in the mind...

To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.

- Wallace Stevens

These words make me both squirm and nod.

Imagination plays a huge part in life. It is imagination that finds beauty in the concrete, that reveals what could be in the dust and toil and grit of what is. It is imagination that gives life to words on a page, that expands the meaning of poetry, that works and reworks our understanding of the world every day, every time we are confronted with something new.

It is imagination that helps us know and be known,

It is my imagination that helps me dream. It is my imagination that allows me to picture myself doing things. It is my imagination that allows my perfectionism, and my imagination that helps me to receive grace.

Even Scripture is full of images and descriptions that appeal to the imagination. God will use anything it takes to describe Himself to us, to get our attention and give us a picture of His love.

We live in the mind.

And sometimes, we die in the mind too.

...

Every time it happens, I hope it will be the last.

The dark closes in on me. My head starts spinning, my stomach clenches, the fear rushes in. Often, it begins with the realization that I am not who I imagine myself to be. I stare hard and honest into my life, and I begin to loathe it. Gratitude goes out the window; I can't see God.

I spiral downward into depression intensified by my physical limitations. I feel as if I must literally blow apart in all directions.

My walls are stripped; my defenses are breached. Nothing I tell myself relieves the sensation that I must be what I do not want to be.

I'd rend my garments, toss my clothes, if I weren't concerned about physical modesty. My soul has been bared.

I am exposed.

Naked.

I vomit words and honest; pretense is worthless.

There is no escape.

...

It is never the last time, because I fight. Because I am often like a cornered, wounded animal lashing out at its helper - it does not matter what compassion is meant.

I fight by trying to keep myself out of situations where I may be vulnerable. I fight by criticizing others for how far short they fall of what I have attained. I fight, justifying my position, validating my existence and work.

And I am always right.

Until I find out I am wrong.

But that is human nature.

That is not humility. Human nature leaves little room for transformation by the renewing of the mind.

We live in the mind.

...

When I was younger, I went to church looking for God.

You would think I could have found Him there.

I didn't.

By the time I figured out that all I needed to please God was Jesus - every single day - my heart had been kicked around, knocked up, beaten down, and strangled as Christians I knew attempted to make me conform to their idea of right.

The lies I swallowed about God were many.

And they don't leave easily.

The condemnation they carry for me is debilitating.

I barely trust other Christians now.

We live in the mind.

...

Perhaps I make too much of reality. Or rather, sincerity.

It is the excuse I use to dismiss others who would speak the truth. If their lives don't reflect what they are preaching, I write them off. It is safer that way.

Yet I write here at my blog things that I struggle to live every day. I write about loving my family, and I hold back the stories of the times that I deliberately choose to secret myself away from them. I tell of Pete's love for me, but I don't share how I know: he is still here, in spite of my frustrated ranting against the God I'm not so sure about as the One I share here. He knocks at my heart and tells me who I am with patience and kindness I don't deserve.

I write here about grace, but I sit in church and withhold it from others as I watch them worship and preach and pray. I am so cynical, nitpicking the things I know - and I know a lot - writing whole sections of sermons off, writing God's people off.

Because I was hurt. Because I am afraid.

If I am hard enough, perhaps I can escape.

Yet here I encounter His Spirit.

I have been in few churches where He has been so free to move. Omigoodness He is free to move here.

I cannot hold back my tears. I cannot help but be humbled.

I try to hold Him off, push Him back, but He is answering prayer, prayer that He would speak to us - to me - what He wishes to speak. It is not the words of the sermon echoing in my heart. It is His words, His Word. Jesus who is raising my eyes to His wounds and His Life. Jesus who is my justification.

Jesus who can judge me. Jesus who doesn't.

My confession comes with the tears.

I am naked before Him here. I cannot hide from Him. I must acknowledge Him.

I must reckon myself dead to my sin. Reckon myself alive to God.

I live in the mind.

...

My understanding of God is too often limited to who I imagine Him to be in relation to who I imagine I am.

Saul must have been ignoring some pretty obvious God-things before he became Paul on the road to Damascus, when God opened his eyes to behold Jesus, asking him why he was fighting Him.

He was so right - until he learned he was wrong.

God blinded him to open the eyes of his heart. How often does God blind me to open mine?

Sometimes, all I can see is two choices: endless darkness and despair, or talking to a God I am often not certain I trust.

I cannot spin past this God, obscure my face from Him, hide my fear.

His compassion for me is incredible.

It is so necessary.

He has shown you, O man, what is good;
And what does the LORD require of you
But to do justly,
To love mercy,
And to walk humbly with your God?

- Micah 6:8

I learn to love His mercy. To be humbled at my need for it.

It is one thing to say it; artifice demands that I do. Being "a Christian" demands the artifice.

But the Life I live by faith in the Son of God - it requires the real.

Nothing is inexorable but love. Love which will yield to prayer is imperfect and poor. Nor is it then the love that yields, but its alloy…. For love loves unto purity. Love has ever in view the absolute loveliness of that which it beholds. Where loveliness is incomplete, and love cannot love its fill of loving, it spends itself to make more lovely, that it may love more; it strives for perfection, even that itself may be perfected—not in itself, but in the object…. Therefore, all that is not beautiful in the beloved, all that comes between and is not of love’s kind, must be destroyed. And our God is a consuming fire.

- George MacDonald

It requires the naked. The rending of my heart.

...

Therefore if there is any consolation in Christ, if any comfort of love, if any fellowship of the Spirit, if any affection and mercy, fulfill my joy by being like-minded, having the same love, being of one accord, of one mind. Let nothing be done through selfish ambition or conceit, but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better than himself. Let each of you look out not only for his own interests, but also for the interests of others.

Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus, who, being in the form of God, did not consider it robbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross. Therefore God also has highly exalted Him and given Him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of those under the earth, and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

- Phil 5:1-11

Reality confronts imagination, and my own ideas of God are rearranged as I behold Jesus.

In Him I live and move and have my being.

Crucified with Christ, this is how I present myself a living sacrifice. As I am laid bare before Him, He changes my idea of Him, changes my way of understanding. How can one help but be transformed when confronted with this chastening, refining Love?

...

If you made it to the end of this post, thanks for sticking with me.

I'm slowly digging through some things that have been happening in my heart recently, in between kids and meals and health and general survival stuff. The processing is landing here - I hope you don't mind. I'm not meaning to be a wet blanket; I just have to get this stuff out.

Somebody's praying for me. I'd ask you to quit, but His work is good, if uncomfortable, right?

Shallow-ish post coming soon. I promise. ;-)





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

resurrection - the waiting

sometimes dying is
more beautiful than
living

and sometimes it hurts.

especially because we all die
alone

until we live full in Jesus
until we are raised together with Him
until we see God.

so we die
and we live

in this hope.

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. For the earnest expectation of the creation eagerly waits for the revealing of the sons of God.

For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope; because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now.

Not only that, but we also who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the adoption, the redemption of our body.

For we were saved in this hope, but hope that is seen is not hope; for why does one still hope for what he sees?

{ Rom. 8:18-24 }

...


This post linked at Holy Experience for Walk With Him Wednesday.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Love Stories: God and Me, Part V

For when we were still without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly. For scarcely for a righteous man will one die; yet perhaps for a good man someone would even dare to die. But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

- Romans 5:6-8

God never had to prove His love to me. When you are Love itself, I suppose simple existence is enough. I Am, He calls Himself to Moses. Even I can't explain the depth of who I am.

Some things you just have to know.

...

I was in the dark again.

This time it was postpartum depression. It was financial stress. It was months of processing backlog. It was Pete not passing the Bar.

It was me trying to live without God.

My prayers were falling flat. I tamped down my desire. I grabbed hold of every gift I'd been given, refusing to open my hands and my heart to Him. To give Him place in my life to say "no."

To my understanding, there was nothing different about living my life with God than there was living without Him. Nothing except dashed hopes and expectations I couldn't meet.

There were things I didn't say then to anyone, but in my heart, I was building my case against God. I felt betrayed. Brokenhearted. I wanted to pay Him back.

...

Pete had retaken the Bar in February, 2008. Our financial limitations had driven us two houses from the home I loved, the home where we spent our wedding night, the home where I had my first baby.

I couldn't settle anywhere. I pushed Pete and Piper away from my heart, weeping silent in quiet dark hours, knowing God made no guarantees, knowing that I had lost deep once - nothing would stop me from losing again. I couldn't love and lose again.

My health had taken another turn downhill. The lack of sleep after Piper's birth (she didn't sleep through the night for two years) was too much for my system, and my depression cycled downward with the return of the collapsing and convulsions.

His whispers were the familiar broken record "I love you."

Yeah right, God. Sure You do.

...

Pete passed the Bar, and his office hired his replacement under him. He was working as a floating assistant for several different attorneys - too much work for too little money. We were looking for jobs in California; nothing was coming. I ate the stress, retreated deeper into my shell.

Our house didn't have any light. I hated it. I hated me there. I hated everything.

I refused to pray.

A job opportunity opened up in Charleston. He pursued it. Interviewed via phone the day after he'd queried back. Flew down for an interview a couple of days later. By the end of the week, he had an offer.

And it was too low for us to accept.

...

I was trapped.

When Pete called me to tell me the offer was too low, I clawed at the strictures of my life. I hung up on Pete when he tried to talk to me about God after telling me the news. I remember screaming into the woods around our house, looking into the trees and asking God where He was, if He bothered to care about me.

I remembered His "I love you."

Love?

No, He was God. He was going to do what He was going to do. He wanted me to lay down my life for Him, and guaranteed nothing in return. Nothing but Himself. I wanted to spit on His offer. Why would I want Him?

I told Pete that I was done with God. I couldn't un-believe His existence; it was the only thing that made sense. But I was as close as I had ever been to hating Him. I didn't want to have anything to do with Him. I didn't want Him to use me anymore. I felt manipulated and betrayed and... dead.

God didn't care about me. And if He did, I didn't want it.

He was nothing more than a concept to me. A concept I was supposed to believe. A concept that was supposed to change my life.

...

A day later, Pete was given a second job offer. We were moving, in a week's time. Our landlord flipped out. The landlord who had been okay with our five-times-telling-him that Pete was between jobs and we might need to break our lease. The landlord I'd respected and liked. The landlord I'd hand-picked to stop the freak-out from happening.

I succumbed to the shock and anger that day.

I screamed at God. Screamed and screamed and screamed. The events of the last several years, the bottled anger, the disappointment, the sense of betrayal, the obligation I had felt to be godly, my constant sense of shame, the repeated "I love you" in the face of my fear of loss - I threw it all up at Him with all the passion I possessed. I shook my fist at Him from my knees. I shook both fists.

And I curled into a ball and wept.

It was like a defibrillator. My deadened heart was shocked back into life and everything I had shut down and pushed poured out into real again. I dumped all that I had been holding against Him out that day. My case was big enough to convict Him of not loving me now.

...

Pouring my heart out before the Lord left me empty. Clean. My accusations had been flung at Him. My anger had finally been spent. Giving voice to my complaint against Him had freed me from it.

The next day in the car, I quietly tried to apologize to Him for my anger, embarrassed over my loss of control.

He surprised me with His response. "You were in pain."

All that anger, and that was what He got?

