I wanna be a momma

It's December 29th and I miss my students so bad.

It makes me excited to be a mom.
So I dream.
Someday, when I can't teach, and my kids are at home,

I want them to have their friends over after school every day to do homework.

And I'll make 'em all cookies.

And ask 'em to stay for dinner.

And we'll have conversations around the dinner table

Like we do in my classroom now . . .

About funny things and difficult topics - controversial things - values building.

And I want to take my kids hiking and skiing and to the beach.

And to soup kitchens and prisons and street ministry.
I want my kids to learn to love deeply, without being afraid of hurt. I want them to know how to have discernment about evil, but not to be afraid of broken people. I want them to learn to look on every individual as an image bearer of God. Not just the ones that look like them, believe like them, behave like them - all people.

And I want to teach them about the value of being in a community and BUILDING it . . . investing deeply - incarnational ministry. I want to teach them to love the church and to serve there with all their hearts, even when they get burned.

And teach them about how special prayer is and how much I love the Bible, and how Jesus really is trustworthy and good and always faithful.
I want my kids to learn to hate evil because God hates evil, and to love God because God is love.

And I want to have picnics in the backyard and do face paints and drink hot tea in the kids' section of the library and read books sitting on piles of pillows.
And I'd teach them how to ride a bike and throw a ball and drive a car and use a savings account.

And my daughters and I would paint each other's toenails and my sons and I would wake up early on rainy school mornings to take the dogs for walks together through the neighborhood that we love so much - where we know all the neighbors by name and have em over for dinner.

And my teenagers would learn to make time to visit people at the hospital when they're sick, even if it means skipping a basketball game.

(sometimes, i never want to leave seattle)

(but if I lived here forever, i'd want to live in a little house on Cherry Hill right next door to juvi.)

and we'd spend xmas eve there.
And every Tuesday afternoon.

When the Sun Gave up Her Throne

I have often wondered where EVERYONE ELSE was on the day that the sun gave up her throne and decided that I would be a better center of our solar system.

December 27th. 11pm. I'm sitting on an over-stuffed and lonely green chair that nervously stands tall like a butler, hand-clasped beneath a lamp whose flood is the only light in this quarter of the house. The chair tries (completely unsuccessfully) to remain obscure, unnoticed - like an awkward-handed, wide-eyed man graying in the corner of a bustling room of women. I feel arrogant sitting on the thing - like I'm intruding on shyness, a disease that I respect with a sense of wonder and awe because I understand it so little. The room is cluttered with 2-year-old girl: dolls and their clutches, a plastic barn and its smiling animals, an old Christmas tree and its dappled branches. I sit in sweats, make-up-less, flat-haired. One bottom molar aches dully from its mounted lair, probably from over-indulgence in sugar. For some reason, each year the days between Christmas and the New Year seem shadow-casted, pseudo-houred, half-lifed.

I've spent almost a week now with my family. I feel strange - like a plant temporarily removed from its pot. Shouldn't I feel the most potted when I'm with my family?

I love my family - the word "family" itself gains deeper meaning and higher value with each passing year. I enjoy spending time with them, and I miss the close-knit knowing one another of what it was to be a child. I'm so blessed to have such a wonderful family. And yet, it's very hard for me to spend time with my family. This week has been difficult. A lot of internal wrestling. The things that I dislike about myself the most seem constantly to protrude when I'm around these others, and I feel myself constantly wanting to escape and to hide.

Here are the soft words:
I'm analytical. I'm sensitive. I'm passionate. I'm intense.

Clip off the soft ends, and these are the traits that protrude:
I over-think everything, and I get stuck in thought-circles that lead to the Walls of Self-Protection.
I take things too personally, I'm hyper-sensitive, and I get hurt or offended way too easily, and I have a SUPER hard time getting over ANYTHING without talking it through, which often is not appropriate or desirable to other people.
I'm emotional and hold the things I care about too close to my heart, causing me to be volatile and often difficult to communicate with.
I'm serious and like to have deep conversations. I'm not good at small talk or being funny except on rare occasions like when I'm disgusting myself by flirting with people that I'm usually not interested in.
I'm extremely selfish.

This is the thing that I keep coming back to: if I could just seriously quit being selfish, my life would be so much BETTER and EASIER and SO WOULD EVERYONE ELSE'S WHO IS CLOSE TO ME! But that is really hard. I'm always concerned with myself: What people think about me, what people offer me, what people will give to me/should give to me/have given to me/have not given to me. How other people can understand me better, treat me better, love me better, serve me better.

AHHHH!!! Who can rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God, through Jesus Christ our Lord! Jesus, wow! You are stinking CRAZY for still loving me. But this is the thing, can you please change me? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! I've tried everything, and it just doesn't work.

I want to die to myself SO stinking bad. I really really really do. I've had enough of this garbage. I'm tired of living for myself. Again. Today. And if You could, will You allow this prayer to count for tomorrow too, because I've only got a half an hour left in this day and everyone else around me is already asleep, so if you make me unselfish now NO ONE WILL EVEN NOTICE OR BENEFIT. (Or think good thoughts about me and offer me praise.)

Also, Almighty God of the entire Universe . . . I choose to trust that You made me the way You did for a reason. And I'm glad. But also, I screw up the personality that You've given me a lot. Right now, the word "sanctification" tastes WORSE than hominy in my mouth and I'm pretty much done with the idea of it. Please make me perfect, because I'm sick of dealing with my own shit. And I'm pretty sure everyone else is too. And I mostly want their worship.

OK, I see now. You are the One who is worthy of worship. Not me. Repentance is good - because it teaches me that You are God and I am not, and that You are worthy of worship and I am not. No one will ever love me perfectly - or even well - apart from the grace of Jesus, because I'm difficult to love and because of my own choices I'm not worthy of love. At all. Which only makes You all the greater for ALWAYS LOVING ME.

