song of the stars

Immortality

is a dinosaur

(or maybe a dragon)

a beautiful nightmare; a terrifying daydream

unending possibilities

unending heartache.

But you still don't know--would it be worth it?

You feel it stirring in your soul long before you give it a name. The eerie feeling you've been here and done this before, that you've known a thousand names and held a hundred hearts between your soft, living hands

but not here.

When you were twelve, you would lay under the stars and piece together constellations

tracing the stars on your arm

(Orion's belt--was it a sign? or just

a trick of fate)

They seemed to you kindred, singing

in voices as high and white as silver, of eternity

of oblivion

and you sang too

(but not aloud).

Now you sit in crowded coffee shops and stare across the table at

mortals. Caught up in their troubles, worrying

about jobs or romance or ethics.

You like being among them because

it grounds you and

keeps

     you

           from

               floating

away.

But when you feel 

the autumn wind in your hair

fresh from turning dying leaves into a dancing whirlwind

when you hear songs of kings and queens

or gods

or poets

when you stare up into the blackness of the night

and feel your heart whisper, "friends, I have missed you"

it is then that you recognize the dragon 

(or maybe the dinosaur)

for what it is.

Immortality.

The feeling that you alone know what it is

to live eternity over and over again

to catch a glimpse of the beyond

but never touch it

to always hear the song ringing in your ears

but never sing it.

Know this, mortals.

There may be only one of us

But we dwell among you

forever.

questioning

I've reached that stage where I understand why many great thinkers became atheists, and I'm not sure I'm quite comfortable with that.

First off--I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider myself a thinker. Yes, I know it's pompous and pretentious. But I think a lot, and I can't help but think I'm a little deeper than some of my friends, family, and co-workers.

For instance, I know when I'm being a fool. Well. Most of the time.

We've been hearing a lot about idols in church and it's just falling on deaf ears for me because I haven't got any idols. At least, not in the sense of "things you think your life would fall apart without." Not my writing anymore. Not my job. Not my friends. Not family.

It's almost scary, because I can't think of anything. But I know there are things I care about far too much--certain shows, certain feelings/emotions. Without the flash, without inspiration and Joy, life would be grim indeed...but are those Idols, or merely manifestations of His glory?

I know that the thought of heaven fills me with a greater joy than anything else on earth. I understand that it means fulfillment of all the things I desire but can't put a name to--the northernness, perhaps even what I've come to call "paganness." Yet while the abstract idea is grand to me, the everyday details of Christianity have come to feel trite and meaningless. Why do we stand around and sing songs about how alive we are now that another man has died? Why are lives (seemingly) transformed, only to revert back into practices of sin that becomes secret because of shame and fear of judgement?

A question was once posed to me that I failed to answer fully: How would your life look different if you were not a Christian?

In all honesty, I have to reply, "It wouldn't, very much."

I might not go to church. But then again I might, if only to please my parents, who I would still love and respect.

I would maybe curse a little more, and probably would have fewer inhibitions about believing things about certain social issues. I might be in love with different people. I might be less self-controlled, but also less guilt-ridden and angry at myself.

I would be more independent. I would be a little wilder. Yet I would probably choose the same people (Waves, over and over again) and the same groups and the same path. I would maybe do the things I hold back from doing for duty's sake--like spending my life traveling instead of trying to settle down and serve Him.

I wouldn't give my money to the church, but I think I would give it other places.

In other words, I'd be a fairly "good person" with fewer scruples about grey areas and a little more of a deathwish, probably, but still pretty stable. Just set on pursuing my own dreams and goals instead of trying to seek His will for my life.

That answer concerns me, because shouldn't my life with and without Christ look drastically different? Shouldn't I be living in such a way now that answering that question would stun me and make others marvel?

Ways I Could Be a Better Christian:
1. Sin less (obviously)
2. Better Bible/Prayer Habits
3. More Service/Selfless living
4. Humility, Kindness, Patience...more fruit of the Spirit
5. Less Pride
6. More Courage In Sharing the Gospel

And so on.

I know God doesn't want me to be a "better Christian." The work of purification and "washing and renewing" is HIS work, done by HIS hand, not mine. Yet I can't just sit by in a boat moored to the dock and expect for him to push me out to sea.

So many thoughts. Is it better that I doubt and have fear and such cynacism than if I lived in ignorant complacency?

I don't know. I only wish my faith was stronger, that I desired him more, that I had the energy and will to work harder at obeying and living in courage and faith.

Help me, Lord.

one step enough for me

I'm in an interesting stage that most young adults will recognize: that strange borderland of "transition," a foot in two worlds, belonging to neither.

Let me explain. I have friends on Facebook posting about new couches for their homes, revealing pictures of their newborn children, announcing engagements, and moaning about midterm exams. But not the same friends on all four counts. I'm in that awkward stage of "Well I'm out of college but not really to the next part yet, but thank heavens I get to preview it from this cozy seat."

