boxed dinners and fancy mugs.

I moved into my first big-girl apartment last week.  I'm living with some sweet friends of mine, both old and new.
It feels good.  It feels grown-up. and a little strange. and a little lonely.
A couple of nights ago I sat at the kitchen table indian-style thinking about how the mac and cheese on the stove must be my 300th box and how I'll quite possibly use the well worn phrase "poor college student" as an excuse to have another tomorrow.  I have a theory that mac and cheese from a box makes growing up a little easier to do.  So does drinking coffee from fancy mugs.

Lately here in this 3rd floor apartment (did I mention it has a built-in? I enjoy those), It's felt a bit like a monastic experience. The girls and I all have different schedules and so I find myself alone a little more often than I'm comfortable with. This is good too. Why you ask? uhm, I don't know...yet.  But I know that in my recent & sometimes broody loner-ness I'm learning how to sit with God.  No words or requests or asking Him why He won't come to my senses.  Just sitting. Sometimes Indian-style.
And more often than not I could do without the quiet, and so I reach for Pandora or Pinterest or both to silence the silence and think "maybe I'll do that tomorrow..."
He's patient with me.

So, I'm here, leading these "grown-up" days in a tiny apartment and I don't know if I'm all that graceful or good at it.  But I'm happy to have time to grow and to have nail polish as my solitary luxury and I'm more than willing to bet that I'll always have a little growing up to do...kids these days.

7:22pm

"In confidence of Thy goodness and great mercy, O Lord, I draw near unto Thee, as a sick person to the Healer, as one hungry and thirsty to the Fountain of Life, a creature to the Creator, a desolate soul to my own tender Comforter. Behold, in Thee is all whatsoever I can or ought to desire. Rejoice therefore this day the soul of Thy servant; for unto Thee, O Lord, have I lifted up my soul. Amen."

 :Thomas à Kempis:

Lament.

artwork by: joseph henry sharp

I don't know when I lost it.
The knowing that You are on my side.  When the thanksgiving ceased and I began to count the fears and skipped heartbeats and worst-case scenarios.  When dread smoked out joy.  When the art and dancing became childish.
And so I sit here this morning with dark circles under my eyes because the last five nights have been the almost-sleepless kind.
And I still don't know when I lost it.

"Grace upon grace..." is what the pastor said.  I wonder if that grace can reach me.  I always thought that it was circumstances that made us wearied and bruised.  But I've come to realize that we can eat ourselves up from the inside out. Like the plague.

Does grace reach that far?  To those of us indoctrinated who deteriorate from the inside?  I don't pretend that I don't choose this.  I allow myself to be suffocated by fear and wait for the bad news to come again.
It will, because Your words say it will.

It has.  I don't understand why You have allowed the trouble I've seen.  It seems passive.

And these days the dread can be so strong that I wonder if this is all there is for me here in this dust for a body.  I want to surrender, to the good and the bad, because it's all the same for Kingdom people.  It's all Yours.

I have to believe, I'm trying to believe, that there is good to come and that the bad news won't seem so bad after I've walked ahead, after a few tomorrows, when I'm a bit closer to Home.

But God, I'm tired.

And I don't remember seasons of rest and I don't know if I can know a Sabbath rest, and maybe it's really just, well, for the ones who do.
So on a sunny April morning, I sit here pondering bad news.
with You.

"Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me?  Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God."
                                                                                      -Psalm 42:5

on Love & lasting things.

Valentine's Day was a couple of days ago. A day to remember the martyrs of the faith and celebrate a thing called love. The epitome of "bittersweet" I'd say.

And didn't You say that there was no greater love than this? That one would lay down his life for his friends? So You laid down Your life to give us one that lasts.

And sometimes I wonder how often You thought about it...when You walked the dirt roads, and slept in a boat on the sea, or on one or all of those 40 days, and if the thought of a people rescued and the love of a Father is what sustained you.
Because that kind of love? It's the only thing that sustains.
I'm still learning about it. You're opening my eyes to the ways You express it.
And why is it that you choose to express Your love to us here while we're yet foreigners and going Home can be an afterthought?

