a wild splendor

What of a face?

2014-01-04T23:03:00.000-08:00

I've been looking at faces. It was a Monday night about a month ago, someone was talking, telling a story, interesting no doubt, but all I could focus on were the lines that creased her forehead, the way she looked into her lap when she laughed, self-conscious, eyebrows rising toward her hair, the nervous way a small dimple kept appearing above her lip.

What of a face? I can't help but think of those words from Gilead, that we can know one another, but there might still be nothing between us but "loyalty and love and mutual incomprehension." Mutual incomprehension. It's those words that get me, that I think of every time I get the chance to really look at someone. There are oceans between us, disparate and complex interior lives, we are separated by physical space and the limitations of individual consciousness. But with that, what of a face? Surely something can be gained here, a hazy comprehension at best. It is not without reason that we face outward, that we are creased and lined by experience and time, that our stories are written not only on the underside of our skin, in the hidden chambers, but also in the curve of our mouth, the weight and steadiness of our gaze.

We are angles and planes, curves and plinths, hewn from stone, from dust, desire is written into the tangle of our limbs, the vast spaces between atoms that make up our tenuous being. If we really looked at each other, what would we find? Could we break down some of that mutual incomprehension? I can't attempt it too often, because of the weight of it. I am too affected maybe, weak. I want to catch all the pain, all the joy, everything in between that breathes and glides, the moments that give rondure to our linear lives.

Jesus sees, reads our lines, sculpted this shape. His sight is deeper than vision, of course, pierces to where sinew meets bone, the root of the root. How deep can he go? What story does my face tell? Yours? Maybe it is only the poets among us who can read them. And I am at Keats now, "the poetry of earth is never dead." The poetry of our faces, it breathes, it glides. I watch my daughter while she sleeps, and even then, I see it.

We prepare a face, to meet the faces that we meet. I prepare a face, to meet the faces that I meet. Do I dare, and do I dare? This is our story, isn't it? The consequence of a perfect world torn asunder, veiling and unveiling in turn. I am good at it, perhaps not a master, but I pass through this world, seen and unseen.

Then there's this hymn. We sang it on this same Monday night. What you've just read, I started writing it while I sang, bent low over the notebook on my knees.

Turn your eyes upon Jesus
Look full in his beautiful face
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of his glory and grace

I wish I could have looked into his real, actual face. It is one of the deepest desires I know. To see him here, on our splintered earth, mending, redeeming, laughing, weeping. What lines creased his brow? The shape of his nose, the height of his cheekbones, the childhood scars that marked him. Why, I have often wondered, did the Gospel writers not tell us what he looked like? It would have been so easy. Could there have been a line drawing penciled in the margins of those ancient scrolls, but it did not make it into the sacred book. Too trivial, for the doubting among us, who want to see with our eyes and know with our senses.

So I'm sitting here, wondering how I can turn my eyes upon a face I have never seen. And I know it's not so literal as that, that this relationship goes deeper than sense, that I turn my eyes upon his whole person, more than a face. His face, I can imagine; his character, I know. But a glimpse, a glimpse of something seen. The longing rings out like a sustained note, like a strangled sigh, a knot at the base of my throat, a bell at my ribcage.

God Incarnate. What in the world did you look like?

The mutual incomprehension, I have never fully breached it with anyone else, but with him, I wonder if it would have disappeared. His face, the question and the answer, unveiled and unveiling, seen and seeing. Would I have lived to tell the tale, or burned right up, soot and cinder, ashes and poetry? It's a valid question, I think.

It is Good

2013-10-29T08:47:00.001-07:00

"Pursue some path, however narrow and crooked, in which you can walk with love and reverence."

-Thoreau

Sometimes a sentence is laid down letter by letter. It is an arrow, pointed, sharp, stretching toward utility. Sometimes a life is laid down letter by letter. It is an arrow, pointed, sharp, stretching toward reverence.

A sentence can bend at the break, and so can a life. Words can submit and fall, do the bidding of the hand that crafts them. A life too, can tremble and quake, submit and fall, in joy or in desperation and grasping.

I love sentences, words like filament, and I love this life. I bend them at the transition; I bend at the waist, the knee. I work with the tools of my trade, I have ink on my fingertips, beneath my nails. The evidence of my faults is written in my creases, the toothed grains that have collected in all of my edges. They broke off from someplace.

When it comes down to it, I wonder if I do not know how to live, do not want to live. I know the things that spark, that propel me toward the water to cool my burning skin, my flaming eyes. Yet I run. I play cat and mouse. I am a child striking sticks when the burning bush is flaming at my feet. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. As if it is all a show.

Only glance out the windows. I spend most of my day trapped inside, so for me, the windows are the thing. The natural world is practiced in extravagance, in heaping wild civility upon wild civility, in the great giving. I hold on to this, take it up in both arms, let it take root and expand. Maybe trees will grow from the palms of my hands, I can carry them with me and never forget that goodness is real, abundance is promised, that God is near.

I close my eyes in church, the music a pressure and a release; I see his hands, and universes are spiraling from his fingertips. Wouldn't it be good if I got to know this place where my feet have been planted? This far-flung planet of ours, whirling around an invisible axis at over a thousand miles an hour. It is a wonder we haven't flown right off. I've heard the rumors—turn it up a few notches and we're all goners. Is this love then, that we are arcing through space at impossible speeds, yet are held fast, roots twining down to the very center, he will not let go. I too, should become practiced in this kind of extravagance, this great and ebullient giving.

Thoreau set out alone to live deliberately, to learn what this brined and thorned world had to teach. Living is so dear, he said. Living is so dear. Should I say it again? To myself, to you? There is no other life, only this one unraveling before us, a clockwork of days, unpracticed, elusive, ephemeral. We are gone in an instant, carried across the threshold into eternity, I don't think we get a second chance at this. It is good to be alive, I have whispered in my daughter's ear as she sleeps. It is good, it is good, it is good. I have clung to the thread of hopelessness, been on the wrong side of a loosed anchor. And still I can say it is good, it is good to be alive. She stirs beneath my whispering. I pray that she hears me.

I will lay out this life, letter by letter. My arrow is small, I might need a microscope to see it. But it is sharp, stretching upward toward reverence, speeding toward the things that flame. And the man behind the curtain? Pay attention to him. He is real, he is good, he is just, he upholds and restores. And if it is just a show, preposterous entertainment for the masses, well, he sure can tell one hell of a story. And I love a good story.

It's Been Quiet Here

2013-09-11T21:09:00.000-07:00

I didn't intend to stay away for so long. But time snowballs, it piles up, it runs in circles around me. Has it really been over two months since I posted?

Summer has been long and hot and all kinds of overwhelming. It is typically my favorite season, sometimes I think I am made for summer. But this time around, I'm relieved it's almost over. I need a slower pace, space to think, time to write. I want to step outside and never come in.

At the beginning of July, I woke up one morning and was startled by my own loneliness, naked and stark. It sprung up from the earth fully grown, a solid apparition. I've been staring it down, decoding it, trying to unmoor it. These have been the moments of grace (one of these days I'll actually get in a photo).

Have I spent the last few years scarcely seeing? Or perhaps all of my life. Because every morning and evening I am alarmed by the sky. Something within me heaves and erupts. How did I miss this? A couple evenings a week at least, we get out to watch the sun descend. It's difficult to find a place with an unobstructed view without driving too far, but I try. It's a revelation, every time. We sit on a hill and I am a tightly wound spindle, thread pulled taut. The red flickers and expands. The sky was a muted blue, and now it is on fire, filling every crevice and empty space, burgeoning and full. I am being unwound, a tremulous unfurling. This is home.

I've spent the summer reading a lot of Annie Dillard and Madeleine L'Engle. This book is a constant companion. And this is one of the best things I read on the internet. It awakened something I worked hard to lull to sleep. It is good, searing.

I am stretching my fingers and leaning into this season. Loneliness does not have to be an enemy. I am hoping my best work will come from this place of transition, of discovery. I am praying for bravery, for the courage to step outside of what I know, to take risks, expand and stretch thin, make something beautiful of the small roundness of my life.

Thank you for walking with me. I will be back soon. The hiatus is over (I hope!)

Space at the Table

2013-06-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

On June 19, I read this apology to the gay community from Alan Chambers, the founder of Exodus International. He acknowledged that the reparative therapy Exodus has championed is potentially harmful, and doesn’t work. He admitted that even his own same-sex attractions have not disappeared. Shortly after, the “ex-gay” ministry announced they were closing their doors.

And then yesterday, along with most Americans, I heard the news that the Supreme Court had struck down DOMA, the Defense of Marriage Act. They also dismissed the Proposition 8 case, which means gay couples can begin marrying again in the state of California.

I know this is a divisive issue. For some people, Christians especially, it is confusing and bewildering, emotions run high and many of us are just trying to figure out what in the world Jesus would do. I can’t answer that with any definitive certainty, and I won’t claim that I can. I do know that we have said some terrible things in the name of God. I know that people have been hurt and ostracized and too many teenagers have put guns in their mouths, jumped off of bridges and swallowed handfuls of pills because they were rejected and pushed out, because they tried to change and found that they could not, because shame hounded them and we piled it on. I know that there is an entire group of people that have been made to feel as if they are second-class citizens, like they do not deserve the same protections under our laws because of their sexuality and who they choose to love.

I don’t know the answers. But I do know that I celebrate today. I celebrate with my gay brothers and sisters. You are a person. You matter. And your sexuality does not define you, should not determine whether or not you can visit your spouse in the hospital, parent or adopt a child, file joint tax returns, or receive federal benefits. I celebrate with you. I know that you are not gay because of your childhood, because of absent fathers or overbearing mothers, because it was too perfect or because it was terrible and scarring. I won’t tell you to close your eyes and pray to Jesus to make you straight. I know it doesn’t work that way. So many people have been hurt, deeply wounded. I’m sorry.

