It's just the kind of morning to curl up on the couch, stare at the fireplace, sip some tea and ponder some poetry.
I visited Fayetteville last week-- always a good time :) As Dad finished packing up for their weekend trip to Branson, I looked through She Walks in Beauty-- a poetry anthology edited by Caroline Kennedy to the theme of a woman's journey through life.
Poetry isn't something I usually put myself through read. I mean, I'm a life ponderer and all (hence, the blog) but poems just seem too... grown up? But the cover looked just like my mom, who has grown up around the same age as Caroline Kennedy, so I took the plunge and bought it for mothers day. She kindly displayed the book on an end table in our living room, so as I crunched on cereal, quite on autopilot, it's colors caught my eye once more. I was sort of in a trance as I skimmed line after line, as I'd gotten approximately 3 hours of sleep the night before. Sipping black tea at 1 a.m. has consequences, it turns out.
Later that day, I scribbled down a few of those lines that jumped off the page.
I felt like maybe they deserved a better home than the horrific resting place that is the bottom of my purse.
{From A Minor Bird, by Robert Frost}
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
in wanting to silence any song.
{From The Bacchae Chorus, by Euripedes}
In various ways, one man outraces another in the race for wealth and power. Ten thousand men have ten thousand hopes. A few bear fruit in happiness, the others go awry. But he who garners day by day the good of life, he is happiest. Blessed is he.
{From Going Blind, by Rainer Maria Rilke}
Her lighted eyes, which spoke of gladness, glistened with outward luster, as a pond is lit.
She followed slowly and it took much trying as though some obstacle still barred her stride.
And yet as if she on the farther side might
not be walking anymore but flying.
{From To Be of Use, by Marge Piercy}
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters,
but move in common rhythm
when the food must come in and the fire be put out.
...
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
...
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
{From Girlfriends, by Ellen Dore Watson}
I mean the ones who say the unwelcome
when it matters.
...
The lifers
who, even seven states away
are the porches
where we land.
{From Write It On Your Heart by Ralph Waldo Emerson}
Tomorrow is a new day,
begin it well and serenely
and with too high a spirit
to be cumbered with your
old nonsense.
{From Leisure, by WH Davis}
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
...
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
we have no time to stand and stare.
{From The Waking, by Theodore Roethke}
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
{From Leap Before You Look, by WH Auden}
The sense of danger must not disappear:
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it looks from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.
...
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.
{From PS Education, by Ellen Hagan}
Tell him, teach him to say, "I will look at you Rachael and I will see you" 1,000 times over.
Rachael, where Trinidad and Guyana meet. Tell her the truth, that you never knew where she was from until you asked, and when you finally asked, it was way later than you wanted.
The same chapter says, "I know there is poor and hideous suffering and I've seen the hungry and the guns that go to war... I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for the early light dappled through leaves... and all good things a good God gives.
Why would the world need more anger, more outrage? How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us? Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn't rescue the suffering. The converse does.
It is true, I never stop wanting to learn the hard eucharisteo for the death beds and dark skies and prodigal sons. But I accept this is the way to begin."
Is it cliche to have a personally revealing blog post regarding love on Valentine's Day?
If so, I'm buying in.
"Oh, Sadie's just going to marry Jesus."
I don't really remember the context, but I'm sure it was one of those times when a harmless comment is made and I analyze it on a much deeper level than it was intended. On many occasions, my interpreting a passing phrase much more seriously than it is delivered leads to my feelings getting hurt and my not expressing that well.
But this time I wasn't offended. a.) because I know it was said in jest and b.) because I've said as much in not-so-blatant terms myself.
I know it sounds crazy.
But as a member of the Church, I am the bride of Christ. And I will remain so whether or not I actually traverse an aisle in my day.
I've also said that when the time comes, I would swallow my pride and admit to the desire to have a significant other. So I will say, that day has come. But as I go through this Journeyman application process, I am surprisingly grateful that there is not one more significant relationship in my life that I might have to prepare to leave-- if just temporarily. Singleness is just a part of my immediate future and I am not only okay with that, I am so excited for the time to really acquaint myself with my passion and the Heart I am seeking so desperately to cultivate in myself.
I do read though. And I know. I've seen for myself what marriage can be-- the support it brings. When I read Ann Voskamp's book and she talks about her husband encouraging her along in a silly little thankfulness project, I have to admit it would be nice.
I read the blogs of women whose husbands died at young ages, who talk about what they miss on the other side of being single.
