Of Longing & Living.

"What is, is actual.

What might be,

Simply is not.

And we must

Therefore,

Not query God

As though

He robbed us

Of what

Is not.

What is ours

Is good,

God-given,

And enriched.

Let not our longing

Slay the appetite

Of our living."

~ Jim Elliot in a letter to Elizabeth, responding to her frustration in the quest to get married, as recorded in Shadow of the Almighty [and shared to me by Amy Young].

Book Basket.

I keep a book basket by my bed. There are the constants. The changings. And the irremovables. It is like a piece of home to me. Right now it cradles:

Constants

NIV Bible - travel size, leather, purple. I love it because it falls in my hands just right, soft to the touch, and has places like a map traveled on it, and a sense of familiarity because of that. It's this reminder of God and truth and living and the real. And it's moving, changing, in my hands and in places, but not in truth.

My Journal - leather, gold edge pages. Started this summer, just pre-Scotland and filled with my travels, my thoughts, my prayers, my angers, my poems. Verses scourged for meaning and underlined and circled over and over. It's the fears and thoughts I can't say out loud, and the lists of joys that peak up around me. It's almost finished, ready to be replaced. By something fun and cute and flowery. But in this season, the brown leather has fit somehow. In its basic-ness, its blunt form. Simply as a holder to get through. To think and feel little, but to get the words out enough to grab them and get them on paper, and get them out of me.

From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya by Ruth Tucker. My classic. My favorite little people know of. Like a hidden secret of library treasure. It's probably the greatest book I ever read nightly. Because its filled with narrative columns of the people I adore. Heros. Little biographies of the faith, of missions, of people caring so deeply about God that it cut their lives apart. Its the book I turn to when I can't sleep at night, when thoughts stir, or when encouragement is craved. And I never walk away with fear or failure to believe. Because these people are like Rocks. Ebeneezers. Faithful followers. They've cut the paths. They teach me to continue to.

The Changings: Currently

Boundaries by Henry Cloud. Because I need it. Need I say more?

The Land Between. A gift sent by my friend Anne, twice actually because of my address changes. About life, and journey, and the Israelites, and God's story. It's been such a friend to me, walking me through this familiar faith walk of so many and being a reminder, giving me place amongst those who have traveled such. And a whisper in the deserts that surely, God is present in this place. Mana. Fire. Life. Guiding. By Jeff Manion, pastor of Ada Bible Church.

Suprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis and A Chance to Die by Elizabeth Elliot (a biography of Amy Charmicheal). These days, rarely do fictional novels grab my attention. So to biographies I move. Something about the real-life struggle, the honesty, the lack of conclusion. The reminder of how human we all are, makes this a meeting of hearts, like a handshake over pages.

And then there is one more pile. The irremovables. The stack of steadys that sit mostly as stark reminders of who I am, what matters to me. Its my private stash, a personal pile that lies beneath the bottom of my nightstand.

The Irremovables

Letters To My Daughter. My book of thoughts and wisdoms, little writings collected down in my scrawled print for my daughter. A place to pass wisdom, belonging, a sense of calling and heritage. A place of peace and hope for my own heart, and gifted one day to her. It's probably the most special book that my fingers scrawl. Because if finds my place between the generations and connects them even with the absence of each. And finds purpose and wisdom and life in them both.

NIV Women's Devotional Bible. In green worn leather with a ribbon bookmarked and frayed. Granted to me when I was 12 by my grandparents on the day I made Profession of Faith. Its pages are worn, whole sections fall out, and finger prints stain the sage leather bindings. It's loved, engrained in the depth of me. As he stated "write them on the tablet of your heart" [Proverbs 7].

Dream and Being Pages. A handmade journal by Emily. Okay, it doesn't really have a title, and isn't really a book, but its my heart on paper. Lists of my favorite things, my dreams, aspirations, decorating thoughts, novel ideas. Everything from the fact that I love fresh bread and little boutiques and quaint cafes to the list of things I'd love to accomplish as the years go. It brings me back to my core and reminds me of who I am, what makes me, me, and how to them prioritize life according to those things.

Jesus Calling by Sarah Young. This little treasure of calm, truth, beauty, and perspective of his holiness. Its the daily pick-up of centering. Everyone needs one.

Sometimes I drop a few other treasures to this pile, but for the most part, these are the constants, the changings, the irremovables. The words penned for my heart, and gathered in my book basket.

She Held.

I would call her every day. And everyday the words would flow from my lips like they don't to anyone that I know now, nor have ever known. There was a different bond. A different trust. A different release. I would call her, talk to her, be known by her in such a way that at the end of everyday, it was release. She held my hopes and dreams, my stresses, my frustrations, my ponderings, my prayers. My little things -- from lesson plans to Africa plans to the voice inflection that would tell her more than any words could.

She was my dumping ground. My place of all-release. Of being so encouraged. So burden-lifted. So-loved. Unconditional. Beyond my emotions or differences from anyone else. She held it all. I left my hurts on the phone, my worries in her teacup, my tensions on her wooden swing, my anxieties on her porch. She held it all. And with that, I was free.

When it was Held.

"With my mother's death all settled happiness, all that was tranquil and reliable, disappeared from my life. There was to be much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of Joy; but no more of the old security. It was sea and islands now; the great continent had sunk like Atlantis." [p.21]

Four times. Five times. Slower. Six times. Head tilt. Pick it apart by phrases. Seven times. Again. Rethink. Reattribute. Eight times.

"All settled happiness..." Hmmm...

"All that was tranquil and reliable..." Reliable. Yes. Reread. Again.

"Was to be much fun, many pleasures, many stabs at Joy..." Head nod. Agreement. Nod again. Purse lips. Yes: fun, joy, surely...

"But no more of the old security..." Yes! Right there. That's what it is! Yes! Achieved. Marked. Pin-pointed. Like a clash of cymbals or clanging gong. It's the basis, the familiar, the old security, the common ground. That which held all else together.

I pause. I put the book aside. Stare off. Thought-filled. Remembering. When it all fit. When it all was more than islands and seas. When it held together. Connected. Mattered. Had relief. Had the sense of being... held.

And that's it. That's the exact change of life then, and now. When it was, held.

----

Remarks token to C.S. Lewis' Surprised by Joy, an autobiography of his early years. And the paragraph that feels like scrawled penmanship in my hands.

Quiet.

I have spent most of the past two days... alone. In quiet, in my house. Mulling through boxes of materials, gathering tax forms, collecting recipes, making and crossing lists, opening library books, dallying through Facebook, folding laundry, writing postcards, gliding the elliptical, moseying new music, composing dresses, rearranging picture frames, lighting candles, and.... being.

It has been a beautiful blessing. The quiet finds me under the covers of a blanket at three in the afternoon, or chopping apples for homemade crisp at six. It wakes me up at seven am with calm and cuddles me tight at nine reading missionary tales. It sees me grin at all the things I get done during the day, and relax when a few things don't. It finds me settled when my home filled with friends for a movie last night. It fills my recesses with space and love again to... be. To be quiet again.

Dancing In The Mine Fields.

Wow, what an anthem. Thanks to my dear friend, Bekah, for sharing the story.

Perhaps never have I heard the promise put such as this... I pray it... for dancing in the mine fields, and sailing in the storms...

Home.

I miss Charlotte already, and I'm still here. Over the past year and a half, it has become my.... home. Deeply. Engrained. My potted plant has found and put roots [reference Bekah]. It's the heartbeat of me. I love my home. I love my Charlotte. I love my Carolinas.

I heard a comment this week, "I can't believe you're not coming home for longer." But my immediate reply and peace was, "But this is my home." Charlotte is my home. Charlotte is me. It's the place that I love. It has been solace for me, safety, peace, growth, protection, trust, faith, space, love, cocoon. Home.

I am blessed. By this love, this depth, this peace, this presence of my soul that loves and is deeply attached to the soil and the people and the church and the family I have here. Home.

Blessed. Roots. Love. Comfort. Home.

~~~

Interesting enough, last year I listened to the Beth Moore's Believing God CDs at this time, and it was about your promised land, etc... And today, I was in the kitchen cooking for visiting Taylor friends and listening to the teachings again and thinking -- wow, this is my promised land... and I know it and feel it and have such depth of peace about it. My place at Porter Ridge is my promised land, my inheritance, my purpose. What affirmation - of belief, of faith, of scripture, of my purpose, of the Lord. This land of inheritance is.... Home.

Trying to Meet Someone.

"If I weren't trying to meet someone..."

Sometimes I wonder this. About my life. My heart. My energy. My time.

If I weren't trying to meet someone, how much energy would be left over to love deeply those I already know and love? How much energy would be left to pour into the circles I already stand in, and into him?

If I weren't trying to meet someone...

How would the patterns of my heart change? How would my motives look differently? How would the parts of me that need to nurture and love, be nurturing and loving, or be nurtured and loved?

If I weren't trying to meet someone...

How much of my time would be left to nights at home? To weekends cuddled under the covers or on the couch or being together? How much of it would be filled with greater purpose rather than the scant scatterings of filled spaces?

How much of my life, my heart, my energy, my time, is wasted in the wanting, the wishing, the hoping... the excess, of trying to meet someone?