There is space at the table for you. Please, come, sit down, let’s raise our glasses. The Kingdom of heaven is near.

I know that I will get many things wrong in my life. I already have. I try to temper my strong opinions with good sense, to work them out in some kind of community, but even still, I will be wrong. I will make mistakes, errors of judgment, and I pray that I have the grace to apologize when it happens. But this, reaching out my hands, acknowledging that we are equals, that we love out of hearts formed by the same magnificent God, I can see no wrong in it.

So yes, there is space at the table for you. God does not “hate the gays”, he certainly does not hate you. Please, come, sit down, let’s raise our glasses. The Kingdom of heaven is near.

I’ve thought about this so much. It’s kept me up at night, poring over my Bible, reading and reading. I’ve written about it at length, so many pages, ruminating, turning it over. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know why I have felt so invested. I don’t know why I cried when I heard the news yesterday morning, or why this feels like a downright personal struggle. I’m not gay. I don’t have a lot of gay friends. Maybe it’s because you’re on the fringe, because my heart is on the margins, and you have been marginalized. Maybe it’s because I feel like I need to apologize for my own misconceptions and judgments and the ways I’ve been misinformed and afraid and thoughtless.

Whatever it may be, I’m glad you’re here, I’m glad you can get married now, that this important civil liberty has been extended in your direction. I don’t think the fact that you’re gay is destroying the moral fabric of America, or any fabric really. We don’t begin and end with our sexuality. We are more than who we are attracted to. You are a whole person, a beautiful person, God-breathed and sustained by grace. He loves you. He wants to know you.

I know that some of you are faithful Christians who love Jesus with your whole heart, who along with the rest of us, are working out your salvation with fear and trembling. Yet you feel excluded, judged. I know some of you don’t believe at all, don’t want to believe, and maybe that’s our fault. Whatever the case, I will say it again, because it’s true—there is space at this table for you. We will make room. I will make room. He has made room. Please, sit down, breathe deep, you are loved.

In Which I Remember

2013-06-25T09:21:00.002-07:00

I did something strange on Saturday. I've been wanting to do it all year, as a revisiting, stepping back over a past threshold.

I went back to the place where I was married five years ago. Diana was asleep in the car, so I couldn't wander too far, but I sat on a low stone wall and looked out over the small lake where we said our vows.

I didn't cry. It wasn't a great release or a terribly cathartic experience. It was quiet and sad and my hands shook a little. I closed my eyes and the memories rose like fog, shadow and ghost. That day five years ago became a part of me; it was a turning point, a great threshold, it is a memory that persists like longing.

It's good that I went back. I will probably go once more, this time alone, because there is so much I need to release. I am better, so much better, than I was a year ago, but I know that the healing is not finished (are we ever finished?), that there is still work to be done. Part of that work is in the reliving, the task of going backwards, acknowledging the past, breathing it in and finally, breathing it out, releasing it.

My divorce, this painful chapter of my life, is begging for some ritual attention. I've thought about it a lot this past year, the fact that there is no formal ceremony, no commemoration, to mark the end of a marriage, the loss of love. It's a fraught desire, because no, I don't want a large gathering of people and a sermon and a funeral. But surely, there is something that can be done, a closure, an acknowledgment of grief, that something, although not a person, has died.

The going back to the place we said our vows was a part of that. It's why I will go back again.

How do you mark the beginnings and endings of the lifetimes that unfold within your life? How would you describe the different selves you've been across the years? Have you gone through or are you anticipating a change that could benefit from some ritual attention? How might you set aside a time, alone or with friends, in order to remember and to mark the passage; to name who you have been and who are becoming?

-Jan L. Richardson, from In the Sanctuary of Women

When I read that passage last week, it validated much of what I have written in my own journals about this time period, about the expectations that have been disappointed in my life. There is tremendous value in remembering. Ritual validates our experiences, their importance in shaping our personhood, our past, present and future selves.

Part of my ritual will be dispelling the memories, acknowledging them. I just read A Severe Mercy, and for those of you that have read it, perhaps you too are reminded of Sheldon's "Illumination of the Past", his process of remembrance, dispelling memory, after his wife Davy dies. He goes through all of their old journals, travels back through the years, immerses himself in it. Will it look the same for me? I don't know. I do know that whatever it looks like, it will be essential for my wholeness, my peace, will hopefully prevent me from becoming a hardened, skeptical cynic. I fear I am well on my way.

So what I've kept rolled up tight, I'm feeling ready to let it all unfurl, to go there with Him. And you know, I'm thankful for all of it, for the story I carry, for what you carry, for the tremendous beauty of our ordinary lives. To live is a gift. To look at another human face, individual and distinct, so completely separate from me yet the result of the same great imagination, it is a miracle of the highest order, isn't it?

We each carry something. Every one of us, we are storytellers. I want to tell my own story well. I want to live this one life I'm given well, in whatever season, in darkness or in light. It's worth it, and I don't want to die a cynic.

Non-Writing Writer?

2013-06-21T22:52:00.000-07:00

All I'm doing is deleting. I had grand plans this month, to blog twice a week at minimum, three times a week and I'd be really awesome. I failed at that, obviously. I have close to ten half-written ramblings typed into my computer, even more in my notebook. I just deleted most of them; I'm tempted to rip a few pages out of my notebook, flush them, shred them, something.

I don't know what it is, but I seem incapable of producing anything worthwhile these days. I was full of ideas at the beginning of the month, really, just brimful. But when it comes time to actually sit down and get it out, translate what is in my head into actual language, all I get is a pile of shitty, unreadable first drafts. I hate first drafts. I barely have time to write, let alone to edit.

I feel like a non-writing writer. Is that even possible?

I guess I'll start over. I'm no good at keeping track of the small details that make up a life, to-do lists and all that jazz. I misplace things regularly and in some ways, am about as far from a Type A personality as you can get. But I do really, really care about this little writing space of mine, about the ideas and the stories and the opinions I am carrying. This matters to me, and I want to do it well.

I don't know that this post has a real point, except to say that I'm still out here, working on moving from non-writing writer to always-writing writer, even if it means a pile of first drafts for the trash pile. It's all progress, right?

So hey, if you know me and feel up to it, make sure I'm writing. Ask me about it. Be really mean about it if you want to. You won't hurt my feelings. There's nothing like a bit of pressure to get the mind whirring, the hands moving.

And here's to starting over, to making new plans. I'll get this figured out one of these days, hopefully very soon.

Blessed are the Peacemakers

2013-06-04T16:05:00.000-07:00

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

Matthew 5:9

Extending my hands and blessing the peacemakers today, those who sow peace in ravaged places, dark places, where the violence and the discord run deep, color the earth red.

They are there, in the tumult, where disorder rules, our egos stark and infernal; mine touches yours and it glitters and sparks and this may start a fire, a maelstrom to blot out the dawn. Their hands are in the fray, in the fissures where kindness slips and falls headlong, where pride is easy and love is hard.

To sow peace is to sow righteousness. To love peace is to love holiness. And I kneel low in this tabernacle heart of mine, this jar of clay reliquary of the holy, and I pray for peace in the world, for the wars that tear apart nations, for the blood spilled in the name of ego, of territory. It's lofty of me, isn't it?

But the root of bitterness is small, and it fans outward, climbs high like ivy, clings and adheres. We must shear it, begin at the beginning, with ourselves, myself.

I am doing the work of peace today, this week, hopefully for all of my life. I am severing the bitter roots, and it's hard work, it's humbling work, and most days I don't feel up to the task. But I long for peace on this earth, in my own relationships. And to you peacemakers who aren't afraid of the dark—your own or that of this whole, wide world—can I just bless you, child of God? Because what you do matters. The work of reconciling, uniting, crossing divides, holding out your hands to disparate peoples, warring families, working even on the breaches in your own life.

And it really does begin here, with my own ravaged, dark places, where my violence and the discord run deep, color my very own earth red, this soil of the soul. And He himself is our peace, my peace, he tears down the dividing walls, triumphs over contention, frees us up to extend mercy. I want the world to know, I want it to ring loud, a truth to free the oppressed because the oppressor himself is set free.

And so I will be a peacemaker. I am a peacemaker. And I begin today.

It Just Is

2013-05-30T09:57:00.001-07:00

"Guess who I been thinkin' about? Casy! He talked a lot. Used ta bother me. But now I been thinkin' what he said, an' I can remember—all of it. Says one time he went out in the wilderness to find his own soul, an' he foun' he didn' have no soul that was his'n. Says he foun' he jus' got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain't no good, 'cause his little piece of a soul wasn't no good 'less it was with the rest, an' was whole. Funny how I remember. Didn't even think I was listenin'. But I know now a fella ain't no good alone." -Tom, from The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)

I’m thinking about community, about friendship, about abandoning the periphery, leaving the sidelines every once in a while. Thinking about being a friend, having a friend, quitting loneliness and isolation, opening up to the communal, the common, the linked hands, one body, shared glory of the Kingdom.

It is an open-handed, open-hearted kind of thing. It is a sacrificial kind of thing. It is a journey to the center of self, to the center of others, to the center of him. It is intentional and a bit awkward, I bristle and sweat beneath it, and I swear I’m shedding skin over here.

I’m in my late twenties and I still feel socially awkward. This can’t be normal. I treasure my solitary pursuits and I’m afraid that fully embracing community entails abandoning those, if not entirely at least in part. I’m terrible at checking voicemails and returning phone calls. Sometimes I really don’t feel like talking, I’d rather just listen to you, or listen to those people over there I don’t even know, or trace the shape of the passing clouds on my daughter’s open hand.