I watch as broken, ugly divorce situations are redeemed in the exchanging of new vows.
I got to witness my parents honestly communicate with each other regarding the major uproot from 4 Beeson Ct. in 2010.
I've seen good marriages and I have to say, I want it. But I'm not looking for a relationship for the sake of experience or at least some sort of sliver of a record so that "21 and never dated" doesn't define me. It just doesn't.
I'm looking for a Chris Smith, a Luke Smith, a Gregg Paddie, a Matt Davis, a Todd Smith, a David Dockery, a John Gerlach, a Terry Carter, a Ken Marble, a Laurence Townsend, a Jared Windham, a Shaun Groves, a Jason Yates.
(I am not into polygamy, for the record).
(edited to add that the above list is, of course, not exclusive. I owe my absolute certainty in the existence of Godly men to many more than are listed here.)
The point is that a man doesn't have to be Jesus for me to see in him Christlike qualities. I know men like those listed above do exist, and I am increasingly aware that they are a rare breed. But it is the caliber I'm aiming for--not because I am so extraordinary or deserving, but because I feel like God deserves no less than me "yoking myself" (the quotation marks are to denote sarcastic delivery and that I don't actually know the full meaning of the term-- it just gets used in Christian circles all the time and I'd like to sound more Christian-y than I did at the beginning of this post when I suggested I'm looking to marry Jesus) to someone who both challenges me and edifies me spiritually-- that our relationship would be first and foremost devoted to Christ.
That kind of man doesn't just show up on the doorstep.
Luckily, a package with fun candies from Mom and Dad does. Well, okay, it shows up in the mailroom and I walk 1/2 a mile to pick it up. Either way, I'm thoroughly enjoying a ring pop as I type this post, so you know.
And in the meantime, some things remain true: there is no relationship more simultaneously challenging and edifying than the one Christ offers to the people He sacrificed himself for, in order to restore this love-hungry world. That relationship will always be worth pursuing first, no matter how high-of-a-caliber man I end up meeting and falling in love with.
Also, there are lovely people in my life worth celebrating during this holiday.
So today I wrote a few cards, took 'em to the mailroom and then proceeded to plop myself down on the couch to enjoy my big '0 heart-shaped lollipop while watching last weeks' Law and Order: SVU.
Could my life use a little more romance?
Probably.
But if I die-- be it in my twenties or in my eighties-- before I get the chance to marry, I know for sure I have a glorious wedding to look forward to. And that makes pigging out while Christopher Meloni solves crime so much sweeter.
Related side note: I've been reading up on my Jesus Storybook Bible and the other day was the story of Rachel and the less beautiful Leah. The way Sally Lloyd-Jones discusses Leah is particularly meaningful to me in this season--
"Now when Leah knew that God loved her, in her heart, suddenly it didn't matter anymore whether her husband loved her best, or if she was the prettiest. Someone had chosen her, someone did love her-- with a Never Stopping, Never Giving Up, Unbreaking, Always and Forever love...
One of Leah's children' children's children would be a prince-- the Prince of Heaven-- God's Son. This Prince would love God's people. They wouldn't need to be beautiful for him to love them. He would love them with all of his heart. And they would be beautiful because he loved them. Like Leah."
I know I am a Leah in the looks department. Not necessarily a bombshell, if you know what I'm saying.
But so many people raised me up to have confidence in my beauty. The purpose of all those moments of "you're so pretty" or "you are so beautiful" was not to inflate my ego or have me seeing a supermodel in the mirror. The comments were meant to encourage me along the path of believing myself lovely because God loved me first.
She was beautiful because He loved her.
I can live with that.
Oh yes, I can live with Him...
"If there’s a man with a vision to recognize beautyin places and faces the rest have passed byIf there’s a man who can meet with the queenand stay warm with a beggar the very same nighta man who would pour himself out for a stranger for yearsfor no kind of paylet me know his name I wanna know that manI wanna know that man I wanna know that manIf there’s a man without a wallet or looks to explainwhy these masses of people wanna follow him aroundif there is something compelling if he’s sayingsomething they know they’ve gotta know more abouta man who could love like a motherand die for a world instead of saving himselfI wanna know his nameI wanna know that manI wanna know that manI wanna know that manOh I’d be a fool to go on acting like it’s unimportantit might take a little more faith to imagine him awayto walk the other way…….Oh OhIf he came if he lived if he came if he livedIf he died if he lived If he is, if he isIf there’s a God who would enter humanity to capture the love of a rebel like meI want to know his name."