~~~

But, if I weren't trying to meet someone, where would it leave me then? I've done that route, ended up with nothing. I've thought of hermitting too, but that doesn't help. I've lived countless times with blind eyes and a disciplined, focused heart, but that shows blank pages too. So, surely, how does one try and not expend themselves at the effort of meeting someone, but yet.... meet someone at the same time...?

Never Came Back.

Some things never came back. Somethings changed or disintegrated, or were shocked out of who I was. When April 17 came, it punched all of me, and a lot of things just never quite returned from whiplash...

Things that never came back...

* My memory. I can't remember things at all like I used to. Maybe never will...

* My planning. You wouldn't believe it, but I can't plan a thing. Everything is procrastinating because nothing is right, nothing makes sense, nothing clicks. It just never came back.

* My space of heart. My limited ability to love and care and feel for others was chopped in pieces, and never quite returned. It's not that I don't want it to, it just never came back in the capacity it once was. I wish I could care and love and pray deeply. But instead, that too is just thrown and chasing after the wind. My heart just never quiet returned from hiding and selfish care. It doesn't grow outside itself.

* My passion. It's just never come back the way it was for things I am/was passionate about. Like recycling, for example. I'm die-hard about this and making sure everyone else is too. And, I do recycle, but more flippantly than before... And that's just the beginning...

Somethings will never come back. Some things will never return from being broken. But, maybe, somethings will mend...

The Good, the Full, the Joy.

Glitter, glam, giggles. Spilled out over the table with shimmering glasses of wine. Our voices held joyous anthems - telling stories, sharing tales, adding smidgens into other conversations and jumping around from one to the next, as only girls can do. Tonight was a celebrated way of friendship. Seventeen girls chorusing together, an exchange of Secret Santa gifts and giddiness. We were beautiful, dressed in our best with eyelids painted, satchels in hand, and coats woven like classy color to our knees, peeking heels and stilettos beneath. Jewels and ribbons sparkled, wrapped around like adoring splashes and statements. We ordered like frivolous women, laughing aloud at our flippant release, enjoying gourmet pastas and bellinis, trailed by tiramisu and creamed coffee. The good life. The joy of flourishing friendships and good food and freedom at the table sounding like clinking spoons and echoing laughter. Joy. In it's full goodness.

Painting pictures with words rarely do justice. But sometimes, they also paint the elements a picture can't. They paint the sounds, the savorings. The memories loomed through the fabric of photos that are cherished deep in the heart. As some moments portray themselves like painted canvas, they still pull to be drawn in written form. These are the moments I capture today. These are the good, the full, the joy.

Three Times Today.

Three times today

God spoke

To me

About the

Desert Place.

Three times today

He said the

Words.

Three times

I heard His

Voice.

Three times today

I nodded

In reply;

Three times

I walked

Away.