Sometimes I talk too much and I’m afraid if I don’t stop no one will ever want to sit by me again. But someone asked me about writing, or empowering women and girls, or Harry Potter and now I can’t shut up. Seriously. Seriously. I am not good at this. Extend a little grace as I figure it out?

It was easy in college, even for me. It was all communal living, shared spaces and activities. There was minimal effort, just show up. If I needed alone time, I stepped outside, took a walk, picked up a book and erected my invisible wall. It was the the quiet lapping of ocean water at my feet, the initial cold at first a sharp discomfort, but I could wade in as quickly, or as slowly, as I wanted.

These days, it feels a bit like all or nothing. It takes a lot more effort, and most of the time I feel

like I’m failing at this community thing, a round peg in a square hole, my edges don’t match up, am I really made for this?

Yes, yes. I need you. I know I need you. I couldn’t have made it through without you. And sometimes the loneliness looms large like a sea swell, and there are days we all need a hand to hold, a prayer whispered over our lowered head, to laugh until we ache together.

I wish it was still easy, but these days, connection takes work. Sure, there have been a few people in my life who I’ve met, and there were never any walls at all. We were soul-sisters, quickly. You get me. I get you. Let’s skip everything that comes in between and lay on the concrete under this night sky, counting stars and naming birds. But those people don’t come around too often, not for me anyway. I’m terrible (terrible) at small talk, but we have to begin somewhere, right? It’s uncomfortable and a little bit like stiff new clothes, but it’s the beauty of all of our humanity intersecting, my sharp edges bumping up against yours, you’re telling me your story, and it’s beautiful and rich and I’m so thankful to know you, that you are here.

This weekend, I sat with my pastor and friend Cory and I talked long and circular about the books handwritten in spiral notebooks in my garage and the books swirling like ether in my head. We talked about birthing words like birthing children, and we wondered why war metaphors make me squirm. I took my toddler to the bathroom, she strapped helmets on little boys’ heads, deft hands avoiding delicate skin, and we walked too far and got too sweaty.

It’s in the big; it’s in the small. Friendship is forged in the mundane, sharpened by circumstance, strengthened by difficulty. It’s in the showing up, the reaching out and up and in. My darkness is dark, I shrink back so that no one will see it. But it is your listening ear, the weight of your steady, unflinching gaze that presses the darkness up against the sky, stretches it thin, shatters it like a pane of glass, and oh Jesus, is that light breaking through?

Can we be this to one another? Can we figure this out together? I’m a clumsy friend, I’m probably too sarcastic and I swear too much. But I also love to listen, I love to pray, and I really want to hear your story. Let’s look to heaven together, wonder together, embrace one another. It’s not all wild and romantic and spiritual, it just is.

(And I really love this song. Community is so good for me).

Ho Hey by The Lumineers on Grooveshark

the words don't come easy (but let's do it anyway)

2013-05-21T15:29:00.001-07:00

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”

Jack Kerouac

Let’s run after the fading light, my dear. Grab your bike, I’ve got your shoes, let me find my sunglasses, because the glare glints and gleams and I might be too blinded to notice you fall. Do you see the way the sun is drooping low, skimming the earth? We are surrounded by brown stucco houses, ringed in by mountains, and from where we stand we cannot see the horizon lines. But they are out there, and the sun is slipping below, lighting up the southern hemisphere even as we are met by darkness.

I think, my darling, this might be my favorite time of day. Walking with you, watching the light sharpen then fade, the streets half-clothed in dusk—these are the small miracles that sustain me. You’re really excited about your bike today. Except that you insist on riding it down the highest part of the curb, over and over again, and you keep falling off. Your knees are all scraped up, but you must not mind, because you keep doing it. Where can I find this kind of courage, persistence? Can you teach me how to keep trying?

The other kids are going inside. There are goosebumps on your legs, the cool breeze is lifting my hair. But let’s stay out a little while longer. Do you mind? I didn’t think so. This evening, it belongs to us, and it’s fine that you don’t want to hold my hand, that you’d rather run ahead. I’ll carry your bike; this is exactly why I bought the lightest one I could find. My arms are thin, the hills get steep.

I’ve been feeling uninspired lately. The words don’t come easy. I wish that creativity was simple, always flowing like a clear river. But it is complicated, and today, this week, it is a muddied river, full and polluted, being forced through a narrow inlet. But I see clear seas ahead, and you know how I crave open spaces, the wide, wide earth, fierce and wild and free.

I am searching for my voice in the tumult, fighting the impulse to compare, to measure up, to be someone I am not. I love words. I am not alive unless I am creating something with words. I am gathering up ideas, I am laying them out in the sun to dry, because some of them are like crumpled scraps of paper, sopping wet and weighty. They need air, to be seen in the light, examined. But sorting through it all is difficult; it is work I am afraid of, intimidated by.

So I begin here, with the sacred everyday, the mundane and the common and the beautiful holy. The evening light, a slow bike ride, your lengthening curls and the way we bend to examine the rocks in the cracks of the sidewalk. I begin with what I know, who I know.

Creativity will never be as straightforward as I wish it was. It is less like a fully-stocked pantry and more like manna, enough for today. Sometimes it is compulsion, I could just write and never stop, and sometimes it is labor, hard work that I push through because if I don’t, I am not alive. So come alive with me, why don’t you? What awakens you, rises like the morning within you? Let’s feel again.

What I'm Into

2013-05-07T12:20:00.001-07:00

What I Read

If you read my last What I'm Into post, you might remember that Wuthering Heights was on my "currently reading" list. You might also notice that it's not mentioned below. No joke, I've attempted to read that book three times over the past few years and I never finish it. I don't know what it is, but I never get past page 50. It puts me to sleep. Oh well, maybe next year.

A Year of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans- From what I understand, there was quite a bit of controversy/debate surrounding this book when it released. For what it's worth, I found it an engaging, thought-provoking, and worthwhile read. Rachel doesn't make a mockery of the Bible, as she's been accused of (although I wonder if those accusers even read the book?). She delves into a lot of subjects I'd like to explore more, probably here on this blog one day soon—the use of the word "biblical" as an adjective for one, how it applies to womanhood especially. This is what the entire book is about, presumably—the ways in which we choose to apply that word, how our cultural context and that of the Bible inform that, and ultimately, what it means for us as women, today, right now.

Half the Sky: Turning Oppression Into Opportunity for Women Worldwide by Nicholas D. Kristof & Sheryl WuDunn- I could write pages and pages about this book. It was a God-interruption. I am forever changed. I wish every human being, every Christian, would read it.

The Road of Lost Innocence by Somaly Mam- It's difficult to know what to say about this book. It is one of the most difficult I have ever read. At times I couldn't breathe, it was all so heavy. It is a good, good book, a necessary one, but even saying that is hard because the subject matter is so heartbreaking, so dark. Somaly tells her own story of being orphaned, passed around, sold to a Cambodian brothel as a young girl, her life there, her escape, her determination to rescue other girls. Her story, the stories of the other girls, they will change you. And Somaly is a light, an incredible and brave woman.

Undaunted by Christine Caine- I read this because I wanted to hear more about Christine's ministry, the A21 Campaign. She tells some of her own story, and the story of A21. It is inspiring, challenging, a call to action.

Home by Toni Morrison- This is her newest novel, released earlier this year. Toni Morrison is easily one of our best living writers, and has been a favorite of mine for a long time, but this book fell short for me. Beautifully written, of course. I don't think she could write bad prose if she tried, and I'd give an appendage for a measly ounce of her talent. But her novels usually stay with me, for weeks sometimes, but this one hasn't. Maybe it's because I'm comparing it to Sula and Song of Solomon, but I can't help that. I'll probably revisit it again next year, see what I glean from a second reading.

Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison- This was actually the first Toni Morrison book I ever read, back in ninth grade, upon the recommendation of my English teacher. It has stayed me with all these years, and I'm so glad I reread it this month. It deserves an entire Master's thesis, not this tiny paragraph I'm giving it. The writing is suberb; sometimes it left me breathless with its beauty, its clarity. The characters are brilliantly imagined. I think Pilate is one of the most intriguing characters in all of literature. President Obama said this book taught him "how to be," and I get that. I really get that.

Currently Reading

A Mercy by Toni Morrison
The Bottom Billion: Why the Poorest Countries are Failing and What Can Be Done About It by Paul Collier
The Prophetic Imagination by Walter Brueggemann
Protecting the Gift: Keeping Children & Teenagers Safe (and Parents Sane) by Gavin de Becker

In My Ears

Listening to a lot of Waterdeep, Enter the Worship Circle and United Pursuit this month. Absolutely love this song. Enter the Worship Circle has a lot of albums, but I've been enjoying Chair & Microphone Vol. 3 the most.

Also, I've heard this song more than any human being should ever have to. Every time we get in the car, Diana asks for "apples," which means she wants to hear the "apple song." We play it over and over and over again; if I try for another song, she screams for "apples!!" Multiply 2 minutes by a forty minute drive twice a week. Yeah, waaaaay too much.

On My Television

Why do I even include this section? I don't think I watched any TV this month. There are a few shows I'd like to catch up on, I just haven't made time for it. Shows on my list to catch up on: Grey's Anatomy, Bones, Once Upon a Time, Call the Midwife. Maybe this month :)

What I'm Looking Forward To

I'm taking the Friday of Memorial Day weekend off from work, so I will have four days off! I'm still deciding how we'll spend the long weekend. I'd like to take Diana to the zoo, and if I can save some money, maybe to Sea World.

And, I know it's still quite a few months away, but I am also looking forward to the release of Sarah Bessey's first book. This is the only time I've ever considered pre-ordering a book.

