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.

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

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

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.'”

The Author and Perfecter

As a writer, sometimes I think it might be fun to meet my characters one day.

But most the time I have my senses about me and realize that they would probably kill me as soon as they figured out who I was rather than having any sort of gratitude toward me in the least.

Which absolutely makes sense. Allow me to explain.

One of my favorite quotes on writing sounds something like, "Figure out the worst possible thing that could happen to your main character--and then make it happen to them." Which for some authors has to do with physical torment, but for me means emotional torture that seems as though it is beyond all enduring--and indeed, it may be. I make young Prince Leo have to choose which of his brothers will be killed first. I force Theo into marrying (SPOILER ALERT) the bloodthirsty princess who merely wants the throne. I take two lovebirds like Livi and Agravaine and set them at odds so that they spend more time than not in anguish over the fact that they are always fighting.

But why? Is it merely because I am a masochistic mastermind who is taking out my frustration with the world and my life on these characters? Because I like seeing people suffer, even if they're only imaginary?

No. (Well, for some writers, perhaps, but not for me.) I make these things happen because in the beginning, the characters are not complete. Leo is spoiled and haughty. Theo is corrupt and sneaky. Livi is prim and quick to anger. But through their traumatic and sometimes horrible experiences, a change comes over them. None of them, coming out on the other side, would look back and say, "I'd rather none of that had happened."

(Except for maybe Theo, but he's an exceptional case.)

Still, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to meet one of them. To stand face to face with Leo and have him look me in the eye and ask, through gritted teeth, "Why? Why would you do that to me? Make me choose? Send me nightmares? Put me in the hands of evil men?"

He would ask it, of course, at the moment when things looked their darkest. Because he cannot see the future. He does not know how the story will end.

But I do. I have planned everything out from the beginning--knew the end before he was even taking baby steps, so to speak. And my time-frame is different than his. I can jump about, from the beginning to the end to the middle and back to each again, in ways that he never could. And because I know the end, I would be able to put my hand on his shoulder and look back into those tortured blue eyes and say, "It's okay. It's okay. They aren't going to die. You'll be alright. You even get a girlfriend out of it. Just be patient and trust me. I know what I'm doing."

--

How much more so is God the author of our lives? When things are the most turbulent and I can't possibly understand what's going on, sometimes I cry, "Lord, WHY?"

I can only imagine him shaking his head and smiling sadly and saying, "I'm so sorry, Dearheart, but you must persevere. And don't worry, my love--the ending is beyond your wildest dreams."

Even though I don't know what he's doing right now, I must simply choose to trust that his plan is best, that he has trials ahead for the purpose of developing my character (and the character of others), that he loves me more than I even love Theo, and that he knows the end and it is good.

Because God, unlike certain literary authors I could mention, has already decided on a happy ending.

The Mountains Are Calling

RMNP Mountain Lake

So. My family just got back from a very long, very exciting vacation. I won't go into details, but at one point we went on a very treacherous mountain pass which dropped off on both sides (think Shasta in Horse and His Boy). The views on both sides were fantastic. Scrumptious. Incredible.

There was a visitor center at the top (probably so you could rest a while and uncurl your fingers from their tight grip around the steering wheel or, in the passenger's case, from the sides of one's seat. One of the popular shirts at said visitor center read, "The Mountains are calling and I must go." It was by some naturalist...one I could probably find quickly were I not too lazy to google it right now.

On the way back, I snapped this picture with my phone out the window (hence the lousy light and terrible resolution). It's a mountain lake I'd noticed on the way in-a small body of water half hidden by the craggy mountainside and the forest and snow around it. As soon as I caught sight of it, the story ideas began. What would it be like to hike up to that lake? What if there was a hidden city on the side of the mountain I couldn't see, beside the lake? How many people had traveled through that forest-what if knights had made the journey, being more technologically advanced than we believed them to be. Were there lakes like this in the UK-in Ireland and Scotland and all those other lovely places I've always wanted to visit? Did knights wander through there, eventually passing similar remote mountain lakes on their quests or adventures?

And then it hit me-the longing. I suddenly wanted more than anything to go see this lake, to go stand on the edge of that mountain and feel content because I'd reached this secret, mysterious place.

The mountains are calling and I must go.

In the Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis uses the illustration of "the old Narnia" to remind us of how we feel about our own world. Once the old Narnia is destroyed, the survivors, Peter and Lucy and Edmund and so on, are heartbroken. Then they realize that the new place in which they find themselves is almost exactly same as the old Narnia, only different-deeper, more wonderful, more like the real thing. Jewel the Unicorn says, "The reason we have loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this."

Every longing we feel in this world is a blind grasping for something else, something we'll never find in this world no matter how hard we look. Y'know the hope you get when you squinch your eyes shut and dive into a wardrobe, desperately longing to plunge, not into the wooden back of the thing that ends up giving you some nasty splinters, but into a field of lamp-post lit snow? That longing isn't for Narnia. It's for somewhere else, really. Somewhere we belong.

Again, from Jewel: "I have come home at last. This is my real country. I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, but I never knew it till now."

Personally, I can't wait until that longing is fulfilled. And it will be. For the Kingdom is calling, and eventually, I must go.

Wordle

I discovered something epic on the web. Well. I've discovered /lots/ of epic things. But this was pretty cool. If you go to wordle.com, you can make this thingummy called a "word cloud", which basically measures how many times you use certain words in the document you upload and generates word sizes proportional to the number of times used.. Writers use it to determine the sorts of words that pop up the most in their novel.