They planned to encircle the entire high school building and prevent us from leaving.
Those of us considered lesser. Less accomplished, less learned, less worthy.
Those of us considered less.
This was discrimination. One of my only real experiences with it.
I was at the mercy of my senior classmates. And their water guns and balloons.
Even that was shockingly frightening. We were scared to exit the building that day. They only had water. Those "wounds" healed about at quickly as it took my collared shirt to dry-- the duration of my carpool ride home. And it wasn't really discrimination-- they were just having a little fun practicing their seniority one last time.
I didn't inflict them, they aren't my fault and since I'm not responsible I shouldn't have to apologize for them. I wasn't at the lunch counters or surrounding the bus stations. I wasn't shouting death threats or picking up lead pipes. I was neither the oppressed nor the oppressor.
This is a new era.
That much I know to be true.
I also know that a great amount of the argument for color-blindness-- the idea that we'll put aside race altogether, forget skin color and consider each other no different-- is good. We've generally reached the point in this country when we're just sick and tired of racism. We're tired of being accused of it, we're tired of watching it in practice.
We want the dream. We want this chapter to be closed.
We want to wash our hands of the iniquity that split this country and Woolworths down the middle. And it was sin. The hatred was sin.
"8 If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, “Love your neighbor as yourself,”you are doing right. 9 But if you show favoritism, you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers. 10 For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it.
...
12 Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, 13because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment."
(James 2:8-10, 12-13)
Maybe some didn't know it to be sin. After all, all they knew was what they knew-- and that was segregation. Story after story, white southerners come forward to say, "I didn't know better."
Many don't come forward because they fear they won't be believed at their word. They fear they will be met with "How couldn't you have known? When you saw the beatings and the blood and you heard the suppression of peace songs, of God songs, how could you have missed it?" They feel they'll be accused before they are able to give witness. They feel shut down, possibly even ashamed, and they aren't looking for more shame at the hands of people who they believe will inevitably respond with bitterness. Instead, they let the guilt they feel accused of fester, until they've come up with a defense. I didn't do anything to you, how dare you accuse me, why do you keep making this an issue?
On the other side-- in the 60's dubbed the integrationists, or agitators or negro-lovers-- a counter-argument brews. You made this an issue first. When you made the signs and nailed them to your businesses, when you shut down schools rather than have black students, when you burned down buses rather than let black men and women-- boys and girls, really-- through your state, you made it an issue.
When you bombed the churches and killed the school girls and shot our leaders, the men standing in the gap, you made it an issue.
Then the rebuttal. I wasn't there, I didn't do those things, and I resent that you'd make that accusation.
And in the back and forth, an answer of grace:
I'm not saying you did it. Put your pride aside. This isn't about you. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad that I couldn't hold a meeting in a church or bus terminal without fearing my life upon my exit. Not at you. At it. Mad that it happened. Not accusing you. Just wishing someone would acknowledge that it happened. Wishing the oppressors would admit they were wrong, not just declare us moved on. I'm hurt. You're hurt. We all have an opinion on these things. I'm sick and tired of feeling deeply about these things but the different sides not talking through this for fear of judgment and accusation from the other side. Let's lay our pride down. Me first. I'll say I'm sorry you felt prematurely judged, accused. I don't mean to make you feel responsible. I just want you to know. I want to be known. And you? Don't you want to tell your side? Don't you want me to know your story? The story of your life and why you felt these things were okay? I'm willing to listen. Not talk. Just listen.
I want to know you. I want to love you. If the sixties were a time of oppressor v. oppressed, I don't wish for a reversal of roles. I don't mean to harbor bitterness in an effort to achieve betterness or hold on to an attitude of superiority. I don't want to make this an issue or raise my voice. I don't want special treatment or a handout. I just want to be known, loved.
I was a junior in high school. Scared of my own classmates, friends with their water pistols.
I can't imagine the fright of the junior in college, surrounded by fully grown men with bulletpistols.
And I can imagine why she wants me to know her story. I can imagine why she might want someone to acknowledge that that was never okay. She's not trying to pester or agitate. She just wants me to think. She wants me to understand. And she wants me to move on. Move forward. The image of the prison matrons of Parchman (the most notorious maximum security prison in the country at the time) will not unburn itself from her memory. The smell of pinesol and the feeling of abrasive vaginal exams wont erase from her mind.
She's not making this an issue, it is an issue.