Three times today

And yet

I still

Don't

Believe.

~~~~~~~~~

Postscript Notes: The Three Times

1) Morning Journal/Read time -- About Moses, the desert, manna, and time (The Land Between by Jeff Manion)

2) Church -- About the road to Egypt and Jesus as a child, kept hidden in that place, alive but away.

3) Jesus Calling -- About Jacob and the desolate place, but then saying "Surely the Lord is in this place."

And how, and why, do I still find myself questioning and angry, finding such desert place, when this gives such punctual and obvious manna and Presence?

And to add to that -- a "God Sighting" this morning in church -- as I had prayed specifically this weekend about my Tuesday night Bible Study and joining/staying/leaving, etc... evaluating its purpose and my purpose and intentions in going.... resolving neither to engage nor disengage, when but for the first time ever, I run into the leader at church and was reminded and encouraged that she wants me there and connections will come...

Oh Lord, strengthen my unbelief.

A Teaching Introvert.

NOTE: This is just the beginning of the messiest ramblings ever... not done, nor flowing nor connecting nor organized... but I had to start somewhere to get out my thoughts and concerns and question... and open it up for conversation....

I sit at Panera, my wavering time between teaching the hundred high schoolers who walk into my classroom and pacing around the packed stadium of the football game tonight. The day time brings constant activity -- rushing to copy machines, answering questions, responding to late work, answering e-mails, flourishing boring European Monarchs into interesting characters, leading service clubs and aiding with meetings, shuffling piles of papers between teachers, and avoiding the harping of the department chair. All this accompanied with a chorus of "Sit down, turn around, listen up.... I'm not telling you again to sit down....I already told you the directions.... Were you listening when I was talking?"

And wanting to either pull my hair out or someone elses'.

By noon I'm exhausted, with frazzled nerves and tattered professional respect. So I teach one more section of freshman before defeat completely rushes me.

And then, my saving grace of eleventh grade honors students lounge in. And when I say saving grace, I mean it. They walk in and the life comes back to me. The smile eases back to my face, the wrinkles release, and energy flows through my veins again. They care (most of the time), try (most of the time), and work together as a class and individuals to learn, be successful, and make class as fun and light-hearted as possible in the midst of it.

So, the eleventh grade honors kids keep me there. They keep me going, keep me trying, keep me coming back the next day.

But this week, I'm just looking around going, "Something has to change. Is it me? Is it them?" Because I can't keep being sucked dry emotionally from teaching. Last fall, my aunt told me I'm not mean to teach because I'm an introvert. My sister says she never thought I should be a teacher. My counselor last fall said I'm probably too introverted to teach, that I should look at new careers.

But my heart doesn't agree. I just need a new way to do it.

Because something also comes alive for me when I'm teaching. A spark explodes and I'm a whole different person -- full of charisma, life, energy. I'm a phenomenal public speaker, an actor, a wealth of creativity and still overflowing with care. I just have to protect myself enough that these traits that shine while I'm a teacher, don't also get abused while I'm a teacher.

I called my friend Kate this week. I was speaking about my depleted self and questioning how other people in the world, her specifically, can do so much more than I can. She could teach all day long, coach track, go home to her husband, grade work, head to Bible Study at night, and repeat the whole process again the next five days until Saturday, when they would volunteer with their church and still live this flourishing life. I was/am jealous. And asked her why, how, she could do it?

Let me be honest, I look at some of my friends or people I know, and I'm jealous! And embarrassed! I feel like such a fool, such a failure, when I come home at five pm and am exhausted. I spend my weekends recuperating, preparing lessons for the next week, and gathering myself inward a little bit... while they're out serving their neighbors or church, hosting great parties, lining up coffee dates, running 5Ks, and still finding time to write blogs, send personal notes, pray, and bake homemade treats. Seriously!? I'm invigorated. How do they do it? They're like perfect people, all wrapped into one, to everyone. (It seems, at least, from my perspective. I'm sure they'd argue differently.)

All this to say, I've been doing some work, some research, some reflection, on me, on life, on careers, on purpose, on gospel. What does it mean if I don't "serve" my church right now? Or my community in a formal way? Or mail every notecard I should write? Or participate in a Bible Study? Does it make me selfish? What does it mean that I get more relaxed in writing this blog than anything else, but that if I only write (like as a career), I get depressed and need people and structure, and teaching in some capacity or I shrivel? What does it mean to create and define my "home team" and how do I "push others away" to protect my personal space and deepen my closest friends, since I can't be best friends with everyone or have coffee dates with the whole planet? What does it mean to teach 100 students a day as a career yet be a person who needs quiet and reflection and thoughtful conversation in order to have the life-blood and energy to flow out into them?

I've been doing research. I've been scanning google pages and chatrooms and blogs. I've been asking questions, looking around, wondering, pondering. Wanting to pull myself forward through it, but learn and figure it out along the way.

I want to be purposeful as a teacher. I want to engage, create, entice, bring life. But I want strength and beauty and grace to remain inwardly at the end of the day.

I get paid once a month. Usually, in a job setting, that monetary reward helps ping you forward to the next. But when it's a once a month pay check, I forget that I even get paid, so that encouragement feels like a loss. Several mornings a week, I remind myself that this whole career means I get to travel in the summer, and that usually inspires me enough to put a smile on and lug my bag around with dreams in my head. Other days, funny moments from the past class day, or community project from the club I lead, keep me going. Most days, I look back to the inward depression and lull that comes from not teaching -- and that is more than enough to get my butt moving. Because no matter how frustrating it is some days, the opposite means depression, discontent, feeling useless and purposeless, and sunken. So I remember why I'm teaching, and keep pressing forward.

I remember that I'm a mobilizer. That no matter how much I care about AIDS or Kenya or anything social justice, I can do more talking to my students than by myself anyway. I mobilize them to be world-changers -- whether through IJM funds or listening to Dave Johnson on Silent Images or reading about modern slavery -- my little classroom becomes bigger in the midst of the whole world. And they can move us all forward by the discussions and actions in room F202.

I remember that they make me laugh, and they give me spark. And they sometimes surprise me, encourage me, learn from me, and bring life to me. So I keep teaching.

I remember the hearts I've connected with, the stories they've secretly shared, the moments where that connect part spans beyond class content and involves the personal heart. I remember the times the pull me into the hall to ask personal questions, or write me a letter to let me in. I remember these little big things that paperclip themselves like stars on the line, and I keep teaching.

I remember that I'm finite. In skills and personhood and energy and service and leadership and charisma. So at some point, there has to be an end to what I can do. Sometimes, that begins with admitting it: I'm finite. I have to stop sometimes. I have to relax. Release. Reward myself with that prophetic seventh day rest.

So in this quest, in this wondering and finding what it means to be me, what it means to be an introvert and teach, I come here to this Panera table and refuse to be defeated by me. Or by them. But I've got to find a way to make it work for me, for them.

Scrooge.

I'm Scrooge for Christmas. I'm embittered by a hardened heart, a sense of loss, a hallowed hurt. I feel like I should be giddy with joy. Joining the shoppers. Sprinkled with glitter. Marveling at lights.

But instead, I hold in breaths and pucker tears behind my eyelids and spread my lips in a grin. Not wanting to damper any one else's holidays, throw sawdust on their cheer, or dump my sorrow at their front door.

It's something about the holidays that just pushes every emotion forward. Even the anticipated punches have feeling. And no matter how much I try to disguise it all with cute little parties, decorated celebrations, close knit conversations, and

A box of ornaments sits still in my closet. I can't put the treasures on the tree. I can't look at what was, or what I would be. The daily reminders of love on a tree is more than I can bear. The childhood stocking lays packed between layers of old picture frames and dusty memories. The sadness lurks in those boxes, and I attempt to seal it there.

But it harvests instead, in thoughts and on paper, no matter how many times I try to keep it suppressed. What was, what should be, what couldn't be.

So Christmas drools with discontent and the hallow places of love that used to reside in my heart. It screams at me, and I try to hide from it. But it can't be evaded.

I missed Christmas. I missed it last year, wishing so bad for it by July that I wanted to throw my own party and capture the glamour and gifts and celebration of warmth that it brings. I missed Christmas this fall, and wanted it lining my mantel and streaming around trees this season.

But now that its here, now that it brings with it places and people and problems I can't cocoon from, I want Christmas shut away. Over with. Non existent. I don't want this kind of Christmas. Then I don't want Christmas at all. It isn't lights and glitter and carols and holiday cheer. It isn't brimming shopping and laughing children and falling snow. It's loss and hallow and hurt and fear and anger and disappointment and sadness and all the hardened heart emotions I'm embarrassed to find still reside.

I want Christmas to be renewed. To be healing and hope and heavenward.

But right now, I'm just sadness in my Scrooge.

Set Up For Disappointment.

J.D. and Sandy protect strong. They are fenceposts between me and the charging forces that tear away at my strength. And about Christmas, they have repeatedly said, "Don't go!' With force. With reason. Since June.

But I bought a ticket anyway this week. Because it had become a big ta-do in the relative circles... accompanied by hours of phone calls, layers people purposing guilt, and taunt conversations. So feeling like I'm the bad relative and guilty for not wanting to come "home" I booked a ticket anyway. The only measure that could be used as weight was my nephew, because I do really want to see him.

J.D. and Sandy look at me with concern written all over their faces, wanting to say so much but trying to protect my space at the same time. With stutters, J.D. says, "Well, we're just afraid you're setting yourself up for disappointment," because it happens, literally, every time. Left without a place to stay, a car to drive, a breakfast date, etc. etc. Family always give me such a hard time if I don't go home, yet don't care sh-- about if I do.