Just kidding. I could skip the preview, thanks.

Tomorrow I go in to speak with an advisor about a secondary education certification program. Basically, "Do you have what it takes to teach High School English?" I've been working through a lot of things and have come to a resounding conclusion:

I don't know what I want to do with my life.

Of course there are the "ultimate goals": seek, serve, and obey God, love people, live with boldness and courage.

But there are so many ways I could do that. I could

• Move to a south Asian country and teach English.
• Get a job as a marketing professional in a local business.
• Work part-time at a coffee shop and tutor international students.
• Get a masters in English and teach at a college.
• Get a masters in Library Science and become a librarian/archivist.
• Complete teaching cert and teach high-school English.
• Get into the publishing, journalism, or media world.

In short, there are about a billion different things I could do with the education and talents I already have. But the options are a little overwhelming, and I'm scared to move for fear I'll make the wrong choice.

This is my solution for the fear: Remember. Remember. Remember the signs. Recall the mighty deeds of the God Who Saves, of God With Us, never leaving, never sleeping, never failing. Remember how He brought the children of Israel out of Egypt, how He led them through the desert, gave victory to Joshua, direction to Daniel and Joseph, provision for David over and over again.

My God is a God who plots the path of kings. He is capable of handling mine.

But sometimes, you're 21 and driving down a road and suddenly you're not just driving, you're running away from all the responsibilities and expectations and hopes and dreams you thought you'd given up for lost (and maybe from God, too). And the future catches in your throat and chokes you and suddenly you're sobbing in highway traffic and praying "God, God, God, don't let me be for nothing!"

And then you remember that you're 21, that you still have a good 60 years on this planet to do something, to discover what it is you're here for, and in the meantime there is a bed for you to sleep in and a wonderful thing called parents to hug you and comfort you and make you cookies and dinner and tell you it's okay, that you're okay, that you're not a failure, that it's not for nothing.

But oh, to have dreams again! To know what it is I would do with my life, "time and money aside."

Lord, direct my thoughts and decisions, that I would always seek after you, and not after my own desires.

Here in the dark, I do not ask to see

The path ahead; one step enough for me

Lead on, lead on Kindly Light!

-Lead Kindly Light, Audrey Assad

Thoughts on Psalm 16

As I sit by an open window with coffee, letting the brisk October morning ruffle the pages of my Bible, I have never felt closer to being made of light.

I slept in today. The sleep that comes to a hard-working man is good and satisfying, and I have tasted of its goodness.

I open the book of Psalms and begin to read. First I am in Psalm 14 (because it is October 14th and I might as well because where else should I begin?) but after skimming through a few, Psalm 16 catches my eye.

"Oh my soul, you have said to the Lord,

You are my Lord,

My goodness is nothing apart from You." (v. 2)

"O Lord, You are the portion of my inheritance and my cup;

You maintain my lot.

The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;

Yes, I have a good inheritance."

This concept of God as my (in all rights, "our," but for simplicity's sake, I shall simply say "my") portion and inheritance is repeated over and over again through Scripture.

"Through the Lord's mercies we are not consumed

Because His compassions fail not.

They are new every morning;

Great is Your faithfulness.

'The Lord is my portion,' says my soul

'Therefore I hope in him!'

-Lamentations 3:22-24

"You are my portion, O Lord;

I have said that I would keep your words."

-Psalm 119:57

"Whom have I in heaven but You?

And there is none upon the earth that I desire besides You.

My flesh and my heart fail;

But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever."

Psalm 73:25-26

Other references: Psalm 16:5, 142:5

The question remains: what does this mean? The Hebrew word for portion is Cheleq, and is most often used to discuss one's ownership of land, possessions, or other belongings. The root word is Chalaq, an old Hebrew word meaning, essentially, "plunder" that warriors would receive after conquering a city, or goods that were apportioned to you.

What these verses seem to be saying, is that God is our plunder--God is the treasure we are apportioned. The incredible difference that comes when talking about God as our portion is that we fought in no battles, nor won any victories to deserve Him. Has the Psalmist chosen God? Perhaps. But he clearly understands that his portion, while taking form in the maker of the Universe, is not here on this earth. In other Psalms, David and other psalmists cry out against the wicked, who receive their portion here on this earth.

But our portion is in heaven. "Whom have I in heaven but You?" It is a forgoing of earthly desires for pleasures today, in order that we may eagerly await the coming of the One who is our inheritance.

And it is a good inheritance. The Lord promises us more than we deserve. We are told Psalm 23, that because "the Lord is our shepherd," we shall not want.