Other Favorite Things

Can I recommend this TED talk to you? It is worth your time, especially in light of Steubenville, and stories like this, and this absolutely horrific one. There are no easy solutions, I know this. But we each play a part in our communities, here and abroad. There is something we can do, man or woman, to stand up against rape culture and gender-based violence against women and children. It happens too often, there is unspeakable suffering, and although I am still figuring out what I can do, I can't stand by idle anymore. Anyway, take a listen. Pass it along to the men in your life.

My favorite blog post this month came from Rachel Held Evans—Why Progressive Christians Should Care About Abortion.

Also found this wonderful little infographic:

I'm a big fan of the Myers-Brigg test. It's helped me understand myself and others a bit better. This sums me up pretty well, although it does leave out how I'm always running late.

My Little One

She turned two this month!! Here are a few pictures of this little doll


Little tea drinker

What are YOU into this month, my friends? I'd love to hear all about it

Friday Link Up

2013-05-03T08:20:00.001-07:00

These are some of my favorite reads around the internet these past two weeks. Grab a cup of coffee (or tea) and enjoy!

In Which I Have Circles of Friendship-And a Lobster by Sarah Bessey

Why Progressive Christians Should Care About Abortion by Rachel Held Evans

Fourteen and Sexually Screwed Up by Grace Biske for Prodigal Magazine

"We need to consider these devastating realities and to learn to care and advocate for all our "sexually screwed up" kids. We need to learn to tend to those, like me, whose world has shattered. Can we stop telling kids to "save themselves" for marriage without considering that they may have already had sex stolen from them? When we don't do this we unnecessarily burden them. Can we bring up sex in other contexts besides when we want to say how pre-marital sex is displeasing to the Lord?"

Ask Jennifer Knapp (Response) Q&A hosted over at Rachel Held Evans' place

The Stories I Read to My Children by Katherine Willis Pershey for A Deeper Family

Karl Barth's 3 Aphorisms on Doubt by Derek Rishmawy

"But in the face of his doubt, even if it be the most radical, the theologian should not despair. Doubt indeed has its time and place. In the present period no one, not even the theologian, can escape it. But the theologian should not despair, because this age has a boundary beyond which again and again he may obtain a glimpse when he begs God, “Thy Kingdom Come!”

The Gospel in Her Home: True Beauty by Tiffany Valdez

Why I Write: A Story in 3 Parts by Adam Walker Cleaveland for A Deeper Story

At Least One Person Waiting by Jonathan Martin for She Loves Magazine

A Letter to My Daughter, On Marriage by Caris Adel

No, the love I wish for you is an inefficient partnership. The one that knows it will take decades to know and know again, know anew, the person that you are. An inefficient partner who is willing to submit to the slow process himself, showing his own wounds and weaknesses, even though he is told not to. I want an emotional man for you, even though he is told men are simply logical.I want someone who knows himself well enough to know what hides behind his walls, but who loves you enough to sacrifice his pride so you can join him behind it. And I hope you are just as willing to have him hide with you behind yours when it’s a season of hiding.

The (real life) Dictionary Definition of "Mother" by Lisa Jo Baker

10 Beautiful Words About Love That Don't Exist in English at Urbandud

The Mother Wound at Mama Unabridged

You may have heard about the “trolley problem” – a nifty thought experiment that forces you to consider whether you would sacrifice a life that is dear to you in order to save the lives of many others. This used to be an interesting philosophical problem to mull over; now there is no mystery. My heartfelt apologies to anyone on that imaginary trolley, but I would save my son. Always, always, I would choose to save my son.

On Being an Observer

2013-05-02T14:44:00.001-07:00

I have been an observer as long as I can remember. As a young kid in elementary school, I fought my temperament, did the whole "fitting in" thing, but even at recess, I was always more comfortable on the sidelines, watching first, then engaging.

I remember the first time I saw Harriet the Spy. Does anyone else remember this quintessential 90s Nickelodeon movie? While I had no desire to be a spy in that sense (I would make an abysmal detective), I loved Harriet and her notebook, how she carried it everywhere, scribbled things down. And while I'm sure the contents of her childhood notebook and my own would be drastically different, I found a kindred spirit in her character.

I carried around notebooks. I looked out the windows when we were driving on the freeway and imagined the stories of the people in the cars next to us. I watched people at restaurants, walking through the mall, tried to figure out how they were related, would go home and write down their descriptions, create narratives, write down what I'd heard, what I'd seen, what I'd imagined. I spent hours creating stories, most of them unfinished, writing dialogue, practicing practicing practicing.

I'm reminded of a quote by Anne Lamott, from her book Bird by Bird:

"I took notes on the people around me, in my town, in my family, in my memory. I took notes on my own state of mind, my grandiosity, the low self-esteem. I wrote down the funny stuff I overheard. I learned to be like a ship's rat, veined ears trembling, and I learned to scribble it all down."

I've lost a lot of this as I've grown up. Partly because an adult carrying around notebooks and scribbling everywhere she goes isn't as charming as a child doing it. But that's not the whole story. I've lost my penchant for observation. In most social settings, I'm still content on the sidelines. But now, I'm distracted, nervous, self-conscious. Out of boredom, out of fear of what others think of me because I'm sitting alone, I reach for my iPhone. Every time.

And this isn't a post about making myself, or you, feel guilty for looking at your phone too much. Not at all. It's about writing, about how essential it is to be an observer in order to be a writer, especially a writer of fiction (and oh, I've felt the fiction writing itch overwhelming me lately. It's a good, good feeling).

This is a resolution I'm sure many of us have made, at some point or another, for varying reasons. Put down the phone. For me, it's because there are stories practically beating at my ribcage within me, waiting to be told. There is so much I want to write, but I know I cannot write it all if I am not an expert observer of humanity. All of my favorite writers, they are masters at dialogue, at capturing the nuance of conversation, describing the idiosyncrasies that make us human, individual. I think of Steinbeck's Samuel Hamilton, who draws pictures of beautiful things, like trees and rivers, on the corners of his blueprints. Or Toni Morrison's Pilate, who is always chewing on something, a stick or a piece of string or the seed from a fruit eaten hours before. Gatsby and his "old sport," Holden Caulfield's "phony."

These small details, they matter—and I don't want to miss them. They originate in the real, living world around me, are invigorated by imagination, characters are born.

So next time I have a long wait for my coffee at Starbucks, instead of pulling out my phone, I will open my eyes. I will look outward, not down. I'll take in the humanity surrounding me, complicated and rich and just rife with story. I'll listen to the voices, follow the narrative like a golden thread, and maybe, just maybe, pull out a notebook and scribble down what I see, what I hear, what I imagine is happening beneath the surface.

Just don't ask to read my notebooks. Chances are you won't understand a word.

A Letter To My Two-Year Old

2013-04-29T08:24:00.000-07:00

Dearest Diana,

They’ve rushed by us like the wind, haven’t they? These past two years, towering behind us. I’ve tried to stand in the center of it all, directly in the bullseye of experience, to feel that wind swirl around me, to lift my face and let it carry me high.

You are a wonder. Have I told you that lately? I hope so. I hope that I tell you every day, beginning now, until I am gray and you are carrying your own child on your hip. I love the way your curls fall across your forehead. They are an exclamation point, they punctuate every emotion, I am won over before you even begin. I love when you reach for my hand when we walk up the stairs. You are always careful about choosing a finger. Some days your prefer the index finger. Lately you have wanted my ring finger, usually on my left hand. Maybe, even that, is God’s redemption. Do you know that finger carries significance for me, that I used to wear a diamond ring there?

When you were born, I thought I might overflow so completely that there would be nothing of me left. I mean really, I just spilled out. It didn’t matter that you were small, that I had imagined mother love as a fenced-in thing, something I could order and control. Your smallness contained God’s majesty—you were spark and you were light and it was midday when you came but it felt like dawn. Maybe it’s ingrained in our double X chromosomes, but the love rose like high tide, fierce and protective and so tender I was afraid of breaking your tiny body, all five pounds of you, feather-light but everything in me pouring out to enclose you.

I was watching you yesterday. We were outside and I was sitting on the steps, you were running through the yard, picking up rocks and pulling up handfuls of grass. You still run as if your legs were brand new, clumsy and distracted; you’re not sure which way you want to go. Maybe the neurons are firing too quickly, your legs are too small to contain it all. It is that sacred childhood innocence, the joy in what I have called mundane, but you have called beautiful and brand-new. It brings me to my knees, the way you can find that tiny speck of glitter on my arm, the little cactus growing on the hill behind our house, or the pool of water filled with rocks that borders the park. You always pull me towards these small miracles, “Mom, Mom, Mom,” and sometimes I’m dragged. You ask me to join in your wonder, to exclaim, so that you can show me the way the cactus pricks your finger when you touch it, the way the water is murky at the bottom beneath the rocks. And the glitter on your arm, Mom, see the way it catches the sunlight? Yes, Baby, I see, I see. It catches and it lands, right there, the glimmer in your eyes.

I know that our life is not ideal. There is a lot I wish I could change, for myself, for you. Sometimes I am afraid. I am afraid of the future, I am afraid of your hurts, that my love is not big enough, my wisdom not deep enough. But the sufficiency of God stills me, grounds me, reminds me that he is enough, and to hell with this ideal life I’ve imagined. Because he is glorified in our weakness, and what is within matters more than what I can see, what I can touch.

You are only two, a baby, a girl. But you are becoming right before me. The pants you wore two months ago are too short now, when I ask you about the moon, you point at the sky, and you can recognize the color red on your sandals. It sounds incredibly cliché, even trite (and perhaps it’s a cliché because it’s true), but where has the time gone? You have grown up so fast, from five to twenty-two pounds in ten seconds flat.