So I booked the ticket, guarded expectations, but still literally was told that I should "get a taxi" and that they will start Christmas dinner without me so I can get a rental car and such...

Always. No matter how much I try, or don't try, care, or don't care, family always leaves me set up for disappointment.

Billowed Love. Billowed Hope.

I've had a longing to have a family and children since... well, pretty much the day I was born. I was the girl with loads of doll clothes, baby bottles, and diaper bags wherever I went -- and I mean at age five, not twenty-five. My dolls - Thumbelina, Annie, and Blake - were my treasured pieces. My precious holdings, my loved hug. At dinnertime, a high chair resided next to me as I scooped applesauce all onto Annie's plastic faces and let it drool down onto her bib, caring for her messes afterward as if she really ate it all and just had the leftover messes on her cheeks...

I have been gifted with this nurturing heart. This heart that actually does love those "womanly" tasks of the 1950s: the cooking, cleaning, caring of the housewife. The decorating, table setting, and hosting. To be the volunteer mom and soccer mom would be labels I'd be honored to own.

About four years ago, I began to journal and hope about foster care, which more recently has turned into adoption. I'm pretty serious here. I've looked up the information, asked questions, thought through the realities...

But I long for billowing my love onto young ones. Not twenty five of them, or someone else's children, but my own. Creating this longing of love and heritage. Nurturing and guiding and protecting and giving vision to the gospel in the presence of a home and passing on my faith heritage to a linage of my own.

Again, I'm pretty serious. If Kenya would open up for adoption, I would be the first in line. The other option I've considered is seeking a teenage mom who wants to give her child hope by adoption.

It costs money. Lots of money. It also means a need a house and a place to "prove" I have the capabilities and physical responsibilities lined up to care for another human life.

I think it was always a distant hope and lingering, until recently, when I see the things I value in life want to culminate in the home. It also used to be "well, when I'm thirty..." but now, thirty is only a year and a half away. So what does that "when I'm thirty" look like for real, past the dream. I don't always want to wait and hope, and then one day see my life pass me by and wish I lived it purposefully instead of always wondering or living in fear of what it could be.

So now, the words flow from me, the billowed hope like love on a page, withstanding my shy and embarrassed self-admitance. I want a home. I want children. I want to share a linage of love. I don't know why it feels like an embarrassment as a single woman to say that; its as if I have to hide behind it to appear confident to the world. But this human longing is of the Lord, it what we as women are breed with. So single or married, it is there, the longing exists. I deny it no more.

Married women are allowed to hope and dream and gush about having babies. And shop and dream about decorating nurseries, filling carts with bedding at Babies R Us, and gather little bundles of hope along the way of dreaming and planning. They are endowed with everyone's blessing, with special words and cards and encouragements and baby showers and the formal badge of life as a woman -- a wife, a mother, a place in the Church.

Yet do acknowledge this day, that the Lord puts this love and longing in all of his daughters, all of his women. That he created all of us with reproductive hormones, caring souls, and a loving capacity for a heritage of faith through his created.

These days, this morning, I am billowed with love and hope. With reality. With dreams and questions and thoughts. With wanting. With a capacity to bless and nurture. With a backbone to fend of nay-sayers and to blockade my little dream. May the Lord look down on me with love and favor in my state of billowed hope.

Point of Breaking...

Laura Story "Make Something Beautiful"

Verse 1:

When Im at the point of breaking at the place where I resign,
And Im at the stage of shaking my head as I look back on my life,
When Im halfway through the grieving, but not quite through the ache,
When I cannot see the ending, Or which road Im supposed to take,
All i know to do is lift my hands to you..

Chorus:
Take all of my life, all of my life,
All I know to do is lift my hands to You.
And make something beautiful.
I open my hand, trusting Your plan.
Make something beautiful so all will see
Your work in me, as You make something beautiful


Verse 2:
When Im tired of pretending, and I cant recall my lines,
Do I say, Im barely breathing., or just say, Im doing fine.
I admit there is a yearning, for the hurting to subside,
But not at the risk of missing what Your doing with my life
All i know to do is lift my hands to you

Good Things.

Trees bursting with brilliant color, lining the streets of Rea Road and Colony, and sprouting out my morning window.

Tank tops, camis, layers, color. Frills, feminine etchings. The revealing of beauty through soft shoulders and silky necklines.

Writing. Process. Words. Bringing reality, the real, and truth through the love of language.

Coming heart to heart with friends. Being in their grasp and love, no matter the area, the distance, the time between talk.

The words my mother has given me, taught me, bleed through me. The example of nothing short of her goodness.

Snuggling children, quiet smiles, silly laughter.

Coming into a home smelling of wreaths and pine and cinnamon and mulled spice. Of Christmas and love and hope and joy all mixed in the form of trees and bulbs and candles and joy.

Music. Mellow or moving. Calm or chaotic. Joyful or joining. Whether it raises hands in worship or applause, in cheers or artistic expression. Music is good. Music is life.

Quiet mornings home. Nights out with friends. Invitations to dinner. Shared meals at the table.

Food. Thought out, set out, spread out. Gourmet with ingredients hard to spell, and tastes learned to discern. Good. Food.

Sara Groves. Lady Antebellum. Wailing Jennys. My urban mix of Shontell, B.o.B., Eminem, and Beyonce. The voice of Jennifer Knapp "Sing Alleluia" on the morning commute. And Colbie Calliet fluttering through date-night prep.

(more to come)

Uncover Hope.

"Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us." Romans 5:3-5

What if hope does disappoint?

What if hope does seem to 'put us to shame'?

Some days, I hate hope. I know, sounds critical and cynical, but lets be honest -- it's also hope that brings disappointment, discouragement, etc. Because we allowed ourselves to long, to yearn, to hope for better, for dreams, for life... and then, splat. Empty wallows, or unkept promises, or sadden souls at the luring loss of hope.

Now truly, I understand, it's a hope for all things better. A hope for eternity. A hope for heaven. It is hope that does develop perseverance, character, etc. But in the process, I find myself having to be also pruned of the jaded-ness that grows when hope comes up short.

Perhaps that is the development of character. Allowing to be pruned and still keep pushing ahead, hoping, rejoicing in all things.

Now, lets put this into perspective, so you, as a reader, can grasp what I'm getting at, and why this long entourage of cut thoughts bleed out... So I'll shift my perspective from my own heart eyes, like a zoomed in Google-map, to seeing the broader so others can see the map that's painted.

I hope. Deeply. For this portrait of home and life and goodness that is etched inside. It breeds from my own experience, living with candlesticks and boats and good-night prayers and encouragement at every turn. It breeds from my snuggle naps with Garrett, and my laughter with him at the park. It breeds from longings as a child, playing with dolls, setting tables, and knowing how much of my mom planted and grew in me.... And from life, from pregnant friends, from stories of cuddling kids in the morning, from books, Bible Studies, and the pulsing life-blood of the church aimed continually at the nuclear family, and coming through the lack there-of with displaced centrality.

I could sit and talk with Will for hours sometimes, feel his arms so strong and silky, lean into him on the couch, and laugh so hard under moonlit woods. It all breeds hope. Talking about houses and kids and cooking... and prayer and night and silent dreams. So many things about him brought me great joy; fullness; a fresh sense of color. Tired days, he refreshed me. Anxious days, he relaxed me. Hope blossomed out of good.

But because of so many other things, because of my need to self-protect, to stand back and see. To linger in what is real beyond the dreams. I closed my eyes and couraged to walk away.

Away from a slice of safety. Away from his strength next to me at the table this Frieday. Away from human approval - that I'd 'finally met someone' and no longer had to prove my feminine worth, or justify my position in life. Away, but now "put to shame" in the light of human eyes as I am no longer a "we" or talking about a "he". Instead, its just "me."

Where I find myself today, knowing the real and telling myself, listing it off in honest truth so that I can see the truest vision, uncovered by perspective. Feeling the good, but willing to state the bad. I stand in space, with mountains and valleys, flourish fields and fallen trees, and look back and forward, for what was dreams and what wants to be, hope.

I find it. I uncover it inside myself. I stand wishing and wanting, but knowing and being, in the strength outside society, but what is found from the Spirit within me. I beg, and ask, for in His goodness, that I find it. Hope.

Self Protection.

Self-protection is hard. It's real. It's necessary. It's important. But it's hard.

The last year and a half, I have learned the art of self-protection. I have learned to cut, to stop, to sway from emotions. To let linger, to pause, to walk away from relationships. To grow distance. To self-protect.

It's for me. It's for my heart. It's for my friendships and the love of people in my life. It's for the gospel, that it grows and flourishes in me, rather than being squelched by the hurt of harmful words, indecent deeds, or inconsistent relationship. It's to build trust in Truth, to honor what is Good, to grasp what is Noble. To let my heart grow in the "whatevers" of Philippians 4, so that I am aimed at what is good, pure, right, noble, excellent, and praise-worthy.

It is to give me life, so that I can also be and give life.

Self-protection is hard. It's the intentional tugging away from constraints in wishing and hope and dreaming of what was real or what can never be. It's keeping lids on expectations, and depriving joy from what good be to realize what is.

I've learned and taken lots of steps of self-protection. From people, from family, from jobs, from all sorts of things that could have the potential to be excellent and praiseworthy, but instead are calloused or cutting.

These days, I take on new self-protection. Stepping away from what could be, to see what is. Stepping away from what emotions in me are lured and laughing and playful, to see what underlying characteristics show underlying tone of life, being, future, love, and hurt. These days, self protection has a new form.