Lord, I've tried so hard to become unselfish by serving other people. I can serve at church - I can serve at work - I can serve at prison or any other non-profit . . . but man, when it comes to serving my family and the people close to me, I really REALLY do a poor job.

Can You please change my heart and help me? I just know I can't change my heart. I can't change the roots at all. Thanks for unpotting me. And thanks for being my covering - not leaving me exposed. Lord, prune me. Pull up the unfruitful branches, make room for more growth and more change. Give me a year, Jesus, where I can stop dreaming and trying so hard to move forward - and just sit tight and let you teach me how to LOVE my family and the people that are the closest to me.

And Lord, please, for the sake of EVERYONE AROUND ME, please help me to stop being such a flirt and thinking about men and marriage ALL THE TIME. It's embarrassing, hurtful, selfish, covetous and ultimately shows that I don't trust You at all. I want to be a one-man woman :) (even though I think that's kinda a dorky phrase), and I want to not covet attention from ANY man except for the one that pursues me the way Jesus pursues His church.

If I could sum this all up, Jesus, this is my prayer: teach me to fear Your name, to love my family, and to die to myself. (If you really want me to be analytical, passionate, intense, and sensitive, whatever - just please put it under the cross. I CAN'T DO IT ON MY OWN!!)

Thanks, Jesus. Amen!

Preparing for Death

Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, and my week has overflowed with snowy adventures - rare for Seattle, particularly this early in the year.

Last weekend, my housemates and I headed out to the cabin on Guemes Island. There's something so sacred about the space there, and the power of what it is to get away from the city far enough to hear God's voice rumbling over the deep.

As we crossed the water on the ferry late Friday night, rain falling out of the dark suddenly and spontaneously transformed into glistening flowers of white cotton falling on the water in the inky black night. Mari built a fire when we got to the cabin, and we laughed around the flames in our pajamas. The whole weekend was magical.

Sunday morning, I took a long walk on the island's shore. The sun hung like a round, fluorescent light-bulb glowing behind the opaque white sheet of sky huddling close to the ocean's stoic, stern ripples. I was anxious about many things -- as usual, plans for the future dominated my mind and churned in me until I became fearful to the point my breathing was impacted.

Over breakfast the morning before, I shared a bit with my roommates about my time in Nepal and Uganda, the process of becoming involved in YWAM, the way I perceived and obeyed God's call to "missions," and the subsequent transformation of my beliefs and values surrounding words like "mission" and "calling" in light of God's imminent return.

I spoke of contentedness and community -- of laying down the lust for adventure in return for what I believe is more valuable, digging deep roots and committing to one place for the long-term in reflection of Jesus' incarnational ministry. Focusing on people as the ultimate adventure instead of place -- walking through the ups and downs of life in a single place instead of skipping across the nations in seek of the new and the fresh.

I spoke of the glory of ordinary life lived before the face of God -- in any neighborhood or community, even ours. I spoke of missional ministry in the grocery stores and restaurants and banks and work places on equal level with learning a new language, running through the mountain villages, pioneering through the hill tracks, assisting women in the birthing process in the rural middle east.

And I believe all those things are true. But I'm honestly struggling a lot to lay down some of my dreams -- because I fashioned so much of my identity around going to proclaim the freedom of Jesus in places that no one would go. In my present life, I feel a strange reticence to speak of those dreams (regardless of how real and pervasive they have been in my life for many years) . . . and yet I also feel it unbelievably painful to relinquish those same dreams.

I keep returning to the same question: am I trading my inheritance for a pot of stew?

I also have a tendency to look at things very linearly -- like the whole weight of choosing between two entirely different lives is all falling on my shoulders. Do I want the beautiful life of becoming a wife and a mom, serving in my church and knowing all my neighbors, having kids from school and neighbors from the community over for dinner every night, living ordinarily and loving extraordinarily . . . OR do I want the life of throwing all comfort and self-reliance to the wind, abandoning myself to this crazy life of mission, going to the middle east and drowning in the culture, getting to know the language and inviting women over to my house for tea, raising kids with them and having them all over for dinner -- to laugh and share about the powerful work of Jesus, assisting with healthcare and baby birthing and childhood development ... with always the risk of prison and persecution hanging over my head?

The funny thing is, I feel like those two pictures of life are actually so similar in so many ways -- just different places. To be honest, even though I see that the need for God's Kingdom in Seattle is desperate, I still feel a strong draw to go where no one is going (because the need is great everywhere). In Seattle, the need is great and the risk is small. Not so in the Middle East.

These are the biggest driving fears that keep me from going: Will I have strong Christian community to lift me up and point me back to Jesus when I am afraid, broken, and undone -- or just complaining about my lack of security/comfort? Will I be using the gifts that God has specifically given me in the most useful way by going to a place where women are literally swallowed by society? Will I EVER be able to find a man that wants to serve the poor and the broken with HIS WHOLE LIFE -- even in a place as crazy as the Middle East -- and also wants to lead, love, and shepherd a family? And if not, can I believe the Bible enough to trust that Paul was right when he said that singleness is not a curse but a GIFT that releases me into a life totally devoted to Christ?

Jesus, can You husband me in a way that satisfies every need & desire in my heart -- even today?

ANYWAY, all these thoughts were muddled in my head as I walked along the shore on Sunday morning. And I just began to proclaim the truth of who my Shepherd is and how He leads me, how much I know His character and His voice, because His sheep hear His voice and can discern between false voices and anxieties inside. I began to proclaim His promises and rejoice in His goodness and His truth until I stopped in front of the ocean and just started weeping, overwhelmed by the power and the beauty and the glory of who God is and how much He loves me.

