson, simply because he needs my heart in another place? Can I walk away from it, not because the kids don't need me or the school isn't in need of "lights" for Christ, but because the Lord has chosen himself not to allow me to be present there?

Breaking Bread.

Tea baskets, coffee grounds, creamers separated in a jar. Linen table clothes, purple flowers, and bowls filled with skittles and snacks. An egg casserole in the fridge, honey on the table, and get-to-know-you questions near the chair. Signs around my doors and decor.

My bloom brunch was prepared for my friends to join me the day that mom died. I had stayed home that night to cook and make sure my blessing was ready. Then I received the phone call...

I haven't cooked since. I cried on my way home from Walmart this week, wishing I could cook something for my friends. But I can't. I can't think like that, I can't plan like that, I can't put my heart into it like that.

I used to have dinner parties every month for different groups of friends. It was my gift, blessing, and passion of the month. To gather them around the table and share the blessing of a meal with them.

But I can't cook now. I can't create. My heart dies within me in it.

Take Me On.

A friend was talking about this guy who was asking for my number. He's a nice guy. Really, he is. But my heart drops in a "lug" motion and I can almost hear the sound of it plump down in a lump.

Because its too much for anybody to take me on right now. I walk around with weights attached to me, and a heaviness of heart and spirit many days, and that is too much right now for any guy to take on. There isn't a strong enough strength to date me, it takes adding my grief, my mourning, my hurting from my job, the emotional beatings in daily life at school, and the complete break down of my life as I knew it. There are no safety nets anymore. There are no places to hide and seek refuge and comfort. Its just me, rawness and tears and honesty and all.

So to ask me out, means asking for this. I know him well enough to know it couldn't be a casual date. Because we're already friends. But like this, I'm too much. No one wants to date someone with the heaviness and baggage I carry right now. I might smile in front of many, and be entertaining and laughter. But when you sit with me over coffee, I don't pretend. I don't small talk. I don't take light the days I'm in nor the days ahead of me. No one wants to take on my family right now. No one wants to take me on.