These first two years together, I hope they are the beginning of a friendship, that I can not only call you daughter, but friend, companion of my soul. Maybe we will enjoy the same things, have similar hobbies. Or maybe we will be as different as night and day. Perhaps you will be one of those rare people who can bring out the wildly expressive, outgoing part of me. I hope that we can read books together. Maybe you’ll love Steinbeck and Wordsworth and Harry Potter as much as I do, and we can stay up late and talk about it all.

I’ll talk to you about boys and about sex, about friendship and gossip, about bullies and the power of our words, about guarding your heart and standing up for the downtrodden. We’ll kneel together, lift our hands together, and oh, sweet girl, I’ll talk to you about our beautiful God, about his redemptive power, the gospel that rescues us both, this narrative of grace—it is our DNA, and we are sustained by Him.

This love is deep, this love is high, this love is wide. It goes on and on and on. It is far from fenced-in; I can't imagine it will ever end.

I am proud, thankful, delighted to be your mother. My life is richer because you are in it. You are the goodness of God towards me; I pray that I can be the same for you. I know that I will make mistakes. I have already made quite a few. My motherhood is imperfect. But together, we serve a perfect God who will carry us, who even now, is carrying us—further up and further in. I am excited to be on this journey with you, beautiful daughter.

Happy Birthday.

Love,
Mama

I Can Do Hard Things

2013-04-24T11:25:00.000-07:00

Words like these have carried me through entire days. On those particularly difficult mornings or afternoons, when the hollow loneliness catches up to me, when I'm reminded of the reality of this past year, the past five years, they are like a salve, an invitation to keep going, in faith, clinging to peace.

Because it is hard. There is nothing kind about divorce. It is sharp and unyielding; it burrows into you, into the sacred spaces, the parts you believed were safe. I have felt like a teenager again, all of the angst and the confusion, the bitter bitter sting of rejection and insecurity and exposure.The grace of God is certainly here, his kindness is all around me. He is the giver of beauty, and he has not stopped giving. But it's hard. It's so hard I want to scream. Sometimes I do scream. And I ask a lot of questions. A lot of "Why me?" and "Why does life have to be so unfair?" and "Will it ever get better?"

I can say this: I am getting better. I have gotten better. Divorce is a severing, a tearing, an open, gaping wound. Regardless of how good, or how bad, the marriage was, you lose a whole lot of skin in the ripping apart, and that inner layer is tender and raw and damn does it hurt. It involves grief, and while some choose to forgo the process, I am enmeshed in it. I have been weighed down by it. About eight months ago it was so heavy, so oppressive I never thought I would get out from beneath it.

I had always imagined grief like a set of stairs. You begin at the bottom, of course, with the agony, the heart pounding, the burning tears, and the tightening of every organ, limb, emotion. Your heart beats like a gloved fist in your ribcage; there is always a swift undercurrent of anger and sadness, just dig a little, it lingers behind every word, sharply inhaled breath, the circles I run in my own head. But eventually, despair recedes. Reality sets in. This is my new life. I can do this. You can breathe a little easier, the vice loosens. The climb takes work, but with each ascent the air is clearer, your lungs are fuller, and the view is more expansive. Progress. It is all progress.

It's a nice image, a hopeful one, and I guess in some ways it has been that way. What I didn't imagine was how many times I would tumble down that set of stairs, headfirst, and find myself on my face at the bottom again, bruised and bewildered.

Maybe this is all a little too vulnerable. Am I saying too much? Probably.

But there's freedom in the retelling. I'm not naive enough to believe I am all the way through, that this whole thing is behind me. It's simply not true. But I am part of the way through. And now, nearly a year later, I know I will not drown. I know I will be okay. I am better.

"Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed." (Hebrews 12:12-13)

Some of that has been the daily moving forward, the faithfulness in the small, waking up and going to work, caring for my little girl, making straight paths and walking down them, no matter how weak I feel. His faithfulness is astounding. I am looking back over it all—there are mountains of regret, and yet even those are stepping stones on this road extending out before me. He can transform it all, can't he? And he does. I was lame, but thanks be to God, to my community, to faithful friends, I am not out of joint. The broken bones are splinted, they are reforming. My wounds are closing. I am trying to keep my heart open, my eyes open.

I can do hard things.

You can do hard things.

We can do hard things.

Thank you for walking with me.

A little Peek

2013-04-19T10:15:00.000-07:00

This little one is growing up. Yesterday, she said "yes" for the first time. It sounded more like "yah." She still doesn't talk much, no sentences yet. Hearing her recount a story is the funniest thing. The other day she was trying to tell me about how she fell down. She pointed at the ground, said "BOOM!" and then "down," with a sad face. Toddlers are the most precious little people. I can hardly bear to think about the fact that there are people in the world who would intentionally hurt them.

Some peeks at the little lovely

Modeling for me after I told her I was taking a picture

Naptime!!

In her favorite shirt playing in her favorite place (the dirt)

Playing hide and seek and grocery shopping

Our day-to-day life is pretty low-key. I work most of the day, and we spend the evenings together. Lately, she waits for me to get home out in the front yard (with Grandma, of course), running in the grass. On most days, the first thing she wants to do is nurse, and we usually sit on the front steps because she doesn't want to go in. She knows the way to the park, so she'll point us in that direction. I have to run inside and change out of my work clothes before we go, and she cries about that because it means going indoors, but we eventually get there. At some point I eat dinner, with one hand and it's usually cold.

She's a delight, and while I enjoy working, I wish I didn't have to work as much as I do (but that's a post for another day). But the Lord cares for me, and for her, even in this. And this little one ADORES her grandma and grandpa, and I don't see that as anything but a good thing, a good gift from Jesus.

Even with the bitter, life is sweet. Spring is all around, and the blooming of the earth mirrors the blooming in my own heart. My life is gospel grace embodied, I feel it all the way down, into my marrow, see it everywhere I look. And even when it's hard to be thankful, I am thankful. All I have to do is look at the pictures above, see the promise in that beautiful face.

Of course He is good. Undeniably, He is good.

When All I Have Are Wordless Groans

2013-04-16T08:18:00.000-07:00

Today, this morning, I am reminded of these words:

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with wordless groans. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God (Romans 8:26).

My heart is heavy—lately it is as if the burden never fully lifts—and my prayers are one long wordless groan, rising up from the spirit man, where the ache is the deepest.

I wish I could open up my hands and catch all the pain, close my fists tight around it, and will it away. It’s not my job, I know. It is far too large a call, my hands are too small, and if I am honest, sometimes it’s hard enough to catch all of my own pain.

And so what is there? How can I? Is it okay if I spend my life on the small kindnesses, on doing the most good I can, clinging to the one who can catch all of the pain and repair a world fractured and dark and out of tune?

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

…For this, for everything, we are out of tune. (William Wordsworth)

It feels this way sometimes, doesn’t it? This morning, especially. And what was so shocking in Boston is everyday life in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and much of the world. Everyday people die, violently, unjustly, at the hands of cruelty and pride, greed and despair.

I am praying for you, Boston, beautiful city that I love, your streets full of my memories. I am standing with your wounded, your slain. I am praying for you, Iraq, where yesterday you lost 55 of your own in a series of attacks, and we didn't blink an eye, I didn't blink an eye. My prayers may be wordless groans, because I struggle with what to say and how to say it. But I know that he hears them, I know that he is interceding for you, even as my heart hangs heavy within me and at times it feels like too much to bear.

But there is always hope, isn’t there? This picture has been floating around the internet

It’s true, isn’t it? He redeems. We partner with him. And he will light up the dark.

Here are a few lights—

I Have a Place to Offer-Boston Marathon Explosion

Boston Marathon Explosions Reaction: 7 Quotes That Provide Hope Amid Heartache

Bravery in Boston: Heroes, Helpers, and Hope
Boston Marathon Tragedy Met With Unbelievable Acts of Kindness

When You're Praying for Boston

Let's add our own small flame, however we can.

This Week's Links

2013-04-12T22:12:00.000-07:00

A list of some of my favorite reads around the internet this week. Enjoy!!

What Christians Need to Know About Mental Health by Ann Voskamp at A Holy Experience

Helping Women Isn't Just a Nice Thing to Do by Fmr. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton

"But fighting to give women and girls a fighting chance isn't a nice thing to do. It isn't some luxury that we get to when we have time on our hands to spend doing that. This is a core imperative for every human being and every society.

It's no coincidence that so many of the countries that threaten regional and global peace are the very places where women and girls are deprived of dignity and opportunity...It is no coincidence that so many of the countries making the leap from poverty to prosperity are places now grappling with how to empower women. I think it is one of the unanswered questions of the rest of this century to whether countries, like China and India, can sustain their growth and emerge as true global economic powers. Much of that depends on what happens to women and girls."

Where is Your God Now? by Brad Curry at The Blue Quill

Is Doubt an STD? by Rachel Held Evans

"I was young and newly married when I first started whispering these questions out loud--Did Anne Frank really go to hell? How does a young earth explain how we can see the light of distant stars? Did God really ask Joshua to commit genocide? Is it possible to follow Jesus with my intellectual and emotional integrity intact? How can we know any of this is true?

These questions emerged from the deepest, truest parts of my being, after many sleepless nights, long talks with Dan, tears of frustration, intense study and prayer, and seemingly endless periods of silence. It was my first encounter with doubt, and it was scary."

The Target A profile of the beautiful and brave Malala Yousafzai by Marie Brenner for Vanity Fair. It's long, but worth reading, especially if you have been following her remarkable story

The Sexy Wife I Can't Be by Mary DeMuth for A Deeper Church. This piece of writing is incredibly brave, and incredibly necessary.