It still looks at it always does, this growing hedge around the garden of me, climbing higher like ivy trellis' on metal rod-iron wreaths. It may appear and look soft and sensitive, but it comes from the soil of spoiled hope. It strengthens, it hardens, it supports itself. It is still full of purposeful blockade, masked by smiles and simple lines, and words like "I'm fine." But the trellis of ivy growns over hopes, dreams, life, fears, stillness, peace. It covers the anger and hate and cynicism, but also the goodness.

I wish instead, someone would tend to the 'garden of me'. Carefully planting and pruning and watering the soil. Taking care to encourage it grow and blossom and flourish. And see the strength of roots that run through, and the beauty of the flowers that wish to bloom. I wish instead someone would lurk into the patches, seed the soil, and take great care in the garden.

But as it stands, I walk away; I self protect. I grow ivy. I quiet. I wither. I wish for blossom. I wish for hope. But I always now, self-protect.

Safety.

I was commenting on a friend's post today, and unearthed a big concern of mine, and a concern that lasts from childhood to adulthood.

Don't we all long to be safe? To be safe with a friend, to be safe with our home, to be safe with in the confines of work and play, love and leisure. Think how different life looks and feels when we feel safe in our personal space, in ourselves, in our relationships...

“Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keeping what is worth keeping, and then, with the breath of kindness, blow the rest away. ~ George Eliot

Posting on my friend's blog:

I think the most important right of a child is safety. Safety in all sorts of forms. Safety in space — in feeling protection from the rain and cold, protection from animals and creatures, diseases, and untold other physical harms. Safety in emotion — feeling safe with the words that are spoken to them from parents, teachers, peers and retaining instead encouragement and places to grow. Safety from physical harm — from beatings and brutality, war and rage, sexual assault and hunger. Safety from fear — of school shootings, of beatings at home, of mangled rumors, of threats to their villages.

The sense of safety is one that can’t be conjured up. It can’t be temporarily distributed, because then fear would still be lurking. The need for solace in safety is universal, from African villages to Colorado High Schools to Bolivian homes. Safety also sets the stage for adulthood, and pronounces traits in us that will either grow and flourish, or die and wither with age — like confidence, motivation, strength, and care.

Safety is by far, the number one thing I would bring, give, and protect over all the children in the world.

Fear and Faith.

The Lord teaches me this lesson over and over again. About fear and faith.

Because fear is the opposite of faith.

And he comes to me, calling my name, and calling me out of fear, to walk in faith.

So let faith be my footing. Fear forgotten.

Prayer is the strength of me battle shield in faith.

Motherhood.

Motherhood is something you just long for. You just need. The presence of it in your life, and the presence of it to give to your life.

This week, I long for motherhood. I long for motherhood of my own, and the motherhood of the mom that I miss.

Except for the concept of motherhood, who do you ask hard questions to? Who else knows you so deeply an intimately that they can answer the questions? Or offer that insight of perspective that only they can have the place and platform to give? Except for motherhood, who lets you just cry and cry and fall apart over and over again, and still love you and hold you all the same? Except for motherhood, who dotes on you when you need life, when you need encouragement, when you need love? Except for motherhood, who holds your trust so strongly that you are safe under the grasp of her care? Except for motherhood, who connects you with generations and gaps and lines and lineage and love and heritage and covenant strings? Except for motherhood, who is your place, your space, your solace, your rest?

Motherhood trembles with in me. It beckons me to my own, and yearns from me for my own. I miss and cherish the place of Motherhood from my mom so much. She was the ultimate Motherhood. The ultimate place of questions, of life, of love, of rest. Of safety, of solace, of space.

Of love.

Because They Are His Plans.

I was reading from a Proverbs 31 blog today called A Widow's Might... and she wrote a response to someone who had written in on her blog, and the words grasped truth with such a strong vengeance and soft indignation, that I needed to claim them as my own today. But I too, share them with you:

I know His plans for your future are awesome,

because they are His plans.

The Lord Today.

I love that the Lord called me on an intimate date today. That he called my heart, that he knows my name. And that he yearns for me. The Lord calls and cares over me like warm love on my soul. He breaks me into his comforting hands and holds the wounds with love and tenderness. Like a lamb with a shepherd.

I don't take time off. I don't take sick days unless I'm beyond reaching across to pull the sheets off my bed, sick.

But the Lord knows my heart deeper. He called me today. He woke me up with yearning for his love and his word. For the deepest of intimate dates with him. And time together of solace.

I've been battling a cold and sore throat all week -- DayQuil and NyQuil are taken in double doses. Stress stopped my muscles from movement. Fainting took turn instead. Students clam over me like personal oysters, sucking the life from my bones and draining me until all that was left was hurting disrespect and a crinkled, soiled soul. And coming to terms with things with Will hurt and ache and fill and refresh and hurt and ache all over again.

And so with lots of tears yesterday over loss of heritage, generation gap, needing and wanting my mom so badly, and feeling like damaged goods, the Lord sent me to bed with another heaving bout of coughs. And I called in sick today.

So I'm strapped underneath a cozy blanket, a dimly lit lantern, and blogging with my Bible and my journal on my lap and fresh banana bread warmed from the oven, and called to be His today. Intimately, purposeful, loved, beneath the shelter of His wings today. To let Him hold my heart and be his, and his alone today.

Blessing Note: I rejoice in the Lord. I take such beauty in today because what has happened with teaching, is that Sunday ends up to be church and the work, and the Sabbath has lost its intimate time. And the week is pulling at life and schedule and teaching, and Saturdays end up a pulling of lists of errands and necessities, and I never get filled, or enough personal time with the Lord to really know him and draw near to him.

So the Lord blessed me and cares over my heart today as he draws me to himself. Pulling us closer and more intimately together, so that I am satisfied as his and he is the Lord over and within me I love the Lord. I love his unconditional pleasure and pursuit of me.

Intimately Delights.

The Lord takes great delight in us.

How differently we look at things when we know the Lord is loving and steadfast and fulfilling.

The Lord rejoices over us.

The Lord claps, he dances, he sparkles over us. He rejoices in us.

The Lord quiets us with his love.

He is our nurturer, our Father, our feeler. He quiets us with his tender heart. He strengthens us with his Warrior heart. He loves us.

The Lord loves us unconditional.

I have seen him showing and proving his words more and more in the last week. That he is unconditional. He gathers me in his arms when I am weary. He cradles me close to his chest when I am tired, heavy burdened, or feeling unloved. He comes at me in clarity and real, open, honesty. With only Truth in his words. He is always a safe haven.

Then, the Lord gathers those who are scattered, he rescues the hurting, he removes the sorrows, he carries off the burden and brings end to the reproach. Then he honors, he restores, he brings delight, rejoicing, home (paraphrase Zeph 3:17-20).

What a Lord I serve. What a Lord who listens, who draws near, who comes to restore.

And the Lord is intimate. The Lord is close. The Lord calls us by name. He rejoices over me, by name. He earnestly seeks after me, by name.

The Lord draws me to himself today. He quiets me with his love. He leans in deeper into my heart and speaks his words over me, so intimately, so unconditionally, so full of love and power. The Lord is so intimate. The Lord is so personal. The Lord is unconditional.

The Lord is so intimate, he delights in me. Delights.

This is the Lord I love. This is the Lord I serve. This is the Lord that breathes into the all of me. Deeply, personally, intimately.

Feels Like Home To Me.

Feels Like Home

Chantal Kreviazuk

Somethin' in your eyes, makes me wanna lose myself
Makes me wanna lose myself, in your arms
There's somethin' in your voice, makes my heart beat fast
Hope this feeling lasts, the rest of my life

If you knew how lonely my life has been
And how long I've been so alone
And if you knew how I wanted someone to come along
And change my life the way you've done

It feels like home to me, it feels like home to me
It feels like I'm all the way back where I come from
It feels like home to me, it feels like home to me
It feels like I'm all the way back where I belong

A window breaks, down a long, dark street
And a siren wails in the night
But I'm alright, 'cause I have you here with me
And I can almost see, through the dark there is light

Well, if you knew how much this moment means to me
And how long I've waited for your touch
And if you knew how happy you are making me
I never thought that I'd love anyone so much

It feels like home to me, it feels like home to me
It feels like I'm all the way the back where I come from
It feels like home to me, it feels like home to me
It feels like I'm all the way back where I belong
It feels like I'm all the way back where I belong

It scares me.

I met this guy, his name is Will.

He holds my heart.

It scares me.

It scares me because its so easy to be with him; it scares me because he so easily taps into the depth of me; it scares me because he's willing and sincere; it scares me because he knows me. He already notices when my lips show contempt, when my eyebrows drown disagreement, when my eyes shimmer delight. I can try and hide it from him, but he reads right through. It scares me to be known, unveiled.

It scares me because it's all new. And it's hard. And it's too easy. All at the same time. It's hard to be in relationship, because I'm an all-or-nothing girl, 100% or out, and relationships can't be that way. They're slow, yearning, deep, riptides that take in the wake and bring it back out with lots of ebbs and flows, uncertainties, and rare clarities.

It's too easy because it's so natural with him. It never feels awkward to talk to him, to sit by him, to walk with him. When I reached to hold his hand the first time, I didn't even realize it was the first, because it was so natural. It's just so utterly 'normal' to be with him in every way, that it scares me.

It scares me because I don't know what I'm doing, and don't want to see warning signs and not pay attention. It scares me because I don't know what warning signs are big enough to ponder, and what are simply life and human. It scares me because you can't marry someone to change them, yet I wonder what changes are important enough to wait to marry someone for.

His name is Will. He holds my heart. He also makes me tender and caring, sarcastic and funny, safe and challenged. He's complimentary and careful, courageous and confident, cocky and combative. He doesn't let me get away with fear; he challenges me to the core about my dad; he prays for me with school. He's a tender warrior.

