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.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Friday, March 21, 2014
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, March 7, 2014
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
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