We shall not want. What does that even mean? Not want for money, or food, or clothes, or love, or hope, or joy, or peace? Not want, even for the things that we don't think we want. But sometimes He has to "make us" lie down in green pastures and "leads us" beside still waters, because we wouldn't choose it if He only let us run wild.

Interesting thoughts. A beautiful Psalm, and a great reminder that our portion is not on this earth, but is very much worth waiting for.

"Let the field be joyful, and all that is in  it.

Then all the trees of the woods will rejoice before the Lord.

For He is coming, for He is coming to judge the earth."

-Psalm 96:12-13

this is the first time you've been this old

"Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened everyday and arms that were never for anyone else, but just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes." 

-The Winter of the Air

---

This quote is still getting to me because even though I'm not 23, this is where I am. Albeit still at "Mom's" (which is still home and has ears that listen every day and arms that were never for anyone else, all of which do calm me down), but there's just something about all of it that makes me feel not at home in my skin, like I should be bursting into a rainbow-colored firework or diving underground to be replanted as a tree.

I spend a lot of time worrying about who I am, where I'm going, what I'm going to do with my life.

So many pieces of my life are a paradox: 

• I want to stay home with my family and watch them grow...but I want to see the world and travel, independent and free.
• I want to have this incredibly deep faith that can move mountains and truly seek after God...but I also want to have eyes open and not trust in things blindly. (Maybe not a paradox).
• I want to do what I love all the time and maybe become rich and famous...but I want to make next to nothing and give what's left away and help people with all that I am.

This crude matter can't be all those things at once. I have to know what to say and when, what fights to fight and when to run away.  And in those five minutes of nostalgia and panic, I see none of the good things, but only how far I have left to go--my faults and failures, my sins, my fears.

I am chained to my past with guilt and fear and a boundless lack of faith

so

how can you tell me that God's love is deeper and higher and greater and farther than my past?

Than my present?

Than my horrible, terrifying, heart-rendingly hopeless future?

Yet if I don't believe in His love, I have nothing left to cling to.

---

How is one supposed to rejoice in trials?

How can there be a point at which the light dawns and the darkness flees? When my faith becomes real and I have joy again in following the narrow way?

Father, give me faith. Help me to believe that You are greater than all the things that drag me down (even my fear, even my sin), and that one day, my faith will be made sight. 

As for me, I will see Your face in righteousness;

I shall be satisfied when I awake in Your likeness.

-Psalm 17:!5

fragments of frozen rain

"Under the endless rain of cosmic dust, the air is full of pollen, micro-diamonds, and jewels from other planets...people go about their lives surrounded by the unseeable." -Louie Schwartzberg

"The wind makes creatures of our trees." -Lullaby for a Stormy Night

"Histories of abolition, the civil rights movement, even environmentalism, don't begin with people who are powerful, realistic, or even normal. They begin with people who don't know better and who find the world they are born into intolerable. " -Jedidah Purdy

"Isn’t it funny the way some combinations of words can give you – apart from their meaning – a thrill like music?"-C.S. Lewis

"It wasn’t about reading the books – though God knows, the books I was reading at that time were more valuable to me than ever – but it was about being in the presence of books, of words, of the work I wanted so badly to do."-Dana Staves

"Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened everyday and arms that were never for anyone else, but just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes." -The Winter of the Air

"If it was an emotion, it was a totally emotionless one. It was hatred, implacable hatred. It was cold, not like ice is cold, but like a wall is cold. It was impersonal, not as a randomly flung fist in a crowd is impersonal, but like a computer-issued parking summons is impersonal. And it was deadly - again, not like a bullet or a knife is deadly, but like a brick wall across a motorway is deadly.” -Douglas Adams

before your face

The light penetrates my eyes, piercing
my face, stabbing deep into 
my heart, and suddenly
all the words I have ever spoken,
all the thoughts I have ever pondered, are there
trembling under your gaze.

I am ashamed. Woe is me, for even
standing in your presence--that alone is enough
to shake my heart and soul to the core
as your beauty and majesty surrounds me
overwhelms me
envelops me in its glory.

But
You see my thoughts, the futile workings
of my mind, plagued by sin and doubt.
You know my motives and my heart; there is
no secret I can keep
No nook or cranny too secret for you to uncover.

My heart is laid bare, and behold, it is barren.
My thoughts are nonsense, like the jawings of a
drunken two year old
My soul is a shattered cistern, unholy and broken
destroyed almost beyond saving
And I am undone.

Why did I doubt you?
Why did I lose hope?
Why could I not wait an hour and pray for my deliverance?

Why were my intentions misguided?
Why did I waste so much time?
Why did I not listen better to your prompting and study your Word?

Forgive me for my nonsense questions
For this babbling mouth, so lacking of wisdom.
Create in me a clean heart
and renew a right spirit within me.

“I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?” 