It was like He hadn't been listening. It was as if He hadn't heard. It was as if He had been with me in it all along, aching with me, dying with me, waiting for me to bring it into His love.

...

I had nothing left to hold against God. I spent the next months waiting, quiet, learning my dust, learning His Godness.

We moved to Charleston; I didn't like the house we moved to, but there was light here. The depression wasn't so bad as it had been. I began to give shy thanks for His provision.

Pete was home more than he had been. His commute was ten minutes long instead of forty. We got a chance to be a family, to get to know one another again.

I didn't say much about God. I listened. I filled my time with pictures; a Flickr addiction came and went; I learned what exactly it meant that Jesus had died for me.

...

It was morning. I can't tell you the date. I can just tell you the way the morning sun came through the window at the house I didn't much like. I had my camera, but I didn't photograph it.

It came deep, still, like a breath into the core of my soul.

God loves me.

You know how they always say that when you fall in love with someone, you "just know" you were meant for each other? I always hated that. I always wanted the explanation, the how, the why.

But it's true. The deepest love can't be defined, because God Himself is Love, because He is infinite, because He has no beginning and no end, because He is Beginning and End.

God loves me.

I just knew.

...

Once upon a time, in a time before time, a perfect, holy God loved me. Before I existed, before I knew I needed Him, He made a way for me to know His love.

I ask Piper when we go to sleep together if she knows who loves her. She gives her answer: "God loves you, and Jesus loves you, and Mama loves you, and Daddy loves you, and Uncle Kate loves you and Mickey Mouse loves you..."

He sent His Son Jesus, God-in-flesh, to be broken for me, to wear my dust, to be my sin so that I could wear His righteousness and approach Him in His holiness to obtain mercy.

I ask Piper if she knows how we know God loves her. She doesn't yet, but I tell her: "Jesus died for you." She doesn't know what that means yet.

This great God who loved me sealed my heart with His Spirit for the day that Jesus will come for me, to bring me finally into His presence to be one with Him.

I wonder what Piper's love story will be; how will God teach her heart His love for her? I can't wish my story on her; I can't wish away His love.

Now I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. Also there was no more sea. Then I, John, saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from heaven saying, “Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. God Himself will be with them and be their God. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.”

Then He who sat on the throne said, “Behold, I make all things new.” And He said to me, “Write, for these words are true and faithful.”

And He said to me, “It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. I will give of the fountain of the water of life freely to him who thirsts. He who overcomes shall inherit all things, and I will be his God and he shall be My son

- Revelation 21:1-7

And they will live happily ever after.

...

Love Stories: God and Me, Part I
Love Stories: God and Me, Part II
Love Stories: God and Me, Part III
Love Stories: God and Me, Part IV

...

On Thursdays in February (because I never know quite what to post on Thursdays), I was writing out my love story. Not the one about my crushes or my first love or even my love for Pete - though those stories all play a part. Bonnie Gray at Faith Barista and Holley Gerth at (in)Courage challenged us to write out our God love stories, and I had one to share.

This is my last official installment on this particular series. More love stories to come, though, as inspiration hits... Thanks for sticking with me.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

unsettled

I am blur and shadow lately. There is not much clear in my head; other things are more pressing than figuring it out.

Things like settling into our new house. Like spending time with a baby who is more awake than he was. Like fixing boo-boos against my toddler's will. Like learning to discipline her.

Learning to love them both, even if my love makes no difference, even if they push me away instead of seeking me out.

It is not the house that leaves me unsettled - since we moved only three streets over, we just transferred our things into their new rooms and didn't worry too much about boxes. And we have extra storage here to hide things we don't want to deal with yet.

Still, things feel choppy. Restless.

...

I revamped my blog the other day. Do you like it?

I should rename the thing "This Restless Blog Template." But it seemed to go with moving house, and I'd meant to do it for a while. I wanted less clutter, less distracting, something to give my photos a chance to stand out a little more without being overpowering.

I love the look. It's peaceful. Quiet. Unlike the noise in my head. Unlike the noise in my house and two lines on a blog post between interruptions.

...

The other night, I stayed up late after everyone was in bed. Wrote a few emails, caught up on my blog-reading. Thought my own thoughts and realized I am not as easy alone as I used to be. When I went to bed, I looked at Pete and saw me married, looked at Piper and saw me her mama, looked at Bredon and saw myself with a son.

Is it odd that I am shocked by it? As my own version of "what I want to be when I grow up" fades from view, I become an observer. I am not the me I was, not the me I thought I'd be.

Life happens with or without me, and sometimes in spite of me. Somehow, whether it comes in my way or in its own way, it comes if I am ready or not. Sometimes I try too hard to grasp time that slips too easily through my fingers like so much sand. I try to do more and be more, and I have more limitations than most.

...

My life is not all about me, but I am human, and we humans are the main characters in our own stories. Sometimes I don't notice the supporting characters in the midst of my own struggles, characters who are their own main characters in their own stories, however ancillary they are to mine.

But I have been seeing them, peering outside myself, observing me through other eyes, trying to put myself in their shoes.

I don't want my life to happen without me. I don't want to stay frozen so long that I miss the others the Author has placed in my story. Yet with that desire comes a knowledge that I must not do when God wants me to wait; I must not speak when He wants me to listen. Eternal God knows more about the work of time in hearts than I can imagine, and there is a time for everything - no matter how pressured I feel to make everything all right today.

I have never wanted to be "Supermom" or "Superwife." Living predefined roles is counter-intuitive to me. It means doing many things "the hard way" because I don't do anything by halves. God knows that. My yes is yes and my no is no. Too many years in between made me double-minded so I didn't know what I wanted. Now, He takes me slow into His will, renewing my mind, strengthening my heart to do within His grace sufficient.

