Rista-ree's Mysteries

Christmas Party Friday's Complete the Sentences with Critty Joy

2011-12-16T08:36:00.000-05:00

My favorite part of December is... holiday cheer. There's just something about December that makes people smile. The lights, the carols, the coming together to make Christmas out of whatever you have.

The Christmas song I can listen to over and over is... White Christmas, Bing Crosby. Holiday Inn and White Christmas were staples when I was growing up. When I first moved from Florida to Michigan, I was so upset about moving so far from everything I knew. I remember writing my own version about dreaming of a green Christmas with palm trees. Though this year, we could put TobyMac's Christmas This Year on repeat and I wouldn't mind. I also like Music Box and Music Box Blues (and all the rest of the Christmas music) by Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

My favorite Christmas gift when I was a child was... I was a spoiled child. I received way too many toys which didn't mean much to me after I got them. Horrible, isn't it? I remember when I started getting clothes for Christmas. Then it wasn't so much fun, because I couldn't spend the rest of Christmas day playing with clothes. I wasn't that kind of girl and they were that kind of clothes.

If traveling anywhere in the world were an option I would spend Christmas... Aberdeen. When I spent Christmas there, I loved the lights and the decorations and the baby Christmas tree we had in the corner of our flat. Besides what would be more Christmasy than the UK?

Christmas movies are... super cheezy but I still love them. Seriously, the cheezier the better - I mentioned my love for holiday cheer. I especially love the many, many versions of A Christmas Carol. I miss ABC Family's 25 Days of Christmas.

My must have Christmas treats include... Life Savers Sweet Storybooks (a pack with 8 rolls). We got them every year in our stockings. The year I didn't (when Mom finally realized we were too old for stockings or perhaps when there were children in the family again) I felt so disappointed and like something was missing.

Decorating for the season looks like.... um, nothing at my house. Several of my friends intentionally don't bother to decorate for Christmas since they go visit their families. I just don't have any Christmas decorations. Well, I have a tree, but I never put it up due to an unfortunate incident with a spider that makes me afraid there are more spiders in the box. So, I guess, my Christmas decor this year is a pre-lit Christmas tree box. But, if I could decorate my way, the tree would be full of my childhood ornaments and others that were gifts. There would be a wreath on the front door and stockings for me and Mara (the cat) hung by our imaginary fireplace. And an advent wreath. I've really wanted to celebrate advent at home in the past few years.

When it comes to Christmas gifts I prefer to... give than receive. Years ago (when I wasn't a responsible adult with bills) I loved going to the mall with my best friend to find the perfect gift for my family and friends.

The Christmas season makes me feel... usually, all warm and fuzzy - like I am curled up next to a roaring fire with a cup of hot chocolate while it gently snows outside. But this year, I feel like I should be giving more rather than sitting back and saying I can't afford to give anything.

To me Christmas means... Bringing people together and that warm feeling of holiday cheer. Not very deep or spiritual, I know.

Won't you join us at the Christmas party?

Ebenezer and Tiny Tim

2011-12-15T09:58:00.000-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

I was watching A Christmas Carol with Patrick Stewart last night. It might be my favorite true-to-the-original version of the story. It was a bit like watching Shakespeare rather than Dickens. At this point, I know most of the dialogue in A Christmas Carol movie, even the ones I've never seen. Although, I had just watched a bizarre Christmas movie based on a story by Truman Capote so that might have made a difference. By bizarre I mean that there was a scene in which a little old lady, a very young boy and a tiny dog got drunk on whiskey which was probably homemade (that's called "moonshine" right?). The drunk dog was shown fast alseep flat on his back which was funny, but totally wrong. The whiskey by the way was from a man named HaHa Jones for use in their 30 fruit cakes. They were just tasting the leftover liquor. In case you are wondering, its called A Christmas Memory.

But this year, A Christmas Carol has spoken new things to my heart. It is a mythic story. It transcends its original writer and still lives in its many, many versions. Here are a few new thoughts I've had on it this year. Like, how exactly do you boil someone in their own pudding?

It has only recent occurred to me that Scrooge's first name is Ebenezer. Ebenezer as you may or may not know means "stone of help". It was set up as a memorial of battle in 2 Samuel. I think in my Experiencing God workbook, they equated this with standing stones in our lives to look back at and remember what God has done for us in the past. I may have heard this somewhere else too, but I forget exactly where. These standing stones are memorials of when God showed up and helped us. Ebenezer Scrooge is a bit of a memorial stone. Every Christmas, he is there reminding me that "mankind is my business" and to "honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year."

Tiny Tim. This kid. How does he tug at my heart strings after all this time? Although, it has only been recently that I've seen (and heard) beyond his infamous "God bless us, everyone". This line now stands out to me:

Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see. (A Christmas Carol)

Um, wow. Granted, a child didn't actually say this, but, honestly, isn't this profound even for a grown man with serious literary credentials. How many of us look at our infirmities/weaknesses/whatever as a means of illuminating Christ? Do I hope that someone sees me reject wheat/rye/barley/oats at a meal because it might remind people that man cannot live by bread alone? I'll tell you how often:

NEVER!

In fact I am more likely to spend Communion Sundays feeling sorry for myself because I cannot share the bread. I've done it. I will be honest with you, I probably will not start thinking about my celiac disease in this way. I am not that humble or altruistic. Because the moment I do actual think this at the dinner table, it will be swiftly followed by "what a good person I am". But this just might come back to me next I'm feel sorry for myself when I can't eat bread.

Now if only I had written this in my undergrad paper on A Christmas Carol.

Visit Bonnie at Faith Barista as we Unwrap Jesus this Christmas.

Do you ever wonder what the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future might show you?

The Heart of Santa Claus

2011-12-09T09:13:00.000-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

I know there is a great debate about Santa (or seems to be). I've read many posts this year on Santa or the deliberate lack of Santa. The season creates an uncomfortable pairing of the sacred and the secular in Christian households. Have you read Jon Acuff's post about the Elf on a Shelf vs. the Nativity scene? It still makes me laugh (even if that was the first time I ever heard of the Elf).

My very best friend grew up without a Santa Claus. Her mother decorates for Christmas almost exclusively with snowmen, to avoid the Santa Claus.

I grew up in a house where we did the Santa thing and we went to church to do the Advent thing. I think I got to light the Advent candle once, and was enchanted by that long candle snuffer wand thing ( I assume it has a real name). My belief in Santa grew when I heard sleigh bells. This past year my mother revealed that this was the year I received a swing set. I continued to believe in him until I finally realized that his handwriting look suspiciously like my mother's. We kept Santa alive at my house.

Every Christmas I look forward to a marathon of Christmas movies. Some of my all time favorites aren't Christian. I love Holiday Inn and White Christmas, because Bing Crosby is Christmas for me, too. A Christmas Carol is my favorite Christmas story (besides THE Christmas story). Actually, it would be better called a Christmas legend or myth. Because at this point it has gone beyond Dickens to dozens of versions with the same message. Perhaps you could even call it mythopoeic, joining the ranks of my beloved George MacDonald, Tolkien, and Lewis. Mickey's Christmas Carol is by far my favorite version.

I have read that many families reject Santa Claus for a focus on Christ. I don't think I will do the same if I ever have a family. The reason is that Santa does not represent the greedy, commercialized (hey, Charlie Brown!) Christmas that I do try to avoid. The Santa I cherish from childhood represents the giving part of this holiday.

Santa is more than the the big guy in a red suit who lives like a hermit with a bunch of little people making toys. He is more than the tree and the sleigh and the cookies with milk and the reindeer used as a fog light.