-C.S. Lewis

Compassion on the Cross

Something that struck me when listening to a version of the crucifixion was Jesus’ perspective through it all. I listened to a sermon by Pastor Larry Osbourne of North Coast Church yesterday wherein he talked about Jesus being fully human—he didn’t know everything that was going to happen, and even the power in him to heal came from the Holy Spirit (and it wasn’t always there). He wasn’t a “Clark Kent” Jesus—just faking that he was man. No. He was FULLY MAN. He emptied himself, gave up all his rights and superpowers and subjected himself to God’s will fully, a choice we see climaxed in the Garden of Gethsemane.

That’s a horse of a different kind. But the thing that struck me especially was that in the Garden, Jesus prays. We all know that. But he doesn’t just pray for himself—he prays for his disciples and all the Christians who are to follow (John 17). When he is being arrested and Peter gets hasty and hacks someone’s ear off, Jesus stops in his tracks (ignoring the fact that, y’know, they’re taking him away to be tried and killed and he’s just been betrayed by one of his friends) and heals the guy. As he leaves the house of Caiaphas where he had just been condemned and ridiculed before the council, the only thing on his mind is to look over at Peter, who has just denied knowing him.

The list goes on. Hanging on the cross he tells John to look after his mother (when he probably had a whole lot more on his mind—like, you know, the fact that he was slowly asphyxiating and bleeding out and hanging from a torture device made of wood). But my favorite—the thing that really made me kind of breathless—was the thief on the cross.

The crowd is ridiculing him. One of the thieves joins in, mocking him and telling him to save himself, but the other guy jumps in and professes a very surprising belief in Jesus. And does Jesus just nod, or even ignore the guy (whose salvation profession may or may not be to the heart sincere?).

No. In the middle of the agonizing pain, as his wrists and feet throb, as the thorns press into the back of his head, as his back screams from rubbing the raw, flogged skin against the rough wood—in the middle of having the sin of the entire world, both past, present, and future laid upon his shoulders, as Satan rubs his hands in delight, as the Father turns his face away and the sky begins to blacken, Jesus looks at that thief and loves him. Tells him that he is forgiven and will be with Him in paradise.

That blows me away. That in the middle of the biggest event in human history, the most important thing to Jesus was not looking dignified as he hung there. It wasn’t praying one more time for God’s will to change. It wasn’t even focusing on being the perfect sacrifice. His love was so great, and so personal, that in the midst of this incredibly important act that would be the crux of history, he spoke into the life of one person. One insignificant person—we don’t even know his name. And comforted him. And gave him the promise of life.

Obviously I’ve never been on a cross and will likely never find myself there, but when I am the busiest or most anxious or things are the most chaotic around me, do I stop and care about others first? Do I “consider others better than myself” and put their interests and needs before mine? It’s easy to do it when your belly is full, or on the road with them, or in the everyday grind of life. 

But on the cross. In the trial. Where is my focus?

O Lord, that you would make my heart love others as you loved them! That you would make me into a person who cares deeply and passionately with a selfless love that surpasses understanding.

He is jealous for me

Love's like a hurricane, and I am a tree

Bending beneath the weight of his love and mercy

-David Crowder Band

contemplating surrender

I am contemplating surrender and finding that it is not an easy task. It is simple enough to speak with your lips, "Lord, take my heart and let it be/ever only all for thee," to pray "Be my all-in-all; ruin my life, the plans that I've made. It is no longer I who live but Christ lives in me."

But how does one sacrifice? How does one eternally give up all claim to earthly possessions and feelings and anxieties and desires? Or rather the question should be "CAN one give up all those things?"

I know with my head that You want The Whole Tree, Lord, and not just this branch here and that limb there. You want to uproot ME. To break ME. To unform ME so that you may plant in MY place a thing that is GOOD and of YOU. And I long for that, Lord, with all that my sinful heart can long.

But must it be a daily surrender?

Must I take up my cross every day?

Must I die a thousand deaths-of-self, offer up my will again and again on Your altar in the hopes of one day being conformed to Your likeness?

Will I ever be whole?

"Father, I want to know Thee, but my coward heart fears to give up its toys. I cannot part with them without inward bleeding, and I do not try to hide from Thee the terror of the parting. I come trembling, but I do come. Please root from my heart all those things which I have cherished so long and which have become a very part of my living self, so that Thou mayest enter and dwell there without a rival. Then shalt Thou make the place of Thy feet glorious. Then shall my heart have no need of the sun to shine in it, for Thyself wilt be the light of it, and there shall be no night there. In Jesus' Name, Amen."

-A.W. Tozer, The Pursuit of God

the first spring rain

A storm is rolling in.

I'm sitting outside the library when the temperature drops about five degrees and the sky starts turning dark. The clouds are like an ocean of gray and white, with purple undertones, but they are blotchy overhead, shifting, like shapes in a vision or dream. Twisting, untangling, rushing past.

