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.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
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.
"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.
Friday, November 12, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 8, 2010
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.'"
"'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!
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!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 1, 2010
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.
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.
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