Wanted: Handyman

Must be able to:

Hang ceiling fans

Paint cabinets

Install plantation blinds

Caulk molding

Frame mirrors

Power-wash siding

Scrub shudders

Anchor Arbors

Any interested applicants,

Please apply immediately.

Be Trust.

I see an pattern in people around me, growing with indifference and apathy to selfish strain, that leads to lifestyles and decisions which mold and thrive on personal happiness, instant gratification, quick fill, and self-centered schedules.

I see calendars, I hear excuses, I watch patterns. It becomes "whatever looks better" or "feels better" or "invitation's better" or "attendees are better"...

And it leaves a longing for.... Commitment. Integrity. Character. Trust.

A desire for people of their word. People whose actions match their speech. Whose handshake is strong, and signature means something. Whose 'yes' mean 'yes', and 'no' means 'no' (Matthew 5:37).

People who are dependable, honest, true, solid. Trustworthy.

Be one of them. Be someone who says something, and follows through with it. Be someone who stands aside from leniency, and stands instead in community.

Be Commitment.

Be Integrity.

Be Character.

Be Trust.

Holding Broken.

"We don't mend each other's brokeness, we just hold it tightly." ~ Craig Barnes, as quoted by Paula Rhinehart in Strong Women, Soft Hearts

Make Plans.

"I don't want to 'not make plans with you' -- I want to make plans with you..." ~ Declan in Leap Year.

Forgive me for the rom-com quote... But there is something in this, that women long to hear. Someone who will be there, who will commit, who will look together towards the future without fear, or having to hold back, or wait over control. Make plans. Care. Future. Depend. Safe. Hope. Commit.

The Broken.

Each day, the broken walk into my classroom...

I am being made new in heart. I am being transformed. I am being broken, for the broken.

It is my students who are transforming me; it is my God who is breaking me.

For their losses, for their need for hope.

In the last week or two, love has broken through my door. And broken through my heart.

I hear their stories, I see their faces. I hear fists hit lockers, backpacks strewn, then a knock at my door. I watch tears down his face, pleading... I see her writing, crafting letters of hurt to journal it through, passing the time by filling the space... I see his face, back row, lingering with wanting to be known, to talk, to explain how much it hurt... I feel her weeping on my shoulder, shaking as we sit on desks, crying... I see his hat come off, his eyes once hardened now playful in the safety of space... I see her face paled, hurting over mothers words, needing someone to cup them... I smile to his wave down the hallway, chubby grin, lurking for belief in possible... I watch him stare, a progress report rewarded, shame washed by relief, exclamation, determination...

They come to me. In the hallway. Sharing stories. Of night events, classes, sports, boyfriends, magic tricks. They follow me around the room, waiting at my desk, lingering afterward. They lower their eyes, with need, with want, for care in their concern.

Hope. Looking, needing, Hope.

I see the broken.

For the broken, I am breaking. Being broken.

God is doing a new work in me. He is breaking me for my students. Giving me a heart for their heart, for their broken, for their hope, for their need for Him.

Every day, the broken walk through my door....

Unplug.

I'm starting something new tonight. I'm moving my phone away, my internet away. My distractions and functions that lead me to the endless road of banter and a cranium traffic jam.

So, the phone goes back in the main room; the computer stays back in the closet at night. No more off to bed with one last Facebook check. Or waking up to see who texted in the night.

No more basing my life on the amount of words (aka. love) I receive from people from 11pm-6am. Or adding myself to the strangles of endless status' which I feel I need to be updated with every hour of the day...

So, it begins here. It begins tonight. Unplug. Off to store it away in the closet... Off to rewrite the script of the night, and hear the Spirit of the Story.

Creating Home & Family.

"You know that point in your life when you realize that the house that you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? all of the sudden even though you have some place where you can put your stuff that idea of home is gone... you'll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it's just gone. and you can never get it back. it's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. i mean it's like this rite of passage, you know. you won't have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. i miss the idea of it. maybe that's all family really is. a group of people who miss the same imaginary place."

-andrew largeman 'garden state'

Chosen; My Soul Sacred.

"She does him good, not harm, all the days of her life." Proverbs 31:12

"But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God..." I Peter 2:4

I did a visual exercise with my campers, and with my 8th graders. In both, I started with a red construction-paper heart. And through the process of story, slowly rip it apart. Pieces falling and coming off for each time she meets someone new who enters her heart, for each first kiss, for each time she goes a little bit farther.... Pieces falling. Pieces, tattered and broken off. Pieces given away.... And when she meets The One, she gives him what's left of her heart...

I wonder what that looks like for me now. What portions are left, scattered, frayed, manipulated, in my hand. Where sections of it lie. Where partitions have been blocked away, given, or stolen.

A wise friend once commented something like: "things only have value if we given them value, by only giving chosen access..." And the keys of our heart, are ours to hold.

I think I've given my keys away to beholders that don't understand the sacredness of the space.

Today, I was thinking, deeply (surprise!) and marking my way, my path, my life, through this maize of verses and was struck with one thought, that I had to write down...

Keep my soul sacred for him....