It begins with the clouds. But then comes the wind.

It breaks upon me like a wave of furious seawater; I can hear the rumbling of its approach before it beaches itself, blowing dust into my ears and catching at my hair with trembling fingers. Lady Spring smiles seductively and blows and all the leaves of autumn flee (where do the autumn leaves go before the summer has come?), twisting in wild dervishes, scuttling about like bewildered sparrows and finches on the ground. A frenzy of frantic butterflies they fly, soaring in a twister in the air, then dashing themselves up against the walls of brick and stone.

But still, no rain.

I can hardly see (the wind tears at my eyes), I am beginning to shiver (who knew it was 80 degrees only a few minutes ago?), and I am starting to wonder if I should make a run for my car now, or simply wait out the storm and hope I can get back without dooming my laptop to a waterlogged demise.

There is electricity in the air. My teeth are beginning to chatter (but perhaps from excitement). The sound in my ears is only the wind, but I am waiting for the thunder.

I notice a rather large insect on the wall (not quite a beetle, but some kind of leafbug?). He stands unhampered by the wind, little caring as to the weather. He has weathered many storms in his time, and fears not wind nor rain nor lightening (I wonder, does lightening ever strike the unwary bug and burn him in his tracks?).

A few minutes pass. The wind dies down. The sky becomes a solid sheet of gray.

And then comes the rain.

It starts as a few large dragon-tears, dripping from the sky like a leaky faucet. Then more, and they're falling on the trees making a satisfying dripdripdrip sound that thrills me to the marrow. Birds sing to their young. A morning dove coos.

Something that maybe is thunder whispers soothing poetry overhead. I take a deep breath of the moist air and--yes, there it is. The smell of rain.

What does rain smell like? Well scientifically, it's ozone rising from the warm ground, but I'll tell you what it smells like:

East Texas mornings
and roadtrips
mist rising from South Dakota lakes
coffee shops in Colorado
poetry
scones
the feathers of finches
a little like chlorine and hotel rooms
hot showers
and a kiss from Mother on my cheek.

The thunder is artillery and the rain taps a tattoo on the pavement. The sky is a graphite drawing of the sea.

And at last I give in. I can't stand it a moment longer.

It is time to join the finches and autumn leaves and gently tapping raindrops
it is time to dance in the rain.

day after dreary day

It's been a week since the break, and I still find my mind wandering in abstract ideas and prosaic musings that don't add up to two. It's like having the attention span of a five-year-old because the world is so great and strange and new that you can't focus on the present activity of walking to class or even the future fear of finding a job because look there are fuschia flowers popping out of green buds and the grass is the color of unripened bell-peppers.

This morning I awoke inside a cloud. The branches on the ghostly trees hung silently until the spring breeze began stirring in the deep, sending the flowers trembling with a yawn, cartwheeling across the surface of the silent lake. And then the mist blew away like wreathes of smoke (where does fog go when the wind takes it by the hand and whispers "Run"?) and all that remained was a slight dampness and the smell of fresh grass.

Walking to class, I saw a child with skin as soft as silk and slight, slanting eyes. My mind memorized the way his arms swung out, the way his steps faltered and jerked along in the sporadic movements of a child, still learning to be human. Spontaneous, free, joyful. The world is new to him, and everyone's head brushes the sky.

Jets roared overhead. I stopped to stare, the roar resounding in my ears and for a moment everything was just blue--the blue of the sky stretching over me, flying, soaring over the surface of this spinning ball of mud. And when I turned to walk on, I was flying still.

The world is new and strange, because I am growing. My head is inches away from brushing the sky. I am learning to look at a couple holding hands and smile because He holds my hand and my heart, and a mere fifty years is nothing compared to eternity. They are an echo of the real, a shadow of love, but I have the thing itself, the unknowable, the vast, the magnificent, the glorious. I am learning that suffering is not meaningless, that waiting and waiting and feeling as though I am always sliding backward as day by day my sin becomes more evident in the light of His love and grace is only the fire burning those very sins away, the wine press that is making this bruised and broken skin less and less a part of me.

I am learning to pray for brokenness.

I am learning that only one thing matters in life, and all else is vanity. And the one thing--not only is it the pearl of great price, worth dedicating my whole life, day after dreary day, to serving, seeking, finding, preaching. Not only is greater than any loss I could suffer, greater than any sacrifice I could give, greater than any pit or darkness or despair or depression. Not only is it All, but it is already mine. All the answers to the questions I ask lie in the leather book I carry with me every day, sitting there in the worn backpack beside me.

O, that my heart would be able to say, in complete truth, "You are enough for me!" If only I believed His promises, trusted in His faithfulness, leaned upon His strength instead of blistering my hands digging into this hard clay.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

Though you slay me, yet I will praise you
Though you take from me, I will bless your name
Though you ruin me
Still I will worship
Sing a song to the one who's all I need.