I've read Genesis and of the Fall, and even in the aftermath, when perfection turned to groaning and paradise to ruins, covered were the ones who took that bite. Garments made for them from the skin of creatures called good; the blood of the innocent shed to make a covering for the guilty.
You knew,even then, didn't You?
That the innocent blood would cover my shame.
And there's no greater love than this.

Why does it become all too & familiar, God? Keep reminding me.
Because to know more of this Love is to know more of You.

Breakfast.

It's a funny thing, you know.

This measuring and aligning my perceived self to a perceived view of you,
with your lineage of knowledge and wisdom and Truth.

It's like trying to make a shoe fit.

So, I spend quite a bit of time stretching this skin, and this mind, and this personality to make it more of what I hear it should be.
I work to steady my voice, and make myself clear in that witty sort of way, and do try to look pretty while broadening my theological vocabulary.

I've tried to speak a little louder (it's never attractive), and read a little further, and learn more about more relevant topics, always.

Because after all,
everybody wants an intelligent "something" to contribute to intellectual conversation about important or not-so-important this, that, and the other.

It's relative, I guess.

But lack of contribution?
Well, that comes a little too close to having nothing to say at all.

So I speak to hear myself.
And too often to remind you that I really can be taken seriously,
in case you need reminding.
And I'll find out more about more and we can talk about it next time.
Just not during breakfast, please. If you don't mind, never during breakfast.

No, what I've made it out to be isn't all that you are.

But I admit that sometimes I feel the crevices, void of whatever it is that would make me more suitable for your mold,
real or perceived.
and for that one and 1/4 century old history of yours that makes you you
and me, well, quite inspired and disillusioned.

This won't be forever.
Because history we have in common
and Him as well.
I never said I have to stretch all that far to see the greater Good.

But there are times when I still speak to hear myself.
And really, the shoe will never fit just right.
I am who He has made me out to be after all.

I just might call a truce.

I've been reminded...

This was grace - short film from Andrew Laparra on Vimeo.

I sat down to read Ann Voskamp's blog, A Holy Experience, this morning and she wrote of His grace and how all is really grace, referring to Isaiah 14:24:

"The LORD of hosts has sworn: As I have planned so shall it be, and as I have purposed so shall it stand."

That is His grace after all.
What He has purposed is good.
But there are questions without answers and wounds that haven't quite been bound yet and what do we do with the in-between?

A video was included later in the post, about a husband and wife and their 4 children, one born blind and autistic. Then their mother, diagnosed with stage four breast cancer.

He has purposed and it shall stand.

So they quietly share their life with the world on the web.
Loudly proclaiming the name of Jesus.
Shouting that He is their Rock.

I watched their story, and my heart gave way to more than I had planned this morning.

I saw Him there with them, and He is here with me, and so He is with us. And I think to myself that Immanuel, it's not just a Christmas word.

It's a vocabulary.

Because shouldn't I be living every day, all day expressing this very truth?
In word and deed--that God is here, that He is with us--as this family of six has courageously done? Yes indeed.

I'm thankful for this family today. And praying for them. Join me?

Missing You Today.

I stand at the sink thinking on just how much I miss You.

The One I have never seen.

With scars I've never touched.

You whose voice I have never heard.

And I hurt.

Because it is frustrating.

When the treasure possessed is intangible.

When shaking hands are held in mid-air.

And the nearest thing to a photograph is Your beating heart framed in hallowed words on leather-bound pages.

Those words are the shadows of Your face.

And I cry because I wasn't there to sit at Your feet.

Or to lay the loved one's ailing form before You.

Or to reach and touch the garment with a trembling hand.

And I wasn't at the wedding.

And I wasn't at the tomb.

And I wasn't covered by the dust that came up from under Your feet as You tread a path through this wasteland called "world".

I follow.

here and now.

But today I wish I could put my footprints in Yours.