And God knows this about me too: once I know something, I know it. And I am accountable to Him for it. So He does not ask me for everything at once. He remembers that I am dust; He promises not to break a bruised reed.

...

He knows how I struggle to keep up with the changes in my life - is all of life transition? What is it like to stay in one place for years and years and know all the same people and go to the same church and marry someone you knew when you were five and have kids with all your best friends?

I wouldn't know.

And I almost don't want to know. I don't know how to be that settled.

{This} Restless Heart - a name I stumbled on after a blog switch a few years ago when someone I didn't like was reading my words and commenting on them. I liked the romance of the phrase, the quote I had to go with it - I had no idea how it would come to describe my heart and my journey.

...

There are two deep things that I can see Him doing in me now. I don't know how to define them, because I don't know His end. I stand at the edge of something new, wondering how long the churning will last, staring fascinated at the whitecaps, trying to gain my balance. Looking down is dizzying.

...

One deep thing has to do with Piper. She is heavy on my heart now since my visit to my parents' house, since listening to their counsel, since acknowledging the thing I've been afraid to acknowledge, the hard thing, the coming-out-of-hiding thing I've been avoiding. I am learning to see her. To do more than react. To love her differently. I am learning what needs of hers to release to God, learning what needs I should be meeting. I am learning to listen - to her and to Him.

...

The other deep thing has to do with people. Specifically with other believers.

I read through the second half of Revelation on our way home from my parents'. There is an endless stretch on I-26 between Columbia and Charleston that makes for some very solid reading time.

As I read, I found myself overwhelmed with the amazing picture of God presented in Revelation. The Holy God who will endure sin no longer. The Alpha and Omega - the one who will finish it all. The triumphant Son of Man reaping the earth with the Word of God, the one who Himself is named the Word of God. The inescapable wrath of God that will supersede all platitudes and nicetudes and drive people to curse Him and be destroyed. The perfect justice in His judgment, long-deserved.

I am awed at that God. I love that God. I wept as I read, realizing that it is not for me because I am in Jesus. That before this God of wrath and judgment, my testimony is not "Jesus, but..." It is Jesus Christ and Him crucified.

It is finished.

And I am not afraid.

But when I face the prospect of walking into a church, of interacting with other believers, I am terribly afraid. There are voices in my head, lies long-believed, unfamiliar, frightening images of a graceless God who demands perfection as long as someone has a paintbrush in hand to wash my dust in faded white that pales in comparison to the light.

White that this photographer knows must disappear in the bright, for His glory exposes more than we imagine. Really, it is the Light that makes even the dust beautiful.

...

I stand on the edge, wishing the clouds away, but half-glorying in the storm and the wind and the blur and the shadow. My arms are opening. My eyes are opening in spite of the rain; I am learning again to love the wildness in this restless. It is passion. It is intimate. It is something I am doing with Him, something He is doing with me. I walk a path no one else has walked; no one else can walk for me.

I am unsettled lately, changing - yet I am deeply settled too. I don't understand it, but I'll take it for now.

...

I have no idea how much sense this post makes; it's the first real opportunity I've had to sit down and process anything since getting back to Charleston after my week in VA. I'm just thinkin' for right now. Thanks for bearing with me.

...

AND as a completely random aside, I'm a finalist @Greeblemonkey's March photo contest. Please click over and vote for my photo: "Learning to Breathe."





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

a self-portrait: covered

The words were little more than a sigh.

She inhaled, exhaled, and still there was nothing, nothing but air and wishes, and not even that, if she was honest. Words don't breathe until they are said, until they are formed on the tongue, until they slip from lip and sing across empty space. And wishes, well, they need definition, and definition requires words.

So she sighed.

Her feelings were scattered, splintering in every direction but straight, focusing here, then there, trying to be everywhere at once, forgetting that omnipresence is better left to God-who-sees. The feelings were like that; they didn't remember so much as they should.

She didn't know what to say, so she couldn't write. She took pictures, and they said a great deal too much, and didn't say quite enough.

Grace is a slippery thing, she thought.

No, no it's not.

Again she sighed. Tried to focus her thoughts. Gave up. Sighed again.

Today, she didn't know who she was. Was she pastels and tulips or bright and daisies? Or was she somewhere in between? Was there a place for all of it? Why did everything seem that it needed to be compartmentalized? She felt she might blow apart with the things trapped inside.

God was so near some days; He was near now - she knew His presence. But drawing near to Him required a little bravery on her part. A little trust. A lot of truth.

She wasn't afraid of the wrathful God of Revelation; her heart thrilled at the blazing rescue executed by the fiery-eyed Son of Man from whose mouth came the Word of God that seared her soul. There was no wrath for her, no fear there.

But rejection - even the possibility - it asked faith of her. Faith that Jesus was enough. That grace was sufficient for her to come to Him and rest when she was weary. It seemed she was always weary.

She had heard that she needed to do more, to be more than she was. The voices in her head - the loud ones that lived on her mental tickertape - they said that God required more of her or else. The "or else" was never defined. She lived in fear of that dropping ball. Sometimes the prospect was too much for her. She hunkered down, shut out the world, dived beneath the radar of God-who-sees.

Ironically, she never escaped His gaze.

His wisdom wasn't supposed to be confusing.

She couldn't live a lifetime in a moment.

She couldn't change herself.

Everything was muddled without considering Jesus. She'd never be enough.

But there He was. Jesus, her free. Her Spirit-sealed guarantee that God would not reject her if she drew near. His gaze seemed suddenly more welcoming.

Her feelings focused; she needed to hide for now, but not from Him. In Him. In that secret place of His presence where there is no need for definition or caveat or explanation. She'd be safe there. Covered.

Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven,
Whose sin is covered.
Blessed is the man to whom the LORD does not impute iniquity,
And in whose spirit there is no deceit.

When I kept silent, my bones grew old
Through my groaning all the day long.
For day and night Your hand was heavy upon me;
My vitality was turned into the drought of summer. Selah
I acknowledged my sin to You,
And my iniquity I have not hidden.
I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the LORD,”
And You forgave the iniquity of my sin. Selah

For this cause everyone who is godly shall pray to You
In a time when You may be found;
Surely in a flood of great waters
They shall not come near him.
You are my hiding place;
You shall preserve me from trouble;
You shall surround me with songs of deliverance. Selah

I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;
I will guide you with My eye.
Do not be like the horse or like the mule,
Which have no understanding,
Which must be harnessed with bit and bridle,
Else they will not come near you.

Many sorrows shall be to the wicked;
But he who trusts in the LORD, mercy shall surround him.
Be glad in the LORD and rejoice, you righteous;
And shout for joy, all you upright in heart!

- Psalm 32

(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Love Stories: God and Me, Part IV

There was still the matter of the vow.

I hadn't made it lightly. And I had made it to God - a God of whose love I was no longer certain.

The months after the hospital passed under a cover of grace, grace I recognize in the looking back, seeing now the fear that stalked me then.

Pete's and my friendship deepened; I sought God with him, co-teaching a Sunday School class for the teens at our church. My pursuit of Him was rote, something I knew to do, something I'd always done.

I tried not to think about my friend, about the outstanding question of his return to me. I tried not to hope - for his return, for the return of my health, for anything at all. After several years of unresolved health issues I knew this: God was sovereign, and He would do what He wanted, regardless of my desire.

...

God told Pete to ask Him for me.

Not in the "ask Me so that I have the place to tell you no" sense. In the "ask Me for a sign and I will give it to you" sense.

So Pete obeyed and asked and fell in love with me.

I was not in love with him. But I knew I was no longer in love with my friend either. That wasn't something I shared with anyone. Not even with God. The inside jokes I'd shared with Him earlier in my story were over, the ready trust, the easy surrender, the passion behind my vow, the vow that kept me from returning Pete's love. The vow that depended on God's work in the heart of my friend.

Work that wasn't happening.

...

Christmas came. Questions about our friendship had arisen for both Pete and me. His family didn't know what to do with our relationship. They counseled him strongly against it; he shared his heart with his dad. His dad prayed.

My parents couldn't understand why I was still holding out for my friend's return. I explained the vow I had to keep. I told Dad that I'd shared the vow with him, that he hadn't said anything, that because of it, I was bound to it, for the sake of keeping the vow to the Lord.

My dad stared. "I never heard you. And if I had, there is no way I would have said you should keep it."

Humbling words. Frightening words. Freeing words.

...

I spent the New Year at a bed and breakfast retreat Pete had given me for Christmas. I intended to pull out my Bible and repeat the last year's New Year retreat - Genesis through Job seeking and discovering God. Pete figured if I found Him, he'd never see me again.

My heart wasn't in it. After my dad's words to me releasing me from my vow, I couldn't open my Bible. I was scared to find myself that alone with God. But He was pursuing me. He was so close, I felt if I turned and looked, I would see Him.

I ran.

I rented a movie. Hit two rental places looking for a VCR on which to watch the movie. The one in my room was broken. I bought one.

I didn't make it back to the bed and breakfast to hook the thing up and turn on the movie before He caught me in the dark of my car, so present, so real I couldn't escape Him.

"What do you want?" I remember asking Him, a little annoyed, a little afraid, gutsy enough to be the one to speak first, take the bull by the horns.

He didn't say anything. Not yet. I could feel Him looking at me, the pointed kind of look that says, "are you actually serious, asking Me that? You know."

I tried leaving Him in the car. Went inside. Set up the VCR. Put the movie in.

Turned it off.

"What do you want?"

It was Him this time, asking me.

...

Pete and I were married in October, 2005.

I had been freed from my first vow to make a new one, but I'd not been freed from my fear. I clutched Pete almost wildly to myself, waiting for the ball to drop, waiting for the inevitable loss that I was sure must come if I loved anything or anyone too much.

God wanted all of me. After I'd admitted my love for Pete to Him, I dived for cover, and He let me go, for a time. Let me live. During my first year of marriage, He spoke still and small His "I love you," over and over and over.

I acknowledged. "Yeah, God. I know."

"I love you."

...

Piper was born in July, 2007. A year of "I love you" culminated in faith to cling to Him during her birth.

I was ready to move on with life. I figured it was time to start growing spiritually again. Trying to find God again. Trying to love Him again. Which meant laying down my life for Him. And figuring out what it meant to lay down my life. I wanted to get to the "life abundant" on the other side of that "nevertheless."

Somehow, I thought I might be able to manage it without letting Him into my heart again. Without being so vulnerable as I had been. Without facing the fear that held me captive.

Somehow I thought I could lay down my life for Him without Him.

...

Love Stories: God and Me, Part I
Love Stories: God and Me, Part II
Love Stories: God and Me, Part III


...

On Thursdays in February (because I never know quite what to post on Thursdays), I was writing out my love story. Not the one about my crushes or my first love or even my love for Pete - though those stories all play a part. Bonnie Gray at Faith Barista and Holley Gerth at (in)Courage challenged us to write out our God love stories, and I had one to share.

It's been on hold for a couple of weeks, and here we are in March with what should have been the final post - but I discovered this morning that it won't be the final post. There is too much more that I cannot share today.

Thanks for your patience. More to come next Thursday.






(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Qavah

There are a lot of "oughts" in my brain just now.

