Letting My Words Speak.

I've been waiting, wondering when the time would come to end this blog, this chapter of stories. Remarkable, the Lord completed it for me. You see, this blog captures the heart of a lot of things, but also the deeply personal stories of grief and loss and hurt. Stories only shared and related to the closest of friends. But a new chapter is beginning for me. A new series of stories to be shared. God is prodding my heart to share at a broader level, to unearth himself in me and bear it as a book to be seen. So this, my friends, ends my first chapters of blogging, my first portrayl of hardship and hurt, hunger and happiness. I look through these posts and seegrowth and complication and stirring and good things. I am thankful that by the use of a blog, he is Letting My Words Speak.

Stories to be shared will now be able to be found here; chapter two of: Letting My Words Speak.

My good friend Trish printed my blog out as a beautiful book.

The Separate Life.

I've been having conversations recently with a few people about texting, tweeting, Gchat, smart phones, etc. In most of my friendships, I'm not overly concerned about their/our use of these technology tools, because they really are tools to help us connect, relate, network. Not distractions or illusions.

Yet, I am weary of overuse of these instruments of communication. Because some relationships seem to formulate through emails and Facebook messages, but then fall flat face-to-face. Yet the human heart, is lured and drawn and comforted most fully, face-to-face. It is expressed in the twinge of the lips, the curl of lash, the crinkle in the brow.

What I am more fearful for, is how sometimes the use of these resources lend to a 'separate life.' For example, you can text one guy for a week, multiple times a day, and no one else would know you're even friends with him. Or, you can text comments to a co-worker, that you know if his wife saw it, she would be mortified. Or, you can do the same with Gchat, FB messages, etc... formulate relationships that almost appear secretive, and some purposefully are.

I have a few friends who have said so, about themselves. I have others, who I know if someone checked their computers or phones, that person would be ashamed, defensive, and/or humiliated.

The definition of integrity is "adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty" and "the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished." (dictionary.reference.com)

In your use of technology tools, live, act, and communicate with integrity. Create and sustain a whole life; one that weaves in and out of these interments as methods, but that still measure your character with respect and your relationships with reality.

Seed on Thorns.

"The one who received the seed that fell among the thorns is the man who hears the word, but the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth choke it, making it unfruitful." (Matthew 13: 22).

Unfruitful faith is the result of distracted hearts. Choked by the things of this word, by the daily, the mundane. Distracted by our fears, worries, concerns. Knotted by our introspection which stare us focusing at ourselves. Mounded by lies. Lies of words -- the worries that wrench at us like a gnarled witch's and twist into our thoughts and hearts until we no longer see out of them -- and lies of worldly things. That heaping desire to acquire and appear and attain.

This verse is a good reminder for my conversations as of late.

Worries. Worries kill faith, kill fruitfulness. I wrote a statement down several years and resonates with me weekly and I pledge it over my heart: Fear is the opposite of faith. Worry is fear. We become so consumed in ourself, our plans, our ideas, our thoughts, our busyness that the running keeps us from using that energy to build the Kingdom and grow closer to the Father (The Chase). If a we are consumed inwardly, it is difficult to grow and bud outwardly.

Secondly, wealth in itself isn't bad. It is the deceitfulness of wealth that kills the fruitfulness of faith, thus the fruitfulness of the gospel, of the heart. Jesus knew many wealthy, they were the Lydia's that spun cloth, the Nicodeamus' that sat at the city gate, the Simons who welcomed him in. He did not question their wealth. He loved them, deeply. And was blessed by their use of wealth -- providing meals for him and his disciples, home to sleep in at night, and secure Senators even who believed his Truth.

Jesus' problem is wealth is a heart matter. It's like reading about David, "The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearances, but the Lord looks at the heart" (I Samuel 16:7). Christians can have wealth, as long as it is not their idol (Matthew 6:24). The Lord cares about generosity, integrity, character, serving. Dollar signs are indifferent in his book. He can use us with little, lots, or none. But for the gospel to be alive and prospering in us, it is important that our heart (perspective and financial use) is not deceived by the lure of wealth, but rather is trained to use it to honor truth, life, and the Kingdom.