You see, the Santa movies and stories that I love have one thing in common: at their core, they celebrate a man who loves to give. The best stories about Santa are about how he became Santa. Forget Tim Allen. In the beginning, Santa was just a simple man who wanted to spread joy by giving simple toys to children. This man would risk his life to continue giving toys. This man gives up a "normal" life to give. He works the whole year to give on one night a year and make it special for every child.

I was watching a movie from Netflix this week called Christmas Story about a boy named Nikolas who became Santa Claus. Its a Finnish movie and I was well over an hour into the movie before I realized that the dialogue I heard was not matching their lips. Nikolas began by giving to the children in his village in response to the village taking him in as an orphan. When the gifts were found on Christmas morning, he would deny that the gifts were from him. Santa is more about his giving than children receiving. I think its a new favorite of mine.

That's another theme I am seeing this year. An emphasis on giving. Especially the hard giving to complete strangers. The giving that is far removed from the receiving. Its not enough any more to give for the simple joy of giving and seeing the delight in someone's eyes when they unwrap a gift and see our heart for them. These days we have the opportunity to give the gift of giving. Especially, with all these opportunities to give to those in need. In real need.

Parents want to train their children to give to others instead of receiving from us. All those post about Compassion and giving what we have are like arrows to my heart. I've actually been thinking about this kind of giving and if I can do, but in my own quiet (don't-mention-it-to-anyone-so-noone-notices-when-I-fail) way. I can tell that this is not something that I can continue to keep on the down low. So thanks for that.

To me, this is not at odds with the heart of the man who became Santa Claus. . I think my Santa would be the first in line for all these giving programs available today.

Santa Claus is really more like Christ than I am. He (and fellow bloggers) may just inspire me to be more giving, even if I don't think I have enough. This might be a new tradition in the making.

Sharing Christmas traditions with Critty Joy

and Unwrapping Jesus with Faith Barista.

My Voce Magna

2011-12-07T11:14:00.000-05:00

Image by h.koppdelaney via Flickr

Mihi opus est voce magna.

Its been about 6 years or so since I took Latin, but this phrase has stuck with me, in various forms. I was delighted to find my old Latin text recently to confirm the exact wording and the possible translation. It means, I need a great [large] voice. or I have need of a great [large] voice. Or something like that. I only took a few semesters of Latin.

As a woman struggling with writing and the label of "writer", this statement strikes me to the core.

If you are regular follower of my blog, you will notice that I haven't posted much lately. The truth is that I have written much lately. At first, I didn't want to write. Then I was afraid to write. I questioned everything that came to mind. Why am I writing this? Will it help anyone? or even be something positive or encouraging to read? Worst of all: hasn't this been written before and better? When I finally wanted to start trying again, if only to go through the motions, to practice, I felt stopped before I even touch the keyboard.

It may be that God wanted me to listen for a while. To think about what I was writing and why I was writing. And I have been thinking quite a bit. Recently, I found this in my favorite book,

My heart was sore, and in my brain was neither quest nor purpose, hope nor desire.

This has been the state of my heart [and brain] over the past few years. Without quest or purpose. Without hope or desire. More important, without a voice. You cannot imagine the impact of losing your voice...until you do.

For me, it began as a choice. I chose not to speak. Then, without really commanding my silence, God kept me from speaking and showed me the value of my voice. The funny thing is that now that I want to speak (or even shout from the rooftops, if given the opportunity), I still hesitate. I don't want to say just anything. I want something. to. say. So I continue to be silent. Waiting and hoping. For something to say.

What about you? Do you ever question your voice? How important is a voice to you?

What I Hope for Christmas

2011-12-05T15:25:00.000-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

I love Christmas. I love both the sacred and the secular traditions.

Christmas carols are some of my favorite music, not to listen to, but to sing. When I was in school, I loved being in the choir during the Fall semester and learning Christmas carols for the December concert. One of my favorite Christmas traditions at my high school: we did the Hallelujah chorus every year and invited alumni to join us on stage. Love those high notes, even the one I couldn't hit.

A Christmas Carol (and its many versions) is my favorite Christmas story - you know, besides THE Christmas story. Such a classic redemption story. I even had a part in a small production of Scrooge my senior year. At the last minute, I stood in for the little boy at the end who tells Scrooge that its still Christmas day.

I love using this holiday as an excuse to get the family together. For the past few years, Christmas has been about family for me. And it still is. However, I am extremely disappointed in my family this year (I hope to share more about that later) and I am looking in a different direction with hope. I find my hope is a bit closer to home... where my heart is.

This year, it seems like everyone (you too probably!) is calling me to be present this season. Remember what its all about. As my pastor's wife always said, when hear or read something 3 times...its God speaking and its time to listen. So that's what I hope for: to be present.

Unfortunately, this month seems to have other plans. There are only 3 weeks until I head to Pennsylvania for Christmas with my grandmother. There is so much that must be done and more that I want to do before then.

December days are slipping by.

I am just coming out of a season of stepping back and seeing things from a different perspective and I am anxious to get back into things. Perhaps too anxious. I want to do everything and make up for all those months 'off'. Even worse, I want to rush it. I want to pick up where I left off, not begin again where I am now. I want to get back to being immersed in things so I can take huge gulps of God. But that's not how it works, is it?

I feel like I am trying holding the season back, but it's like holding back the tide.

I am wishing for more moments of kairos time in the hectic pace of chronos time.

So I am trying to pace myself. I hope to spend this month planning and praying about the new year. Preparing my heart and soul for new things. Too often, I think I plunge into something huge without much thought or planning. This often leads to unfinished projects or half-hearted attempts which make it easier to walk away. My friend and I just decided to postpone our email Bible study until January so that we both can commit to it. [In fact, if I have "one word" for 2012, it might be COMMIT] Instead of trying to jump back into some intense Bible reading plan, I am going to give my soul the chance to take deep soul breaths of the Word by reading smaller pieces at a time.

Alright, that being said (and planned and hoped for), I am planting my feet and challenging December to bring. it. on.

Read more hopes for Christmas with Faith Barista Bonnie's Faith Jam community.

Stories Disclose Human Being - Madeleine L'engle

2011-11-11T09:19:00.000-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

We tell stories, listen to stories, go to plays, to be amused, to be edified, but mostly so that we can understand what it means to be a human being. Jesus was a story-teller. Indeed, according to Matthew, he taught entirely by telling stories. One of the great triumphs of Satan has been to lead us to believe that "story" isn't true. I don't know if all the facts of the story of Joseph are true, but it is a true story. That is very important to understand. Jesus did not tell his parables in order to give us facts and information, but to show us truth. What is the truth of the story of the man with the great plank in his eye? Doesn't it tell us very clearly that we must not judge others more stringently than ourselves?
And Joseph's story tells us much about what it means to be human. More important than whether or not Potiphar's wife actually tried to seduce him is the truth of his integrity in refusing to betray his master. Story is the closest we human beings can come to truth. God is truth. God is beyond the realm of provable fact. We can neither prove nor disprove God. God is for faith.

from Glimpses of Grace, excerpt taken from Sold into Egypt: Joseph's Journey into Human Being

I Wish She Had Written To Me

2011-11-07T15:16:00.000-05:00

Image by J. Paxon Reyes via Flickr

Writing has been hard lately. So I have been avoiding it. Especially while so many others were writing their 31 days series through the month of October. Their words worked their way into me and joined the flow of change. Like Christy's butterfly in the becoming, I am changing within. It has been frightening for me this past month with a few moments of excited anticipation. I have been met with so many disappointments lately that it is hard to continuing believing and trusting. My days seem to be filled with more questions than answers.

