Til I Rest In You.

The Other Side of the Blue Dress.

What does it mean for me today, to be who I am, who I want to be, but with space that leads longing for both?

What I mean is...

I'm not a party girl. I've never wanted to be. I didn't grow up dreaming of sororities, or going out dancing on Friday nights, or wearing sexy dresses, or waiting for men to lure over me. Cheering to colorful drinks and hoot-hooing and coming home in the late hours.

No. What I dreamt was of families, and children. I like to crawl into bed by ten pm and sleep in until 7 and live fully in between. I like to bake cookies in the kitchen, dance by myself, and gather at the lakeside. I'm the girl who went to Taylor for my M.R.S. degree (literally!) and carefully holds the Proverb "she does him good and not harm all the days of her life" in her heart.

But I'm stuck here in this odd place of being either hermit-like alone and meeting no one to "achieve" the desired status, and being quiet and wishing and wanting... Or every now-and-then acting like I could be one of the party girls, to try and be alluring enough to engage some guy to wish he would talk to me and want to get to know me (which, lets be honest, does that happen anyway?)

So I'm perplexed. It's not that I don't like to have fun, but there is an emptiness, a longing deep in it too that stirs whether or not I battle it not to. There is a hope that won't, that can't, stay hidden for long, no matter how far I try to shove it away.

So I fake times of party-girl. And it looks lavish and movie-like and positively envious to on-lookers. But what they don't know, don't realize, don't understand.... is the girl on the other side of the blue dress.

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.