Gone Before.

"The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged." (Deuteronomy 31:8 NIV)

Driving to Porter Ridge my first days in October, this verses was my mantra. The sun rising over 485 going eastward to Lawyers Road, my heart pumping and mind racing with anxious thoughts all blurred into one big, daily episode of fear, overwhelm, and insecurity. Everything in me became constrained and swirling, my composure fighting for dignity and strength, my head immersed in lies of self-defeating prophesies.

Then my friend Amy lent me these words:

"The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you;

he will never leave you nor forsake you.

Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged." (Deuteronomy 31:8 NIV)

This truth over me prevailed. It receded the angst and inabilities and questions and fears. It set HIM above all, through all, and with all. With me. Truth that lighted my path, cleared my way, and postered divine purpose to Porter Ridge.

This summer, I've had 'little' ways which the Lord has gone before. Trish and I are both reading this phenomenal book, A Praying Life by Paul Miller. (I'll write about this another day, but it's an instant classic on my shelf and in my heart.) It has opened the curls of my lashes to the presence of the Lord preparing the way in my life.

Let me expound a bit. He's so intensely showing up in the little things, that I can't help but lean over and say, "Did you pray for that?"

Like providing me with a free cup of coffee on a delighted day post-Marie Catribs where I craved one so bad, but couldn't get myself to fork over the $2.59.

Or praying one night about how to "end well" with friends and family yet torn between times and schedules and places... which turned into Trish & I opting out of the beach which allowed good time with Bekah, and our Grand Haven day turning to rain, which sat us at my sisters table with tea and then laying later on tubes with ice cream and book covers and conversations...

Or accidentally reserving only one night in Nashville, amidst our many tries to expand our stay, which found us then along Main Street Franklin with shops closed and driving home that day anyway...

Or standing outside of Church At Charlotte with my friend Katherine, asking her to water my flowers for a day or two while I was gone (after endless and anxious reorganizing of how I was going to try to get my flowers watered while I was gone; trying to take the burden off any one person). Her reply instead being, "Why don't I just live there!?" in exclamation and expectation, full eyes brimmed with enthusiasm. So, sure enough, she moved in for a month and watered my flowers which thus bloomed with boasting hydrangea blues and spurning hosta stalks.

Like sprinkles atop frosting, God has gone before me. These little clippets declare Him like testimonies along the way. I see his hand marking my steps, his palms clearing the way, his heart setting a stable path for my feet. He knows me, he loves me, he claims he, he proves himself through me. Whether anxious worries or coffee cravings, the verse collaborates with the common pronouncing that the Lord has gone before.

Morning at Barlow.

A slight breeze brings morning across my face. A taste of freshness mixed with warmth and dew. A trolling fisherman lazes beyond the shoreline, skiers arising from their harvest beds. White mugs cup Starbucks coffee, breakfast blend, sweet and khaki. Clicking keys with wandering thoughts. Brewing blog concepts, sparkles for vacation plans, and the quiet hum of boat motors mix with the sounds of delighted birds.

We are quiet now in our state, of writing and thinking. Sitting next to each other in white adirondack chairs on the front porch, surrounded by billowing hostas and pink hydrangeas and grasses green. Cropped shorts and cozy sweatshirts, glasses and clipped hair. Our books on prayer and weathered journals lay at our feet, by Nalgene bottles and beach towels and acorns askew.

It's morning at the lake. Quiet. Restful. Renewed. Fullness of good.

One of my favorite books is a quaint little wrapping of stories and thoughts and lessons from Margaret Becker, With New Eyes. She writes, "I vow to take in every sunrise, and every sunset..." as she stretches towards strength and calmness and understanding and soul. Sabbatical.

It's morning on Barlow Lake. I am quiet, relaxing, writing, reading, conversing. Being. Breathing it in.

Holding Homes, Holding Hearts.

"I don't want to leave here

I don't want to stay..."