And through all of that, I heard only these words from Him:

Prepare for your death.

Prepare for your death.

PREPARE FOR YOUR DEATH.


I don't know exactly what that means, but I know it's from the Bible.

Galatians 2:20 -- "I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me."

Colossians 3:1-3 -- "If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your mind on things that are above, not on things that are on earth. For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God."

Matthew 10:38-39 -- "And whoever does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it."

What does that mean, then, to die to myself?

To die to my dreams -- to die to my control -- to die to my ideas about the way my life will look -- to die to a kingdom that is about me, to relinquish my kingdom for Christ's. To die to my comfort -- to die to my security -- to die to my plans and treasures and fears and joys -- to die to all my relationships, at least in the sense that I would give them all up for the sake of Jesus and what it means to follow Him.

Lord, who can honor this Word? When I really look at what it means to DIE to myself, I am terrified at ANYTHING that might mean. Help me, Spirit, in Your great grace, to obey.

I die to these eyes. I die to these hands. I die to this mouth. I die to this heart. And by proclaiming that, will You make it true, Jesus? Will You come in and wreck me, LORD, and use this shell for Your Kingdom and Your glory? Help me, Lord, to set my mind on the things that are above, not on things that are on earth.

I am but a handmaiden of the Lord -- may it be to me according to Your Word. Amen.

Killing Pawns

Matthew Arnold -- The Buried Life

"But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us -- to know
When our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves ---
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpressed.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well -- but 'tis not true!
And then we will no more be racked
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothing of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day."

I'm amazed, discouraged, and gladdened all at the same time to hear that Arnold himself aches with that same inadequacy of words to pin down meaning, feeling, expression. I feel that so deep sometimes that it forces silence, laughing like the black night over me. Silence herself isn't so bad. It's only that sometimes, the silence is so rich and pregnant with a meaning she refuses to relinquish. Hateful.

But then when they come, the Words tie strings to my fingers and I feel myself no longer in control. I've got eight puppets attached to my arms that dance across a lettered stage, and somehow meaning stretches herself across this hard computer screen. What a wind, what a rogue is Language - and I, impassioned lover, sit entranced at his feet.

This morning, I woke with the moon beneath my eyelids -- the puppet strings grew taught on my fingers and grasped for their stage to dance.

Writing is therapy. You may quit the audience at any time, but the puppets won't stop dancing on their stage. They don't move for an audience. They move to find breath. Few are invited in to this audience - I try to appear more down to earth, and I've quite mastered the art of pretension until I don't even seem pretentious.

All are pretentious. All strive and push for some appearance that they can't quite master. I try my best to appear not crazy - I fear I am, a bit. And then I wonder what it means to be crazy or to be sane after all. Perhaps the craziest are those who think they are sane.

I was at the zoo this morning with a very close mentor. The zoo is walking distance from my house. I love it. It was a still morning, and cold. I clamped my coffee in moon-arched fingers. I heard the lions wake through moon-arched jaws. I watched the orangutan with his arm slung, moon-arched, just so over rope. I drank in the penguins' moon-arched flippers, bellies, beaks. I see her everywhere today, the moon.

My mentor and I shared our Blacks and Whites. Or perhaps more accurately, shared parallel journeys of relinquishing them for Grays. Blacks and whites are for categories, for controlled understanding, for war. I don't have many of them left. My life is both sides of a colliding chess set, and I've already lost most of my pawns. I sense myself growing far less easily angered and less defensive than I once was. I have little to defend, less that causes offense. I feel smaller. By surface area, I take up no less space in the universe. But in ways beyond mass, I hope to take up less space. My pull is less towards dominating space and more towards relinquishing it. When I was in college, that was quite the opposite. Battle has some good effects, then. (Though now that my desire has shifted, I'm repugnant to discover all the shifting shadow piles where I've hoarded power, like an old bag woman's basement.)

I was with a friend at coffee yesterday who said she's been asking herself in all her relationships, "Where am I taking power?" What a profound thought. I want to emulate her in this. Lord, thank you for the model you provided of one who gives up power -- even power that is rightfully yours. I also would desire to do the same. Give me the grace, Lord, to identify and relinquish power, control. I surrender. Amen.

Creator of Light

Slope of moon fingernails her yellowed Cheshire smile, fixed, tart, bent lines ending, into eternal demi-god of deep, barren blank. I blink, fixated beneath this wonder – that the sun should mesh herself, flabby and yellow-shadowed, against the hoary rock of moon to color even this sliver.

How small I feel, and fragile. What miniscule token of yellow the sun blithely offers me to heat skin tawny from gray night forged.

Dillard’s words flow in and out of my tangled web of mind: “How can people think that artists seek a name? A name, like a face, is something you have when you’re not alone. There is no such thing as an artist: there is only the world, lit or unlit as light allows. When the candle is burning, who looks at the wick? When the candle is out, who needs it? But the world without light is wasteland and chaos, and a life without sacrifice is abomination” (Holy the Firm, 72).

I wonder at this thought – artist as tool, upholder, revealer of light – of truth that already was and only needs telling. Not creator. Only proclaimer. Proclaimer of that which is already – of that which was far before sun offered skin yellow, far before skin – and sun – and yellow.

We all then, Dillard, are fleshy wicks. All of us proclaim, reveal, enlighten – sacrifice. But what? And to whom?

I wake up to jacket shuffled over chair just so, and the lines – shadows – colors of it all intrigue me. I drive home to telephone wires plastered against a grayish seething sky. I sit in the kitchen adjacent to jaunty curtains lined against door frames, archaic wooden fences pushed in crooked lines against the houses and fences and naked trees beyond, like a pile of postcards stewed together clumsily.

