Fall has a particular smell. Perhaps they were doing it all along, perhaps they started only recently--neighbors burning wood and leaves. You can smell it the moment you walk out of the house, the heavy, humid air gone now, the crisp, light air of fall carrying this scent into the core of your being, making you happier than you knew possible two days ago when it was 80 degrees and summer.
Fall explodes in your mind and senses. Fall is orange and green and bright, contradiction between cold hands and warm sky. It is bonfires and camping, cold air on your face while your toes blister from being so close to fire and heat. It is football and marching band, screaming and laughing. Fall is sweaters and slippers and the warm blast of heat coming from a heater newly found on the hearth. It is life and death entangled, beauty coming not from new life, but from the slow death and inward motion of the world preparing for winter, yet somehow invigorating those around.
Fall is parks and children laughing and roadside pumpkin stands. It is that first cup of cider or hot chocolate, steaming up glasses, warming hands, seductively sliding down the throat. Fall is air popped popcorn and Macintosh apples, and Macintosh apples are love, a package sent from far away and eagerly anticipated each year as the leaves turn.
Fall is here and it is beautiful.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
wild, radical, scandalous
"Sin has made the basis of things wild and not rational." -Oswald Chambers
I can't help but think about the implications this has for our faith. It cannot be formulas and logic and reason. It must come from the heart, as wild and irrational as sin, the complete giving of yourself to Christ at the expense of everything.
I think I forget this from time to time -- which is to say, every 20 minutes or so. I forget that my faith cannot grow and I cannot be continually formed into a new creation if I am forever trying to "figure out" what God is doing.
There comes a point where I just need to let God do it. A point where I stop analyzing and thinking and considering options. A point where I release my grip on the things that are holding me back, even though I don't understand how that will work or what it will look like.
Another quotation comes to mind: "Faith seeks understanding." Meaning, of course, that faith should precede any attempts to "figure it out." Sometimes you have to take the plunge first and then figure out how it all managed to work out. Because if you never take the plunge in the first place, you drive yourself crazy with possibilities.
Not to mention the fact that you're still standing in the same place when you could be swimming in the cool, refreshing waters of the Father.
I can't help but think about the implications this has for our faith. It cannot be formulas and logic and reason. It must come from the heart, as wild and irrational as sin, the complete giving of yourself to Christ at the expense of everything.
I think I forget this from time to time -- which is to say, every 20 minutes or so. I forget that my faith cannot grow and I cannot be continually formed into a new creation if I am forever trying to "figure out" what God is doing.
There comes a point where I just need to let God do it. A point where I stop analyzing and thinking and considering options. A point where I release my grip on the things that are holding me back, even though I don't understand how that will work or what it will look like.
Another quotation comes to mind: "Faith seeks understanding." Meaning, of course, that faith should precede any attempts to "figure it out." Sometimes you have to take the plunge first and then figure out how it all managed to work out. Because if you never take the plunge in the first place, you drive yourself crazy with possibilities.
Not to mention the fact that you're still standing in the same place when you could be swimming in the cool, refreshing waters of the Father.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Everything Old is New Again
So it's been a while since I've updated this puppy, and to be honest, I have no desire to fill in all the details. They'll all come out eventually and the reality is that if you're reading this, you probably already know anyway.
I seem to have that habit, to quit writing for months or years at a time and then just pick it up. I noticed this as I sorted through old journals, at least a dozen of them, while trying to clean up my room at my parents' house. Of the 12 or so journals, only one was ever actually written through to completion. The rest of them have 15, 20, or maybe even 50 pages written in before I give it up. When I finally do go back to writing in my journal, I hate to taint my new thoughts with the old ones. It's a weird superstition - that whatever has already been written down has the power to influence what will be written in the future. I spent years running from everything, but most notably myself, and it is written all over these journals.
It's been painful to read them at times, realizing just how hurt and lost I really was. And, at times, I am amazed by my ability to look past all of it and see the truth of my situation for what it was. The following excerpt is just one of those times:
"I think that in order for therapy to work for me, I'm going to have to quit intellectualizing everything. I am going to have to accept myself as patient and stop analyzing every therapeutic encounter from a cerebral perspective. I, in general, I think, need to learn to feel things instead of think about them." --March 23, 2005
For the record, I never figured out how to do that - feeling vs. thinking. And this is precisely the issue that I have to sort out in counseling over the next year so that I can finally get to Africa.
So that's my prayer, friends, if you wouldn't mind joining me in it: that I would find the strength in Him to finally feel things and find healing from them where healing is needed. My heart is ever with Africa, but I know I can't go until I deal with things I've avoided for years.
Love.