"I walk with a giant limp in the sexy wife arena. I still feel outright rage when I read that for the sake of my husband, I'm supposed to be adventurous and wild, that to be this way represents true spousal godliness. Because honestly? Those words just make me feel less than. Those are a set of guidelines I'll probably never meet.

I haven't given up. I press on to be whole. But I also know my limitations. And I know that many of you are reading this and saying, yes, yes. Mind if I offer you grace?"

In Which Jezebel Gives Way to Deborah by Sarah Bessey

My Year on Match.com by Anne Lamott for Salon

Relief by John Blase at The Beautiful Due

"So save yourself some embarrassment

and don't ask me to bless the eggs

unless you're comfortable with

suessy word-lobs like rupiefonb

(I prayed that nonsense for a week)."

How do we stand?

2013-04-11T07:45:00.000-07:00

It was a fine cry, loud and long. It had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.

-Toni Morrison, from Sula

via Pinterest

I read this book, and I’m still recovering. Recovering emotionally, intellectually, theologically. It was one of those rare reads, full of data and story and a call—a higher call, to something, to someone.

I have fought against my sensitivity my entire life. I have pushed it down, willed myself to stop feeling, to quit being so emotional about every perceived wrong, every injustice. It will crush you, it will crush you, I have heard the voices murmur. My reactions to certain things seem outsized in comparison to those around me. I have walked out of church services, meetings, when they began to talk about poverty, orphans, hunger, the suffering, the abused. It sounds so terribly callous, but it wasn’t because I didn’t care. It was because I couldn’t breathe, and dropping my face into my hands and sobbing, shaking, didn't seem appropriate.

I have been ashamed, ashamed, of the deep feeling. What good is all of this empathy? It is useless, accomplishes nothing—squash it down. And I have, pretty effectively over the years, in fact. I’ve taught myself how to go numb, to be less affected, to shut it off, to think more practically about it.

I know I am not the first one to struggle with all of this, to wage war against my empathy, the heightened sensitivity that lays me low, curled up on my bathroom floor, crying until my ribs ache.

Here’s the thing, though, and I’m only realizing this very recently—for me, soul-searing emotion precedes action, and maybe that’s okay. It is not weakness, the Father has had to tell me over and over again. You are not weak because you feel. And it thrusts me into the praying place, the longing place, and from there, perhaps I can put my hand to the plow and do something.

I’m not sure what that something is yet. I know that lately, I feel the weight of my first-world privilege like a burden, heavy. I want to know how I can make the most of it, not take the opportunity that I did not ask for, did not deserve, and squander it. I know that I am incredibly naive in all of this, I feel quite helpless, and yet that cannot be an excuse, as it has been for me in the past.

How do we stand against such injustice? What is there that we can do? These hands, what shall I do with them? Because it could have been me. It could be me. And no, these women are not a charity case, not in that belittling way. They are not just a cause. They are human. They are valuable, and that is enough. They are hurting and aching and oh, I cannot even think of the brutality of it all. It is too much to bear. And God, where are you??

I am almost 27. And while I am not old, I am not young either. I am not a teenager. I am not a child. There is so much need. And I have been given much much much. I dream about them. I cannot stop thinking about them, the girls being sold, traded, sexually exploited at twelve, thirteen, fourteen years old. The girls in their villages, bright, full of potential, denied an education because there is no access, and even if there were, there is no money. The women in Niger, or Sierra Leone, where the maternal mortality rate is so astronomically high it is criminal. If I were a woman, born in Niger instead of the United States, there is a 1 in 7 chance I would have died in childbirth. I cannot stomach it. It nearly paralyzes me.

But I am asking the Lord that it not paralyze me, that I am not completely overwhelmed by the immensity of their need, as is wont to happen to me. No, instead give me something tangible, Jesus. Give me something real. Because this world is full of women, girls, enslaved, disenfranchised, maligned and unrepresented. They are curled up in huts on the edge of their villages, with fistulas caused by brutal rapes, abandoned by their families and left for the wild dogs. They are being doused in kerosene and burned by their husbands for daring to fight back as they were beaten. They are being forced to marry their rapists, the threat of death hanging over them and their families. They are locked up in brothels, their virginity sold to the highest bidder.

I am no humanitarian. I’m struggling with my what my response ought to be. In all honesty, I am terrified to even be writing this, posting this. It feels like exposure, it feels like nakedness, it feels like vulnerability, shedding skin, and I am afraid.

But maybe there can be some accountability here, an exchange of ideas, of resources, of prayer.

There are no simple solutions. I know this. I am not the solution. But maybe, together, we can be a part of it? Maybe, together, we can make a dent, partner with Jesus and shift the destiny of one woman, two women, a village.

Whatever it may be, and unsure as I am of the way forward, I would really love to hear your thoughts.

we say hallelujah

2013-03-28T22:44:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I don’t know how to be quiet. Maybe that’s surprising, I don’t talk much. But I am noisy, noisy, noisy. I crave solitude, i crave silence, not because I know how to be still (because really, I don’t), but because my mind won’t stop moving, won’t stop thinking and questioning and doubting, and I want to move with it, make more noise.

Have you read Intimations of Immortality? It is a beautiful poem, by William Wordsworth (the name of this blog is, in part, inspired by that poem). I find myself in many of its lines. But here, here especially:

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realized

All of my questions, piled high and towering. My misgivings, carried to him, this gracious God who listens, who hears me. Sometimes he only asks that I be still, that I slow down, let him seep into me, pore by pore, this holy and wild and restorative wind.

Because it is Holy Week. And I nearly forgot.

Because tomorrow he goes to the cross, and holds the entirety of this shattered world in his wounds, and maybe all of my questions can wait. It is time to kneel.

Because this is the story that redeems mankind, this splintered wood upon a splintered back climbing that dusty, cruel hill. I can see him, and I want to reach out and wipe the sweat off his brow, brush the hair from his eyes, tell him that I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that you are carrying my sin, that I have caused this.

Because this postlapsarian world is cracked right down the middle; it keeps me up late into the night and my eyes are red with weeping. But this cross, this crown of thorns, this Son of Man gasping beneath the weight of my sorrow, my darkness and my rebellion--he is the repairer of the breach. He binds up the wounds of this broken, bleeding earth.

Because pain is not without purpose. Because he knew heartbreak and loss, searing pain and stunning brutality, and it all worked for our redemption. We are redeemed.

Because of him, my pain is not without purpose. Because we have all been wounded, because our hearts have been broken, but the cross is before us, it is all paid for, and we possess a lasting hope.

Because of that great and terrible silence, his last breath, creation hushed.

Can you just be still with me? he asks. Can you mourn with me? Mourn for me?

And they wrap his battered body, their hands in his wounds, his blood on their hands, their lips, their tears mingling with the scent of death, of wounded flesh and a savior lost.

Rabbi, where have you gone? You have left us, and we long for your voice to fill the silence.

And this is the tension. This is when we are pulled taut, and we wonder where he has gone. We are straddling two kingdoms, one crumbling, the other rising. It is the fault line, great tectonic plates shifting beneath our feet. May we not fear the breaking, the shfiting, the rising, the falling--he comes, he comes.

And Good Friday is good because it is a promise, a seal, and the victory will be final, complete. Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.

We kneel before this cross, brutal and bloody and oh Jesus, it hurts to look. Here is pain. Here is darkness. Here is the evil of man on display; we murdered our own God, our own Savior.

But in three days I will raise it up. Even still, I will redeem. Even still, I will love.

And Good Friday is good because we say hallelujah, it is finished, we are loved, he has loved us--right up to the very end.

What I'm Into

2013-03-17T21:50:00.001-07:00

This is one of my favorite features over on a couple of blogs, so I thought I'd give it a try. I'm a little late for a strictly February post, so it's "What I'm Into" mid-March edition.

What I Read

Some interesting reading this past month. I feel like I need to schedule a few hours to process all of it, go through my highlights and notes, let it sink in. We'll see if that ever happens. I do wish I had more time. My "to read" list is getting pretty long.

Torn: Rescuing the Gospel from the Gays vs. Christian Debate by Justin Lee- I really cannot recommend this book highly enough. I'll echo what Sarah Bessey said and agree that it is a gift to the church. It is thought-provoking, challenging, insightful. And Justin tells his story with such candor and vulnerability. It's worth reading. I promise.

Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead by Brene Brown- I first heard of Brene Brown through this TED talk. I listened to it over and over again at the time. I loved this book. Loved it. I think about many of the principles daily.

Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture by Adam McHugh- I read a review of this book a couple years ago and have been wanting to read it ever since, but finally picked it up this month. It was a refreshing read. I go to a wonderful church, led by a pastor who happens to be an introvert himself, but even with that, it's easy to feel out of place, out of the loop because I'm not quite outgoing enough. I found some camaraderie here, and lots of advice for cultivating community without sacrificing my own temperament.

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain- I guess I was on an introvert kick this month. This one covers different ground than McHugh's book. Extensively researched, Cain discusses everything from Wall Street to infant temperament, Asian culture vs. American culture, leadership, schooling, parenting, and more. I've read mixed reviews, but I thoroughly enjoyed this book. I feel liberated in a million different ways.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald- This was a reread. Wonderful as always. And that final paragraph. Seriously, it's perfect. I reread the book because the movie releases soon (!!!), and I'm weird and like my books as fresh as possible when I watch the movie renditions. It's why I haven't seen Anna Karenina yet. I'm trying to squeeze in a reread of the novel sometime, but it hasn't happened yet.

Persuasion by Jane Austen. I can't believe I've never read this little Austen novel. A serious delight, from beginning to end and now one of my favorites. Of all of Austen's heroines, I understand Anne Elliot the best. I think we are kindred spirits.