The power of cell on cell, forged beauty – the significance of color shades and jagged shapes – the ordering of creation – is a wonder. Capsized by her beauty, I am overwhelmed by the mystery of Creator pushing natural, temporal, onto eternal. We all, like a hiccough in time, breathe to enjoy His handiwork. He belches fire and glory, and we, his people – shrouded in his own blood sacrifice – are the quintessence of His beauty.

I Believe in Sin

One thing I know for sure: God's love is BIG enough to shatter even the hardest heart.
I know that to be true - because I own that black heart.

Praise the Lord.
That is enough reason to praise Him forever.

I've been going through this class at my church - it's called Redemption Group. It's basically a small group (7-8) people, single sex, in which the people involved walk through the deep aspects of sin, abuse, brokenness, and bondage from their past and apply God's redemptive promises to their past, present, and future.

Before signing up, I'd heard from several people that it wrecks those who sign up. I signed up needing to be wrecked, but not really knowing how that would happen, what that would look like, or even if I really believed that it could happen in my life. (I believed, rather, that my heart was hard beyond God's capacity to soften it.)

I was wrong. And now I'm wrecked. (IN THE BEST WAY THAT I'VE BEEN WRECKED -- probably ever.)

I came in feeling like my heart had been hardened towards God -- feeling like I was struggling to believe His truth, His character, His Word. Feeling like I had layer upon layer of anger and distrust and unforgiveness, but I didn't really know what to do with any of it. And I didn't trust that He did either.

But I was wrong. He flooded my heart - even when I proclaimed myself His enemy! I sat in my sin. Not only did I sit in my sin, I DEFENDED it. I defended all of my reasons for distrusting, withholding, even hating those who had hurt me -- and therefore, others who had not hurt me -- and ultimately, God Himself.

I couldn't even see my sin, though. I felt blinded in hardness -- bitter and cold, dead on the inside. But I didn't see the role that I played in that.

Thank You, Jesus, for offering me community that says things that I don't even want to hear -- that I'm often not even willing to hear -- to RESCUE me from death. Thank You, Jesus, for giving me Your Spirit to break through the hardness inside of me and sweetly draw me to repentance. Thank You, Jesus, for rescuing me from death when, of all people I know, I deserve it the MOST.

This is where I was: I didn't believe that God is who He says He is. I didn't believe that Jesus is Savior and LORD over my life. I didn't believe that redemption is real, transformative, and lasting. All because I didn't believe in SIN. Without SIN, there's no need for repentance - no need for the Cross - no need for God.

I spent my life -- even my childhood -- defending my sin, proclaiming my own righteousness, exulting in my own rebellious heart. That's what satan does!

This is where I am: I REPENT, and I have freedom in knowing that God is NOT AFRAID of my mess -- that He's bigger than my sin and my hard heart! I'm so thankful that Jesus ALONE is my righteousness -- that I have NONE on my own. I'm so thankful that I never have to defend myself, because I stand CONDEMNED by sin. Even more, my SIN stands condemned by JESUS! Wow, look at that Cross! Look at the beauty of what Jesus has done! Look at how GOOD God is for showing me my sin, so that I can repent and turn to Him and FEAR HIS NAME!

Thank You, Jesus, that you are my strength to repent, to surrender, to submit to You -- to forgive because of Your forgiveness, to TRUST because of Your trust, Your strength, Your mercy and perfect, perfect LOVE.

You abide, Jesus. I feel overwhelmed, Jesus - this hardened heart that couldn't even feel Your presence. I am YOURS. I love You, Jesus, and I trust You.

I am but Your handmaiden. By the power of Your sweet Spirit, Lord, may it be to me according to Your Word. Hallelujah.

Haggai's Word for Hannah

"Then the word of the LORD came by the hand of Haggai the prophet, 'Is it a time for you yourselves to dwell in your paneled houses, while this house lies in ruins? Now, therefore, thus says the LORD of hosts: Consider your ways. You hae sown much, and harvested little. You eat, but you never have enough; you drink, but you never have your fill. You clothe yourselves, but no one is warm. And he who earns wages does so to put them into a bag with holes.

"'Thus says the LORD of hosts: Consider your ways. Go up to the hills and bring wood and build the house, that I may take pleasure in it and that I may be glorified, says the LORD. You looked for much, and behold it came to little. And when you brought it home, I blew it away. Why? declares the LORD of hosts. Because of My house that lies in ruins, while each of you busies himself with his own house. . . .

"'Be strong, all you people of the land, declares the LORD. Work, for I am with you, declares the LORD of hosts, according to the covenant that I made with you when you came out of Egypt, My Spirit remains in your midst. Fear not. For thus says the LORD of hosts: Yet once more, in a little while, I will shake the heaens and the earth and the sea and the dry land. And I will shake all nations, so that the treasures of all nations shall come in, and I will fill this house with glory, says the LORD of hosts. The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, declares the LORD of hosts. The latter glory of this house shall be greater than the former, says the LORD of hosts. And in this place I will give peace, declares the LORD of hosts.'"

Plastic Owls & Cloud Laundry

Fall sky, sky fall in November,
Fall down
In open lap, spill over breathless toes,
Rain of laughter, surge of wind,
Layered clouds,
Lying hands heavy over a many
Mooded sky.

A yellow cloud graces my garden of sky – the speck that sits on the outside of our door glass, over the arthritic alley fence, the storied houses and chattering tree skeletons beyond.

I love that yellow cloud, love even more my November sky. She’s volatile, yes, and inexorable. And today I felt breathless, engulfed in her many layered clouds, like shadows of a woman’s heart. They stick at me, layered like piled laundry and fresh. Scented with the dew of fall, the thick almost-cold of approaching winter. My clouds, the deepest layers bright and cottony, like over-sized men’s undershirts. Some tinged gold and brassy yellow where work stains wore hard. And lying atop are the socky clouds, purple with her shades of blue, gray and angered. Whisps that are lost, they’ve gone astray and left their matches in a dank fortress over the mountains.