Something that has helped and not helped at the same time: boxes that have been stored at my grandmother's house since 2005 when I first went to Scotland. It seems like a lifetime ago. I knew I had changed since that time, though I had no idea how much until I opened those boxes. It is like being reacquainted with an old friend. I have mixed feelings about that old friend.

Being immersed in beloved memories has been healing and pleasant. But after the first blush, I am beginning to see what I seem to have lost since then.

When I read my journals from years ago, I either cringe or respond cynically to how poorly I've written. Recently, I've been able to get past my frequently remarked upon mixed metaphors and boy-crazy laments to what I was really saying. This was the greatest evidence of the change that has occurred within me in the last 5 years. The girl who wrote those journals, read those books, wore those clothes, would not recognize the woman I am today. I think she would be dismayed, discouraged and disappointed if she knew where she would be in half a decade.

I cannot help admiring that younger version of myself. After surviving an unknown illness with faith and patience, she dove into living and discovering her Father and the purpose she was given. She questioned and doubted, but she always remembered the Lord's promises, despite the way life made them seem like lies. She had a heart for others. In a serious discussion of the Body of Christ, your sisters in Christ will not call you the "heart" to be nice. They generally mean it. Journal entries written with passion and without concern for what they expressed because they were real. Words of praise and thanksgiving for a beautiful life alternated with days when the world seemed to be ending. The writer was not afraid to *feel* whether it was happiness or disappointment.

My journals contain many letters. Letters to God, letters to friends, even *blush* letters to boys I had crushes on. These letters contained words I longed to say out loud, but was too afraid. As I read them, my heart wishes that she had written a letter to me, her future self, the lost and wandering, hurt and afraid future version of herself. She seems to have something that I have lost.

But I must stop reading these old words, Best Friend's orders. They seem to be having more of a negative effect on me.

The Same Miserable Creature As Before

2011-10-12T11:54:00.000-04:00

Image by Jack Batchelor via Flickr

I haven't written much lately. I could say that I haven't had much to write but that wouldn't be true. There has been so much to say. At first I couldn't find the words. Then I think I didn't want to. I think there was some fear as well. Still is.

Things are changing. I can feel it. But what frightens me is that I have felt this before. I have gotten excited. I have given myself over to the anticipation. I have allowed myself to hope. Only to wake up one day and find that everything is the same. Worse - I.am.the.same.

I am the same miserable creature I was before.

Nobody who has not been tried knows how difficult it is; but whoever has come well out of it, and those who do not overcome never do come out of it, always looks back with horror, not on what she has come through, but on the very idea of the possibility of having failed, and being still the same miserable creature as before. (George MacDonald, The Wise Woman)

That is my fear.

So much going on under the surface which I would have to admit is a direct result of the 31 dayers I am following:

Critty Joy is Becoming.
Kristen is Living in the Now.
Bonnie is Feeding the Soul.
Emily is Changing the World
Annie is Writing.

Visit. They might change you too.

Dancing and Writing

2011-09-22T12:43:00.000-04:00

Image by jeff medaugh via Flickr

Currently, I am experiencing a bit of a writing drought. Lacking the words to share the new with you, I decided to experiment with an old post. One of the early ones that probably no one read unless you found a link to it. Add some editing and updating. See what happens. Because while I may not have anything fresh and new, Madeleine says a writer must practice - like a musician. This isn't quite what I was expecting.

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At USF, there are often chalk written messages on the sidewalk. Especially at voting time for the student government. Sometimes for student events. One fall semester, I noticed these words over and over again: WHY DO YOU DANCE?

I have no idea what these words are in reference to. Whether they are recruiting for the Dance Program or advertising a dance competition. Though I am not a dancer--by any stretch of the imagination (I got a black eye while learning a Scottish country dance)--the words went deep. I saw those words and I had only one answer: I DANCE TO FEEL FREE.

I dance to feel the freedom that we have all been promised. The freedom to be myself. The freedom to dream and hope for more. The freedom to praise God through difficulty and pain. The freedom to tell Him my heart and how it hurts. I dance for my freedom, but I can hardly remember the last time I danced. To feel the music move me inside. Whether to flowing ribbons of classical music or the regular 1-2-3-4 beat of tango, or even that current music with the insistent beat that so many Christians turn from.

I miss it. The dancing. The feeling of freedom. In the discouraging monotony of each day, I would like anything to make me feel free and happy again. Right now, my life is full of work and rent and food. I wake up every morning. I go to work. I get frustrated and annoyed with people. Sometimes I want to cry and sometimes I want to tell everyone off. Then I go home. I watch DVDs, feed the cat, and make the same food over and over again. Occasionally, I spend money I know I shouldn't because I am so tired of living this way at the very edges of life. This is my rebellion when I am tired of doing everything "right" with no visible result. This is not freedom.

At the end of the day, I go to bed so I can get up and do the same thing all over again. It feels like such an empty life. It is not the freedom we have been promised. Everyday, I worry whether or not I'll have enough money to make it to the next payday. I wonder when the next disaster will hit and whether I'll be able to get through it. I know I will, because I've passed through so many. But I'm always waiting for something else to go wrong. This is not freedom.

The strange thing is that while dancing allows me freedom, I can not dance. Not in a way that might be considered art. I am clumsy and awkward especially if I notice how very clumsy and awkward I am. I usually do my dancing behind closed doors while singing songs to my favorite musicals. Dancing and singing are my expressions of freedom, but I write. I choose writer as the title over my heart. I choose words as the means by which I tell you who I am and what I believe. I cling to words like they are what brings me to life. When I was growing up words made more sense than music and dance. Words were comprehensible and alive. Words and books were everything that those cheesy library posters promised. Lately, words are stale and empty for me.

In the emptiness of my life, I am always looking for ways for the words to bring me to life again. I read my favorite authors. I blog once in a while (when Bonnie has a good Faith jam topic on Thursday), but, recently, I don't have much inspiration to write. I try reading the books everyone recommends. I get down on my knees to pray. I'm trying to see my life from afar. I am trying to see the whole story and what it all means. But I cannot get a clear picture.

Sometimes it isn't as easy as...I love music and playing the piano and singing, so I have to be a musician. Or, I feel the music move me in my soul so I must be a dancer. Sometimes its complicated. I like stories and books and writing. But what does that mean for me and my place in God's plan? I can't imagine writing anything that would be published or read. The things I try write are about me and learning more about myself and the person I'm meant to be. I am not so certain that I succeed in finding the words. So often my journey is one step forward and ten steps back.

Maybe that's why I am so afraid of going back to school. I am afraid of pushing too hard and breaking up the thin ice my life is braced on. I love books and stories and, for many years, I believed that that meant I had to be a literature professor and a writer. But maybe it doesn't. Or maybe it still does. I don't know. And not knowing is making me crazy. I'm looking for ways to feel alive, but they really aren't working. I start new things and move on to the next when they leave me just as empty as when I began.

Is it strange that I dance to feel free, but writing does not make me free? Writing seems to remind me how very imprisoned I am. Writing makes me feel limited. My words are just words. They have no power. They shed no light in the darkness. They are just words on the screen. In fact, if I had to describe my writing style, I wouldn't know where to begin. I don't even know what this blog is all about. I just start tapping away on the keyboard and I never know where its going. What kind of writing style is that?

So if I had to ask you, dear Readers, what Rista-ree's Mysteries is all about, what would you say? What made you start reading? What made you come back again?

I guess I'm feeling a bit ontological after re-reading A Circle of Quiet and wondering about my ousia.

As of Late - September

2011-09-15T09:16:00.000-04:00

Image by jesuscm via Flickr

As you may have noticed, I haven't had much to say. Actually, I've had lots to say. Big ideas and small notions to share with you. But maybe my As of Late can shed some light...