It is her story and it is littered with injustice. Not an exaggeration or sob story. She doesn't want my pity. She wants my respect. She deserves my respect. She isn't perfect. She knows that. And I can know that she isn't perfect, I can know it's not my fault she experienced what she did and still look into her deep blue eyes and say, "I'm sorry."
Funniest thing. When I do that, I get what most white southerners yearn to hear as they make their defense against a presumed accusation of racism. "Oh, well. It's not your fault."
From the Reverend, once a 21-year-old sophomore in Richmond who got on a bus headed south in the name of freedom, just a piece of advice. He speaks in the imperative. "You just have to find something you are passionate about and do it. Get on your bus."
Later, after I've thanked him for being here today, for sharing his story even now, 50 years later, he sings. On stage, on the spot, the songs that carried a movement. In jail cells, their matresses were taken away as punishment for singing. Joan says it made for better acoustics.
One of the most striking things is their sense of humor.
Oh freedom, oh freedom, oh freedom over me And before I'd be a slave I'll be buried in my grave And go home to my Lord and be free
He sings it from the stage as I watch from across the room. He looks over and I can tell he remembers me from the meet and greet session earlier today. For a moment he stares into my soul and I let him. I sing along and keep contact. He respects my story and I respect his.
These riders aren't here for international acclaim. Mary Washington isn't exactly the place to come for that, anyway, if you know what I mean. They deserve it, and the institution will do its best to recognize that. But. This is about honoring their legacy. Honoring their boldness and courage. Not an exaggeration or a sob story. People who stepped on a bus with trembling hands and voices still moved to sing.
They aren't trying to make me feel guilty. They aren't imparting to me a need to return to the bitterness of 1961 or rallying me around the cause of the black person during the civil rights movement. Indeed, that time has passed. And though it is etched in their memories and carved into their own being, they don't wish the anger on me.
They don't want it for themselves.
They do want me to know the power in numbers. The joy that is possible in the worst strife. The importance of practicing what I believe. Of finding some injustice-- human trafficking, inner city school conditions, poverty, abandonment-- and getting on a new bus.
They aren't fooled. It's 2011 and they know it. They feel every bit of the passing of time. They see that a man born the year of these rides is now president. They see that he's black-- and though he'll have to own his own merit politically, the possibility of a "Negro" in the White House felt so impossible from a jail cell in 1961. His election, whether we whites want to acknowledge it or not, is a triumphant moment. The principle of which King, Lewis, Nash, Farmer, Green, Mulholland, R.Kennedy and literally countless others lived and died for. Not for him, but for his opportunity.
I have a lot of love for black people. It reaches levels of jest when I bust out my "ghetto" accent or express such delight when songs like "Lift Every Voice and Sing" come on in the car.
But it isn't really a joke. I don't want my appreciation to be mistaken as mockery.
I really believe in King's dream. Sure, the tactics of my elementary school to bring about such a belief are at times hilarious and laughable.
But they succeeded in one thing that I am forever grateful for: they imparted empathy into my very young heart. They said "hey, Sadie, you are every bit as worthy of opportunity as Courtland is. Cecil, the girl who throws up on the carpets all the time and Joe, the bully aredifferent from you. But they are not better and neither are you. Every one of you in this classroom, regardless of race or background, are capable of being great."
Okay, they didn't put the descriptions of the kids in there. But they really did bring race and background into the conversation. So that I could know that racism was an issue, that it historically did make a difference, and so I could know that that wasn't okay and I should love everyone regardless of the past.
Even regardless of the bitterness that people on both sides hold onto.
That will fade with time, the bitterness. It just can't last.
Love conquers all.
There goes the idealism in me. But it isn't just Dr. King's dream. It is the Word of God. And according to His word, segregation shouldn't have ever happened.
But it did. We can't change that now, black or white. And there is no longer a physical bus to get on in order to show our solidarity. If there was, I'd be on it in a heartbeat, no doubt.
Which is easy for me to say today because a heart of empathy isn't punishable by a punch or beating or a prison sentence in 2011. For that, I do owe a debt of gratitude to the students who were willing to take both, willing even to accept death for the right to empathize with freedom in 1961.
Mostly, though, if a heart of superiority or betterness is a sin, it is committed first and foremost to God. He is the first to apologize to, which is easiest because we can be assured that he won't hold on to accusations.
3 For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. 4 Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight, so that you may be justified in your words and blameless in your judgment. 5 Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me. 6 Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being, and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.