~ Sara Groves

Painting Pictures of Egypt

A single tear slides down my cheek. Saying good-bye. Long-held hug, startled heart.

Hellos and good-byes. Hugs and cheers. Gaps in between.

Garden growth between fingers. Kettle and cooking pans in hand. Books on shelves. Piano waiting. Crisp and Vivace and Lawsons and enclosed porches.

Lego garages. Sand in hair. Cottage lawns filled. Maries and Roses and Applebees and backyard fire.

"I don't want to leave here

I don't want to stay..."

I am a woman in both. The same, and different. Loved and loving. Hurting and healing. Saying good-byes, but also hellos. Holding both places as home and humans in heart. Repeating once again, the Good and the Hard.

Intentional.

There are people in my mind and heart that make me step back, watch, learn, listen, wonder... It's as if I see them sometime through a looking glass, or spectrums of a prism, trying to glean and understand, gather, how they "do it well." In their perceptions, I'm sure, they feel the tugs of life not the grandeur held in my eyes... but nonetheless stand as people I honor, admire, wonder. Like a child squinting into a door ajar, wondering whats inside... Wondering how it's done, what it's like, and who they are...

Laura

Laura, Jenny, and Missy. Let me just name all three of my "short blonde friends" as I so affectionately name them... And let you into the wonder of how intentionally they live, and how I'll never understand it. (They'll HATE that I'm posting this!) But these women have shown me Jesus. I don't know how they love, or how they know how to do so, so intentionally... but they babysit children, clean for widows, foster friendships... They took me in when I was broken that year post NC, stood at the funeral home, saw me off at 6am, sent cards and packages, and rearranged their schedules to see me while I'm home... They love the people they love, well. Immerse in their lives. On Laura's wall is a chalkboard of words, quotes, scripture, sermon lines... I always walk in, pause, read, ponder... On my wall now, will be a chalkboard sign of the same, to pause and read and wonder... Just as I do, when I watch them live life, well.

Adam & Erin

I talked to Erin a few weeks ago, a random phone call to an old church friend... and found out her and her husband and their young family, took in a seventeen year old... to give him a foot-up in the world. This kind of living, making space, making room in your heart, your home, your life, for someone unknown and unrelated to you, marks intention. Marks gospel. I left that phone call, staring. Wondering. How. Why. Where they created space in their heart, and how they sacrifice so intentionally... And was so challenged, inspired, intrigued, wondering...

Lynda

I love talking to this friend of mine, and hearing her heart for where Christ is and wanting to be there. How she sews cloth and yarn and love into intention. Into heart for those doing it with her, and who she creates each act of love for. How she works forward in life at church and work, pushing for ideas and active gospel and gifts. How she is reaching into new avenues and thoughts and prisons and hopes... Listening and wondering with her...

Sandy & J.D.

They make it look so easy. They cook Wednesday night feasts, drive people to appointments, serve endlessly at the church, and deeply care. Something about their heart is unyeilding to personal gain when it encounters another's personal pain. It's a mystery to me, how they love so many, so well, so deeply. I love to watch and wonder...

Crossroads Church

I look around the plastic chairs, and see people. "Transforming followers" of Christ Jesus, whose stories are true testimonies of being stretched and living hard and fully... Of creating and living intentional "street corner" gospel... From moving to the Westside, to Prayer House, to Kevin & Marcy Smith, to Erin & Adam, and Lynda... to South Africa and India connections, to Abba's Answer Adoption, to a teacher who prays with her student's parents to guys like Ryan Waalkes... the list goes on. I miss the weekly testimonials of what God is doing in his kingdom, in his people... Listening, watching, wondering....

Be Honored As Whole.

A cousin threw a dart at me, purposefully and with a sharpened blade yesterday. The look in his eye seemed to transform right in the moment he said it, from the jovial conversation that flowed in the room to a twinged jolt, aimed to elevate him from me...

"Well, at least I'm married!"

I blinked strongly, later of thinking of all the correct and confident things I could say back, like "Thank you, but I am whole" or "God has made me complete and that is okay with me..." But in the moment, I just sewed right up and felt that junior high sting of hurt feelings and sunk inward. Like, wow...