As of Late... writing has been impossible. The simple act of sitting at the computer and touching the keys send my words in a dozen different directions. So I can not share with you.
As of Late... I have been using YouVersion to listen to the Bible. Starting with the daily reading for the Bible in 90 Days plan each day then letting it play while I work. Its very dramatic and the voices often have incongruent accents (I think the Philistines are Scottish). Listening to the Bible is a whole new experience.
As of Late... I am also following the Prayer Reading Plan. Usually with the Amplified version.
As of Late... I am also reading The Power of a Praying Woman. For once taking things slow. Surprising, I've been on my knees several evenings before I turn off the light. My prayers are more focused and less rambling. Less listing prayer requests and more conversation. (not that I am hearing any more than I have in the past.
As of Late... I am fighting the idea of going back to school. I just have too many reservations and conflicting thoughts on it. Sadly, I am not stopping long enough to really pray over it and really consider it.
As of Late... I am considering a great project. Like Julie/Julia big, though not cooking of course. Literary really. But I am afraid that I will not follow through.
As of Late... I have been reminded that I am a quitter or more often a dont-even-get-started-because-I-wont-follow-through-er. I am not liking this label.
As of Late... I am weathering my current financial storm better than I expected. Its early though.

I can't say I'm back. That might be two optimistic, but tell me what going on with you As of Late... then visit Christy for more As of Late.

Summoned Before the King

2011-09-07T20:23:00.000-04:00

Image by Nicholas Siegrist via Flickr

Recently, I pulled out my old journals. In one I found a piece that I suppose I wrote. It reveals something very close to my heart. It is not unlike a story I was writing years ago, but abandoned when I could not write the journey - only the need and the conclusion. My greatest stumbling block to being a writer (a fiction writer) is that I don't know how to write a plot. The piece was strange to read. Almost like it was written by someone else.

Today, I was summoned before the King.

He had a mission for me. I had to go out and find my Self, my Heart. I had to discover what He had created me to be. Before He sent me out, He gave me precious gifts that I was to use to protect the gifts I had already been given.

First, I received a breastplate of the strongest metal ever made. This would shield my heart from lies and deceit. It was a aegis of Truth. As long as I kept it on, nothing could wound my heart that was false. The breastplate bore the symbols of a scroll and a unicorn to reflect the duality that has always raged within my heart.

For my arms and legs, I received great armor of Self-Worth. I've always been underestimated, not the least by myself. I cannot fault others for holding me back if I never allow myself to reach for more. And weakness in me steams from my own disbelief in my own natural abilities. When I start seeing how far I've come, how much I've changed, everyone else will too.

My head holds everything I know, all that I've learned and discovered, but it is still vulnerable to the world's opinions. Consequently, the King granted me a helm of Judgement so that all of my knowledge and wisdom was protected by firm beliefs in Right and Wrong. Only by discernment can I truly protect myself from all that the world and my Enemy sends my way.

To supplement all this, I received a shield of Courage and Strength. Armed with Truth, Self-Worth and Judgement, I will finally be able to use Strength and Courage in this journey ahead. All this I received from my King to protect my heart, body, and soul. But it was not enough.

Having provided all the protection I would ever need, my King gave me one more gift. He said that it was not enough to only be protected. I also must fight the Evil that rages against me. He gave me a weapon. The greatest weapon of all. He gave me Love - against which no on can stand. I will survive. I will find what I am looking for. I will fight. I will be His Warrior Princess as I was created to be.

This search for Self has been on my heart since I was healthy enough to start dreaming of the future. When I use the term Self I do not mean that part of me that wants control. I mean the part of me that makes me who I am. The part of me that is suppose to help me figure out what I am supposed to do with my life.

Please forgive the big words [we call them my fancy English major words]. I am too Anne Shirley for my own good.

A Visible Result

2011-08-26T11:18:00.046-04:00

Image by KayVee.INC via Flickr

A rose is the visible result of an infinitude of complicated goings on in the bosom of the earth and in the air above, and similarly a work of art is the product of strange activities in the human mind.
-- Clive Bell

I found this quote last week, thinking about reviving the Roses and Thorns. It was almost a random choosing, but things have been happening in the last two weeks which make it exactly right. You wouldn't know it by my blog or my real-life, but there are an infinitude of goings on within me right now. However the result is not yet visible. Even to me

Though very little came this week in the way of happenings, I rediscovered classical music. Earlier this week, I was looking through the genre stations available on Pandora and began listening to Symphonic Radio. It was great because the flowing music help soothe my mind which is a blessing at work lately. I have been overly distracted which means not much work gets done. Last night, I was kept up once again with racing thoughts which I really frustrating when you know that there is nothing to be done about any of them. I tried reading but it wasn't helping. I was tired so it was hard to concentrate on the words. I thought maybe listening to some music would clear my mind a bit. I wanted classical because there are no words so it is easier to just lose yourself in the sound and let your unconscious go where it will. I knew there was a classical station from ages ago when I last surveyed the radio offerings with my clock radio. Wouldn't you know it...the radio was already tuned to the classical station when I turned it on. So I fell asleep to violins and pianos.

As far as sleeping goes, it was less effective than I'd hoped. But the music has made an impression on me in other ways - and so has some reading I've had lately. Between the Mozart, Bach and Madeleine L'Engle (I finished The Summer of the Great-Grandmother yesterday and I am rereading A Circle of Quiet), I can feel something changing within. I can feel myself opening up again to the mystical and mysterious. I can tell my mind is opening up to things which are best felt with your soul. Like music, metaphoric language. It seems to confirm what I have been considering for the past week - a fast.

Not a fast of food, but a fast of my life. In the last few weeks, I have found: I do not want to go to Bible study. I do not want to rejoin the choir after their summer hiatus. I do not want to go to church. These are things I used to love and eagerly wait for every week. Now I don't. After so much change and upheaval, I do not get the same enjoyment or edification that I once did. So I wonder what difference it would make to not do those things anymore.

Its strange to stop going to church. Especially now that I know its importance. But I don't enter into worship like I once did. So I want some time alone with my Comforter. Just Him and me. Like it was for so long before I made a family for myself.I have some thinking and soul-searching to do. I need one of Bonnie's Whitespaces, but since I can't go to the beach or a European villa for two weeks, I am going to have to make my own whitespace, my own circle of quiet away from people. Because I need to learn how to feel again after being numbed by the monotony of my life. Learn to listen again after hearing all the harsh sounds of a fallen world. To dream again after doubting and losing mine. To see what's really there again after closing my eyes to what I don't want to see.

The problem will come when everyone starts badgering me about why I became a hermit. I just don't know how to explain my self-isolation in terms people will understand. Especially since I trip over my tongue when I try to speak about those complicated goings on. Less so (but only slightly) when I try to type it out for you...

A Series of Births and Deaths

2011-08-19T16:07:00.001-04:00

Image by Steve-h via Flickr

What is a small act of faith? What does it mean to step out in faith? How do you turn metaphor into advice? I can understand a leap of faith. Scotland was my greatest leap of faith. I got on that plane before I had even worked out my housing. Carrying a few hundred dollars on my person while flying overseas was kinda nerve-raking...and seating my next to the emergency exit on my first trans-Atlantic flight doesn't help either. Leap, I can understand. But what would a small act look like? Was it when I signed the lease on my very first apartment in my own name? Or when I woke up one Sunday morning and followed my feet to New Tampa Baptist Church?

What does a small act of faith look like for me?