(Psalm 51:3-6)
We are then forgiven. We can apologize to those still hurting from a hurtful time. We can spread the forgiveness as we hold fast to the Word of God and embark to hear other people's stories. As a Christian, I feel responsible for being at the forefront of that movement. The one that says to society, I am sorry that if in my service to God I've neglected to humble myself to be a servant of man, that you might see the humility of a person truly forgiven of their sins.
Not responsible for the wounds or the beatings or the scars. Not even alive in 1961.
But alive in 2011. And, in being alive, affected. And, affected, wanting to help. And, in wanting to help, willing to say "I'm sorry." Willing to put aside pride. Wanting no glory, just wanting to love God and love people.
That's not even black civil rights specific, and neither does your mission have to be.
I'm not just a lover of Negro spirituals or all things black history for the sake of a hobby.
I love it because I like stories of courage and humility.
Of love, not glory.
I like them because they affect me, make me feel like I'm living in the shadow of great legacy, in a time of great opportunity.
I like black history and music because it reminds me to love God first, and in a way that will reflect love to his people.
Could I?
They remind me that I am to be an agent of peace in a bickering world.
(Flow--verb. 2. To move with a continual shifting of the component particles.)
Last Wednesday night, I led a small group of 6th graders. We talked about Jonah and prayers of repentance. Then we touched on the more complex, more difficult to understand idea of listening to God in the first place. Pre-whale and all. How to hear the direction?
When no one offered to pray come closing time, I offered a word. If they were just shy and not wanting to pray out loud, that's one thing. Of concern is if prayer feels an uncomfortable or disregard-able part of everyday life.
Gulp.
For any leader, the telltale lump forms, mid-throat. Where is the line between saying it because it's true and keeping quiet because, well, you don't want to be a hypocrite?
The issue was already forefront in my mind. I was late to the middle school service because I got caught up at Lifeway. A wonderful, terrible place. I went to get a necklace for Zaida. In all that time, from May 'til now, I managed to lose her necklace. The one with the sheep face and John 10:11. "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep."
Then there were the notecards. Do you know my personality type makes me prone to not expressing the deep appreciation I have for the people in my life? I don't have a problem with appreciating them at heart-- just in word.
There were a couple of perfect gifts in the aisles. Then the music aisles are right next to the kid aisles and I remembered Angie's keen advice. A children's Bible?
I questioned myself as I picked it up. But I am a 4-5 year olds Sunday School teacher (a good excuse) and would be kidding myself to try and say I couldn't benefit from a mapping out of the basics (a good use). I've always loved a kids-eye view-- why not with this? Taking childlike faith to the next level is yours truly.
The first one I saw looked familiar. Back in 2008, I met the author at a friend's birthday party here in Virginia. She had the most excellent British accent and we spoke about her passion for writing in a way that makes God real to children. (Or, you know, real to me).
Just so you know, "Old MacNoah had an Ark" really made an impression on me. I'm being serious.
Having remembered Angie's advice, I also remembered the Bloom Book Club selection for this spring and decided to just see if they had it. They did. Well, shoot.
This is the point at which the very helpful people-- who've said at least 12 times that I should call them if I need help-- come over, unbeckoned, to hold my stuff up front for me. Like I said, very helpful.
Enablers.
It looked safe until I got to the register. There they have the $5 deals which I can usually say "no" to, but there was the "donate a Bible to the crisis pregnancy center" option and a "Daily Reading Bible: ESV style." I have Bibles. I wrestled with the idea of reading through the Bible as a New Year's resolution and decided against it. "Cliche," I thought. And who finishes their New Year's resolutions? No one ever finishes mine for me.Plus, I don't need another Bible. I have Bibles.
But reading and knowing the Bible is not cliche, it's necessary. And of course no one finishes my resolution for me. Stupid excuse. It's my undertaking and saying I don't believe myself to finish it is a cop out.
I put it on the stack, swiped the card, and got out of there. Never to return. Until March. I've actually set that parameter. (I made no such agreement regarding Family Christian Store, but I remedied that after a couple of purchases made while waiting for a table at Carrabas with Ashley and Nana on Saturday night.)
So that night, sitting in the yellow room with the big comfy couch and the 856 blue pens, I was well on my way to practicing what I preach. Daunted by the notion of tackling the contents of the bag waiting in the car. Intrigued by the un-disregardable God Who answers prayers waiting for me to still myself.
By the next afternoon, I was eager.
So eager, in fact, that I started with the big people Bible. It gives a passage from the Old Testament, a Psalm and a passage from the New Testament, and I took to writing what stood out to me in particular.
Psalm 31
3: for you are my rock and my fortress; and for your names sake you lead me and guide me.