The sun frets her low rays over earth, claiming what layers of gold she still can before early evening folds her curtain down. And then seconds later come the drops. Big and thick, yogurt rain – falling in dallops and tablespoons like lazy footwork on my windshield. Slurp, slurp, suck the wiper-straws, thirsty, thirsty, ever thirsty for more.

Our neighbor squirrel has stopped outside the glass doors for a visit to search out the compost. And now I offer him nuts and dried fruit from my hand. He comes close, within inches, but will only take my offering from the ground, perhaps because he can sense my own silly fear of being bitten. Last month, we left the back door open for fresh air and he trounced in and clambered up on the piano, quite shocked at his own skill as he ran, terrified, from key to key.

And November birds – why do they intrigue me as they do? Last week, I stopped to watch a gull smash a crawfish against a cement block, cremating him with fireless force. Yesterday, I stood at a dock over the Sound to gawk shamelessly at a lined mass of them standing on an island of rock not far off the coast. I was close enough to see the white of their feathers smudged pink by the wind raging between each fragile plume. They refused to huddle, just stood in a line, proud beaks knotted up against the unforgiving sky. This afternoon, pigeons beckoned me from their streetlight perch, standing erect in an even spaced line like so many blue-green gargoyles.

They are my first morning greeters. 5:33am, I hope for a red arrow before curving onto Aurora to greet my morning team, huddled close in the window wells of Aurora Suzuki. There must be splashes of whitewashed paint drowning the tops of the large S, U, Z, because my friends have inhabited that space for years and surely left their mark. On wintery afternoons when the sun sets early in the sky, I watch them hoarding the last moments of gold on the telephone wires before retiring, one by one, to their wind-sheltered walls. I always guess wrong at which will be the last to go.

Two months ago, I noticed that perhaps the manager had grown tired of their dusty feathers and window waste smears, and had hung three plastic owls from the roof overhang by string to scare the pigeons from their home. My heart dropped and I considered how I could convince the pigeons that those owls were false and to fear no harm. How happy I was when I saw my pigeons in the same window wells only days later, and I felt a sort of valiance, as if I’d been avenged against the wicked store manager who clearly did not know who he was driving away from home.

Where do I hang my owls, and who do I drive from home?

Lord, open my window wells wide. Give me the gift of open arms, an open home, an open table. LORD, “Give me Your tired, Your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of each teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp up” toward November sky!

Sowing in the Rain

"My Spirit remains in your midst. Fear NOT."

Fall sparks trees with living flames of fire. I drove to the gray clad Sound near my house yesterday and stood in the rain against a wall of trees. The rain smeared their colors like bleeding cray pas down my line of vision. Hair weeping, body shaking, I stood in the rain and looked out over the waters. A large statue of Leif Erikson beckons the boats in the little shipyard there, and I climbed atop his massive wooden anchor to stand behind the visionary - the pioneer - and trap adventure through his line of sight.

The rain pushed at my shoulders; I raised my arms. I laughed loud and surrendered to the passion of the waves beating, beating, beating against their forged cement shore. I felt victorious. Like a conqueror. A warrior.

Warrior of an upside down Kingdom. One who does not believe in bloodshed, force, power, control. One who believes instead in Shalom: the victory of community when, by default, priority is placed on blessing the Other rather than blessing the Self.

"Now, therefore, thus says the LORD of hosts: Consider your ways. You have sown much, and harvested little. . . ." Haggai heard from God - Did you expect to be satisfied by personal prosperity when My house lies in ruins?

Lord, I think I did. Or perhaps I didn't realize how much of my life is still focused on personal gain and building my own house. Forgive me for self seeking. Set me free.

I sat with an old friend over a steaming mug of tea in the aftermath of the rain war yesterday evening. Old friends are like trees. I smell in the bark memories of time's passage, and the hopes and dreams that banistered my heart-walls are called to life from haunted catacombs.

Years ago, a college chapel late one Monday evening, I spoke of a Kingdom. An unshakable one. Of what it is to give LIFE to that Kingdom, to sow LIFE into that Kingdom - to sow into a Kingdom that NEVER dies. To sow into a Kingdom where the fruit that is born lasts forever, and only multiplies.

My tomatoes are dead now and will not resurrect. How different than a Soul. How much value is in one Soul. One eternal being - one world inside a world so in need of a King.

I have sown into my own Kingdom, Lord Jesus, and I am empty and dry. Forgive me. I am frustrated with the harvest, because it's not sustainable and not what I wanted to plant.

Sometimes, when I look outside, I fall in love. I see the colors, the lines, the shapes, the movements - and all I want to do is capture with words what I can never paint. Lord, You have made Your world beautiful. But I don't want to set my sights on the earth that You've promised Haggai You'll shake again. I want to set my sights on a Kingdom that is everlasting.

Take my eyes off the seen. Give me faith for the unseen. Give me Your heart for Souls. I want to stand on the Anchor of Your Hope, Jesus (Heb 6), in the middle of the pouring rain, and cry VICTORY over DEATH into the darkness. Arise and shine - You are the Light we long for, King Jesus.

Day 9,377(ish)

First day of November.

First day of using my new toothbrush.
First day of soaking wet pant hems (this school year).
First day of eating microwaved acorn squash.
First day of getting asked "if the school floods can we . . .?" over eight times.

Twenty fifth day of living the first of November.
Nine thousand three hundred and seventy seventh day of waking up.