It's always the case here, there are always a couple cousins or uncles or others who make ignorant comments, insinuating hurt and smushing me down. Over the years, I've become accustomed to it, and bear myself up to it. I've also become more confident in me and God and therefore, my position in life and in his kingdom.

Being married in Grand Rapids is an essence, either strings attached or flailing.

All of my cousins married by about the time they hit 22, if not for sure by 25. And here I am at 29.

I show up to Christmas' and parties and gatherings, and almost always get the question, "You dat'n anybody yet?" The question comes with a piercing from a few cousins, some even followed by "when are you ever going to date?" Yes, I've even been asked if I like girls... Or there's those endless tags about being too picky, not waiting for Mr. Perfect, and the list goes on...

Where I'm going with this, is less about the clanging of cousin cymbals, cracking loud in my ear and resounding like echoes each gathering...

And more about me and God and life and people. It's about being whole. And being seen as whole. About being accepted. About being loved for you and with you and by you and within you. About labeling humans as honored, in their fullness. Not because of stature or stage, but because they are human.

Be honoring, therefore, in your words. In your tones. In your lives. To those who are married, dating, single, childless, child-full... and human. Whole. And honor yourself in it to, claiming, believing, and redeeming his heart for you in his world, in his kingdom, in his plan for you.

Sailboats.

It's been one of my dreams to learn to sail. I've called yacht clubs in East Grand Rapids and along the shores of Lake Norman looking for sailing lessons, and measuring the cost and time. Something about the calculations of wind and waves and sun and horizon and the need of hands and ropes and movement and balance all intertwine to an enchanting challenge.

I watch the peaceful composure, like alluring grace, sails held high, poised in the wind, from Michigan dunes of grass and sand. Wondering, watching, waiting. Like an exquisite dance along the horizon, a ballet amid the shore. It mesmerizes me.

I have photographs labeled from all over the states; my portfolio filled of trying to catch the form on film. Holland, Charleston, Seattle, Wilmington, Saugatuck... My mantle displays the peace of Nordhouse: a sail from sand and sea.

There is something about them that is beautiful and natural, awe and simple, inspiring and relaxing, tranquil and challenging, restful and reviving, imagining and riveting.

This week, I got to sail. I got to board a boat with two friends and a few others, and be spoiled on the sea. Raise the sails, scurry for ropes, squish down the spinnaker, crank the ___ (i forget the jargon), and steer the ship. I learned to calculate direction in multiple ways -- the streaming strings, the arrowed weathervane, the the original compass, and the digital compass. I fought the lines to trim the sail, and watched others do most of it.

I found out, I love sailing. I love the enjoyment of it. I'm not good at it (maybe that should be not-yet), but with a lot of buffing-up and learning, this pleasure is mine, enjoyed.

Beyond it, though, I find sailing is the art of time and nature. It's the closeness of nature that brings the ease and complexity all at the same time. The dwelling on it for movement and motion, safety and surf. It's time that relaxes and sets its own pace. It calls for companionship and communion, conversations and camaraderie. It desires linger - with open books or beer cans or journals or air.

I was blessed this week, with the art of the sail.

Fill My Heart Here.

These are the Michigan women, who live here, who fill my heart here, as well as wherever the Lord brings me.

Bekah Wallace - met in college, reconnected at BiggyB

Anne Visker: met at Son-Life Camp

Heidi Kuperus: met at the church I grew up in

Jenny, Missy, & Laura - met through a missions class,

and Laura's backyard

Lynda Roersma - met at Crossroads Church

Crows & Locusts.

It was the year
The crows and the locusts came
The fields drained dry the rain
The fields are bleeding

"Daddy don't cry, it'll be alright"
She puts some water on the wound
And hums a little tune
While her courage puddles on the ground
Pooling, pooling

See the murder and the swarm descend
And the night is getting thick
The moon telling her tricks
She'd betray her every time

It was the year
The crows and the locusts came
The fields drained dry the rain
The fields are bleeding

It was the age
The foxes came for the fields
We were bleeding as we bowed to kneel
And prayed for mercy, prayed for mercy...