I seem to have that habit, to quit writing for months or years at a time and then just pick it up. I noticed this as I sorted through old journals, at least a dozen of them, while trying to clean up my room at my parents' house. Of the 12 or so journals, only one was ever actually written through to completion. The rest of them have 15, 20, or maybe even 50 pages written in before I give it up. When I finally do go back to writing in my journal, I hate to taint my new thoughts with the old ones. It's a weird superstition - that whatever has already been written down has the power to influence what will be written in the future. I spent years running from everything, but most notably myself, and it is written all over these journals.
It's been painful to read them at times, realizing just how hurt and lost I really was. And, at times, I am amazed by my ability to look past all of it and see the truth of my situation for what it was. The following excerpt is just one of those times:
"I think that in order for therapy to work for me, I'm going to have to quit intellectualizing everything. I am going to have to accept myself as patient and stop analyzing every therapeutic encounter from a cerebral perspective. I, in general, I think, need to learn to feel things instead of think about them." --March 23, 2005
For the record, I never figured out how to do that - feeling vs. thinking. And this is precisely the issue that I have to sort out in counseling over the next year so that I can finally get to Africa.
So that's my prayer, friends, if you wouldn't mind joining me in it: that I would find the strength in Him to finally feel things and find healing from them where healing is needed. My heart is ever with Africa, but I know I can't go until I deal with things I've avoided for years.
Love.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Easter Baskets, Stockings, and Roses
Nikki and I stopped by Pat's house Saturday to drop off an Easter basket - nothing too exciting, just practical things like toilet paper and deodorant, with a chocolate bunny and some Easter candy. As we've become accustomed to, our knocking was met with a "Who is it?!" that is far more severe than her usual demeanor. "Hey Miss Pat - it's your friends from the Justice Project, Nikki and Jess."
"Oh, all right," she answered and came to unlock the door for us. "Come on in girls." She wasn't expecting us, and was dressed in a housecoat. She went back to get a robe and told us how glad she was that we had come. She told us the story of how a friend's daughter had left her car at Miss Pat's house and left to go out with a bunch of friends. The girl showed up at the hospital the next day, brain dead. The doctors (or her friends?) had said it was ecstasy but Pat was skeptical and to make matters worse the girl's mother thinks that Pat had something to do with it. Her daughter, too, has been having tough week - the dialysis is taking its toll and Pat is always prepared to have to go to the hospital with her daughter. "It's just been a bad week," she said. "Can I get a hug?"
"Of course!" I said, a smile on my face. In all honesty, I was surprised she hadn't asked for one sooner. It is a regular part of our visits, one I enjoy. I stepped toward her to hug her and before we had even fully embraced her body was shaking with tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said. I reassured her that it was okay, hugging her all the more tightly. I finally let go after about 30 or 40 seconds, hesitating to do so, but realizing that she and I did not each other all that well and I did not want to make her uncomfortable. Nikki gave her a hug, too, and we again reassured her that it was okay to cry, that we were here for her.
We had only just sat down when another of Miss Pat's "angels" stopped by - an old friend named Billy. She had called him up to take her out and get a new pair of stockings for Easter Sunday. Billy had just had two stints put in his heart this past week and was looking a little faint. "Come on in, Billy. Sit down. We was just about to have prayer."
The four of us held hands and Nikki and I took turns praying for Miss Pat, her daughter, and the young girl who had just died. We prayed mostly for peace for the girl's family and for Miss Pat as we all struggled with a life ended too soon under circumstances nobody understands. We prayed for massive healing for Miss Pat's daughter, who is on dialysis three times a week and in and out of the hospital often. We placed all of these things in our Lord's hands and asked Him to carry us through and for Miss Pat to cling firmly to His promises.
We said "amen" in unison and Miss Pat looked up and said, "Thank you." We told her that we were more than happy to do it and, in fact, she is often remembered in our prayers. She mentioned again to Billy that she needed to go out and get her stockings for Easter Sunday. "Well, we'd be happy to take you, Miss Pat if Mr. Billy isn't feeling up to it."
We didn't know it then, but Miss Pat doesn't get in the car with just anybody. She told us later that Billy and the two of us were the only people she'd let drive around. Usually if someone offers to take her to get something to eat, she'll just have them go out and bring it back as opposed to getting in the car.
But she agreed to get in the car with us and after we'd said our goodbyes to Billy, we all piled in and headed for the nearest grocery store, almost 10 minutes away. What a wonderful drive. Miss Pat told us stories of what the neighborhood used to look like when she first moved in to her mother's house in the 60's. Dogwoods on every lot, she told us, just growing wild. But then the townhomes and apartments came in and tore out the majority of them. We laughed about things in common and she chided me on my overly cautious driving until we finally arrived at Aldi.