That's a lot of wake ups. A lot of showers. A lot of smiles and hugs and moments of frustration. A lot of opportunities taken and a lot left behind. To be honest, this is not at all what I had pictured my life looking like as a 25-year-old. I mean, there were a lot of things I imagined my adult life looking like within the first two decades, and this doesn't even make the list:

I'm not in Africa -- not even overseas -- not saving animals :) -- not saving children -- not saving ANYbody -- not a mom -- not married -- not even in a relationship -- not published -- not in prison -- not pioneering new lands and new adventures -- not out-shouldering the crowd. Ok, sometimes I'm not even sure if I made it IN to the crowd. I guess sometimes I feel like I don't want to be in the crowd anyway. Or at least I used to feel like I didn't want to be in the crowd, because I was so confident I'd be ahead of them. And now that I feel like I'm lagging behind somehow, I feel like status quo sounds pretty great.

Yesterday, for Halloween, I was at a Corn Maze shaped like the State of Washington with my 3 housemates, and afterward I got to share coffee and heart-talk with one of them while the other two cruised the AWESOME merchandise flaunted at the Marysville outlet mall. We talked about the pain of letting go of dreams -- not because we feel like we can't attain them, but because we feel like we don't believe in them anyway, or at least not in the same way we used to. It felt somewhat comforting to connect with someone in that, but the dull ache followed me into today's coldness.

I don't know what I dream about anymore. I don't know how I want to live my life or what I really feel like it means to make a difference. It feels difficult to write on a blog titled "pinning words to dreams" when all of my former dreams seem laughable to me at this point. Is this what it means to become an adult?

My parents thought it was sinful to believe in Santa Claus when I was young, so they never led the older 3 of us kids in that deception. I remember wondering if it was painful for those who later found out that he wasn't real after all, or if they were just glad to have enjoyed believing in him for a while. All of my dreams strike me as Santa Clauses right now. I wouldn't mind that so much if I had a different one to replace them all with, but for now I'm just floating.

Thanks, Jesus, that You're not performance based. Thank You that You love me even if I never figure this out - even if there's nothing to figure out. Thank You that Your Kingdom is upside down, as hard as I try to make it right-side up. Thank You that life's not nearly so much about fulfilling dreams as I always thought. Thanks that it's really not even about doing something great or doing something right. I mean, I can go to the Bible and find 10 million things that You want me to do, nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine of which I'm probably not doing and feeling pretty incapable of doing right now.

But there's one thing I know You want me to do that I really want to do - and I know You're gonna help me. I just want to abide in You, Keeper. I just want to lay down at Your feet. I just want to be Your little handmaiden, Jesus. I just want to be found worshipping. I want that so bad.

That's the only thing I can dream about right now. Here I am.

Tomorrow, if I wake up for the 9, 378th time, I'm gonna get up smiling and consider Your goodness to me.

Poster Child Recall

Perhaps this decision was not made today. No, it definitely was not made today. It's been a season of searching, of redefining, of silence. Over the last six months, I've endured one of the largest turning points of my life thus far: transitioning out of a season of constant transition (which, in itself, has given me passion, drive, excitement, and an addiction to the 'more' that's always around the next bend in the road).

I'm living in the same house. With the same roommates. And the same job. And the same church.

At the same time, I finished grad school. I went through a major break up. I gave up New Horizons. Much has been removed (perhaps it feels, in some cases, more like stripped). Little has been added, except my sweet dog Charlie.

And I decided that at all cost, I must learn to be still. I must learn to be ok with silence. I must learn to be ok with myself when I have nothing to say to other people, and certainly nothing to say to myself, and often nothing even to say to God. I'm just silent.

Dillard yesterday told me that "Trees stir memories; live waters heal them."

So today I took Charlie on a walk - in search of memories and their healing. I stopped at an old tree that I've passed ever so many times on my way down to the lake. I stood to question the pitted curves of bark beneath her scented branches - what memories would Jesus stir in me? None but those I forced and wrestled from their caves, doing my best to evoke a sort of half-hearted nostalgia.

Charlie and I continued. The wind blew blustery, like the Hundred Acre Wood where I felt when I read like it was always fall. Leaves hurled themselves across our path and lighted our way with an effervescent radiance all their own. Waves tore across the lake and licked the sun's ripe honey off their surface. I stopped and scooped Charlie between squatted legs to steal a stare at the glory of autumn falling across a lake. I felt, even in the turbulence of the wind-washed waves, a sort of breathless peace - like in itself, the turbulence of the water was my shield. What do I so desire to be shielded from?

Myself. The self in me that craves glory and fame and worship.

I am changing, like the leaves. I'm falling from some branch that's held me captive for so long. I want to abide in You alone, Jesus. Not this false identity.

I stared down at the oak tree's helicopter eggs littering the path. So many, and they always look the same. I wonder which I'd be if I were an oak tree's helicopter seed. I wonder if I'd be ok to just be another of the millions lying on the path.

Eventually, Charlie and I returned to the tree we had paused beneath on our way to the lake. I looked at it with scorn. Where were the memories it was supposed to evoke? The bark looked to me so rich and full of the possibility of years' worth of moments. But it offered none to me. And all I could see, as I arched my eyes backwards over the long years it had stood, was a poster haughtily nailed to its side.

A poster of my smiling head.

Thus it has been. In every major social circle of my life in the past ten years, I have striven to conform to Poster Child Status. Try as I might to hold my ground at first, I feel pulled by the moon's gravity to fit an image -- like a super model starving herself on celery and grapefruit. And eventually, I make it. I've made a career out of becoming the Approved. The Voice. The Face.

And now I sit without approval, without a voice, and without a face . . . wondering how to return to where I once was, when all along my heart rebelled against the false glory.

So today, I tore the poster child off the tree so I could see the bark. Maybe now, I can start to see deeper into my own heart. I'm giving up the Poster Child life.