But at the same time, I'm still afraid. Afraid of dating, afraid of falling without knowing, afraid of his ideas and unsaid expectations and pressures of what a woman should be. Maybe that's natural, maybe that's a yellow light. Maybe it's just me.

My sister says to be bold with him, to let my guard down, to call him out on his s---, and to let myself be with him. My friends say caution, caution, caution; that I am a precious jewel and sacred treasure and to be careful with myself and save myself for the one who sees me this way.

Part of me says he does now, but part of me is scared that that will eventually fade away.

I'm not good at dating. I'm not good at half-way. I'm good at freedom or independence and the flare of life I capture with that, or living in full commitment and creating a life with someone out of that. But this being, this half-way, is hard on my tender heart and scares me. Even with someone so confident as he.

I met this man named Will.

For right now, he holds my heart.

And it scares me.

I Ignite.

Today, one of my kids said, "You should be a motivational speaker!"

It was one of my eleventh grade honors students, usually a kid who goofs off a bit and jokes around, but with good humor. Today, his eyes were alive with seriousness and inspiration.

There's a fire in my bones.

It's about Africa, and social justice.

And in it, I ignite.

I got to speak today about both, and it grabs me and slingshots me into this whole other world where my mouth cannot be silent, my speaking and lessons not arbitrary, and my vision and mission in the classroom not blown off.

It's the light in my fire, the passion in my bones, the thread of fabric that makes me come alive, and ignites something in me that just spews of love and justice and goodness, and a joyful and energetic cry out to bring forth that in others.

Jenelle asked how school went today. I shrugged about a few student behaviors, then light up like dyanmite and was like "But, I got to teach about Africa today!" and even to her, my words could not be stilled.

At 10:30 at night, I still sat up researching facts, pictures, you tube and video clips, ideas that may spur others to form a life line of hope and justice from the hearts of my Porter Ridge Pirates to the hands of people everywhere.

So it was a new unit on Africa today in World History. A brief unit in our book, which all the other Social Studies teachers just skip over and jump into Exploration and Expansionism (which, let me break and be honest -- I kinda hate teaching European stuff, especially ancient history, which basically means anything before 1900 to me -- don't tell! -- and that's about 90% of the World History that is taught in public schools...) But I decided to stop and study Africa. Because I think it's important that kids gain a global perspective, and see that history interlocks and civilizations everywhere were existing in different capacities at the same time.

So... we're studying Africa, from early civilization until modern day, a mini unit. And I lit up like fire. The facts ramble from me like common knowledge, not like the rumbling teacher digging through the Middle Ages for something to say. The stories and the people are alive, real, and glow like paintings coming off a page. The music, the air, the red dirt... it all surrounds me and embeds itself into my chest like a good whisper of real... of home.

So we got on tangents - purposefully - about Ishmael Beh and boy soldiers, about malaria and cyclical poverty, about civil wars and blood diamonds. And, we're not done, we've only just begun. The next week brings regions and geography, history and tribes, newspaper snippets, Skype calls, and an assortment of movie trailers for life (Blood Diamond, Hotel Rwanda, Tears of the Sun, I Dreamed of Africa). And I bring... my heart, passion, and life-blood.

And that's not all... in US History Honors today, we plunged into Industrialization/Immigration and its effects on life and working conditions. Which spurred stories of child welfare, slave labor, human trafficking, child soldiers, forced prostitution, and microeconomics. It was incredible. Its one of the reasons why I always love teaching this unit - because its so central to our lives and society and justice today. And I love seeing their face and hearing their reactions to the cruel treatments of children and the fact that slavery exists still today -- and that they care enough to do something about it, and are hungry for more. That they leave class, surprised at how fast it went, but spilling sentences still of class content/discussion as they cattle their way into the hallway.

I ignite. I light like fire and find my strength here. In this mix of motivation and mobilization. Of classroom teaching and challenging what's been taught. Of perceiving students as information takers, to informed do-ers. Of life and love and learning.

I ignite. And in these moments, in these discussion, I know that I am doing, EXACTLY WHAT I AM CREATED TO DO.

Building Empathy.

Sometimes I have these life experiences, that immediately afterward or already in it, I already know it's because, or at least going to, help me relate to someone else in a way I couldn't before.

I feel like that about this past week. About knowing now what it feels like to be in the situations and experiences that I've been in, with the emotions and feelings and questions and thoughts and conversations that all flow all in and out of it...

And I'm thankful. Protected by God's love and His sincere and deep compassion over me, that protected me from guilt or sin or a level of emotional intensity I couldn't recover from... But at the same time, taught me. What it was like to be "that girl" or in that scenario or situation or space. And I'm thankful that He loved me enough to bring me to it, into it, and through it, with His great love and compassion over me. I love Him. I love His love and his discipline and his empathy over and building within me.

And I love His people, as they are kind and tender and compassionate and listening and patient with me. And that beyond my choices and scenarios and thoughts and ramblings, they still always choose to love me and linger with me and lift me up in this unconditional love that I'll never know nor understand, except for that He's given it to me.

The Lord is Good, I say to myself, and in Him, I too, and left knowing that in me is the Lord, and He is Good.

Falling...

I wrote a response post to my cousin/friend Jill's blog... and decided I wanted to share it... as I lingered over her words and voice, as well as the crispness of fall... So here is her web address -- and here is my comments and lust of fall...

http://jbusscher.blogspot.com/

My Comments:

oh, I love this! I feel like I'm writing with you when I read your words... like a rambling of thoughts and language and emotions and feelings and perspectives and pictures all wrapped in to one... and I can feel your voice scream and linger and meander and ramble all the way through it. It's awesome!

I'm falling all over here. Some times flat on my face with students when lessons are horribly thrown together. Sometimes in love and then out of it. Sometimes in bloom with the lust of fall -- the pumpkins, the corn mazes, the crunching leaves, the crisp of air...

I remember "fall" in the Philippines every autumn since. Because it was 90-some degrees and I missed fall in MI/IN; I remember specifically look at these pictures one boy I liked sent me and he was walking and hiking in crunchy autumn leaves in November, and I wanted to be there, because I missed it in my tropical climate. Fall is everything cozy and yet still fresh and live before the earth breaks into the barren of blank winter.

I'm falling... always into new and fresh and thoughts and love and emotions... and into your writing. Because I love it; and I love you!

Bulldozed.

This week, I have gotten bulldozed, steam-rolled, and run over. By life. Last week was rejoicing, but by the nights after school it was back to the intensity of emotional upheaval with family, and lots of tears and heartache. Increased by broken teapots and treasures. And then added stress of the same headaches - every day for three months - with no hope or help. And students who are running me over and curriculum that I don't have time to plan. I worked all weekend, literally, and then again last night. Not even a relaxing meal with friends. And now, I still don't have a US History lesson plan for tomorrow. Tears billow again in my eyes, my head throbs, and emotional exhausting suffocates me.

I want my mom.

Beyond Rejoice.

As sometimes this blog gets most of the depth of me in raw & yearning, instead today I decided to share in exclamation, a writing of praise and worship from my journal this morning, to God, my God, my Father:

BEYOND REJOICE!

God, words aren't enough to start, to say. It's too controlled to put letters to. I am beyond rejoice.

Vibrant. Alive. Afresh. Anew. Full Living. Sparkling. Propelled. Joyful. Explosive. Perfectly Placed. Called. Prepared. Gifted.

YOU HAVE RESTORED ME!

My praising, worshipful, thankful heart cries in full joy and faithfulness. I now can see, so I am boldly called to acknowledge your hand, your guidance, your strong support, and your listening to my cries. You ARE the God of I AM. You ARE the God who hears.

And I, am a Rejoicing, Joyful, Thankful heart.

Amen.

"...the bones you have crushed rejoice!" Psalm 51:8

Like Riding A Bike.

Going back to school today, was like riding a bike. Something you are trained to do and engrained with so deeply, that the inside of you still remembers all of it at the core.

It was students coming into class, me chatting and telling stories with them, reminded them to be quiet, memorizing all 33 names of one class, fending off junior jocks, aligning debates, designing formative questions, and setting the stage.

There are a few things a teacher must do, especially in high school, and perhaps the most important is to establish the fine line between teacher and friend. This is establishing authority while establishing interest, gaining repot while holding reigns. Today, I think I tottered both sides well.

Surely, some are testing me, and all are gauging who I am and what I am like as a teacher, but all in all the day was so successful, it didn't feel like a first day at all. Just "normal." Like riding a bike.

Who Rejoice.

Romans 12:15 "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn."

We have had a lot of mourning together; over miscarriages, deaths, movings, loss of jobs, changes, boyfriends, transitions... But these days, we also rejoice together.

Over:

A friend due with a baby this month.

Several friends starting new jobs this week and gaining employment.

Several Wedding Engagements.

Another Pregnancy.

Today, these days, I have learned the truth and blessing of this verse, to "rejoice with those who rejoice."

She Gave Me Freedom.

She gave me freedom. As odd as that sounds, by my mom dying, she gave me freedom to love it here and be deep in my life here. To gather this place as a sense of home; to not be torn between leaving GR and living here, or feeling guilty about it. As odd as it sounds, she gave me this freedom.

I Dance On Tables.

I dance on tables.

Yes, you read that correctly. I dance on tables. Seriously, last night all inhibitions were thrown to joy in the wind and in front of everyone, I climbed right up and "who-hoo" -- there I went!

Yes, Spain. Spain. Spain. Spain. Everything Spain.