~ Brooke Fraser, "Crows & Locusts"

I went to the cemetery today. Rain trendled down like sorrow over movement. Puddles gathered wet and soiled, steaming in cracks. Grass green but empty, season void. Birthday balloon flunked and dripping, heavy over floral. Flag limping, a dangle in the dew.

My umbrella held over her stone, a shield of me. Heavy with heart. Motion of thought.

"The year the crows and the locusts came..." It's the eating away, the gnawing at every edge of leaf, the famine of heart, the brunt of relationships. The dirt of me, dusty of hurt and pain and grief and betrayal. The "bleeding [knees] bowed to kneel, prayed for mercy..."

It's April 2009 - May 2010. "The year the crows and the locusts came..."

Geraniums faded pink mushed with white buds in bronze vase. One single, petaled rose, planted and blooming with size. I mark the words on stone: Forever A Living Example and look around.

Buds speckle the landscape. Reds, hues of blue, perching yellows and organic greens. Vases overwhelm and flow bright with life and color. Memorial flags and honors positioned.

Life.

Life in the cemetery. It grows.

It grows in pigments of daffodils and peonies and daisies and day lilies too. It grows in raised flags, wind whipped and fighting in breeze. It grows in stories and faces and generations living, past the lives there once brilliantly lived.

I went to the cemetery today. I hung back, washed by water, remembering the same, that Day.

I burrowed inside, remarking the mourning of the year the crows and the locusts came.

I rejoiced. At flowers spurning upward. At growth inside of me. At freedom of forgiveness. At release in the depth of me. At a live well-lived, blessing abundantly, marked by years.

"It was the year the crows and the locusts came..." It ate away at all I had, I knew, I was.

Yet now I see outside the grave - the flowers, the petals, the trees. The garden of hope, a world anew, and a blessing of good to me.

Home.

I miss Home. One of my favorite songs says, "Mama says home is where the heart is, when I left that town..." (Sugarland).

My heart is here, in Michigan, and is fully grabbing in each and every experience and person. The multitudes of joy and friendship and love and laughter overflow. Along with the amazing places I get to go, things I get to do, and hours I get to experience. My life is abundant here, I am so blessed.

But, I miss Home. I miss my friends there, I miss my church women, I miss my house. I really miss cooking and gardening. I miss Trish. I miss Jenna. I miss TriRad. I miss the little house in the hood and Jenna's backyard. Wine at Vivace and coffee with Jenelle. Fabio and Josh and Howell and Zac and Jeff and Daniel. Freedom Park and Trader Joes. Music at Stonecrest and Shakespeare on the Green. River Jam and Tuesday study. The Porter Ridge family.

One of my all-time favorite quotes was from a missionary kid who coined this about home:

"I need not despise one to enjoy the other, and I need not to be ashamed of missing one while living in another. There will still be times of sadness and much that I will miss. But I do not want to miss the present by missing the past, or miss the here for missing the there." ~ Victor L. Luther

I miss Home. I do. But I'm in Michigan. And I'm soaking it in for all its worth. The sun setting, glimmering over water. The sound of waves from morning on shore. The conversation of friends philosophical debate at backyard campfire. The taste of ice cream, sweet from the creamery. The sparkle of my nephew, the softness of my niece. The strolls through shops, beachy with decor. The taste of coffee, homemade in my hand.

Lynda. Jenny. Heidi. Anne. Laura. Aunts. Kaylin. Kelly. Missy. Jaxson. Kimie. Bekah.

I miss Home. I do.

The lines of the song are me: "Mama said home is where the heart is, when I left this town..." A deep part of me will always deeply care and love and carry this place, this Michigan, in my heart. But "mama" was right, when I left this town, my home became where my heart is. Home.

Immeasurably Different.

Immeasurably different. Party of me wants to label it "immeasurably more than all I ask or imagine" (Ephesians 3:20) but at the same time, I don't know if that's even what I want to say or convey. It's just so... different!