This quote from The Summer of the Great-Grandmother has given me so much to think about:

Our lives are a series of births and deaths: we die to one period and must be born to another. We die to childhood and are born into adolescence; to our high-school selves and (if we are fortunate) to our college selves; we die to our college selves and are born into the "real" world; to our unmarried selves and into our married.

I never really understood the verses on dying to yourself. But these words by Madeleine L'Engle made it a bit clearer.

When my life changed, I fought every time. Moving to Michigan. Graduating high school and going to college. Scotland. Living with my mom and step dad after graduation. Florida. It was when I was fighting change like making a home in Tampa, that I realized Michigan had become home to me. When I left the stress and homesickness of Aberdeen for the US and my new home, I realized that I had allowed myself to get comfortable and invest my heart - even though I promised myself I wouldn't get attached.

I think this is my small step of faith. I am 30. I am single. I am living on my own. I am an Accounting Assistant at the University of South Florida. Dying to my twenties and college and living with my family and all the rest of the things cherish but are past and be born to my thirties, living alone, working at USF in this job, being single at this stage of my life when I am surrounded by married couples and families. Saying goodbye so I can say hello.

I'd like to see myself taking my life more seriously. Instead of feeling out of place and far from home, why don't I just make myself at home? And the best way, of course, to make myself at home were everything is so strange, is to do something. Make the best of what I have been given instead of wishing for more. What if I lived intentionally in the Now until the Next Thing comes along instead of trying cling to and romanticize what is already Done?

Critty Joy is inspiring me and Ashley Pichea is daring me. Maybe its time to turn inspiration and a dare into action. Maybe its time to revisit What If... Time to make myself at home by doing something, like dying to my past and born into my present.

For more stories of small acts of faith visit Faith Barista

As of Late - August

2011-08-18T14:05:00.000-04:00

As of Late... I have been not fine (that cliche word that everyone expects when they ask you how you are). I've been out of sorts, with dozens of things on my mind.
As of Late... I have been ~~anti~~ not-social (not wanting to be around people who will notice I'm not fine) because I do not want to talk about why I am not fine
As of Late... I have rediscovered television which is both a plus and a minus
As of Late... I have been wondering if I am still have the same dreams
As of Late... I have not done any of my Bible studies, but I have read the Bible every night and wrote in my journal
As of Late... I have wanted more from myself and wondering why I cannot be and do more
As of Late... I have been unable to get into reading books. I've started two or three but they don't catch my interest.
As of Late... I want to be more intentional
As of Late... I am finding Critty Joy inspiring
As of Late... I am finding Ashley Pichea and 3 in 30 challenging (as in I Dare You)
As of Late... I find myself going through the motions instead of actually living

As of this minute... I am finding enough reasons to wake up and battle against the spiritual zombie I have become.

Join us at Critty Joy Blog for more friends sharing what they are doing as of late...

A Look Back

2011-08-16T12:39:00.000-04:00

Image by rlcasey via Flickr

I have heard that writers are supposed to write something everyday. I cannot even remember the last time I wrote something. Except emails and text messages. Suddenly, I found myself anxious to write. To find some way of putting thoughts and feelings into words and sentences. Into some kind of meaning if I'm lucky. Truthfully, I need whatever it takes to get me through the day until I can get back on track to what I want and where I want to be. There was a time when I thought I would never 'graduate' from being a child to being an adult. Now I find that I am 28 and just getting used to being a young adult. I feel like I've missed out on so many things. Before I know it I will be 30 and wondering what I did when I was 20. Wishing that I had done more. To be honest, I am not at all happy about what I've made of my life. I wish I could just change it and have a life that I am pleased with. But that's easier said than done. Some days I cannot see beyond the next. My days are not so enjoyable. Filled with whining complainers who believe they are somehow more entitled than others. It can be more than I can bear. On other days, I feel like a different person. Nothing can get me down. I wish there were more days like that.

According to Blogger, that was my first post almost two years ago.

I've written quite a bit since I started this blog which seems to have been its purpose in the beginning - getting me writing. Unfortunately, it very often feels like a chore. Even those Faith Barista JAMs that I love so much. When they were sporadic, I poured my heart into them. I was nervous about posting and blasting my heart across the web. I worried about each word and their reception. But after a few months of weekly JAM topics, I think I ran dry. It became a dead weight having to find words to post. Instead of being an opportunity to share my heart and work out my writing technique, it became less real and less authentic with words to fill the page.

Originally my blog was called, My Dish of Orts after my favorite author's book Dish of Orts, a series of essays. I wanted to call it The Journals of Kristine Lynette Yurek, but that seemed kinda long. That was inspired by the Journals of Corrie Belle Hollister, the books that help my journal writing go from teen diary to pouring out my heart (not that I knew what it was then). But my orts were like MacDonald's orts: fragmentary presentments of larger meditations. Somehow after it became Rista-ree's Mysteries, I was no longer "putting thoughts and feelings into words and sentences". I was trying to imitate other people. I never really forged my own identity online or found my voice. In a Web filled with Mommy and Crafty blogs, who reads the crazy, confused, and unsettled thoughts of a single girl without a cause to support. But I never really forged my own identity in real life either. All my journeys of finding my voice and my heart and my dreams were always cut short by circumstance. Perhaps this is why my life feels so pathless. Why I can't figure out what I should do next.

At 28, I was just getting used to being in my twenties. I am now 30 and if I was given the option of going back in time and doing things differently - I certainly would. I do wish I had done more or even just put more of myself into what I have done. I'd give all the money I have (little as it is) to go back and do everything for Him. I have no idea how to be 30, single, and living life more abundantly. Perhaps the fact that nearly everyone I know is married with children. In the boring, everyday of my life, I lose heart and I want to give up. Monotony dulls me into a living death.

I am still at the same job that gives me even less satisfaction than before, but I cannot bring myself to make the change. I am too afraid of what I might lose if I give up what I already have. I read another blog today that asked the same question that's on my heart: is it time for a change or do I remain steadfast in the face of difficulty. Because I cannot say with confidence that my God has promised me what I desire. He has promised me that He will never leave me, and He will give me good things and that I will have trouble in this life. He hasn't promised me that I will be a wife or a mother or a PhD or a professor or a published author. I still haven't figured it all out yet. But I guess that's why I keep writing, because I'm trying to figure it out but I haven't yet.

How I Host Dinner

2011-08-15T19:08:00.000-04:00

Image by Steve-h via Flickr

My friends and I meet for dinner just about every Friday night. We are our family. All of us are transplants. I'm from Michigan. Becky and Aaron are from Wisconsin. Katielee and Mike came up from Miami a few months ago. Christine and Jamal left Key West for college here in Tampa. Some of us have family here in Florida. I think my family wins at being only an hour away. So essentially, we are each others family here. So we get together on Friday for dinner and Family Game Night. Each week we take turns hosting. Sharing our home, making dinner for 7 or 8, and making our Friday night worth staying in for.

I have been so ashamed of my home (especially after seeing theirs) that I never had people over. I only just got furniture so that my apartment finally stops looking like I'm squatting. The only wall art I have are 3 family portaits (including my sister's Senior pic from 2006) and a few nature prints from my aunt (so not my style). Nothing that even resembles a theme or a color palate. So I kept people far, far away. Until one day, I knew it was time. I feel so much pressure (from myself) to share my home. To share the burden of dinner and hospitality with the others. As much of a struggle as it was for me, it had to be difficult for the others as well. So I offered my home.