We grabbed a cart and told her to get whatever she needed. Her shopping list was small, and almost every item she took, she asked for first. Sometimes you could see her eyes drift to something she didn't think was a necessity. "How about some iced tea, Miss Pat? Do you want to grab some?" She did, thanking us as she put it in the basket. Nikki and I followed her around the store until we finally arrived in line.
"Miss Pat, how about we let Nikki stand with the cart? I saw some flowers over on the other aisle - let's go pick some out." We walked over and looked at a small display of flower bouquets, Miss Pat finally settling on a bouquet of wine-colored roses. "Do you think they cost more?" she asked. I smiled. "Don't you worry about it."
A quick trip across the street to pick up a pair of stockings and we were on our way back. Miss Pat, however, seemed convinced that we were never going to get home if I didn't drive a little more aggressively! She told us on the drive back of the revival she was going to next weekend on the coast. In what can only be received as a huge sign of her trust in us, she offered us a key to her house, just in case we wanted to stop by and do anything while she was gone.
We got back to her small house and brought the groceries (and flowers!) inside. We talked and laughed for another half an hour or so, until she started to yawn and we said we'd get out of her hair. She thanked us again and again and we gave her big hugs. A comment about Nikki's working on a farm started another fifteen minutes of conversation full of laughter and the agreement that she would have to come out one day and we'd have a picnic. "All right," she said. "So we got a dinner date. And a country."
We hugged again and she said as we left that she would pet the horse, but wouldn't ride it. "You'll have to pray to Jesus about that," she said. "That'd be a miracle."
I think it was a Saturday full of small miracles.
"Oh, all right," she answered and came to unlock the door for us. "Come on in girls." She wasn't expecting us, and was dressed in a housecoat. She went back to get a robe and told us how glad she was that we had come. She told us the story of how a friend's daughter had left her car at Miss Pat's house and left to go out with a bunch of friends. The girl showed up at the hospital the next day, brain dead. The doctors (or her friends?) had said it was ecstasy but Pat was skeptical and to make matters worse the girl's mother thinks that Pat had something to do with it. Her daughter, too, has been having tough week - the dialysis is taking its toll and Pat is always prepared to have to go to the hospital with her daughter. "It's just been a bad week," she said. "Can I get a hug?"
"Of course!" I said, a smile on my face. In all honesty, I was surprised she hadn't asked for one sooner. It is a regular part of our visits, one I enjoy. I stepped toward her to hug her and before we had even fully embraced her body was shaking with tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said. I reassured her that it was okay, hugging her all the more tightly. I finally let go after about 30 or 40 seconds, hesitating to do so, but realizing that she and I did not each other all that well and I did not want to make her uncomfortable. Nikki gave her a hug, too, and we again reassured her that it was okay to cry, that we were here for her.
We had only just sat down when another of Miss Pat's "angels" stopped by - an old friend named Billy. She had called him up to take her out and get a new pair of stockings for Easter Sunday. Billy had just had two stints put in his heart this past week and was looking a little faint. "Come on in, Billy. Sit down. We was just about to have prayer."
The four of us held hands and Nikki and I took turns praying for Miss Pat, her daughter, and the young girl who had just died. We prayed mostly for peace for the girl's family and for Miss Pat as we all struggled with a life ended too soon under circumstances nobody understands. We prayed for massive healing for Miss Pat's daughter, who is on dialysis three times a week and in and out of the hospital often. We placed all of these things in our Lord's hands and asked Him to carry us through and for Miss Pat to cling firmly to His promises.
We said "amen" in unison and Miss Pat looked up and said, "Thank you." We told her that we were more than happy to do it and, in fact, she is often remembered in our prayers. She mentioned again to Billy that she needed to go out and get her stockings for Easter Sunday. "Well, we'd be happy to take you, Miss Pat if Mr. Billy isn't feeling up to it."
We didn't know it then, but Miss Pat doesn't get in the car with just anybody. She told us later that Billy and the two of us were the only people she'd let drive around. Usually if someone offers to take her to get something to eat, she'll just have them go out and bring it back as opposed to getting in the car.
But she agreed to get in the car with us and after we'd said our goodbyes to Billy, we all piled in and headed for the nearest grocery store, almost 10 minutes away. What a wonderful drive. Miss Pat told us stories of what the neighborhood used to look like when she first moved in to her mother's house in the 60's. Dogwoods on every lot, she told us, just growing wild. But then the townhomes and apartments came in and tore out the majority of them. We laughed about things in common and she chided me on my overly cautious driving until we finally arrived at Aldi.
We grabbed a cart and told her to get whatever she needed. Her shopping list was small, and almost every item she took, she asked for first. Sometimes you could see her eyes drift to something she didn't think was a necessity. "How about some iced tea, Miss Pat? Do you want to grab some?" She did, thanking us as she put it in the basket. Nikki and I followed her around the store until we finally arrived in line.