I've begun to see my stays in Grand Rapids as something power-through. Then I was opting to look at this summer as good blessings: tranquil days with friends along the lake, wandering beach shops and sipping coffee and laying under the stars. But leaving family pretty separate, strongly guarding to protect my effort, time, and distinctively, my heart.

Because each trip comes back with the same, the synonym, the symmetry of the one before: hurt and broken.

But something is different. Immeasurably different. Beyond what I can understand, process, think through, comprehend, or even try to paint on a page...

My dad wants to see me. He asks when I can come to the lake. My nephew is full-0f-joy and shine and sparkle when he sees me, asking when I can stay 100 days and how much I can play with him and have sleep overs and get ice cream and ride go carts. My niece knows me by name and face and runs with toddling legs over and falls asleep on my shoulder. My sister can't get enough girl-time in and plans lunch dates and day dates and shopping dates and calls in-between. Exquisite with her joy and desire to be together.

Every other time, I was on the back burner. The after thought. The one left on the side walk or renting cars or finding dinner or abandoned for a ride from the airport.

And now this -- parties and play dates and presents and praise.

I have no idea what to do with this. Or where to process it in my brain. Or how to figure the guarding while protecting. Or what to count all as joy and be enriched by blessing.

I'm perplexed, but praised. Praising, but protected. Full of radiance, but watching. Gathering goodness, but guarding.

Counting it all as joy. Being present. Watchful. Waiting. Wondering.

Confused. But blessed.

As it all is so... immeasurable different.

Abundantly Blessed.

Is there a word which means the opposite of greedy, but the same kind of idea? I can't find one, but that's a little how I feel and seem -- like oh, wow, what do I say, do, with such much? How do I say thanks?

I'm so abundantly blessed and can't imagine or find the words to bequeath it!

Pillaging through cards in bags, tissue paper sailing, hugs shared, balloons and cake spread throughout... My dad's basement was full of people, forty or so -- relatives and friends. Providing me with gifts and love and treasures for my new home.

Apparently, my sister sent out an e-mail about a month ago to everyone and and inviting people to a house-warming party for me -- including filling out a Target gift registry, sending descriptions of my colors and styles, and organizing desserts.

So, last night, we had a family birthday party and left there as "the girls" -- me, Kelly, and Melissa to go get a drink. I was so excited because we've never done that before. So Melissa said she wanted to go to Target first, so I drove there, we pulled in, parked, I got out, and Kelly said, "Give me the keys, we have a different plan."

I had no idea. After a lot of loops and roundabouts, we ended up pulling into my dad's house and he had all these people stashed in his basement.

Wow. Seriously. Boxes and bows and ribbons. Faces and smiles and hugs. Cousins and friends and aunts. The Tea Ladies -- my mom's best friends.

As soda splashed and kids slid down the slide, adults mingled and watched. From my cousins thirteen week twins to friends I'd spent the past days with, the air was fueled with energy, excitement, blessing, and love.

To my overwhelm, they had me open all the gifts with eyes on me... From serving platters to centerpieces, roses to baking goods, cleaning supplies to gardening tools, knife set to wall hangings, patio placemats to picture frames, candles to kitchen aprons, napkins to cookie cutters, woo blocks to bathroom towels... The giving is endless.

I'm amazed. Awestruck. Abundantly blessed.

~

P.S. On the way home, my sister coined a statement that has stuck with me, and blessed me in her thoughts and awareness and caring: 'Not every blessing comes with a marriage certificate.' Thanks, friends and family, for showering me in this way.

The Chase.

Phone call to make. Email to return. Text to write. Vacation to plan. Food to prepare. Dress to buy. Weekday dinner. Game night. Worship venue. Coffee date. Football score. Road trip. Book Club. Dance party. Family outing. Tuesday study. World news. Facebook invite. Cute guy. Church women. Breakfast fare.

Running. Chasing.

Torn piece to piece, in pieces. Life scattered. Segmented. Pulled. Lured. Drawn.