On my Kindle (or nightstand) Right Now:

A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband "Master" by Rachel Held Evans

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide by Nicholas D. Kristof & Sheryl WuDunn

Bread and Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter by Various Authors

In My Ears

My sister (who has great taste in music. Anything good I listen to, it's probably from her) introduced me to the Quiet Hounds and I listen to this song way too much, especially in the car with the windows down and the volume too loud.

This song by Matt Gilman from IHOP is one of my favorites right now. I can't help but weep every time I hear it.

Other favorites on my Spotify playlists are Noah and the Whale (especially this song), Sea Wolf, and All Sons and Daughters. And the new Endless Years album by United Pursuit Band is incredible.

Have you heard this song by Lady Danville? It's a good one (and not only because they are UCLA alum). These lyrics:
"everything I've done, just to be away from the shore
just to turn back now, I'm turning back now."
That just about sums up my life.

On my Television

Well, the third season of Downton Abbey ended and I haven't really watched anything since. Slowly catching up on Grey's Anatomy when I get some free time. And I'm really excited to start Call the Midwife one of these days.

As far as movies--yeah, none. The only Oscar film I saw was Les Miserables. Sad, I know. But time is scarce, and movies are usually the first to go.

What I'm Looking Forward To

Spending a week in New York City with my sister. Lots of museums and walking, delicious food, and cool, crisp air. I'd love to see a show or two, but not going to happen with a toddler. Maybe next time. This will be Diana's second time in New York. She was 6 months the first time, and it was a surprisingly easy trip. I do remember that New York City bathrooms are not very diaper changing friendly. My sister and I changed her on the lid of a few toilets in dimly lit restrooms. (who decided dark restrooms are ever a good idea?? I'm not exactly going for sexy ambiance while I pee.) It didn't go well and we ended up with poop on our hands. Hoping to avoid that this time around.

Speaking of diapers, I'm also looking forward to being diaper-free. We're almost there!

New (to me) Blogs I'm Digging

Rachel Held Evans- I've read her blog on and off over the past year or so, but am a more regular reader now. She is not afraid to tackle the difficult topics, to live in the tension. I am a woman of many questions, and so is she, and while I don't always agree, this is quickly becoming one of my favorite places on the internet. And this post is just incredible.

The Beautiful Due- I discovered this blog recently. Just head over and read some of John's poetry. It will breathe life into you.

Ladys and Gents- Because I like cute kids. No other reason. Makes any bad day a little bit better.

Favorite Post

Dear Mom on the iPhone, I Get It- This rocked.

What are YOU into, my friends?

on hope

2013-03-13T09:44:00.001-07:00

Let’s all raise our glasses to hope, why don’t we? This most unlikely usurper of my heart, stealing the show, slipping in unnoticed, without fanfare, balloon towers, or pinatas swinging from long-limbed trees. It has been quieter than that, like falling asleep in the cool darkness of shade, and waking up with the sun slanting through the leaves, your surroundings ablaze with light.

But wait a second. I don’t want to pretend this is something it isn’t. It is not the end of worry, although that would be nice. It is not the end of fear. I would be lying if I said I was never afraid. I push back against fear daily, minutely. It is not happiness bubbling over at all times, in every circumstance. Oh, I wish it was all smiles, all jumping and leaping and twirling beneath the smooth, blue underside of heaven. Maybe it is supposed to be, maybe it will be one day, but I haven’t arrived at that definition of hope just yet.

Hope is an anchor. It grounds me. I am preserved. But it doesn’t prevent the waves from slamming into this small frame.

What if I rephrase it this way? Hope is in pursuit of me. It is circles and circles of light, and even as I spin out of its orbit, it is behind me again, never tiring of righting me, reminding me, restoring me.

It’s a pesky little word, and some days I shrug it off, I scoff at it, because like I’ve written and thought so many times--hope is for the naive, for the foolish, for those who refuse to face reality with all of its sharp edges and cold, unyielding surfaces.

Hope is not for me. I am too rational for all of this. I’m proud to wear my cynicism like armor, a defense against disappointment. And yes yes, I know what the Word says, that hope does not disappoint, but you know what? I have been disappointed. So there.

It’s childish of me, isn’t it?

Yes, yes, exactly.

And now we’re standing silent and still on a large expanse of land, him and I. There are no trees, no flowers, no rivers or even mountains in sight. But despite the emptiness, I know the ground beneath my feet is fertile. I bounce on my heels and the soil springs up to meet me. This is not barren desert earth; it is barren fertile earth, poised for the planting.

I turn towards him. “Where do we begin? There is so much. And water? There doesn’t seem to be any water. You know, we cannot live without water.”

His eyes are glittering, but he does not discount me. He looks deeply into me, he takes me seriously, and I love him for it. “It will come.”

We begin to walk, slowly, deliberately; I have no idea where we are headed. It is just acres and acres of empty land all around, no destination in sight. It goes on this way for a while. His hands are clasped behind his back, his neck bent, eyes on the ground. He looks deep in thought, or like he is waiting for something. I see it in the way he occasionally raises his head, scans the horizon, a hint of a smile at the edges of his lips, the angle of his cheekbones.

I touch his shoulder and he stops, turns towards me. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Towards hope,” he says. “It will meet us soon. I am bringing it closer.”

I open my mouth to ask what he means, close it when the words do not come out, and decide to just keep going. He speaks this way sometimes, in mysteries, and it always unveils itself, without my questioning.

I see her coming before he does, although I’m sure he has been watching her all along. He knows exactly where she is; I just happen to catch a glimpse of her first. She is running towards us. She is a just a little child; she cannot run in a straight line, or at an even speed. Her arms swing at her sides, sometimes it looks as if she will trip over her own small feet. When he looks up and finally sees her, he grabs my hand and we speed up, his face breaking its repose. Now it is all alight.

It’s my daughter. I recognize her when she is still far off, and I grip his hand tighter.

She is laughing when we are finally face to face. I’m laughing. He is laughing. And the ground here is moist, but I kneel anyway, gather her into my arms. She has rocks in her hands, smooth black rocks, and she is excited as she presses them into my hands.

“Look what I found!”

And immediately, I understand. He looks at me, and it washes over me like the dawn. “She found the water,” I whisper. “She found the water.”

The rocks are cool, still wet, her hands are wet, her curls are wet. There is a river nearby, and she was there, splashing, bringing me proof of an enduring hope; this land will not always be barren. Even the roughest of surfaces can be polished and made new, he seems to say as he takes those rocks in his hands, if only they would let the water rush over them.

She lets me pick her up; I breathe in the scent of cool earth, of clear water and open spaces. Thankfulness is brimming over, because although there is a leaving behind, and a sadness at what has been lost, the restoration of our hope and the promise burgeoning in our hearts is seed sown into fertile soil. We wait. We wait.

The Lord has made proclamation to the ends of the earth:

'Say to daughter Zion,
See, your Savior comes!
See, his reward is with him,
And his recompense accompanies him.'

He is still standing there next to us. Thank you for sovereignty, I whisper. It is a great oak, and we can lie down under its shade. It shelters us, allows us to rest, to let go, to be. We can lean on this, trust in this, even when we do not understand.

He presses the rocks back into my hands, reminds me. He is pleased to tear down my cynicism, my doubt. It is as simple as this, he says to me. Together, we will always find the water.

She squirms from my arms, begins to run, and we chase her down, laughter ringing out to the horizon lines. It resounds. And yes, yes--there is hope.

He felt what the earth may possibly feel, at the moment when it is torn open with the iron, in order that grain may be deposited within it; it feels only the wound. The quiver of the germ and the joy of the fruit only arrive later.

-Victor Hugo, from Les Miserables

Hope is the thing with feathers,

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all

-Emily Dickinson

An Ache & A Calling

2013-03-05T07:52:00.002-08:00

I’ve been telling him for months that I can’t do this. That I am not strong enough, not wise enough; I don’t even look the part. My pleas are futile, I know this before I even begin. I am holding her close, and I cannot give her back; I cannot stop being a mother because it is terrifying, because my ignorance feels like paralysis.

“I’m going to wrap her up in layers of cellophane, then,” I tell him. “Holes for eyes, nose, and mouth, arms tight by her side, padded and protected. I’ll keep her ears covered so she doesn’t hear the ugly, the profane. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, I’ll tell her, and don’t make any waves. You’ll just get hurt.”

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

I shake my head. “No, no of course not. Cellophane is hot, sticky, uncomfortable. Maybe something more breathable.”

He catches my gaze; I am looking down, trying to avoid his eyes, because I know what he is going to say and I don’t want to hear it. I am not ready to hear it.

And then I am sitting at the dining room table with three precious friends, cup of hot tea between my hands. I’m gripping it so tightly my fingertips are going white and numb. A few leaves slipped through the filter and I’m watching them sink to the bottom of the mug, and oh, my God my God, nothing is certain and nothing feels steady and even a fine mesh filter couldn’t prevent these leaves from falling through.

Is this what it will be like? Slipping through the cracks on the periphery, because my mothering is not big enough, it is not wide enough, it simply cannot catch all of this. My tears are dripping off my chin and she hands me a napkin because love is letting your friends cry and sometimes all you need is a hand to hold, and someone to whisper I understand, because they do. They understand frailty and they understand fear, that weakness is inescapable and that sometimes you want to hold on but you can only let go.

I remember how I felt on December 14, just a few short months ago, when I heard about the Sandy Hook shooting, all those tiny children dead. I was sitting at my desk at work, and the tears wouldn’t stop. I hid in the bathroom, forehead pressed to cold tile--and the pain burned and it seared and I couldn’t understand how a mother could survive such a tragedy.

I held my hands out in front of me, I willed them to stop shaking so I could call my own mother, make sure my daughter was okay, safe, alive.