-Shane and Shane, "Though You Slay Me"

spring evenings

On rare spring nights, we used to walk together, just you and I.

Those early spring evenings, where the weather wavers between soft humidity that fluffs my hair into a Victorian masterpiece and cool, breeziness with a hint of winter still clinging to its edge--the light of the waxing moon, set like a gleaming white coin low in the eastern sky--the leaves, once red and yellow in autumn, now blowing, all skeletons and dry remains, around our ankles.

At first when I leave the house, I am alone, head drooping, eyes fixed on the white path of our driveway beneath my feet meandering their way along. But soon the stars begin to sing and a lonely mockingbird, and I look up from my heavy thoughts

and see you. Waiting. As if you've been here all the time.

(but of course you have--I just pretend not to remember)

Sometimes you take my hand and lead me along the path, but other times we pace side by side, not even needing the simplest touch. The cats follow us and rub up against your ankles, and you tuck a strand of frizzing hair behind my ear and whisper, "What's wrong?"

And fragment by fragment, syllable by broken syllable, the words come--angry, bitter, full of self-pity, of hurt and disappointment and despair. Foolish words. Biting words ("Don't you care that I am perishing?"); sincere words ("I can't do this on my own."); and sometimes, on the darkest nights, no words at all.

Mostly I forget you are the author of my story (strange miracle, that we should be able to talk in such a way) and simply vent (because, after all, who else was there to vent to? And you asked, after all).

You never interrupt me. You simply listen, sometimes taking my hand or leaning closer to me or, when I can't keep the tears from filling up my eyes and wetting my cheeks, wrapping your arms around me and saying, "There, there." But you always let me finish.

And then, when all my words have run out and I have nothing left to give, no more tears left to cry, you wipe them away and take me in your arms.

"You poor, shortsighted thing," you say, stroking my hair. "If only you could see, Dear One. That this isn't how it ends. That this isn't even where it begins. That in five years tomorrow's exam or So-and-so will not even be remembered to you. You're constrained by time--but remember that I am not. I know how it ends, and trust me, it's beautiful. Beautiful. Just like you."

A bitter laugh. A "Just like me," in the most skeptical of tones.

A finger on my lips. "Just like I made you. Do you think I couldn't have given you raven black tresses or clear gray eyes if I had wanted? Dear One, you are perfect. You are mine."

"But I'm not--"

"You are mine."

"But my life--"

"--is beautiful, for I have planned each step you will take."

"But my heart--"

"--is yet weak and young, but I will grow it in due time."

Eyes drop to the ground. There are a few tears that mingle with the dirt my shoes are playing with.

"But why couldn't it be a love story?"

I feel your arms go around me again, and the warmth is all around me as you breathe into my hair, "Oh, Dearheart. It is a love story. But so much truer one than you know."

----

On rare spring nights, we used to walk together, just you and I. And when you looked on my mouse-brown hair and eyes long dimmed by tears and face I never could reconcile as even passably pretty and told me I was beautiful and Beloved--not the skeleton leaves nor the cold light of the moon nor the doubts and fears of my own waking soul could shake the love that was kindled between we two.

And in other early spring evenings, we shall walk together again.

Screwtape Letters Revisited

My dear Gristletoe,

You were wise to write to me for advice concerning your patient. Although you admittedly have the most experience tempting her, having been watching her since her early defection to the Enemy, I have the benefit of thousands of years of knowledge in corrupting the most pious of the vile monkeys who crawl about the earth. You may remember that I earned my spurs in the Greatest Century of Victory--the age when all we had to do to convince men to stop believing in the Enemy was to make them believe they were being taken in by all this religious fiddlefaddle. Thus, I have great insight into human character, and especially in your human, I see some signs of hope for us--but only if we tread very carefully.

From your letter, it seems your patient has the benefit (from our perspective and hers) of being a follower of the Enemy for a long, long time. Naturally, this is not the optimum (she is, unfortunately, well guarded from the fires of Hell), but a well-timed lapse into complacency and a lukewarm spirit are quite satisfactory when trying to hinder the Enemy's efforts in many of his longtime followers.

Thus, encourage your patient to believe that she is doing just fine--just fine being the key term--just as she is. Certainly she may sin in a way she considers "badly" every now and again, but blind her to things less obvious than murder and lust. Let her gloss over her pride when she begs forgiveness for her sins, her false humility, her lack of compassion, her selfishness. After all, you must remark to her, these things are natural and human and they take so much time to conquer that she will probably never conquer them all.

If she must notice these things, then convince her, once she has prayed about them, that the problem is taken care of. Press the all-too-popular "easy-weight-loss" solution--let her believe that it is possible to overcome such things without the discipline of hard work and continual awareness. If you succeed in this, the selfishness and pride will only be briefly subdued by the Enemy's grace, and when it returns, she will be more apt to ignore it than before.