Jesus, forgive me for finding my worth in man's approval. Jesus, forgive me for trading the value You have given me through Your blood for a cheap, shoddy idol. Jesus, forgive me for placing my identity in who other people say I am or believe I can be.

Who else have You called me to be, Lord Jesus, but Yours alone?

Shadowless

Though I endured her at least 14 times, Winter only introduced herself to me once during those long years in the Midwest. I remember standing in my backyard near our ancient oak, where rough bark had been worn smooth in at least three places from bums and memories. My dad was there too – were we raking?

In Wisconsin, if we left the leaves on the ground through the winter, they’d mold and stink from wet hibernation beneath the incubated snow, and in the spring fungus would curl her yellowed feathers where the grass should be. So we would rake and rake until blotted pink blisters bubbled out of the soft skin adjacent to thumb knuckles, and yellowed calluses tried their very best to armor the upper-part of palm where fingers grow.

I had let my rake slide down beneath my armpit to take stock of the leaf pile and perhaps nurse a blister. I looked up at the cold grey November sky, and I spotted them: the first snowflakes. Excitement rose to bursting in me, that I should enjoy the first flake fall on virgin ground. I held out my hands and spun, laughing.

“Dad, it’s Winter!”

“Yep.” But he hadn’t stopped raking. He must have met Winter before, I considered. His taciturn jadedness spoke nothing to my pleasure, though, and I watched the sky with wonder akin to glory. Even after reveling in the moment for quite more than a moment, I was strongly averse to the idea of going inside. I remember now, with an aloof and understanding smile, how disinclined the girl-I was to forsake the sanctity of Winter’s very first snowfall that I had witnessed and shared in.

I’m remembering it nostalgically this morning because I woke to a cement sky, and considered the way Winter introduces herself here. It is far different. More sly, less romantic. Who was it that told me that ghosts go shadowless? When Winter steals my trees’ shadows by spreading thick cold-cream over the sky, I know she’s arrived – forcing verdant trees to relinquish life and murmur listlessly as anxious, shadowless ghosts for five months. And the sun, like Peter’s Wendy, appears in the spring to sew back their shadows and offer life.

But it’s not Winter here yet. The bricks have fallen away from the sky now, and thick yellow (less bright; yelling harvest) buttered the sky until it sprouted blue. Now trees cast their shadows on the ground beneath, and I know that there is life in them still. I consider the changing of shadows. None lasts, or even remains the same throughout a day . . .

Sometimes, my heart feels shadowless. I wonder where the Sun is that gives it passion, voice, hunger, SHADOW. Hearts change in season, like trees. I can feel the Sun melting my aortic valve and casting a shadow across my lung. My throat feels the dawn rising again . . . Please, Light, come. I'm ready.

"'For we are strangers before thee, and sojourners, as were all our fathers: our days on the earth are as a shadow, and there is none abiding.' We can't take the lightning, the scourge of high places and rare airs. But we can take the light, the reflected light that shines up the valleys on creeks" (Dillard, Pilgrim, 101).

"For God alone my soul waits in silence (SHADOWLESS-NESS);
from Him comes my salvation.
He only is my rock and my salvation,
My fortress; I shall not be greatly shaken" (Psalm 62:1-2).

Life is fragile, quickly passing. Lord, You remain. That alone gives me cause to worship.

Does God have toenails?

I joined a co-ed soccer league that two of my housemates play on, and I think I sized my cleats wrong (again). But I had a great time - brought back wonderful memories: the smell of grass and sweat, the pull of tight hamstrings, the rush of breath and the courage to combat the enemy. I didn't play my best, but I have hope that muscle memory will bring back the days of high school long gone. I'd forgotten how long a 45-minute half feels on the outside wing, when there's really no chance to stop running.

I killed another toenail tonight - my right big toe. And it hurts real bad.I lost another one also after I got out of the shower. The second toe on my right foot. I think that one's become eternally perverted - oh cross, oh Christ, restore my toenail to the Imago Dei.

I wonder if God has toenails. I sometimes wonder what it means that we were created in His image . . . I wonder if that's literal or figurative or both. The Bible says that we have been given the opportunity to participate in God's own nature again because of the cross -- these are Paul's words:

"His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of Him who called us by His own glory and goodness. Through these He has given us His very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires" (2 Peter 1:3-4).

That's a pretty radical thing. I want to own that - I want to have faith for that. I can participate in the divine NATURE? What is God's NATURE? He's good - He's faithful - He's loving and kind and merciful and patient. He's forgiving. He's peaceful. He's humble and selfless.

Jesus, can You please help me to own that promise and participate in those things? I need You to help me. I'm sorry for falling so short all the time . . . I really want to live out the life You offered me through the Cross. I want to identify with the Imago Dei. I want to live in the divine nature and not the sin nature. I want even my toenails to be a reflection of the Living God!

Restore me - I am very broken. Thank You for Your grace, precious Lord Jesus!

Amen.

Sunday Eve

I love Sunday evenings.

I love the slowness that belongs to this pocket of the week.

I love my freshly vacuumed floor rug, and lying down on my soft bed with hair still hot from the blow dryer and my toes stretching out against the smooth, tight feeling of cleanness.

I love the way Sunday evenings feel like newness and a sigh. A fresh beginning and a long look ahead.

I bought myself pink peonies last Sunday. (I gave them to my room-mate when I got home, because I wanted to share their softness and their smell and their bosom-ness that makes them seem so motherly. But secretly, I only shared them because I thought she'd leave them on the dining room table, and then she took them up to her bedroom and I never saw them again until this Sunday . . . they were drooped and wrinkly like old age and wreckage, and I felt momentarily frustrated that sharing seemed such a waste.)

A few Sundays before that, I bought myself a card. (It was actually a Friday afternoon when I bought the card, but that doesn't fit with my Sunday theme. It must have meant most to me on the following Sunday evening, because it's definitely a Sunday evening sort of card.) This is what the card says:

"Today a new sun rises for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it" (Anne DeLenclos).