5: into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O LORD, faithful God.
7: I will rejoice and be glad in your steadfast love, because you have seen my affliction; you have known the affliction of my soul, and you have not delivered me into the hand of the enemy; you have set my feet in a broad place.
10: for my life is spent with sorrow and my years with sighing; my strength fails because of my iniquity, and my bones waste away.
22: I had said in my alarm (also translated as "haste" hm...) "I am cut off from your sight." But you heard the voice of my pleas for mercy when I cried to you for help.
24: Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the LORD!
Mark 10
18: Jesus said to him, "why do you call me good? No one is good except God alone."
43: But it shall not be so among you. But whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you shall be slave of all. For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as ransom for many.
49: ... take heart. Get up; he is calling you.
Then it was the "Jesus Storybook Bible" time. When I opened to the first page, I noticed a connection. A flow. An illustration similar to the picture gracing the cover of Ann Voskamp's "One Thousand Gifts."
And on that front page, five words that lay at the core of Ann's book: "He was making life happen."
p. 25: "God saw all that he had made and he loved them. And they were lovely because he loved them."
"Adam and Eve joined in the song of the stars and the streams and the wind in the trees, the wonderful song of love to the one who made them. Their hearts were filled with happiness. And nothing ever made them sad or lonely or sick or afraid."
p. 36: "You see, no matter what, in spite of everything, God would love his children-- with a never stopping, never giving up, unbreaking, always and forever love. And though they would forget him, and run from him, deep in their hearts, God's children would miss him always, and long for him-- lost children yearning for their home."
Later that night, perched in the "tree houses" in the library, I read the first pages of "One Thousand Gifts." A new favorite "component particle" of the flow I've longed to experience in quiet time for a long time.
This woman thirsts, and this woman speaks.
Chapter 1: An Emptier, Fuller Life
"...like every person enters the world: with clenched fists."
"then they name me."
"Satan's sin becomes the first sin of all humanity: the sin of ingratitude."
"We eat. And, in an instant, we see. Everywhere we look, we see a world of lack, a universe of loss, a cosmos of scarcity and injustice."
"Maybe you don't want to change the story, because you don't know what a different ending holds."
"When we find ourselves groping along, famished for more, we can choose."
"More than 14,600 days, they take their daily nourishment from that which they don't comprehend. They find soul-filling in the inexplicable. They eat the mystery."
Flow. (verb. 5. To exhibit a smooth or graceful continuity).
I'm saying this here because, well, there's accountability in community. Because I want graceful continuity in my prayer life and Bible study and I want to remember how I attempted it.
I also want to encourage anyone looking for a devastating, encouraging book about grace and gratitude to pick up "One Thousand Gifts." Ann is just different. In every great sense of the word. She "beckons you to leave the parched ground of pride, fear, and white-knuckle control and abandon yourself to the God who overflows your cup."
And if you feel so inclined, you can follow along with the book club here.
That's that. That's the flow for now. An attempt to "stop wolfing life down" and enjoy each day of these last few months of this chapter in life.
My attempt to touch on the more complex, more difficult to understand idea of listening to God in the first place. Pre-whale and all.
Even before I knew one of Phoebe's Buffet's most famous songs, I was well acquainted with the instructions on hygiene products.
Sometimes you're just that bored, you know?
(I know for a fact that Katie Jones has to lure herself into the shower with drinks and songs of entertainment, it's that boring to her. I only feel comfortable telling you this because she tweeted about it last night. Also, please go to her website and tell her a song each piece of art makes you think of. #plug)
Today I'm sitting there, reading the directions I've read hundreds of times and got to thinking:
a. I am so thankful for plumbing and hygiene products
b. There is some wisdom in that seemingly self-explanatory line. Lather, rinse, repeat.
It's therapeutic. Ordinary, simple, even necessary. Grab some solution, spread it around, let it sink in. Then let the nastiness wash off.
Do it again.
Its always seemed silly to me that they'd include "repeat." Mostly because I get this image of someone spending hours in the shower, literally implementing the cycle, emptying the bottle. It actually sort of sounds fun to me, since I love a bath. (Truett gets it from his Auntie).
It didn't occur to me until this morning that the "repeat" could just be there as a necessary statement of the obvious.
You're going to have to come back. The one instance is not enough for eternity. And though many of us know that, it sometimes helps to see it written out. Because as much as we may feel the need, as days go by without a cleansing, to jump back in and work up a lather, it takes energy and time and seeing ourselves bare.