I was a tangle of worry from the moment I said come. I could go on and on about how undomestic I am and how disastrously not clean my apartment is most of the time. I won't tell you how much I detest cooking. I always say that I don't cook - I make food. With as few ingredients and steps as possible. I was also worried about the financial aspect. Since June, my money situation has been a mess. (Praying for a Someone who not only cooks but can balance a check book better than I can.) So I was worried about the cost of feeding 8 people. I even called my dad to be sure I would get enough food, because there is a big difference between cooking lots for yourself to ensure leftovers and cooking for so many (included 3 boys who could eat a house). But once I checked out and got the food home, I started to get excited. Excited enough to get my place fit for human visitation.

On Friday morning, I was ready. But that's when things started falling apart. Christine & Jamal just started a Bible study at the local Messianic synagogue. Katielee & Mike were expecting family. I was deflated. I even told Becky & Aaron that the didn't have to drive all the way from Temple Terrace just to come and see me. Becky assured me that they were coming. So after being unnecessarily upset that my evening (that I had already been unnecessarily anxious about) was not going according to plan, I put thoughts of the evening aside and focused on work.

But plans change. Katielee & Mike's family didn't come to town after all. So Katielee came over and helped me finish getting ready before picking Mike up from work. I made Chicken Alfredo - meaning a cooked some chicken, added sauce and a some grated Parmesan cheese. Simple. Easy. Quick. I was done before anyone showed up. But suddenly they were all there - Katielee, Becky and I in the kitchen chatting away while preparing a salad; the guys hanging together (all three fee from us) chatting about who knows what. You wouldn't have imagined that it was the first dinner at my place. It was like we'd done this a dozen time before.

I brought out the food and apologized for the simplicity. You would have thought I hired a Top Chef. They loved it. Everyone had seconds. I think Becky went back for thirds and maybe fourths. You wouldn't have guessed that the sauce was from a discount store or that the pasta was gluten free. It was not unlike the time I made brownie and had to substitute apple sauce for the egg. Jamal still talks about those brownies.

You should have seen us in my tiny living room. Two crammed into the papasan chair from a thrift store. Two more shifting uncomfortably on my hand-me-down daybed masquerading as a couch (that sat in pieces for almost a year before my uncle found the screws). And me, sitting on the floor. We played a old-school game that my high school friends loved. Compatibility still makes me laugh and has a few surprises.

It was the best night. So simple and so rich. I loved having my friends over. I loved cooking for them (when I just hate making food for myself). I can't wait to have them over again. I hate being domestic - cooking, cleaning, keeping things tidy. But for these lovely people, I'll do it with a smile...and maybe even a song.

United - in Praise

2011-08-11T22:09:00.001-04:00

Image by ...anna christina... via Flickr

Last Friday night, my friends and I went to the St Pete Times Forum. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before - and I was able to be part of it. Hillsong United was here in Tampa for (I think) the very first time. I was at my first Christian concert that wasn't held at a church (or Night of Joy). It was nothing like I expected. A night to remember. Especially when I looked over the crowd - never expecting to see anyone I really knew - and spying a face I'd only seen on Facebook in the last 10 years.
My very first best friend from Orlando who I had not seen in the flesh for almost 20 years. The girl I ran around Belgrove Place with, rode my bike to school with... The girl I forced to play her VHS of Willow for me over and over - until she was more than sick of it. I saw her there in the crowd. Someone I never thought I'd see again. Now we have vague plans for a future dinner.

There is something about Christian music that invites participation rather than just hearing and enjoying. It struck me as I often stepped back from the moment. Such a large group of Christians gather together, experiencing God like I have been trying to do all my life. Many times that night I was thinking of you and wanting to share what I was feeling. I wished I had brought a notebook or my laptop. Or something. Now, I'm not sure I can share with you all that I wanted to.

With my heart forced out of its natural rhythm to follow the insistent beat of the bass, I gave up on jumping and sang only when I knew the words or caught an easy chorus. I looked at the people around me. I saw thousands of hands raised to receive what the Lord had to give them. On thousand lips were them same words, All I need is You, Lord, is You, Lord. All I need is You. It suddenly occurred to me that my heart's cry was shared by all the hearts around me. They all needed my Lord, your Lord, their Lord, our Lord. The same Lord I turn to in my darkest moments. The Lord I share my happiest days with. As I saw my Father reflected in so many faces, I realized how big He was and how I shared Him with so many. He is so big that I can have Him and so can they. And He is not diminished because we are so many. In fact, He seemed greater there than any church service I've ever attended.

Twice Joel Houston joked about the people who were dragged there by their friends. The one who might not be sure what was going on. And I wondered that myself. What does someone make of something like that night who doesn't know God? How silly and perhaps crazy we must seem with raised hands and bended knees. How silly and how strange if you don't know. But how amazing and how deep if you know.

Around me were so many in the moment. The young man in front of me was definite feeling the Holy Spirit move him. I could tell. During another song, I saw someone else on their knees. I felt more just by witnessing their abandonment to the Lord in worship. I never let go that much, but I really wanted to that night. I think, too often, my head knows more than my heart feels and believes.

In the midst of all of that, I felt apart from it. As though I could only observe it, but not be part of it. No that's not right. I wasn't jumping around or raising my hands (we didn't do that in my Presbyterian church when I was growing up). Most of the time I was sitting feeling the bass in my heart beats. Then I started to feel it deeper. It was like my farae were singing and my midi-chlorians were dancing but all you would have seen was a smile, a few tears and closed eyes. (and yes that was a L'Engle reference followed by a Star Wars reference. I am not ashamed of the Geek within).

So there I was - singing farae, dancing midi-chlorians - and My Father finally answered the questions that had bothered me so much recently. I had been twisting myself in knots about going back to school and started a bible study with a group of younger women (my Monday night Ladies group has a big age gap between me and a mother of a high school graduate). With everything that was going on, I got the simplest and yet most profound answer to my questions and insecurity - it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter if I go back to school, because He will give me strength in whatever I do. It doesn't matter if I start a Bible study for young women or how we structure it (I'm leaning toward Beth Moore, other would rather just dive into the Scriptures). None of this matters. What does matter is that I am a light in this world and that I go and make disciples as I was commissioned. The how...doesn't matter. So I found my Whitespace in the middle of a crowded room with music so loud the bass changed the natural rhythm of my heart. And I have never felt so close to my God.

Sharing More Stories on being close to God in our Faith Barist JAM

Stale Faith

2011-07-22T10:18:00.003-04:00

Image by Denis Collette...!!! via Flickr

This week, Bonnie asked the question, how is God challenging you to keep faith fresh?

Well, how do you keep anything fresh? Do you lock it way in a cabinet away from light and air? No. Do you put it in a safe place where you will be able to find it when you need it, but never remember that you need it? No. Do you forget all about it in your mad dash to get your to do list done? No. In fact, those are the best ways of letting it go bad. I let my faith go bad. I let it get stale.

Faith, life in Christ, should be a living vibrant thing. With prayer and fellowship and searching the Scriptures. I know this. I've been told more than once. So it should have been fairly obvious when things started to go wrong. Unfortunately, I have this tendency to not see things that I don't want to see. Does that make sense? For example, I can ignore how messy my apartment is until I invite my friends over for dinner, then I wonder how I looked that the mess everyday without doing something about it. I just didn't look at, I didn't see it even though it was right there in front of my face.

So there it was going bad, day by day. Like that Casting Crowns song, Slow Fade. And I let it. So here I am worrying about money, about having my dearest friends over for dinner tomorrow, about how much I take and how little I give. At the same time, I am praying that God not only speak to me but clear away all the obstructions that block His message. Open my ears to hear, my eyes to see, my mind to understand and my heart. And He did.

The problem came when I did not prepare myself for an answer to my prayer. I opened myself up to the message but I have not had time to consider what He is telling me. As a result, I feel bombarded with wisdom and truth, but I can't use it. I can't make it a part of my life. Like the seed that fell on rocky soil, my Father's message (which I asked for) cannot take root within me.