There are words strung out in phrases, slipping "shoulds" and "need tos" and "haven'ts" and "didn'ts" mingling into restless, accusing syntax to bypass the grace I know with the other things.

The "you're not enough." The "you can't." The long lecture about standing too firm, too proud, the castigation for my humanity, the convenient oversight of the dirt and grime and splattering red of the Cross.

So many are giving so much up for Lent. So many care here and give there. So many pursue this or that with passion and drive that seems untouched by the weights I am wishing to throw aside. Weights that I am not even certain I may throw aside.

I try to live. I'm trying to gain my balance here. But I am an all or nothing person, and it seems I am wading through some quagmire in a valley of decision. Decision that has no clear direction. "Give something up." "Do more here." "Let's not do this." "I need to try that."

The voices are loud and insistent. They are not God's, I think. They drive me away from still.

I am not one to give much credence to spiritual attack. I generally try to ignore it, continue on my way, keeping my eyes away from it. But I'm living in a thin place right now. The photo above tells more than I wish to tell, yet it says so much that I have to say, that I can't admit, that I must admit or disappear.

There are places in me I dare not go without my strong God. There are cracks in my armor - not my Christ-armor - my own protective walls, the ones that must come crashing down in me before He will have all of me, before it will be all joy to embrace Him as my very great reward.

Fear has footholds in me yet; he drives me inward, makes me cower, curl into myself, poking and prodding until I lash out with the only defense the attack has left available to me - anger. Fury.

Where is your grace now? The voices taunt, and I try not to fall, hold back my tears, for I cannot be broken, they cannot break me.

I look for Jesus. This is my year of dust. Of looking at mine, of seeking His, for He became dust too. His wilderness was forty days long. Israel wandered forty years. How long is my own to last?

Why, oh why do I fight for this freedom?

I am being pressed. I am perplexed. I am persecuted. Yet I am not crushed. I do not despair. I am not alone.

How can I know these things and still struggle so within myself?

"It is your own fault." The hissing prods me, bidding vague decision. "You could end this. Just choose what you know is right!"

But right is not something I know so very well anymore. Right and Life are far from each other at times, when Christ is my life and right blocks my view of Him.

It seems the very air I breathe is murky. The light is shadowed.

Too often, I have surrounded myself with people, with voices that tell me the right. Too often I take their word instead of His, and even the good causes me to stumble. I am so weak; I cannot be strong like some. I used to think that I could. I used to think that having the right answer was enough.

Answers are cold. And they are often empty.

Everything inside cries for touch. Not for child-touch, need-touch. God knows I've had too much of that lately. I almost push them away to make room for full-touch, giving-touch.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, thou art with me.

With rod and staff He offers comfort. I receive it deep. I need both to steady, to guide, to hem me behind and before.

The light pierces now, sun in a baby's eyes as he emerges from the womb. Glorious light.

You have laid Your hand upon me.

It is so warm.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Patience to wait when there is nothing clear

The morning was unusually quiet. Purposefully scheduled. A week's intention rising from months of wishes, years of preparation - reparation, really.

It was time.

Before the throne of God above
I have a strong and perfect plea:
A great High Priest, whose name is Love,
Who ever lives and pleads for me.

My name is graven on his hands,
My name is written on his heart;
I know that while in heaven he stands
No tongue can bid me thence depart.

Clothing myself in this grace, and fixing make-up, hair, and nice-ish clothes that fit my post-pregnancy frame, I climbed into the car with husband and babies, trembling a little in soul.

I'd not faced this yet. Was I ready? I had known forgiveness myself; had I forgiven yet? Could I even acknowledge the hurt that had driven me away, acknowledge its source, open my heart again to the possibility?

Yet I had gained so much from my time away. I found Jesus. I learned to speak His name, albeit quietly yet - still I am so tentative to stand fast in Him. I learned deep what the Gospel is, what it is to me.

Maybe I could just stay where I was, leave off the horizon that drew closer the longer we drove.

I shed a few tears past the lump in my throat, trying to talk, listening, strengthened, quietened by worship, by heart-vision:

When Satan tempts me to despair,
And tells me of the guilt within,
Upward I look, and see him there
Who made an end of all my sin.

Because the sinless Savior died,
My sinful soul is counted free;
For God, the Just, is satisfied
To look on Him and pardon me.

My hunger deepened, fellowship-hunger whetted and refined over months of interaction with people who know Him, people who live in different places than I live, who receive the same grace I have come to know.

They had not inflicted the wounds I had suffered.

There were others who had not, either. We were going to meet them. There was fear, rising, falling, like heart-palpitations.

Then we were there, and there was noise and greeting and hasty introductions echoing too loud around foyer and fainting, determined heart. Piper was happy to stay and play - a change from her must-have-Mommy cries of the past - and I slipped into a seat, with my hand in Pete's, my baby at my feet.

I didn't know the songs; had I been gone too long? No, I wouldn't have chosen or remembered them - they were a bit wishy-washy for my taste. The lump in my throat was too large for singing anyway. I looked around, wishing for a familiar face.

And I encountered Jesus.

There He was, Immanuel, God come in flesh, Holy Spirit templed in the dust around me, in the dust in me. I was not the only one in the room receiving His grace. I was not the only one who knew Him. He was here.

There were tear-tracks in my make-up now; Pete gave me a tissue. I had forgotten my purse.

"Humble us... Show us what You want us to see today." A prayer I prayed, because my spirit knew I must, because His Spirit in me responded where I had no courage. And show me, He did.

It wasn't the sermon about money, preached by a pastor younger than me. (Oh, I felt old!)

It was this: that I could not say that "I adore" Jesus, when others were singing and saying they did, truthfully from their hearts; I still measure my love for Him - I know much; I consider myself accountable, because with me it is all or nothing. There is no in-between.