This wordle is mine, from my pirate novel affectionately titled "Avenger's Quest". I was going to use the wordle for the book I'm working on right now (a mysterious story called "Theo"), but the pirate one is complete. Apparently I use "one" and "eyes" almost as often as I use the names of the two main characters, Alec and Tran.

And then, as I was sitting here thinking, "Hm...could I honestly fill up a whole blog entry with mindless babble about wordle?", it hit me.

What would our lives look like in wordle? It would be tempting to think that our names would be the biggest words /ever/, because it's our lives, right, but really, what would there be.

If I did a wordle of my life, I would want the biggest word to be "God" ("Jesus" would also be acceptable). I would want the words "faithful", "servant", and "joy" to be repeated so many times in my life story that they were bigger than "money", "writing", or even "fun". I'm afraid "sin" would be larger than I would like, as well as "pessimist", "grumpy", and "hurtful". Can't you just picture, on Judgement Day, God glancing in the book for your name, ticking at a few keys, and pulling up an image like the one above?

"Hmm..." he'd say. And you'd wince, because you KNOW what's on there. All the foolishness and frippery and novels and movies and things that "seemed important at the time". Oh look. The money you didn't tithe because you rounded down. Oh look. Sarcasm. It's awfully big, and so is Lie. You hang your head in shame, because why is your name so darn big in the middle of the page? Looking at the Huge Worlde of History, it's easy to see that God is the main character, God is the beginning and end of the story, and everything on earth revolves around the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Christ-not you.

Your life is like the part of an extra in Lord of the Rings (or another movie of a similar, colossal size). And yet, you (I) are foolish enough to structure your life, your wordle (and world) around self. How about Amy Carmiachael? India was probably big. And orphans. And prayer. And servant. Did you know that she refused to allow pictures of her in the books that she wrote, because she was so intent on shifting the focus from her to her Lord?

I know. We're not all Amy Carmichaels. But still, wouldn't it be the best moment in the world when God, staring at your wordle, looked up and said, smiling as He opened His arms wide to you, "Well done, my good and faithful servant!"? But when it comes down to it, the truth is that it doesn't matter what our wordle has on it.

For man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart.

Bugs

I hate bugs.

Not bugs in general (well, maybe bugs in general). Of course I strongly dislike wasps and bees, spiders and scorpions (which, although arachnids and not insects, might technically fall under the category of "bugs"). It's the little bitty gnats and mosquitoes and...whatever these things are that like to buzz around the screen of the computer and get in between the keys on the keyboard.

Yeah. Those bugs.

There are bugs and then there are trials. There are big, mean ones, of course, that sting like wasps. I'm very brave after I've been stung, and can bear it most stoically. Yet the gnats and little thingummies that buzz around and around, those are the ones that break my calm, make me lose my temper and fall into a bad mood. The little things, the distractions that cause me to sin, rather than the big things that should be more of a temptation.

As Hamlet said, such bugs and goblins in my life. But at least the goblins draw me closer to the One who shields me from them. Whereas the bugs just annoy me and distract me from Him.

Fortunately, I'm not alone. My favourite author and spiritual mentor (in my mind, at least) C.S. Lewis had something to say about these little things that surprise and distract us in "Mere Christianity".

“We begin to notice, besides our particular sinful acts, our sinfulness; begin to be alarmed not only about what we do, but about what we are. This may sound rather difficult, so I will try to make it clear from my own case. When I come to my evening prayers and try to reckon up the sins of the day, nine times out of ten the most obvious one is  some sin against charity; I have sulked or snapped or sneered or snubbed or stormed.  And the excuse  that immediately springs to my mind is that the provocation was so sudden and unexpected: I was caught off my guard, I had not time to collect myself.  Now that may be an extenuating circumstance as regards those particular  acts: they would obviously be worse if they had been deliberate and premeditated.  On the other hand, surely what a man does when he is taken off his guard is the best evidence for what sort of a man he is? Surely what pops out before the man has time to put on a disguise is the truth? If there are rats in a cellar you are most likely to see them if you go in very suddenly.  But the suddenness does not create the rats:  it only prevents them from hiding. In the same way the suddenness of the provocation does not make me an ill-tempered man:  it only shows me what an ill-tempered man I am.  The rats are  always there  in the cellar, but if you go in shouting and noisily they will have taken cover before you switch on the light.”

This is definitely the most convicting passage for me out of Mere. Well. At least one of the most convicting passages. After I read it, I started noticing how much more likely I was to snap or sneer or snub or storm because of an "unexpected provocation", a little mosquito that makes me start complaining (in the form, perhaps, of a harmonica played in close proximity, or someone whistling the same song over and over and over and over again).

C.S. Lewis called them rats. They remind me of bugs.

I think, though, that the importance of the "rats in the cellar" theory is that once we realize the problem, we're more likely to catch the rats/withhold from getting angry at the bugs (because, after all, it's not their fault they're alive). Of course, we can't be perfect by ourselves. It's a blessing to have prayer, because whenever that occasion pops up where the song is being whistled for the forty-ninth time and you just can't muster up the strength to stand it for the fiftieth, Jesus offers to meet you halfway.

After all, he conquered the rats.

And he created the bugs for a reason.