I haven't sought my Lord in the morning or the evening, or worked in my Bible studies. I miss Him and I feel overwhelmed by life and my current situation. Instead of seeking Him and pouring out my heart, I have worried and fretted. So things went stale. Even writing this post - I've been trying all day. I have been consumed with the worries of this life, the lure of wealth, and the desire for other things, so no fruit is produced.

And so when this day began to fill up with disappointments and setbacks, I did not seek Him first. Instead, I tried to work through it. Until it became too much. But when you are out of practice taking your burdens to Him, with pouring out your heart, it is awkward and minimally effective.

Like any living thing, be it flower or plant, person or relationship, you have to work at faith everyday. Or it goes bad.

More thoughts on keeping faith fresh on Faith Barista this week.

He Rewards Those Who Earnestly Seek Him

2011-07-15T08:16:00.000-04:00

Image by AlicePopkorn via Flickr

Without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to Him must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who earnestly seek Him. Hebrews 11:6

So often I feel like I am not pleasing God.

Its not because I don't believe He exists. With the exception of one dark night in Aberdeen, I have always believed - firmly - in His existence. Though that one night of doubt has had lasting damage on my confidence. But believing He's here with me isn't enough.

We must also believe that He rewards those who earnestly seek Him. That one, I'm shaky on.

Lately, I have come to realize that there are things I don't ask for. There are prayers that I avoid. Because I am beginning to believe that God doesn't *want* to grant those prayers. By want, of course, I mean that He knows better than I do and in His infinite wisdom, decided not to give me what I asked for. He isn't going to give it to me so why should I bother asking. This, my dear Bonnie (and all the the others who try to encourage me that someday my prince will come), is why I make jokes about being a spinster. Because I cannot keep asking if it seems clear to me that it is not His will. It hurts to much to remember and revisit in prayer.

When I was in college, I did earnestly seek Him. I began to orient my life to Him when I left home. My family has more tradition in passive belief than active service. I sought Him in my studies, in my relationships, my dreams and my heart. That was when my writing and love for books and story began. What I found in my search was the courage not only to dream, but to leave home to follow it. I rarely stopped to consider how extraordinary it was for me to go like that with almost no fear.

Unfortunately, it didn't turn out as well as I imagined. Much of it has to do with that dark night I alluded to earlier, but also because I stopped seeking Him. At that time, I hadn't learned what to do when my Lord stopped speaking to me, or the importance of whitespace, and having people in my life. I hadn't learned that when you've finally learned one lesson, God has already started teaching you something else. I could not coast through graduate school in a foreign country on what He taught me at Tyndale. I was supposed to be learning new things.

I am only just beginning to consider that my failure in Scotland was not about whether or not I sought His counsel on going. It was due to not seeking Him daily while I was living my dream. And just because something seems clear to me that doesn't mean that its the Truth.

I must not only have faith that He is who He is, but that He will reward me in His own way when I earnestly seek Him.

For more thoughts on faith, join us at Faith Barista.

Poems are painted window panes

2011-07-13T15:38:00.000-04:00

Image via Wikipedia

I bet you didn't know that I like poetry. I do. I am an English major after all. I've even written a few of my own. Today, I found this while reading Adela Cathcart by George MacDonald. One of the characters quotes Goethe:

Poems are painted window-panes.
If one looks from the square into the church,
Dusk and dimness are his gains--
Sir Philistine is left in the lurch.
The sight, so seen, may well enrage him,
Nor any words henceforth assuage him.

But come just inside what conceals;
Cross the holy threshold quite--
All at once,'tis rainbow-bright;
Device and story flash to light;
A gracious splendour truth reveals.
This, to God's children, is full measure;
It edifies and gives them pleasure.

Endurance

2011-07-12T10:05:00.000-04:00

Image by daveparker via Flickr

Therefore, since we have been declared righteous by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Also through Him, we have obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. And not only that, but we also rejoice in our afflictions, because we know that affliction produces endurance, endurance produces proven character, and proven character produces hope. This hope does not disappoint, because God's love has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.
Romans 5:1-5 HCSB

I have been trying to read Romans slowly, devotionally, meditatively. Then, I stopped and lost my place. The other night, I was thinking about David (I am doing Seeking a Heart Like His on my own) and his psalms. How often did he cry out to God to deliver him. I have been struggling with this because I cannot cry out for deliverance in the same way. So many of the struggles and challenges I have right now are a result of my own...foolishness, selfishness, sin. How can I pray for deliverance from affliction that I have created for myself? I struggle with that alot. I was searching for the verses about "the sin within me" that sins and not me. I always think of that as shifting blame. So I was seeking that last night when I found the verses above. I was struck by the word Endurance. I was reminded that life is not a sprint or a race, its a marathon.

I am in such a hurry to live. I want a job that pays more so I have more opportunities to do more. I don't know what exactly I would do if I had the opportunity, though. I want to be a thriving, useful member of my church, but recent events at both churches have caused me to put distance between myself and a church body. I race through life, rarely enjoying the moments. No wonder I need blankspace.

The verse says that affliction produces endurance... But it feels less like endurance and more like its taking everything out of me. Instead of proven character, I seem to have a weak and whiny character who just wants things to be easy for awhile.

Last night, the Ladies at New Tampa began the study on Paul: To Live is Christ. Last night, I did the very first study. Every day, devout Jews reminded themselves of what God commanded be written upon their hearts.

Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one. Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. Deuteronomy 6: 4-9

How different would my life be if I daily reminded myself of what I must never forget and continually poured out my heart, emptying it so He can fill me up with more of Himself? Then, maybe affliction will produce endurance, and endurance proven character, and, then, most importantly of all, hope.

Struggling With Gratitude

2011-07-11T14:21:00.000-04:00

Image via Wikipedia

I read the book. I created a page. I wanted to count and be grateful. But life has a way of distracting me until I forget. But yesterday, gratitude was on my mind, as I was ignoring a message and a phone call from friends who wanted to know if I ~~wanted~~ needed a ride to church. I don't have a car so I need a ride everywhere I go. I have been lucky enough to have friends who have accepted that I am transportationally-challenged and are ready and willing to give me a ride when they want to be with me. I only think one person has ever protested and that was not because she was rejecting me and my need, but because she was feeling taken advantage of by everyone, not just me.

And I am grateful. But sometimes, I am tired of being grateful. I am tired of being in a position where I have to be grateful. I love my friends and being with them. However, I often feel like a burden to then when the have to go so far out of their way to give me a ride somewhere. How do you feel grateful when you also feel like an albatross around the necks of people you love?

My Whitespace was Blankspace

2011-07-07T09:56:00.000-04:00

Image by D.o.M.e.N.i.C.o via Flickr

June is *finally* over. Firework celebrations for me would have been about more than our heritage of independence. After a month of what we go through at work, I'd shoot off fireworks to celebrate the end of the hardest month of my year. In my current job, June is a month that takes a toll on me physically, emotionally, spiritually... Basically it pushes me to my limit in every way and sometimes beyond what I think are my limits. It also shows me how not perfect I really am. There were so many times my eyes were opened to something that sent me down on my knees - which isn't really how I usually deal with stress. I don't remember another time I have felt so drained and so not myself - except maybe last year.

Last year, my June blogging was mostly inspired by my reading of The Neverending Story and other books I was reading at the time. Last year, I just worked and went home. I didn't have my group of friends and I didn't go to church. This year, my friends and I met for our regular Friday night dinners...and a few Saturdays. One in particular began with waking up at 5 am and found me falling asleep in a chair at 12 pm while the others were in a deep discussion about something or other. Plus, one of them decided to join the choir...and decided that I need to join also - for moral support. Next thing I know, I'm practicing for a Patriotic Cantata two weeks after showing up for my first choir practice. By the time the holiday rolled around, I was in desperate need.