It was this: that I could not look down on them because of the grace I myself had received, in which I was that moment dwelling silent on holy ground.

It was this: that I had dismissed. (It hurts to write these words.) That I had judged. That I no longer had to judge, because I was no longer judged - not by Christ, not by the One who could judge me.

I was confronted with Love, the love that sent my Savior - their Savior - to cover me in His righteous. My reactionary fears were shattering, left as ashes in my mouth, the tears I was shedding, healing tears, welcome restoration.

Behold him there, the risen Lamb,
My perfect, spotless righteousness,
The great unchangeable I Am,
The King of glory and of grace!

One with Himself, I cannot die
My soul is purchased by his blood
My life is hid with Christ on high,
With Christ, my Savior and my God!

And He had not wasted my fear-time, wasted me. Instead He had come to me, met me where I was, afraid as I was, opened me to His heart and given me brave grace to live and to give what will be my whole life one day when I wake satisfied in His likeness. He had taught me to worship, to joy in His goodness, to labor and live and deliver my work for His glory, learning to do the will of God from my heart.

He was more than a Sunday morning worship time, more than a sermon application, more than small group and potlucks and Sunday School. He is more. He is Life. He is my life.

I am not yet what I will be. How can I be less patient with others than He is with me?

We have none of us arrived, but when we see Him, when we see Him as He is, then... Then we will be like Him.

Twila Paris sings, "This is the Faith, patience to wait when there is nothing clear..."

With faith not my own, I waited on God; here He bent low to wait on me.

...

Shared in this week's "One Word at a Time" Blog Carnival at Bridget Chumbley's blog.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

One Thousand Gifts - The Light Shines In

On my dark days, I chase light. I chase it with my eyes, try to breathe it, fiddle with camera settings to capture it so I can look at it later. Sometimes the light comes with words and fullness of Him who is the Light. Always, it draws a smile, a fascination, a curiosity that gives pause in the dark as I am reminded of one sunny day when I noticed it in my window and realized that God had not abandoned me. I was not alone.


I found it playing on the lock and the shade-cord in our bedroom one day when I was nursing.


I found it filtering over winter lilies in a cemetery, surrounded by dead, blooming in spite of the cold that pierced my clothing, froze my fingers. God-who-provides, clothing even the lilies, giving me peace to trust Him for yesterday, for today, for tomorrow.

"Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?" (Mt. 6:26)


I caught it lighting my pill ramekin, pulsing over my grandmother's blue plaid, remembering warmth and joy and my favorite safe spot in the world.


Pete and I chased it light over water, glory piercing the clouds, encouraging memories of what we thought when we were children seeing those rays. The camera settings captured what we cannot look upon with naked eye. We remembered heaven, pondered glory that Moses saw, that Moses could not see.

"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known." (1 Cor. 13:12)


And then there was sun on fire, on tulips my husband bought for me in third-day-gray when we didn't have much money, a promise of spring, hope for sun. Normally, I choose my color instead of the color he picks. This time I chose to trust him. The sun lit up his love, a learning submission.


And here, camera in car, sun remembered to rise after rain, shining all day, setting slow through trees over reddened blue water, reflecting glory we'd seen once before with no camera to capture.

And I know I have spilled it all out here, but the sun rose today, and it's shining here, and soon I will have a new house with a room full of it, and my computer is back, and my camera is charged, and tomorrow I have more pictures to share of my children - one or the other or both.

I'd count out my gifts, but I have lost the number, lost my heart and my head in the Light that shines in, and I am not afraid anymore, for He is with me, even in the valley of the shadow of death, entwining Himself with my cares as He cares for me. And this is a gift too. A thousand in one.

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


This post also linked at Holy Experience, sharing with the Gratitude Community in listing my own One Thousand Gifts. I will number today's when I find time again.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

God has been very good to me...

Though some days are just a mish-mash of disorganized life that is only beautiful if I take a minute or two to notice, if I recognize what He has given, if I allow that He is here.

He is not so silent as I think sometimes.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

When Barren is Beautiful

Thank you for this thorn embedded in my flesh;
I can feel the mystery, my spirit is made fresh.
You are sovereign still and forever wise;
I can see the miracle opening my eyes

To a proud heart so quick to judge
Laying down crosses and carrying grudges.
The veil has been torn -
And I thank you for this thorn

Thank you for this thorn, fellowship of pain
Teaching me to know you more, never to complain
Thank You for this love planted in my side,
Faithful patient miracle opening my eyes.

I never thought I'd say it without reservation,
But I am truly grateful for this piercing revelation
Of a proud heart so quick to judge,
Laying down crosses and carrying grudges -
The veil has been torn,
And I thank you for this thorn

And if You chose to take it, I will praise You
And thank You for the healing in Your name.
But if it must remain, I thank You for Your rod
Evidence of Father-love for a child of God.

I join You in the sorrow,
So much less than You have borne,
And I thank you, really I thank You...
Lord I thank You; I thank You for this thorn

- Twila Paris, This Thorn

I hever saw myself posting this song, or even echoing it from my heart until today when I found myself humming it, voicing it, singing it during a diaper change.

Yesterday's words were for me. I meant only to give voice to myself and my struggle, meant only to shovel out some of my personal winter to make room for some spring.

Today, writing from here, I am nearly wordless at the depth of the response. I look at your words poured out in yesterday's comment box, filling my email inbox - words of encouragement, affirmation, identification. Words and prayers and Scripture and hope to refresh me, to make me feel young again, to let me know that there is still life to be had, to reach for my heart with yours and wrap it up and send it heavenward.

