Dancin' In the Moonlight Daylight

I figure if I'm going to spend the money to go see Stars on Ice I should spend some time getting pumped.

What does that look like? Well a little trip down memory lane, of course. (It is my favorite lane.)

Then again, if you've spent more than approximately 3 minutes with me ever, you've probably picked up on the fact that I don't really *need* to work on getting excited for skating-- it's pretty much embedded in my being.

Well, sort of.

The last time I went to Stars on Ice I fell asleep before intermission. (Emily was the skating fan back in 1999). So I can't say the affinity has always been there. But it's in me now, in time for the 25th Anniversary tour.

Hopefully *I* will be in time for the show on Sunday. Not only does its starting at 4 p.m. (daylight) complicate my choice of song for the previous montage, it also makes for a very interesting commute to DC following my (hopefully) 2:30 p.m. arrival in Baltimore.

College is for adventures. And even if I'm pushing it on Sunday, I am bound and determined to find the joy in every last second of it. Emphasis on the last.

It Adds Up

This is one of my favorite excerpts from Ann's book, One Thousand Gifts.

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."

Roommates

The only thing

better

than waking up

to find

these pictures

by them

of them

on my camera

is hearing them in the next room cackling as I write this.

Buying In

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 beauty in places and faces the rest have passed by If there’s a man who can meet with the queen and stay warm with a beggar the very same night a man who would pour himself out for a stranger for years for no kind of pay let me know his name I wanna know that man I wanna know that man I wanna know that man If there’s a man without a wallet or looks to explain why these masses of people wanna follow him around if there is something compelling if he’s saying something they know they’ve gotta know more about a man who could love like a mother and die for a world instead of saving himself I wanna know his name I wanna know that man I wanna know that man I wanna know that man Oh I’d be a fool to go on acting like it’s unimportant it might take a little more faith to imagine him away to walk the other way…….Oh Oh If he came if he lived if he came if he lived If he died if he lived If he is, if he is If there’s a God who would enter humanity to capture the love of a rebel like me I want to know his name."

--Christa Wells, "I Want to Know That Man"

Stand In

It's Friday night, Saturday morning really, and she sits here.

For a moment wondering. What will life look like?

For a moment she gets a glance into a life. The real one that grown ups keep talking about, regarding work to get done and kids to entertain-- to listen to-- and meals to make and errands to run and the passing of time happening on a schedule more often than not.

It is just a glimpse. After all, I just have a paper to write (and I am) and they're only mine until Sunday around 4. An experiment. A familiar one at that-- stand-in is a role she's played for years now.

There's less time these days for standing in. These days when she's expected to grow into her own role, her own life. And in these moments, in this chair, looking across this kitchen, she swells with gratitude.

Thankful because while her own future seems pressing, the present in this place that is not hers brings such comfort. There is another place that is not hers where she finds comfort.

Perhaps the present peace stems from the similarity.

It is the will of God. And like this weekend offers just a glimpse into the eternity that is parenting once it begins, she will only get bits and pieces of that will at a given time.

It's Friday night, Saturday morning really, and I sit here.

For a moment, determined. Life, the real one that grown ups keep talking about, will look a lot like bits-and-pieces-collecting for a seeming eternity.

She takes pictures and journals the bits and pieces-- taking thoughts and images captive and reconciling in her soul the idea that her life-- my life-- might not look like a pretty floral chair in a kitchen of olive green with the wooshing of dishes and clothes washing and the peaceful, assured rhythm of lub-dubbing hearts nestled in warm beds. Understanding that every bit, every piece of life now exists but by grace.

I'm at his mercy even now. Surrounded by the comfy and the glimpses into possible grown up scenarios. The lub-dubbing of hearts and tip-tapping of fingers. Gifts. I refuse to miss them in the now.

My future is at the mercy of his discretion. If I bring myself out of a glazed over, typical experience of now to know the love with which He extends his gifts, his grace now, I get the bits and pieces of what is next. What will be.

And where those bits and pieces of will be could (and sometimes do) feel overwhelming or scary, I know better. In what is-- the grace, the now, the gifts-- I know Him to be loving and worthy of praise. I say it with my words and click at it with annoying frequency from behind a pocket-sized Nikon because I just can't stand to forget what I know Him to be in this moment.

If there's anything I know from sitting amidst the olive and the floral patterns and the wooshing and the lub-dubbing, it's that life will change. Whether it's to look more like this or not, life moves ever forward. And on different days I will feel different ways.

So on this Friday night, this Saturday morning really, I sit here telling myself what she knows. What she will have to choose to remember come all the changing. Come time to stand up tall in her own role. Come time that bits and pieces, glimpses are seen to reality.

He made each of us, every one unique. There is no real stand in. This is it. I, we, do not fill our roles perfectly. But there is no one else. Here and now, in collected words and images unique to the view from this chair, I know God to be loving and worthy of praise.

His character is not unique to my view from this chair.

He is the same God from where you are sitting.

But I cringe at the thought of me abandoning this role-- of God letting someone stand in for that role-- which He has prepared uniquely for me in order that I may better understand the love and the worth. I want to know it fully, right where I am, for myself. For my future.

No stand ins.

Buses are a' comin'

Today was the kick-off event for our semester long celebration of the 50th anniversary of theFreedom Rides organized by UMW's very own James Farmer.

------------------------------------------------------

Around lunchtime, rumors began swirling.

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.

-----------------------------------------------------

Some wounds run deeper.

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.

The buses came, the buses went.

History.

There are new buses.

Will you?

Flow is flow

(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.