I've never felt so full of awe and wonder and inspiration and joy and light and glowing beauty as this life in Spain. Literally, I sat the first night at Plaza Mayor near my hostel with Sangria and watched the dancers in the square, the lights glow around, and linen table clothes served with goblets, and moaned. Moaned, groaned, expressed everything in murmurs for I just couldn't take in the escstacy of the incredibleness.

And now I am surrounded by 44 people -- 44 incredible, talented, interesting, life-induced people. From doctors to sub-terrain scuba divers, Olympian competitors to journalist, regional Chess champions to US Navy officers. We are a group of extreme interests, from the guy in banking for 9 years while also playing in electric guitar in a punk band, to the doctor who researches other doctors who have been sued but also dances the Sevillanas. From beauty pageant winners to surfers, financial planners to recording artists, pregnant women to women with partners, air traffic controllers to botox advertizers, parachuters to nuclear physisists, HR managers to Tae Kwan Do experts, snowboarders to Cameroon tourist planners, massager therapist to Nissan manufactorers. The vast experiences, travel stories, and breadth of knowledge is incredible.

I've never met 44 people I have clicked so well with and laughed so hard with. We speak in English, but laugh with Spanish mix-ups like calling husbands "fat" or taking a "bath" in the swimming pool. We drink wine at lunch and dinner, beer or choice drinks at midnight, and sing anthemns with our arms linked and rocking. We danced the Cotton Eye Joe, all 44 in one space, listened to poetry, performed skits, and saw our own "boy band" formed -- of a teacher, lawyer, retired military officer, and stock marketer -- with movements and motions and absolutely stupidity, which made it all the funnier.

This group is lively, interesting, joyful, open, sharing, caring, and hilarious. They are a group who gives the air a spark of light and laughter...

and me, the craziness to dance on tables.

Camera Lens.

I look around and hear familiar words mixed with the laughter of voices full of hearty laughter, and collage of colors and customs and people who really... all look relatively the same. Everyone is peering at Gate #s, squinting at hamburger menus, and placing an all-out siege on the boarding call lines.

Airports really are interesting places; amazing places. I love how they are abuzz with words and sounds and figures and lights, all booming with motion at 5:30 in the morning. Or the slow lull at 3 in the afternoon, as only the long-distance flyers are mingling around, waiting for the other planes to land and their own red-eye flight to finally fill up the isles of crowded space.

I look around, and also look and see me -- all grown up. Like one of those girls caught on camera and zoomed at all angles of film, capturing the perspective of how it appears -- like a hip, urban female -- no longer held nor with-strained from elements of life that used to counter women -- but on her own, abroad, filling up her passport with printed pride completing steps the women of the nineteen twenties only dreamed of. The camera pans back and contorts the lens of clarity, finding now, instead, just simply... me... no moving, no roaming, just me... And I'm sitting here, lingering in this cocktail Bacardi bar with a slim glass of Pino Grigio and my leather-bound journal, used church bulletin, and finished chic novel, with mom's thick blue Bic pen squished in the side.

I look like you could capture me on film. And the pretense illustrates so...

But instead, what you find here, is me, feeling the lingering nostalgia of life. Looking ahead, feeling back, and wondering what is me, in between. I'm on the trip of a lifetime, a vacation most only dream about. I'm bags-packed, Canada found, bound for Dublin, Scotland, and Salamanca Spain. I'm crammed into my hunter-green Samsonite and my North Face pack; for three weeks.

And sitting here wondering...

About kids. About home. About Pottery Barn and cloth napkins and matching center pieces and husbands and car pool lanes and green grass and church membership. I'm wondering what it looks like. What it looks like with me in it.

I'm wondering about the life I dreamed about at seventeen... and twenty-twenty... and twenty seven... And wondering, if I even would, if I even could, fit in it.

I want it. Every decent boy I meet makes me, want it. Every darling child I hold makes me, want it. Every home decor catalog makes me, want it.

But what I choose to do with that, I want too. I want to choose my heartbeat, choose my passion, choose my love. I want to allow, still, good things, to be the object of my affection, of my love, my lust.

So today, I'm vowing to love. To lust after green rolling plains that sweep across the Scottish highlands like pesto on soft noodles. To grab a pint of whatever the put in front of me, and laugh, deeply, hardly, truly. Embrace it as it is. To drive on the left, with the left-side stick, and scream like I never have at the craziness and thrill of it. To sing late into the night under the stars, swinging in my brilliant and saucy orange dress, to the late-night sounds that spin collages in the air.

I want to grasp it. I want to hold on to hope. I want to see me as I am, in both parts, in both sides, and live fully in both. I want to see myself in the lens that I am, and in the lens I could be.

Things I Wish I'd Brought

Things I wish I'd brought:

1. A bigger suitcase

2. Things that smell good

-- these were first to get tossed out on the not-practical pile, but ended up to be what I wanted more than anything.... lotions, perfumes, body washes, pillow spray...

3. Dresses. Dresses. And More Dresses. Anything that makes me feel flowy and feminine and fun. Frills.

4. A better camera. With a good lens, zoom, battery, and GB chip with lots of space.

:)

Not everybody...

A quote from Cion's mom that I'm stealing for sanity:

"Not everybody's going to like you,

And that's okay."

What freedom that brings!

Love Too Much?

Is it possible to love too much? To love too deeply? To love too easily?

My dear friend Matt was just diagnosed with cancer. Testicular, spreading to the lymph nodes in his abdomen. I say "dear friend" because that's how deep he runs in my heart. But I say it with weird meaning, because anyone who knows how often I actually talk to him or how I felt when I thought he was going to ask me out, is wondering "what?" I haven't seen him in a few months, and when he wanted to ask me out last fall, I said he had to wait; I was too much of a mess. And then later I thought I was too strong for him anyway...

Now I look at him, sitting today across the table, with his head shaved and trying to smile in his gray T-shirt beyond the evidence of weary, and think, "You are so much stronger than I am."

If I had cancer, I'd give up and die. I wouldn't even want to fight. That's it. Hallelujah, just let it be done.

But his inner strength is more than I thought of him. And it's in his words, how he wants to be a light by how he holds himself during injections. How he knows his demeanor is being watched by other patients, and he wants to show Jesus. Who is this man? Who has the perspective and strength to fight like that?

Three days in. He's three days in of nine weeks of chemo.

And I see him, and I think of him, and I am full of thoughts, feelings, emotions. I couldn't wait to hug him, couldn't wait to tell him stories about Garrett, and see his face and try to read his eyes. I could wait to sit across the table again in his home that I'd grown so comfortable in last fall.

And now I just want to be there. I want to curl up to him and hold his hand and tell him everything is okay, and that I'd be there. I want to sit in the doctors office so he's not sitting alone, and give him my looks and strength as he bears their replies. I want to spend Friday nights watching movies while he's throwing up and I'm tucking him back under the covers.

Is it possible to love too much? To feel too much?

He's not my husband. He's not my "responsibility." He's not even in my closest circle of people, or I in his. But something in me can't let him go. Whether its because I know suffering and want to be there like the incredible friends I have are to me. Or if I think I'm some kind of silent strength to him that's really just me thinking I'm some kind of feminine hero. Or because really, I do so genuinely care that it hurts me to the core, and I just want to be near him right now; I just want to assure him that I'm there with him, through this.

It's crazy. It's all just crazy. But it still makes me wonder, is it possible to, simply, love too much? To feel too much ? To empathize too deeply?

Run.

I went for my first run today in two months. What a good feeling that is!

And swam afterward.

7 Little Things.

So I'm stealing. From a tacky blog thing, but I'm jealous of it -- a blogger award to connect the blogging world, which helps keep life simple and sweet in writing. It's to name 7 little things from your week or about you. So here, I'm trying to simplify:

1. I got this cute card today from Bekah. I actually met the mail lady standing outside the mail box, hoping I might have something that didn't come in a long, typed and printed bill-looking envelope, and ta-da! a card from her, with coffee cups and sweetly, just "Coffee for two? I miss you. Bekah." Little things make me smile.

2. I made rainbow chip cookies this week. Rainbow chip because they are a luxury here -- you can't buy them! Surely, as simple as getting them in the Pillsbury bag and adding butter and eggs, and Harris Teeter has every kind on the shelf... except Rainbow Chip. So I ran into a Meijer in Kentucky on my way home, just for that bag! :)

3. I never left my pj's yesterday until 2 pm, and only did so then because Sandy was coming for tea. I never do that. Wow, that felt spoiledly sweet, almost rebellious.

4. I made pumpkin bread this week. Which is also because I'm begging for fall. I want freshness. Which seems weird for fall, but I want, I need, change in season. Now. In the weather, and moreso, in life. And fall will bring at least a glimpse of one form. Spring and summer here are endless, literally, I think its been 90 since mid-March with humidity to boot. I want cozy. I want apple orchards. I want dainty, turning autumn leaves and cobblers and sweatshirts and... coolness enough to at least go out side for a walk.

5. I'm cranky. Hurting. Cranky. Enough said. No more downers for this week -- because it's really about all the week holds...

6. I get to go to a backyard Tiki Torch Party tonight, with bbq and homemade ice cream and cute people to mingle with.

7. I've been chasing down a boy at church. Third Sunday in a row I try to find the Sunday School Class he said he was in. No luck; maybe tomorrow...

Grumble.

Silver Lining. Concrete Hope. Holes. All these words want labels on this post. All these words beckon for title.

A couple months ago, Sandy poured words through my tears: "It's okay to not look for the silver lining on everything, Christina." I try so hard to look and peer at things, looking for the purpose, the good, the blessing. But sitting in her hot tub at nine that night, I was full of emotions, reeking havoc over my life and tears gobbling up the patterns on my cheeks and dropping like steel sinkers into the darkened deep.

I've been taught to chin up. To "rejoice in all things." To not let things get me down, but press on. Besides, what other choice do I have? You have move through the day. Or, as the country song says, "If you're going through hell, keep on going..."

But this all becomes a fight.