What does that mean? It means, I belong to my lover, and my lover to I. It means protecting and guarding. It means seeing that I am a chosen woman. A loved, a wanted woman. Right now, by singularly God. But eventually, by the Lord's chosen for me. And I am called to protect myself and our life together now already; all the days of my life. Like a garden. Growing.

It means, it's messy. Wondering how to keep this heart, this sacred space loved and available to my friends, and the men in my life. By not locking the gate or access to it, but allowing it to be known and loved... by somehow equating that with the balance of knowing who it is for, and allowing him to have the fullest of rights and access... And not playing around with fake versions.

Sometimes I wear rings on my wedding finger. It started as rebellion and confidence, feeling strongly that I shouldn't have to wait to be 'in the club' or seen as whole by wearing this ring, so it was a way of blending and playing around... But it has turned into so much more.

Somehow, putting on that ring, makes me feel chosen.

There is never a day where I don't put a ring on my fourth finger without that feeling. As if loved and blessed and wanted and taken and chosen. Fuller. Complete.

Its the beginning of that feeling of what is sacred.

I am a chosen woman, a royal priesthood, a holy [set apart] woman (I Peter 2:4). And because of that, I am a sacred soul. For His use, and for the fullness of the One he chooses for me. And in that, I will tend to this garden, this growing, and do him good and not harm, all the days of my life.

Her Mother.

Isn't it interesting that in 26 years of celebrating Mother's Day, I never gave thought to my mother not having her mother?

Godly & Sexy.

Godly and sexy can go together.

Sometimes, we try to separate them. Labeling one bad, the other good. And draw lines in the sand. Which not only separate us, but our marriages.

Sexy doesn't have to mean trashy.

It can be alluring, fun, grounded, confident, playful, sultry.

Sexy.

Godly.

This is Friendship.

My friend spoke these words over me this weekend. His covering of words, allowing display of friendship...

"No, I like you like this." He said as he held me at the elbows, distant enough to be safe in a plethora of company, but close enough to know I was still safe with him.

But I replied, "No, I hate being like this. I hate being drama. Drama girls drive me crazy."

"No." He protested, moving his hands to my arms.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." My apologies refuted by his shaking head. "No, seriously, I'm sorry, I don't like being like this..."

"Stop it. Stop right there." He looked over my face until I couldn't help but have to gaze straight into honest eyes and hold the weight of the truth there. "This is friendship. This is who you are. And I want our friendship this way. You're sensitive and caring and honest and up and down. That's you. So stop apologizing. That's how this friendship needs to be. All of it. Not pieces."

My tongue lay silenced against my cheek, my heart settled by such striking vigilance. To take all of me? To not judge the ups and downs, the highs and lows, the joys and struggles? To take all of it the same way and carry it, need it, weigh it, find it, label it. True depth, need, honesty: friendship.

To be taken: Whole.

Silenced. Cupped elbows. Opened by words. Settled by Truth.

Prisoners of Hope.

"O Prisoners of Hope" ~ Zechariah 9:12

Caught. But released. The physical may be chained, bound by the rapture of this world -- iron, cords, walls of the cells. The circumstances, cycles, circles of friends. Sold. captive. Caught. Prisoner in the world.

"But I move forward..." sings Bethany Dillion. "Our hope endures," adds Natalie Grant. Hope. Character. Purpose. Validity. Peaceful rest in contented soul. Even amidst strife or scattered circumstances.

Prisoner of Hope.

God's people were prisoners of hope. Waiting for the Savior; waiting for freedoms as captives. Babylon. Assyria. Persia. Locked. Chain. Dusted with harsh labor and counter-culture climate. Struggling against kings and legality and sin and injustice. Chained. Captive. Wrought in iron. Prisoners of Hope.

God's people are prisoners of hope. Waiting. Looking. Aiming for hope. For life. For eternity. For His good things. Today, always, we are prisoners of hope.

The Opposite.

I re-bought my house today.

And sat on the floor of Barnes and Noble

And cried.

I held her book in my hand --

She called and said

"Don't stop

Don't pass go

Head straight to the store

And buy this book

Its the second book in four days

I've read."

Miracle.

Joy and fullness in her voice.

So tonight,

I went and held it in my hands

Choosing to See.

Leaned against the bookshelves

My legs propped up

Before me

And cried.

About alone.

About a house.

About a family who loss.

About hope.

I bought a house today

And cried.

Playing the Part.

Trish and I arrived to Queens Cup Steeplechase laughing and talking about how we feel like we're playing the part, pretending to be the role in some great showcase.

It's a beautiful array of hats, dresses, seer sucker, bow ties, and the best of the South. Jockeys mount, dollars are bet, wine is toasted, and the corn hole is tossed.

The man in the car next to us smiled and remarked something about how should keep pretending, and he knows how we feel. He grinned, his convertible top slowly lowering to cover his elite car; his Quail Hallow Championship golf shirt embroidered. He was the real deal. He added relaxed words about the enjoyment of playing the part, and how we should just keep doing it.

We smiled.

Then fanned back our hair, to walk in our dresses and hats...