We're like threads on a net, the end caught to unravel, slipping away at grasp, maintaining no hold because of its lucrative power to seduce and secure so many directions.

I dial cell phone. I scan Facebook. I scour email. I propose text. I schedule plans.

All to which purpose, to which end?

These things, hoping and aiming to connect me to so many, instead pull me away. Because the directions all yank so severely that I am everywhere and no where, with everyone and no one, all at the same time. I chase.

I run the race, tangle in the vines.

Caught by good things, great parties, glad conversations. Nonethless, still caught.

He has called me to run this race for Him. To keep His heart, my focus. His pleadings, my will. His dictation, my life. His hope, my freedom.

"Throw off everything that hinders" Hebrews 12:1 states, petitioning me to take note and grapple.

Perhaps, what hinders, are good things. Good relationships, good events, good plans. But so much good causes little fulfillment in distraction.

I chase toward Him, yet divert my eyes and awareness as billboards like post-it notes line my path: text back, align time, check calendar, make room, purchase item. My eyes, my schedule, my thoughts distract my heart.

So perhaps there is a place where the chase becomes a pursual of so much good, it returns bad. And then the chase isn't really a chase at all, it's a repetitious swerve, jumping this way and that to end no where at all.

A few months ago, I started a new mantra: "Say no to good things." Because I found myself overbooked and unaware and empty of God as I tried to seek Him and others through so many avenues. So I had to learn, to reteach, to say no. To block time and place and space to simply be. That being, then, instead becomes the greater Chase. The chase towards Him.

I am reminded.

As I take such delight in creating home, loving every little detail that softens the place, creating warmth and welcome... As each photo comes out with images I love to capture, am gifted to share...

I am reminded.

I am reminded of the women around the world who gather children, hungry to be fed. Who scrounge through layers of worn clothing for something to offer their babies. Who nurse their young to flattened breast, who stir rice in pots hot over fire, who dine with dirt fingers and dish.

I stood in my living room with a friend, overlooking my piles of boxes. Embarrassed. Trying to find words to say. About these piles of rooms filled with, and obsessed with... Me. Shame hung like a curtain over my brow and I crawled inside, revealing only the corner of my thoughts to him. Possessions stacked like haphazard trophies, askew in the room.

I mull over lines from Hope In the Dark, photography of Africa.

Decisions I must make on any given day:

- Blue shirt or pink cardigan?

- Tall soy chai latte or Grande carmel macchiato?

- Text Message of call?

- Eat out or frozen dinner?

- Reality television or headline news?

Decisions SHE must make on any given day:

- Blue dress or blue dress?

- River water or puddle water?

- Walk once for four hours to get water or walk twice for eight hours to get more water?

- Sleep with the fisherman who will give food in return or let orphaned grand children go to bed hungry?

- Persist through the struggle or give up?

- Curse God or praise Him?

The words melt into me like comfort and conviction. I lay my box aside and rest, pulling through the language of Ronald Sider in Rich Christians In An Age of Hunger and use his wisdom to balance my thoughts and intentions. About Biblical joy in celebration and generosity and giving. About jubilee and wedding banquets of old. About Deuteronomy 14: 23, 26 and I Timothy 4:4 and Ecclesiastes 3:13.

In a consumer society that increasingly measures a person's worth and importance by the amount of his or her material possessions, biblical Christians will reject materialism without falling into asceticism. They will delight in the splendor of the material world but not forget that things cannot ultimately satisfy. They will enjoy the good earth and celebrate its abundance without neglecting sacrificial sharing with the needy. They will distinguish between necessities and luxuries. They will enjoy possessions while recognizing their seductive danger. When forced to choose between Jesus and possessions, they will gladly forsake the ring for the Beloved (pg 105).

Perhaps, then, the concept of possessions is based more on intent than shame or greed or self-denial.