I don't feel like it. But the instruction is there. Urging me in the strongest possible way to return to my solution, make much of it, let it sink in, and find myself cleansed.
Bare, but cleansed.
3 At one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. 4 But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, 5 he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, 6 whom he poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Savior, 7 so that, having been justified by his grace, we might become heirs having the hope of eternal life.
Titus 3:3-7
And cleanliness? Well, they say it's close to godliness.
I'd prefer a beating by them. Because, as it turns out, I'm not like how "they" say. Not on this one.
Words can hurt me. And I'd take a broken bone over a broken spirit any day.
I guess I can't really say that-- I don't have any experience with split limbs. My heart splits, though. Along a fault that sinks deeper each time it's tested by the slightest jilt.
At least broken bones give reason to cry.
A bruised spirit? Well, that's just the stuff of emotional issues. Suck it up.
That's at least what I kept telling myself over and over again as I sobbed as quietly as possible. The car had been a refuge for an hour or so, but I was running gas down to supply heat. Without it, I was cold. Physically, yes. I looked up at the trees, then at the imperfect mortar of the retaining wall in front of me, then back at the pile of laundry still occupying the too-oft unoccupied passenger seats. Everywhere I looked there was something to remind me of just how terrible I am. I know that sounds like an exaggeration. I know it's not healthy or constructive. I know because there is nothing in my life that should make me want or need to hit my steering wheel with that much fervor. But I did. Repeatedly. I was cold.
The warm bath and the deep breaths helped. Maybe I just needed to sleep.
Doesn't it always happen that the one night you just want so badly to fall into a world where these thoughts of "I'm not good enough" "Why am I here" and "Will I ever experience the love and fulfillment that Jesus promises" slip into mute is the same night that, for multiple reasons you just can't do it?
It's no one's fault. The girls outside my door have no idea what I'm thinking, how hopeless that moment seems. It's not their fault that I don't know how to explain these times, or that I feel they wouldn't understand. It isn't the fault of the bustle outside of the window, within my sight and earshot. Not their fault that I want to drown out inadequacy at 9:30 p.m. It might be the fault of the coffee enjoyed in the company of others throughout the day-- but I can hardly begrudge those times. It's not even the cats fault for landing on my face once I finally, finally drift away from a hurt, momentary reality.
Lonely. Surrounded by so many good things, good people. But alone. Feeling like a spoiled brat for thinking the age-old selfish excuse for retreat: no one gets me. Crying for being a spoiled brat. Crying as I tell God I'd do anything to be in a place where I'm crying for something so much bigger, so much more worthy of my emotion than myself or the pitiful problems that torment my heart so. Sobbing because I started off the day with compliments and acclaim for standing up in front of the church and speaking out my convictions. Tears for the stories I encounter within the youth group, for the desperation I feel to help. Sobbing because I ended the day feeling stupid for the same convictions I spoke with confidence on stage. Frustrated because everything in me wanted to just go home and hole up and wait for disappointment to be over. Even more frustrated because I know how unrealistic and unfulfilling that scenario would be. Blowing my nose as quietly as possible as I read the words I wrote to God 4 years ago with the street light that managed to cut through the tiny opening in the blinds. Mourning the progress I've not made and struggling to see the difference God has made. Scared about what's next-- if in my comfort I feel such unease, what will come of harder situations?
Hurting, once more, because I can't be all things to all people and life continues to go on proving that even after I tell myself time and time again that I get it-- that I won't let the fault run deeper the next time reality comes with jolting force over my clearly fragile heart.
The rain fell so appropriately, as if on cue, making my tears feel a little more like they had some sort of place. Grace. Not a theological trapping or impersonal topic of debate. For me. A moment when my thoughts, my feelings don't have to be rational. They can just be. Where honesty can be the best policy because where I'm wrong He won't think less of me or have less of a purpose for having created me. In the desperation, dramatic as it may be, God gives me the time of day (night) that I refuse to offer Him time and time again.
Songs kept coming to mind that I felt compelled to sing in a whisper. Behind stinging eyelids, with bars marked by sniffles I sang. Bring me joy bring me peace bring the chance to be free bring me anything that brings you glory I know there'll be days when this life brings me pain but if that's what it takes to praise you, Jesus bring the rain. All to Jesus I surrender, all to him I freely give, I will ever love and trust him in his presence daily live. This is the air I breathe, this is the air I breathe, your holy presence living in me. This is my daily bread, this is my daily bread, your very word spoken to me, and I am desperate for you and I am lost without you.