"Miss Pat, how about we let Nikki stand with the cart? I saw some flowers over on the other aisle - let's go pick some out." We walked over and looked at a small display of flower bouquets, Miss Pat finally settling on a bouquet of wine-colored roses. "Do you think they cost more?" she asked. I smiled. "Don't you worry about it."
A quick trip across the street to pick up a pair of stockings and we were on our way back. Miss Pat, however, seemed convinced that we were never going to get home if I didn't drive a little more aggressively! She told us on the drive back of the revival she was going to next weekend on the coast. In what can only be received as a huge sign of her trust in us, she offered us a key to her house, just in case we wanted to stop by and do anything while she was gone.
We got back to her small house and brought the groceries (and flowers!) inside. We talked and laughed for another half an hour or so, until she started to yawn and we said we'd get out of her hair. She thanked us again and again and we gave her big hugs. A comment about Nikki's working on a farm started another fifteen minutes of conversation full of laughter and the agreement that she would have to come out one day and we'd have a picnic. "All right," she said. "So we got a dinner date. And a country."
We hugged again and she said as we left that she would pet the horse, but wouldn't ride it. "You'll have to pray to Jesus about that," she said. "That'd be a miracle."
I think it was a Saturday full of small miracles.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Eight
I'm a little addicted to postsecret. Some of my happiest memories with Steven were Sunday mornings when the two of us would wake up and snuggle up together in bed and read the secrets together. It would start conversations and encourage us (or, I suppose, maybe just me) to be honest and open and trust the other person with the hard things. At a time when the two of us were desperately searching for something, it was the closest thing we had to religion.
I still check it on Sunday mornings (or, if I've forgotten, Mondays). I love the fact that this little experiment has grown into such a social phenomenon and that people who have felt totally alone are finding hope and community in such an unlikely place.
One of this week's secrets was this: "If I could talk to my eight year old self, I'd say, "Things will get easier, I promise." (It took 16 years, but I am finally at peace with myself.)"
People responded with what they would say to their own eight year old selves and it got me thinking. Things like "stop watching TV" and "don't forget to fly" and "brush your teeth."
I've put a lot of thought into it, and here's what I think I would say to my eight year old self:
"You don't have to be the best at everything. In fact, you will be better off if you're not. Trying to be perfect will cripple you. Be yourself - for better or worse; whether that's straight A's or just average. Accept yourself as you are and you'll be far happier. Perfect averages and a dozen awards will never make you happy.
Your identity will never be wrapped up in your illness, in your intelligence, or in your success. Release yourself of that. You will always be a child of God, first and foremost. Claim that and you will find yourself infinitely happier than grades and 'success' will ever make you."
I still check it on Sunday mornings (or, if I've forgotten, Mondays). I love the fact that this little experiment has grown into such a social phenomenon and that people who have felt totally alone are finding hope and community in such an unlikely place.
One of this week's secrets was this: "If I could talk to my eight year old self, I'd say, "Things will get easier, I promise." (It took 16 years, but I am finally at peace with myself.)"
People responded with what they would say to their own eight year old selves and it got me thinking. Things like "stop watching TV" and "don't forget to fly" and "brush your teeth."
I've put a lot of thought into it, and here's what I think I would say to my eight year old self:
"You don't have to be the best at everything. In fact, you will be better off if you're not. Trying to be perfect will cripple you. Be yourself - for better or worse; whether that's straight A's or just average. Accept yourself as you are and you'll be far happier. Perfect averages and a dozen awards will never make you happy.
Your identity will never be wrapped up in your illness, in your intelligence, or in your success. Release yourself of that. You will always be a child of God, first and foremost. Claim that and you will find yourself infinitely happier than grades and 'success' will ever make you."
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Heavy and Light
My heart is heavy with grief, but lightened by the knowledge that this is not the end. My grandmother was a courageous woman of God, and she led an incredible and gracious life to the very end. I miss her terribly.
"Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death." Isaiah 57:2
And so she did. And now she is not burdened by a sick body, by a mind that fades, but is greeting our Savior and King with great joy.
There are so many more things to say, but my heart is weary. I love you all.
"Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death." Isaiah 57:2
And so she did. And now she is not burdened by a sick body, by a mind that fades, but is greeting our Savior and King with great joy.
There are so many more things to say, but my heart is weary. I love you all.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
down, down, down
I remember a time when my life was shrouded in secrecy. When my thoughts and actions were hidden from everyone and every moment of life was a lie.
It is painful to think that I am one misstep from that. One bad decision, one moment of succumbing to temptation. And it is getting harder everyday to say no.
It is painful to think that I am one misstep from that. One bad decision, one moment of succumbing to temptation. And it is getting harder everyday to say no.
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