And this happens to be the last Sunday evening of the school year . . .

Perhaps my favorite Sunday evening of the whole year.

Lord, bless the work of Your hands. I trust You with this new season. You are Sovereign and very good. Thank You for rest and the Sabbath! Amen.

Church

Dear Mrs. Gambill,

I miss you.

(Sometimes, grief over loss pokes out his noxious head at very unexpected times long after I feel pretty settled on a matter. Mrs. Gambill was my mentor in high-school - such a strong and godly woman. I miss her hugs. And her wisdom. I miss her laughter and her stories. I miss feeling like my world was ok after sitting with her and a tall glass of lemonade.

My beautiful house-mate Mari loves to play blue grass music with her banjo and a jolly crew of friends. Tonight, they were making music towards the end of a party held at our house for the soccer team we play on (I'm only recently joining after breaking my leg in Jan). Part of the chorus of one little ditty was, "Mama, rock me like the wind and the rain,/ Mama, rock me like the South Bound Train,/ Mama, rock me."

My tears surprised me. Sometimes, the recognition of rites-of-passage are quite cruel and jolting. I longed, in that moment, to have a mama that would sit me on her lap, gather me up close, and rock me back and forth while humming something soft and peaceful. I longed to have someone who understood life so much better than I do let me just sit and cry against a strong and still shoulder.

And I realized suddenly that I was past that part of life and couldn't really ever go back. Someday (God willing), it'll be my turn to be the one rocking with the soft hum and the strong, still shoulder. But I don't get to be the little girl anymore. I nostalgically hoped that I could be sure, in those future moments as the mama, to be very aware of their sacredness -- and hold my little daughter so soft and tight. I hope even that I can still hold her when she's 25 and feels like she's floating instead of running.)

That's why I missed you tonight, Mrs. Gambill. Because I know you would let me sit next to you with a tall glass of lemonade and just cry.

It's been about a month now since my most recent relationship ended. The man I was in a relationship with previous to that is getting married this weekend. I don't really think I'm feeling sorry for myself, but I am feeling mightily conflicted about a few things that I wish I could just hash out with a really old, godly woman.

Men, marriage, and singleness are some of them - but those all seem to be less pressing matters to me right now.

The most difficult is church. It seems like there are two church camps in my life right now that are in some sort of cold war against one another. I'm so tired of trying to find a healthy church I could pull all my eye-lashes out - I guess I nearly have.

Jesus, I just wish You were here to tell me where to go and what to do. A lot of times I like freedom, but not when I feel broken. I just would love some clear guidance right now. The thing is, I know that Your church is far from perfect - I know that it's marked by Your death and sanctified by Your resurrection. I know that You love Your church steadfastly and You're perfecting her, presenting her as a pure and radiant bride.

So, Jesus, can You just please call me to one specific body and root me there - help me to grow and love and repent and honor You, despite all of the failure of man?

On one side is the open-minded, gray area church that focuses on love more than repentance, believes that the Bible is God's Word within a cultural context, affirms me in my gifts and dreams, and pushes me forward into ministry.

On the other side is the close-minded, black and white church that focuses on repentance more than love, believes the Bible is Spirit inspired quite literally word-for-word even in our culture, lifts high stringent roles of men and women in the church and in marriage, and therefore considers some of my ministerial dreams idols that are the fruit of rebellion against God.

The hard thing is that I know You love both sides of Your church, and both sides are faulty. But my calling looks quite differently in each.

I also know that if You've placed a call on my life, You will fulfill it NO MATTER WHAT. Joseph was in prison and could not escape Your call. In fact, prison was Your Sovereign way of pushing him into his calling. How, then, can I escape Your call because of church?

Lord, just make it clear where You would have me serve. I want to honor You and bless Your people.

And I'm kinda tired of being so intense all the time.

I love You, Jesus. Thanks for all of Your amazing love for me!

March Air

It's been a while since I've posted . . . nearly 6 months, to date. I guess a few things have changed: I graduated from the ICCD program - finished my Master's Degree. And I met a man.

Those feel like pretty significant land marks, but most in my life has still stayed very much the same. I wonder if life is in some ways like my students' semester grades . . . in the beginning, it fluctuates widely from an A to an F with a single assignment. Towards the end of the semester, little will move the grade point average more than a tenth of a percentage. Things seem to stabilize over time quite a bit.

My coarse is set on You, Jesus - but I don't call that safety. I want to be with You - to serve You recklessly. I want to pursue You and love You and obey You. What does that mean?

I was running today for the first time after breaking my leg in the beginning of January during my 3rd skiing adventure (ever). My PT told me to take it slow - a minute on, four minutes off. Still, I found myself sliding so freely back into that passion for the beat of the foot, the pulse of the heart, the rhythm of the breath. I ached for the taste of salt on my upper lip and the euphoric bliss of legs that feel like they'll never tire.

Teaching has felt quite oppressive lately. Is it me or the students or the dreary classroom that makes me feel like a cat in a box? Lord, teach my heart to rejoice in You - in the community You've given me, in the good work You've put before me, in the opportunities You've entrusted to me, in the ways You're equipping me. Help me to be patient, to let go of control, to trust.

It's been a beautiful February - cherry blossoms, wooed by gravity, weigh down the world and the birds have left their huddling nest beneath window eves long before I leave for work. The morn of March has been no different. March on, March on, March on - I beat the day's fatigue into gristly pavement and turned my face to the calm ripples of Green Lake. A rainbow arched low and thick over the still lake and fell into the gold-clad houses just beyond. I stopped to remember God's faithfulness to Noah. March on, tired soul - He is yet here to claim you.