Whoever "they" are must know that words hurt. Why else would they have come up with a catchy slogan to try an convince people that they don't?
I let myself feel like the earth is separating from under me and proceed to fill that space with sadness, bitterness, anger, worthlessness, laziness, and inadequacy. There is never enough to fill. As I muster up these feelings from a life that is relatively free of these things any other day, I realize how desperate I'd become to find a negative response, a selfish confidence to fill that gap. My desperation only deepens as I over and over find confirmation that I will never get myself from the imperfection I daily live to the ideal world I believe to be possible.
When I get to that point, the tears stop, the tissue gets lost in the sheets, I can pull my blotchy, sweaty face out from under the pillow. It doesn't rest on me. My means of taking every hurtful feeling and stomping it under my feet, hoping it will create a steady enough foothold upon which to cross back over to fun, fulfillment, and wholeness is lacking and skewed. Even my best intentions, my purest dreams cannot excuse the horrifying lie I buy into as I relentlessly try to use my own brokenness as a stepping stone to the perfection I so ache to be a part of.
I brushed my fingertips over the puddles created by my innocent desire to get away from all of this. I can't, God, I just can't. You want me to be a good friend, a good steward, an effective communicator, a precious influence, a noble thinker, a generous giver. And I just can't. The tears pool.
Can't, can't, can't. Words I pour like mortar into the crevasse between who I am and who I want to be-- the one formed by my own weakness and exposed yet again by my vulnerability.
No, Sadie, you can't.
Words. The ones I hear in the deep solitude of my bed at 1 a.m.
Still there, still awake, still no mute button for the "I'm not good enough" "Why am I here" and "Will I ever experience the love and fulfillment that Jesus promises." Just a choice to make. Listen to His words or mine.
Four hours of throwing my own around like sticks and stones into the deep dark abyss so long formed by the sin that fills my every day just wasn't working. My words to myself were hurting.
His are chosen much more delicately. He doesn't just throw them around carelessly like sticks, hoping one of them might eventually just sound right so I could get to sleep already.
It's important to choose the words I use carefully. I am learning that along the journey. If I'm going to be so affected by them, I have got to use caution in which ones I'm putting out there.
It is also important to choose the words I listento carefully. I'm going to hear a lot of them, and I have only a limited capacity to control that. Even the words I use with myself will some nights provide turmoil enough to land me in the bed looking out over the threshold of the UMW apartments, watching as the rain spills off of the roof, wondering what on Earth God is doing to bring His kingdom through me. And, for that matter, why on Earth is He even trying? I'll hear those words but I don't have to listen.
When I was six I chose to believe God, that he sent his Son to save me and that Jesus lives to offer me a way to that perfection I so crave and will not find on this Earth. I must also choose to believe that God did that for me not because my weak, vulnerable self is worthy of hearing but because He is worthy to be heard.
7 Therefore submit to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you.8 Draw near to God and He will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners; and purify your hearts, you double-minded. 9Lament and mourn and weep! Let your laughter be turned to mourning and your joy to gloom. 10 Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and He will lift you up.
(James 4:7-10)
Sometimes it's just time to cry. Not for believing the selfish, stupid words my mind tends to muster up when I am hurt or upset, but in believing God when He says in His word that I should feel unsatisfied by myself and the people around me-- believe God when He says I might just need to sing songs born of lament, still in praise to Him, as a prelude to the songs of righteousness he wants to place in my heart. Songs of reverence to the one who lifts the girl up, out of the devastating crack in her own heart-- the one she foolishly felt she could step over using words of self-loathing and bitterness.
By morning, I am happy to be acquainted once more with the inadequacy I should be ever mindful of, if only as a reference point for His holiness.
I listen to words regarding the latter, even if they aren't the only ones I hear. They are the only words I can rest assured are not empty. And in a world of emptiness, from the depths of the crevasse along the fault line that life impresses on sensitive hearts, wholeness--holiness-- looks good.
God is good.
6 Seek the LORD while he may be found;
call on him while he is near.
7 Let the wicked forsake their ways
and the unrighteous their thoughts.
Let them turn to the LORD, and he will have mercy on them,
and to our God, for he will freely pardon.
8 “For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways,”
declares the LORD.
9 “As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts.
10 As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
11 so is my word that goes out from my mouth:
It will not return to me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
12 You will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
will clap their hands.
13 Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper,
and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.
This will be for the LORD’s renown,
for an everlasting sign, that will endure forever.”