Bonnie's idea of Whitespace kept coming to mind. Or what Madeleine L'engle calls a circle of quiet. I wavered back and forth. I remembered a quote from Robert Falconer, "it is our best work that He wants, not the dregs of our exhaustion." But I also had to remember what I had learned about giving your best. In the end, I decided to go with Whitespace. If I'd have my way, it would have consisted of taking a road trip to the beach and sticking around for a night or two. Despite the fact that I'm only a short distance from Clearwater here on the Gulfside, I probably would have gone over to the Atlantic side. My grandparents used to take us to New Smyrna Beach all the time. That would have been my first choice. But not have a car or the financial means to do so, I went with my second choice. Blankspace. No people. No plans. Just me, rebooting, I guess. Something I have not done since I met my friends and started going to church. There was always something to do and people to do it with.

In order to do this, I had to be a bad guy. I had to make sure no one was going to show up at my door Friday night for dinner or Monday for the Fourth of July celebration I volunteered my place for. After a bunch of phone calls and text messages, all assuring my new caring, koinonia friends that everything was fine, I just needed rest - I was free for the whole 3 day weekend. Not that they didn't tell me multiple time to call if I wanted to hang out.

Want to know what I did? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I got out of bed only to lay on my couch and watch TV shows on Netflix. There was nothing on actual TV. My choice of viewing: ST Voyager and SG Atlantis [that's right, I'm one of those people]. Sometimes Numb3rs and Ghost Whisperer. But mostly Voyager and Atlantis. For some reason, I love stories about humans being put to the test, with there lives and survival on the line. I love stories about the compassion and strength of heart in human triumphing and demonstrating our difference from...whoever or whatever the "bad guys" are. I just think its great. I rested my body and my mind. And most importantly, my soul.

I was in despair, the kind where it was easier to believe that God would choose not to help me than help me. Not because He doesn't want to, but because His ways are not my ways. Well rested, I know that this may in fact be the case, but I can also surrender. Lord, if you will is not to rescue me, but to turn my life upside down instead...Then so be it. I needed a reboot to clear out all the discouragement and despair that was holding back the joy and love that I should have been experiencing.

[Which was good, because first thing Tuesday morning, a dear friend came to me after a troubling fight with her husband. If I had not found my way back through my blankspace weekend, I doubt I would have known what to say. Not that a spinster is the best person to give marriage advice, but she seemed to feel better.]

What has God been telling you in your Whitespace?

Read and share more stories from Whitespace on Faith Barista.

This is Why I Write

2011-07-06T13:47:00.000-04:00

Image by jjpacres via Flickr

When I get stressed and busy, I cannot write. I needed some form of release. So I bought a new notebook (not that I really needed yet another) and a pen (mine always seem to be running out of ink) and I started writing. I wrote 6 pages before the day was even over. I poured out my heart. All that was on my heart. Things I am usually too conscientious to say. Things I know, I mean really *know* aren't true, but seemed true at that time. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I doubt that i am a writer because too often I am empty of words to write, but you, dear readers, have told me again and again that I am a writer.

I write today, yesterday and tomorrow.
I write what was on my heart.
I write what is still on my heart.
I write what I felt.
I write what I still feel.
I write things I know aren't true.
I write lies that I am beginning to believe.
I write to remember what is actually true.
I write to heal a heart that often doesn't want to heal.
I write to remember.
I write to stop hiding.
I write to be authentic.
I write to be true.
I write about pain.
I write because I need to see the words.
I write because my fingers need to trace the words.
I write because sometimes it hurt to much not to.
I write because I am a writer - whether I believe it or not.
and it doesn't matter if no one ever reads it except the One it was written for. He read it before I ever put pen to paper.

Return to Sender

2011-06-23T11:26:00.003-04:00

Image by Sailing "Footprints: Real to Reel" (Ronn ashore) via Flickr

I am a born dreamer. As a child, I dreamed liked any other little girl. But when I was diagnosed with celiac disease, my dreaming took over. You see, before I was diagnosed, I was just sick all the time and no one knew why. But in my heart of hearts, I think I knew that whatever it was, it could kill me. I couldn't see past the present, because I wasn't certain there would be future for me. But after that lovely doctor at the University of Michigan solved the mystery, everything changed. The future opened up bright and beautiful.

I was going to William Tyndale College, surrounded by lovely Christians striving to live for Christ in this life. Amazing role models. One summer, a group of us read The Dream Giver together. Our leader thought we should do a project, a dream board of what we dream. Dreams given by our Dream Giver. Back then I was really creative. Give me an inch and I'd go to the moon and back. Others filled a poster board, I made a dream book instead. I poured over magazines, looking for images and words to portray the vibrant dreaming I had discovered. I loved to grow a page. Starting with clean whiteness, then layering on piece after piece. I love it. Its like a photo album reminding me of that rich, imaginative time in my life.

Through working on that dream book, I found many and various dreams waking in my heart. I dreamed of becoming a librarian. Standing guard over books like a precious treasure seemed like the perfect job for a bibliophile like me. Then I rediscovered a love for music - and I wanted to go to the University at Buffalo to study music librarianship. But as my dreaming grew and my discovery of adventure and possibility, I realized that it wouldn't be enough to stand over books and words like a guard at Buckingham Palace. I wanted to to part of books and words. From whence came my dream to be a writer (that and a bazaar fantasy about a fairy and a librarian fighting for the crown).

Next thing I know, I'm at the airport about to board my first transatlantic flight (after much turmoil). I remember IMing a friend from the airport (I think JFK) about how scared I was. I almost didn't get on the plane, thought I can't imagine when I would have done instead. I did get on the plane and for two and a half years, I was on a roller coaster called graduate school in Scotland. I had stars in my eyes and after my MLitt from Aberdeen, I would get my PhD from Oxford. [Big Dreamer] I would be a writer and, to pay the bills, a literature professor. But eventually, I had to come home. I was so unprepared both academically and spiritually for such an undertaking. It still feels unfinished.

I came home to family and familiar. I was empty of dreams at first. Weakened by the failure of one dissertation and the poor attempt at a second. I expected more of myself. I followed where the wind blew me and found myself in Tampa at the University of South Florida...doing accounting.

I, who live by words am wordless when...I spend 40 hours a week juggling numbers.

I don't think my dreams have ever felt more dead. I have applied to several universities for my PhD. They all denied me. For one semester, I studied Library Science, but my heart wasn't in it. Yet another left unfinished.

I question my dreams and desires. I feel guilt for my dreams and desires. I read The Journey of Desire and feel more bereft. I look over these dreams where I've hidden them away in the darkest places of my heart. They have begun to fester, always reminding me not to dream. Not to reach for the stars. I still want to be a writer and often I am encouraged to write. But sometimes, I am empty of words. I begin and my words go nowhere (like my first novel). So I pack away the dream in an ancient Hope[less] chest in my heart and wonder if I'll be able to dream again. Sometimes I wish I could mark them all "Return to Sender". [I have this song going through my mind now. When I visited this link, I had to laugh at how true the message of this song is.]

This is where I am, in a place I don't understand, wondering how to be happy (or as happy as this temporal life allows), wondering what exactly I am supposed to do with myself without a God-sized dream to lead me and give fuel to my fire.

Looking for more God-sized dreams?

I hope all of my links showed up. I had way too much fun linking my words to other things so I hope that you get more than the words on the page but also the feelings, images and (sometimes) music attached to them.