By far, however, our most effective tool in the case of little poppets like these is to whisper doubts in their ear. They have so many within them already that only a hint, a little nudge, is enough to send her spiraling into anxiety and hopelessness. Make her worry--not about her sin or about whether she's obeying her precious Bible in this moment--but about what happens after graduation, about the grim outlook for her romantic life. Let her worry about her eyebrows and hair and if That Boy has noticed her yet (I must say well done, inciting her to daydream about him and give herself a martyr complex and a crisis of faith all revolving around such a shallow friendship that might-have-been something more).

The main thing you need to be concerned about it that she will begin to counter your anxiety attacks by turning to her precious bible. Taking it to an extreme and reducing her to a tear-wracked mess has only resulted in her pleading for forgiveness and mercy and faith from the Enemy--I would not try that method again, if I were you. And I hear she has begun memorizing scripture--and worse, thinking about it. You can prevent meditation on the Enemy's words by bringing lots of distractions--the radio, television, other people, and best, more anxieties about the future! But I would try to wean her off the scripture memory. Perhaps once the storm wanes, and she is able to get sleep and read her blessed fiction (do encourage her to read fiction, but only the bad kinds) she will forget to memorize and forget to practice and forget what she has been learning in that Awful Group.

About the group: you would do best to discourage her from going at all. Your anxiety attacks were better at the beginning of the year, when she was still unbalanced from her self-imposed isolation (that was a good play, for instead of letting her soak in the bible, you kept her distracted with wonderful shows and social media). But now she has made friends and--even worse--begun overcoming her fears. She has been praying to the Enemy more regularly about those fears. Make it your business to keep her from evangelizing any more. Prevent her following up with that girl she met this week. Isolate her. Make her "tired" and make sure she believes she "better just go home and rest tonight." This is your surest way to derailing her and growing the fears once more.

When she must go to her Awful Group or associate with her friends, keep the conversation away from topics of the Enemy. Encourage them to talk about this latest episode or that latest exam or annoying teacher they had to endure. Let them complain and whine and talk about boys--whatever silly things girls will say. But strongly discourage all thoughts of spiritual encouragement.

This Spring Break will be a good time to further distract her from what is important, to lead her off the path little by little. You might even have a few choice victories and get to taste her sweet despair. Make sure she forgets her quiet times. Make sure she forgets to pray. Make sure she memorizes no more scripture. And above all, encourage anxiety. Lead her to despair--especially with this interview she has approaching for a job. Remind her that she hates sitting in an office all day and even if she is victorious in this, even if she gets the job she's been hoping for, it is the wrong choice; that no choice she can make is optimum or best, because there are so many 'what-if-I'd-done-it-differently's.

You are doing well, Gristletoe. But you could yet do better. If she at once guesses your meaning or has a moment of enlightenment, you are sunk. It seems that she likes to keep herself on the brink of discovery without often actually learning what she seeks, which can be dangerous but can also be to our benefit. Thus you must be extra vigilant in tempting her to mindless entertainment and self satisfaction.

I will write to you again to advise you further.

Your affectionate instructor,

Screwtape

What I've learned from Elisabeth Elliot

Elisabeth Elliot's quotes ring truer to me than nearly anything written save Scripture. There's something about her personal experience that has led her to proclaim each of these wise sayings that strikes a chord in my heart. Future self, when the world is falling in about your ears and you are tired of waiting; when the road seems too twisty and turn-y and you can't decide which fork is the right one; when God closes doors and denies you what you thought was good, read these and take heart.

----

“God never witholds from His child that which His love and wisdom call good. God's refusals are always merciful -- "severe mercies" at times but mercies all the same. God never denies us our hearts desire except to give us something better."

“Waiting on God requires the willingness to bear uncertainty, to carry within oneself the unanswered question, lifting the heart to God about it whenever it intrudes upon one's thoughts.”

“I realized that the deepest spiritual lessons are not learned by His letting us have our way in the end, but by His making us wait, bearing with us in love and patience until we are able to honestly to pray what He taught His disciples to pray: Thy will be done.”

“Does it make sense to pray for guidance about the future if we are not obeying in the thing that lies before us today? How many momentous events in Scripture depended on one person's seemingly small act of obedience! Rest assured: Do what God tells you to do now, and, depend upon it, you will be shown what to do next.”

“Of one thing I am perfectly sure: God's story never ends with 'ashes.'”

wallflower in the ballroom of life

You move through the days like a machine--wake up, read your Bible, have a cup of coffee, classes, work, interact with people--but somewhere deep inside you is something troubling: a thought, a ponder, that maybe you don't fit in because you're not as real as everyone else (or maybe you're realer, and that might be worse).