I leaned in my classroom one day as Mary Cnossin demonstrated Mary Kay to my eighth grade girls and announced that her makeup is her witness. That it allows her to thread and weave with women who culturally are accustomed to playing this part. The words left lingering trails through my perception of witness. My friend reminded me of it, standing there in the doorway of the green room, over-barren by the wall of boxes. That this is my culture. That that these boxes of dishes and blankets and books are my witness. They are the tools to which I invite people in, to which I offer my heart and my love, my openness and my offering, my welcome.

So as I slide one more photograph into frame, sand down a whitewashed window, or dig the trowel in the dirt, I relax and am reminded. That women around the world use their patted dirt or dining room table to welcome. That whether it is their single blue dress, or my red one, we all are called to witness. And that in this world, may I be a witness to both and with both, the women around the world and the women in my home.

Of this today, I am reminded.

Making Home: My Favorite Things.

Substitutes.

When your dad isn't present, and you don't have a mom, you find substitutes. You find others to fill that small sense of presence or meaning, or give thoughts or insights.

In creating a home, you find friends to climb on ladders to hang cathedral ceiling fans and screw on light switch covers. You call your brother to give you thoughts on mortgages and insurance. You ask the ladies at home depot about growing flowers, and have your friends mom come over to help you map it out. You talk to the teacher next door about cabinet problems and paint and payments. You borrow paint cans from a friend. You ask your painter about colors and textures and creating a home. You ask your friend to do a walk-through. You ask the men at Lowes about handles and hinges.

To those who stand in the gap, who walk in my wounds, I thank you. I thank you Amy, Jay the Painter, Lindsay, J.D., Jenna, Tawnee Bounds, Melissa and her mom, and the women at Home Depot Garden Center. Most importantly, I thank you brother, Blake. Because in this process, he has been invaluable. He has talked me through mortgages, prices, realtors, down paymnts, home owners insurance, and even escorted the process of my piano.

To all, I am indebted.

Learning Home.

I garden at 6am most mornings, and am known by name and face at both Lowes and Home Depot. I buy hinges, knobs, hydrangas, and hostas. I gather rugs and carpets, paintings and photos. Holding and hanging, arranging and wondering. I draw ideas, test arrangements, paint colors. I return most bought, finding learning the process...

The learning is a delight, a process of... home. A place to come in and linger and stay and be warmed. Being. A place with grilled rosemary chicken and sautéed peppers and crusty bread for dipping. For white wine on hot days, sangria on sunny afternoons, and a cabernet in the evening. For coffee in the morning and fresh muffins baking....

I'm going to make one wall in my kitchen of 11x14 picture frames. To remind me of life and joy and people. Because its those faces, the ones that will fill the frames, that will remind me of the fellowship of life, and bring that sparkle and glimmer and memories to that table space. So I'll see their love while I'm aproned over sun-dried tomatoes and Southern sweet tea.

And my main room, its soft and cozy, comfy and cottage. With blue hues of aqua and whites blurred with sands, layers of green with flickers of yellow. Beach grass and shells, glass bottles and mountain island candles, and my Gun Lake carving nested below. A lantern rests and pottery waits. Home.

My green room is my favorite. My piano room. Yet to come, Wednesday. To be filled with flower baskets too, on a worn window from a friend. Shelves of books, the passages of life. And somewhere yet to find, a big stuffed cushioned chair for reading and tea and Bibles and words...

I can't wait to let you linger... and I'm learning in the process... home.

Neighbors.

For the first time in my life, I have neighbors. They mingle, they walk their dogs, they sit on their front porches. We talk about gardening, about small things, over shovels, over coffee, over crying children.

For the first time in my life, I have neighbors. And we chime in like a little community. About who's renting, who's teaching, who's powerwashing, who's painting shutters. About who's dog is lost, who's child is growing, and who's in charge of repairing fence.

For the first time in my life, I have neighbors. I walk the sidewalk pathway, looking for them, learning from them. Commenting on their hydrangeas, asking about their hyacinths, borrowing their lilies. They show me their dogs, their bikes, their cars.

For the first time in my life, I have neighbors. And I love it. I like it. I bury it deep within me, like an endeared term, concept, and notable pleasantry. I'm a neighbor. I have neighbors. I am known.