And that night, as I held my little girl his voice broke through the dark, through the confusion and the pain, not to ease it, but to validate it. “Motherhood,” he whispered to me. “It is an ache and a calling. To give in to the ache is the crux of the calling.”

But why must it hurt? Why must it hurt?

The ache is the fear. It drives me to irrational protection, why I pray she never hears a cruel word or knows malice or pain. But the ache is also the longing. He wakes me up in the night and my hands cover her heart, they cover her head, and it is these whispered midnight prayers, rising fragrant to the throneroom and oh Jesus, fill her cup with this ache and pour it out on her precious and sacred life.

This is the calling of motherhood, is it not? It is the growing up and the letting go. The call to release her back to the Lord, to relinquish control, to accept that perhaps her heart will be broken, she will know pain, she will face disappointment, that her life will not be without tears.

It is a fearful letting go, and I wonder if the fear ever entirely disappears, if we can live without apprehension for our children, if I will always fight this urge to shield her, to cover her ears, to cover her eyes when necessary, to make her numb to the arrows, to misfortune.

I am learning to let go. I am learning to trust, not in myself, or in my own abilities, but in the God who saves us, who promises to heal any broken pieces, to carry us faithfully to the end. I am giving in to the ache; it drives me to my knees, because to whom else can we go? It is not without fear, and I wonder if I have ruined my daughter already, with divorce and a broken family and a behemoth of uncertainty.

He shakes his head. I watch the leaves rise and fall in my teacup. My friends shake their heads.

It doesn’t work that way. The Kingdom does not work that way.

He works in the tension, in the less-than-ideal, in the place where we are bowed low. He has carried me. He will carry her. And perhaps this is the greatest calling of motherhood--to pick her up and place her in his arms, and walk together into the unknown, leaning into a goodness that does not fail.

Family Photos

2013-03-01T10:53:00.000-08:00

Diana and I had some photos taken back in December. I realized we had very few pictures together, and of those, most of them were taken on my iphone with the front facing camera, so not very good quality.

So I saved my pennies and we got some pictures taken! I'm awkward and don't know what to do with myself in front of a camera. Sweet little D is a natural though. She'd hurt her finger earlier that day so I put a band-aid on for her. She was very conscious of it, and if you notice, her little pointer finger is sticking out in almost every photo. I just love her!!

I hope you don't mind me sharing some of my favorites. (warning: photo overload)

I think we'll try to do this every year. I treasure the few pictures I have of my childhood with my mom and me both in the photo. I hope Diana does too.

Deep Down There

2013-02-26T20:47:00.000-08:00

A couple of dear friends have already read what I'm posting today. Maybe this counts as cheating in the blog world, I'm not sure, since this was actually written a few months ago. But I want you to know where I have been, and in the moving forward, we will see his beauty.

It's no secret to many of you that the past few months have been difficult, unbearably so at times. Praise God for his goodness, and for faithful friends willing to carry my burdens when my own arms felt far too weak.

In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis talks about the act of writing, how he doesn't know if all of the notebooks he has filled with his musings on grief have been worthwhile at all. But then he concludes that, if nothing else, writing has been "a defense against total collapse, a safety valve" and in that, it has served its purpose.

It has been the same with me. Really, truly, it has been exactly the same for me. And I'm so thankful for words, for a pen, and for the hope of God that reaches into the darkness and does not flinch.

So here is some of my journey, written in the midst of it all.

Image from here

Sometimes I think this in-between is a terrible place to be. It is not even tension, or time stretched out, an unraveled spool before me—it is just trapped. It is stuck. I am standing on this fault line, terrified to move, because what if my movement splits the earth wide open beneath me.

As much as I hate my present, it is the only place I can occupy without going insane. The past makes me want to disappear, and cry, and scream at the earth and everything on it. The future overwhelms me. It is daunting. I purse my lips against the hope, because hope is for the naïve, the foolish. So I am here, in this barren place, this in-between place, this wishing well, throwing in my pennies with the rest of them.

I keep hearing about glory, and I duck my head when they say the word, because dare I say it—if this is the glory of God, I want to hide from it. Not like Moses in the rock, because it is too great for me to behold, but like Jonah running from Nineveh, because surely there cannot be beauty, or even a hint of glory, in such a godless place.

He corrects me, though. He always does. I catch tremors of his beauty.

His breath in the trees, exhaling on me.

Chords, or words, that reach down and move me. I am a sucker for a well-turned phrase. Really,

I am. I find God there, in the words.

I read Wordsworth because he makes me cry, and he unties me.

I open the windows wide because I need the sun, I need the air—and maybe I was meant to be a fairy, living in the trees.

I turn Feist’s Let it Die up loud, really loud, because I swear she was sitting cross-legged on a rug in my head when she wrote that song.

I hold my daughter close, I watch her run, swinging her arms and shrieking with joy at the sight of a plane, a dog, that perfect little jagged rock she picks up to give me.

If anything is saving me right now, it is her.

I am Blake's hopeless man, closed up in my cavern, watching through those narrow chinks, catching glimpses of light. She is the one who draws me out, not because she is my God—but have you ever met a better ambassador of hope than a blooming child? If wonder is a virtue, and I believe it is, she possesses it in full measure, and I have much to learn.

Driving to work in the morning, it is always towards the hills, and I can't help but think thoughts of climbing, of overcoming, of standing. I can't help but want to reach the top of those hills, and look out over the expanse, declaring that I knew it all along—that of course it would work out for my good.

Of course, I haven't known it all along. I have my moments. Most of them are paralyzing. But some of them, when he presses his forehead to mine, catches the shimmer in my eyes, that is down there (deep down there), and declares promise over me—in those moments, I am a bird taking flight, and I close my eyes against the brilliance of sight.

I wish I could say there are more of those moments than there are. They sustain me. They keep me going. He knows how much I need.

I bow my head, I close my eyes, I fold my hands like a good Sunday school girl. I tell her we need to thank Jesus, even when we don’t want to thank him, even if it is just for each other, because everything else has crumbled, but I have you, sweet girl, I have you.

She runs away. She knows nothing of sitting still, of hand folding and head bowing. I ask her to sit beside me. She shakes her head—no—I don’t want to sit down. I want to keep moving. And if I am sitting there next to you, I cannot move.

She is revelation. If she moves, I must move. And if I move, he must move.

This is the moving forward. This is the wonder.

A Step Out

2013-02-25T08:50:00.000-08:00

Ten years after writing it, I still remember the first words of my college entrance essay—I have always defined myself as a writer. I scribbled those words, and the rest of my essay, onto a single sheet of notebook paper, during my junior year of high school. Growing up, I had changing career interests—lawyer, archaeologist, teacher, philosopher—and yet always, even as a grade school girl hanging upside-down on the monkey bars, I was writer. It has been how I've made sense of my world, how I comprehended not only others, but myself. I wrote at my small desk before bed, in the car, staring out my bedroom window that looked onto the street, about the man picking up his mail in the afternoon sun.

The summer before I started junior-high, I began to work on my first book. I still have those spiral notebooks, a stack of them about a foot high, covered from edge to edge with my frenzied handwriting. Nearly every day after school, I would grab my pencil and paper, sprawl out on my parent’s bed, and write until my hand got tired. I remember those characters very well, even now. They were friends. I spent hours creating them, unmasking them, imagining their universes.

My relationship with writing changed when I entered tenth grade. I was taking difficult classes; school began to consume most of my time. Now, I wrote for academic purposes. I had a social life, a boyfriend, and there wasn’t as much time to devote to fiction, to journaling, to poetry. Sure, I was still a writer. According to a couple of my teachers, a decent one. I carried around my pens and my small notebooks, I observed. I read a lot. But I no longer rushed home to write. I rushed home to do homework, to talk on the phone, to plan time with my friends and boyfriend.

I never finished my book. I started others, finished a few short stories, wrote a lot of essays. I went to college, wrote even more essays, forgot about my fiction, but filled journals.

I am still a writer. I cannot comprehend the world around me apart from this. I lose sight of myself when I do not write. My relationship with this craft has changed, evolved, in good and bad ways. I am guilty of comparing myself, of sitting frozen with a pen in my hand, unable to get even a word out because of the fear, the fear, the fear. It is a feeling that I never experienced in those early years.

Perhaps it is like this with all of us. This is a fraught relationship. How can it not be? We straddle the line between solitude and involvement with the worlds we occupy. I love people, but writing is a lonely thing. Because in the end, it is you and your pen, you and your screen, and all of a sudden you are face to face with yourself. No one can do this for you. Sometimes writing is a friend, and sometimes she feels like a cruel adversary, ripping down our defenses, exposing our insecurities, our fear of being alone, the terrible inadequacy of our words. And there is the presumptuousness. Why do I feel all of this anyway? It’s not like I’m even any good.

I have renounced the pen. I have picked it up again. I have fled because I cannot be anything but honest here, and I was desperate to hide from my own reflection. I have realized that my world made no sense without this, that I was lost because to not articulate, to not give in to my love of words, was to commit a crime against my conscience, against my own well-being. I am alive here. And regardless of if I am any good or not, regardless of if anyone ever reads these words, or even likes or understands them—I am alive here. And if the glory of God is man fully alive, then I must write.

This little blog, this tiny corner of a huge web, is my attempt to rekindle what I lost as I matured, grew up, grew in to this craft. Yes, I am probably a better writer now than I was at twelve. But I am more fearful. And even now, as I type this, I am thinking of all of the other writers, and how much better they are, and how futile this is, because who really cares what I have to say?

But I have learned that the best way to overcome an insecurity is to call it forth, look it in the eye, and prove it wrong by doing just the thing it has whispered is not possible.

So here I am, feeling vulnerable and exposed. But alive. Achingly, shockingly alive. Because there is nothing like fresh air on bare skin, and yes, yes Lord, I welcome the sting.