You've stood at the edges of rooms and watched the grand dance take place around you. People talking. Laughing. Flirting. But wallflowers and shadows cling to the edges, like ghosts at the fringe of a living, breathing world, uncertain of how and where and when to join the dance. And once you finally step in and bat words back and forth with another human being, your smile feels stiff and false and your laugh a little forced and your eyes as hard and cold as diamonds (but maybe they're just cut glass). You wonder why the 'you' in a room full of people is a thousand miles away from the one who stands shimmering under starlight, like a tragic fairy tale or myth (your true form is only clear under the moonlight or in the dusk of evening, or when you're caught up in the mystery and beauty of a well written line of poetry) and you wonder if that's normal and everyone feels it or if you're just different that way.

You're pretty insecure about this life thing. Especially friends and goodness-let's-not-even-talk-about-boys because somehow, deep down, you feel like an observer on the sidelines, a reader of some epic tale in which you've accepted the role of a minor character. You don't deserve someone to love you, someone to sit with you in the dusk and listen to you spin your tapestries of fancy or woe. You're okay with being the sidekick--nodding and listening and "Oh, that's lovely!" or "I'm so sorry. I wish I could help," but some days you want to roar and don a crown and blast the hero to shreds with your diamond eyes (sharper than cut glass) because you are a person (and you matter too).

But mostly you just spend a lot of time listening and helping and hoping and loving and trying to believe that they actually like you because they like you and not just because they're being nice. Sometimes you catch yourself trying to earn their love and it makes you angry because that's not how it's supposed to work.

And then there's the future. A current tugs you along, persistent and patient as you struggle through the dregs of the river of indecision, but sometimes you just want to scream and smash something because you don't believe in destiny and why is it your fate to be human and limited to one lifetime, one century (or less--cut glass must shatter someday) on this spinning ball of mud and blood and angst and tears. You have had visions of yourself at fifty, at seventy, and you know that you cannot be contained by four walls and society's expectations

because

you are like ice and an autumn breeze, like
raindrops making ripples on the glassy surface of the lake
trembling with aliveness; quiet; and then still.

You can be anything. You can move mountains and write novels or be a pirate in the south pacific. You can open the best bookstore-library this side of Alexandria or lead little children on adventures that will shake their worlds to the core.

But some days you forget about the mountains (and the diamonds in your eyes) and it isn't until the moment when you realize that you are you that the sky opens up and you realize that you've been a character in this story all along.

(and no one, not even side characters, deserve less than a worthy ending)

Why I Don't Blog

Welp, it looks as though I've only posted twice since 2011 (not that anyone's counting) but lately I've had a lot of thoughts and a little time and felt the need to give this blogging thing another try.

So. New name. "Laughter like a lion" is a line from G.K. Chesterton's poem "The Wise Men." Read the full last stanza for some context:

"Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes
     To roar to the resounding plan.
And the whole heaven shouts and shakes
     For God Himself is born again,
And we are little children walking
     Through the snow and rain."

I really like this poem. I don't understand it by a long shot, but there's something about the lines (and that one line in particular) that stirs something inside me. Call it joy, the Flash, inspiration--it's pretty amazing, whatever it is.

So, me not blogging. The first blog I was ever exposed to was "Insanity Comes Naturally" by Anna, a person whose writing I very much admired. Really. Her writing is stunning. I still get swept away when I go through her archives and look at her poetry or musings on life and God. I wanted more than anything to write like that--to be able to express my thoughts in a coherent way, and online is awesome because it won't burn or accidentally get deleted.

Great, so I'd decided I was going to start a blog. But what kind of blog? Awesomely deep and writerly, like Anna's, with prose and poetry and musings? A place to spew all the crazy, funny stories of farm life/college life/life life? An actual, serious blog about writing or Christianity or something non-fictiony? Therein lay my problem--I WANTED TO DO ALL THE THINGS.

Actually, that's still my problem. I don't want to be just deep or just funny or just intellectual...I want to be ALL of them. So I deeply apologize if this blog ends up being a weird conglomeration of random things. Including stories about scorpions in the shower and how my characters talk to me sometimes. But I've been looking for a creative vent for months and I've finally given in and decided to give this one more try.

So, I decided I could blog about all the things. But then there was the trouble of the TITLE (Odyssean Journeyish Quest Thing just wasn't cutting it) and that's where Chesterton saved the day because "Laughter like a Lion" sounds both funny (laughter) and serious (lions are serious) and deep (why is the lion laughing?).

I don't anticipate readers. I really don't, because I've written papers about how the "Blogosphere" (y'all, that's the technical term for this imaginary internet world) is just too many people with too much to say to too few readers. But I do anticipate growth, and writing practice, and hopefully an artifact for me to find someday, carefully preserved in the dusty virtual archives of the internet.

(yes I know the internet isn't dusty, stop looking at me like that)