Last night, I was getting ready for bed and feeling the drudgery in me. A hole. That's what it is; Josh left a hole in me. Anger burned in me, at him, for making, allowing me to feel this way again and not protecting me from himself and caring deep enough for me to treat me with what goodness I deserve. Not coming over me like a canopy of carefulness during this season. Holes. Ugh. That's all I am. Just a whole bunch of holes. And I stepped into my pajamas as I gritted my teeth, listing them off. Holes by Josh. By mom. By dad. By moving. By this stupid nanny job. Holes by purposelessness, not teaching, and feeling lifeless inside as a result. Holes.

These holes translate and leave a feeling of emptiness, and of deep, deep hurt. "I'm hurting, Lord" has been my continual plea.

I let out a long montage of grumbles today; complaining, anger, and frustration filled the phone lines to Bekah. Truth is, I want flowers to fill my holes. I want hope in a form that is concrete. I want lining that blows with sunshine and rainbows overtaking clouds.

I want tactile good: a boyfriend turned husband. a house. a place of steady residence. a fulfilling and sustaining job. a routine. a baby.

I want silver lining; I want concrete hope. I have, grumbling.

Stepping Back.

So my dear friend, Kate Vasey, and I had a long conversation yesterday over lunch at McAlisters... me here for her and for her baby shower, and our friendship... and using her like a jewel of wisdom and protection over my life for discussion on things that consume me.

So I spread out my paper: compiled lists of names and people and events and invitations and commitments and phone contacts and all the busyness that comes at my heart and pecks at my life -- like a fifth grade web brainstorm sheet, without the bubbles of lines and connection. Just things and people that all dabble at pieces of me and my energy... and wondering what to do and how to cut out or combine or care more deeply for them.

At first, we both just pretty much sat back and acknowledged the mess. Acknowledged the many words and disconnect and collaboration of everything and nothing that spread over the page, and hence, stuck like crunchy peanut butter in ones mouth -- parts creamy and good and lovely and blissful, but parts scrapping the crevasses or caught in teeth or just unable to come unglued from the roof.

I explained to her what each was, what was good or negative, life-giving, or soul stealing from each, and why there were on that pages and for what purpose they stood or interacted in my life.

And again, we both just sat back with overwhelmed, thoughtful, intentional faces, and me breathing a really big, lung-filling sigh of depletion and deep need for help and truth and her straight talk and ability to come at it with a spirit-charged dignity and grace.

And an hour or so later, we left. Me with a steady new lift of content and ability to move forward and clarity on how to get away from the garbage or liter or unnecessary plants or roots in my life, and with that, the removed spaces grows time and sustained love and goodness and energy for those people I really love, really dig in and care for. Really gather and give and get from.

We started with prioritizing people, and phone calls and e-mails and moved to church events and city gatherings and financial commitments. Everything from "Swim" to "Substitute Teach" to "Sabbath" was on the list, with "Lawsons" and "Roommate" and "Bekah Wallace" and "Book Club" and "Bake" and things on every side and inbetween. In the middle, I had written the words Streamline Priorities, Intentionality and Develop Rhythm, Schedule and Life Giving, Giving Life in capital letters and drawn a box around them. This is the need, the linger, the calling, the purpose of each pieces of life for today, tomorrow, the wishings for the yesterdays. That we, I, live with purpose and value and intentionally, and from this, that all things in life combine and come as necessary ribbon strings from the worldview of the whole.

From there, we walked through things I had circled as unmovable priorities, like cement on the foundation of everything else, needing potent clarity to stand, falling in and holding like re-rods. In those circles stood "Church At Charlotte" and "Kelsey" and a few other non-removables which come at my heart like strong winds to a sailboat, giving speed and life, the ability to push forward and offer a place to rest and fan altogether, or commit to in a way that sails sturdy the power shifting of the boat, like moorings of purpose or commitments to my walk as this beholden Christian faith.

From there, we combined or overlapped, or altogether crossed out other pieces. Those which gobble time or are just one more random idea of mine, or (breathe deep) are another long-distance relationship that I feel guilty if I don't keep up, but just simply don't have the space or ability to keep up (and reality is, in likelihood and purpose, most of the time, neither do they). So it doesn't go into black-and-white of complete-ceasing, but these people or partakings get noticed as what they were, or at times are, but not as one more thing I need to do or beat myself up for not creating energy to call.

What it also meant, was taking the other, and trying to see how they could work together, like tying nautical knots along the sails to make them work as one rather than separate, stealing elements. This transferred to things like: "Jessica" + "Water/Outdoors" + "Lawsons" + "Swim/Run/Hike", so that rather than trying to do each of these elements separately, I could now take my friend Jess (who I know from Wednesdays at the Lawsons) and when we suggests coffee, since we both like to outdoorsy things, instead going kayaking at the local river bed -- which is way more fun, active, and something we both know we would rather do anyway, and now we get to do it together!

A one or two people or phrases were still left with perplexion. Friendships I have tried to delete, let go by the wayside, or walk away from... but won't let me out of. Or inklings that just won't die in me, but I don't know how to give to them only what I have left to give right now (like High School Youth Group/Young Life)... So the hashing continues a bit, but parts are solved, but recognizing seasons to minister and give, and parts by... honesty here -- taking more people off this blog-reading list.

Another pop-up that came scrawled on the bottom on the page was: Stop trying to fill a hole. I had written my heart on this page Thursday morning before packing the car, and when I sat back to try and "solve" it myself, this is what stood out to me. That I keep trying to commit, trying to do anything to fill the holes in my life. So I try and find a new friendship for coffee (Bekah, I'm mad at you here! Oh wait, mad at me... Mad at missing Monday coffee! Grrr... you don't know who you are in my life and how deeply those Monday coffees came to my heart strings, and may you know just as deeply, that your spot in my life can NEVER be filled, no matter how many coffee dates or Cold Tangerines discussions I try to make up...) or think if I join another women's Bible Study it will fill a gap, or add another ministry, or group of friends, or Tuesday night commitment... that eventually, I'll find this perfect fit and flow that carries my life like new, full bliss forever.

But it's not true. So I end up spreading myself so thin, trying to fill up this hole. (I think it's grown from five years of struggle, with feeling bits of triumph -- from being so lonely that first year in NC, to back on GR after college and trying to reconnect or make new friends...etc... but has turned into a lifestyle of always looking for... more... or as Shauna Niequist defined it, a ravenous effort and spirit turning "into a cycle of frantic activity, without soul or connection.") So here I am, acknowledging the hole, and walking away, to find what looks instead like Israel desert land with tuffs of green grasses.

What it also means, is that this defining process of place and time and spaces allows and creates... time for ... good. Deep, truly earthy, good. Like coffee roasted with deep aromas filling up the morning waifs dancing in from Jenelle and my's kitchen. And beauty... like pausing now at Panera in my softly patterned yellow flowing skirt with words rolling like rhythm from my finger tips, while my precious, pregnant friend sleeps away the morning and prepares for the beauty of baby showers and blessings. And joy... like buying plane tickets and grasping the all the intensity and excitement that fumbles and rumbles out of mountain rivers, with Kate Riedberger and I screaming and giggling and panicking like school girls on a wild weekend, getting every ounce and energy out of the full joy of being alive and adventurous and rugged and ribboned as two loops on a bow together.

And it also concludes and caress' the Commandment of Sabbath, like milky smooth Dove chocolate , delectable and gliding over parts of your tongue and cheek that you didn't even know were there until the luxury of its softness touches there. It gives the Sabbath back its rest, it gives it back it's sense of rest and holy day and set apart and protectiveness. It gives it back its truth and... lets be honest, commandment which may have gotten gnarled and slid over in the last few months. It gives it a new look, which looks like this:
1. No unintentional phone calls.
2. No preplanned, life-taking lunches or dates or get-togethers.
3. The absolute ability to say NO, with truth and meaning and conviction and backbone. Saying NO for me, for God.
4. The now, welcomed room to decorate the day with other things from the "list" that give and get life -- blog reading, book writing, card creating... piano playing, outdoor hiking, Sunday school attending... novel reading, roommate talking, dinner making... journal scrolling, essay reading, lakeside sitting... And do them with intentional, spacious effort, energy, time, desire, and rest.
The pre-math of this, means mass contacting/emailing/phone call making to adequately inform those commitments and people in my life that I'm "unavailable" in these hours. Which means, I will refrain from e-mail scurrying, I won't pick up the phone, and I probably won't predestine long hours of the day to whoever it is that falls on my couch after church. I will be purposefully unavailable to most things and most needs. (I will allow the occasional need or life-giving or God-honoring thing... or the combination of friend-hike-worship, but for the most part, I'm going to be intentionally careful). In this, I guard myself from more gutting and burnout, and guard my love with God from nearing the edges.


Everything isn't "solved." Everything can't be. It's life. Not a composed project or meticulous speech outline or reading or prose. No, it's skirted with mishaps, dodged with rough discussions, complicated with death, marriage, break-ups, newborns, moving, careers, and all the other parts that we all, really, have on our pieces of paper, or couldn't foresee to even think to put them there until all of a sudden, they are there, whether we present them to be or not. So we gather back our sails, look into the shifting winds, and re-chart the map. We consult the one and only Compass, and come again into the waves of life.

But in this season, in this strand on the ribbon, in this sea, in this sifting, I'm stepping back. I'm walking away and protecting and releasing and observing. I'm putting together filled pages and adding blank ones, and allowing half-written ones, and re-writing and administering edited versions of ones, and coming back to life with new grace and potential and need and resonance, and being lifted with Sabbath rest and restoration, and fullness of joy and hurt and emotion, and more than anything, a deep, committed love to... me... To things that matter. To intention. To priorities. To rhythm. To life giving and giving life. To streamlining ribbons and sails.