I have said thank-you so often lately, I can't help but respond with grateful all over the place. I am still with amazement today.

Today has been a slow day, a quiet day, a sunny day with March winds in January bearing growing excitement for us. It has been a day for making room, for choosing trust, for having and holding and trying again.

His mercies are new every morning, I learned in my first round of depression, when every night I fell into bed feeling I'd failed, knowing I'd handed in my miracles. They are still new, every morning.

This is what His faithfulness is.

I can't begin to describe it for you. It is simply something I know.

Last time I walked this path, I wanted what I wanted - the assurance that I would not lose, the end of my pain for crying out loud. God Himself was not reward enough for me. I was alone because I chose my isolation from His grace.

I am not alone this time. I could not have written what I wrote without the new knowledge I have of His love for me.

When I wrote yesterday, I could not thank Him for this, but today I step gingerly into praise. I learned last time not to feel guilty for the good days.

Worship aches out in breath today, in not-so-studied bed-making and hair-doing and nursing and diaper-changing and in writing and in cooking, which I have done.

There are not words adequate for this grateful, for this sense that God cares - He really does.

I look outside, absorb the sun and the blue and the trees and the glory of the morning traveling into noon and into early evening. The smile comes deep, peace that barely curves my lips, peace that lightens my eyes.

He has borne my burdens; you have borne them with Him. He has enriched my soul; He has used your words to do it. He has given me a good day; He has given me Himself.

Should it stun me that I am not wasted after four days in the dark? Should I be so amazed that I am not destroyed?

I am.

And I am, quite frankly, humbled. It as if I am seeing the world through different eyes today. I keep blinking, trying to make sense of it all, trying to figure out what to do with this "enfolded" feeling, with this "surrounded" feeling - this safe that isn't even a feeling so much as it is a faith.

I don't understand why I should feel beautiful like this. Why I should feel cherished like this. Comforted like this. Quieted like this.

Who am I to deserve such treatment?

Slowly, I learn now to pray.

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


This post also linked at Holy Experience for Walk With Him Wednesday.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Thorn

I don't want to publish this post.

I haven't wanted to write it.

Writing it would make it real.

But writing it would make me real. And I need that. I need to be real right now.

I need to write off my excuses and face the creeping deadness and bring it out into the sunlight and expose it there. I need to write it here, during my me-time, because it is all the me-time I really get.

I'm barely getting shower time lately.

I need to write it while I can write it, corral it, give it a place so it doesn't rule me, spinning round and round in my thoughts and my head and my heart like the storm that came through last night, whipping rain against window and wall and roof.

Enough is enough. I can't hide anymore by changing the subject.

...

I am a very open person, but there are two topics I don't talk about with anyone but my husband. One is the topic of my first love. The other is my depression.

It was odd to realize this yesterday while I was talking with Pete. Odd to realize that I've been deliberately avoiding writing from where I am over the last week or so.

Repost an old post. Guest posts are a good idea. Keep it clean. Keep it shallow. Your readers don't need to know what is really going on. Just cloak it here. It's not a lie.

But I know it is a lie. I know because I care too much about what you think. Because I've suddenly found myself checking my statcounter and comparing numbers and trying to come up with ways to promote my blog so I get more traffic because I want to be just. like. somebody. else. And it's no one in particular. Just those somebodies I've run across who get a million comments or a thousand visitors a day.

I got about a thousand visitors one day two weeks ago.

So I've been putting my make-up on here. Covering up my blemishes, making me pretty, dressing up and putting conclusions on this barely-dressed me that is really shell-shocked, struggling, staring, weeping, working, waking.

I am trying to believe that what I am presenting is the real me and it is wanted, while I am hiding away the mess that I am, sweeping up my dust, creating myself one more place to hide.

I cannot do that here.

...

Four days of clouds will do it to me. And they did this last week. It doesn't matter what I do.

The first day, I will turn all the lamps on in the house to warm it, drink tea, cuddle in blankets with babies, write poetry.

The second day, it gets harder. I try to have a good attitude. The crying grates more. I start losing patience with Piper. I grasp at grace.

On the third day, the fog sets in. Doing anything requires herculean effort. Focusing my thoughts beyond putting one foot in front of another is almost impossible. I start to feel fat. Ugly. Lazy. I start to notice that I'm not seeing my kids. The condemnation-whispers intensify.

By the fourth day, I'm almost non-functional. I spend long periods of time staring into space, trying to figure out what I need to do to stand up, put my clothes on, get food, take care of babies. I feel wooden, frozen. The guilt is overwhelming; condemnation roars at me. I have no energy to answer it. I pray for sun.

Additional factors worsen the freeze. The new diet I have to figure out for my gallbladder. Tailoring that diet even further for the baby's thrush. Curling up inside because I know his sick is my fault, and why can't I just get this right. Raising garlic and B dosages and setting off a deeper herxheimer - for both Lyme and Candida.

And every time I herx, the depression deepens for a week until my body adjusts to the new treatment levels.

I can't cry.

...

I register things internally that I can't express. I photograph the light so I can see it on cloudy days. I write my rememberies while they are fresh so that I have them in words, etched in my mind so I can look back and remember what was on the other side of these closing walls.

I try to see Piper, try to see Bredon, try not to look at Pete because I know it is happening again and I am so, so sorry that I can't fight it away every day. Ignoring it doesn't work.

It must be engaged.

I read others' stories of their struggle with it, and I acknowledge it deep but I don't admit.

It must be engaged.

I write about everything else in my life, because I don't want my readers to think it is so hard here, because it's not so hard here every day and this is not the sum of who I am.

But it must be engaged.

And so I am writing it here. I am bringing out my unmade face with the circles under my eyes, the slack expression, my thrown-up hair, frumpy clothing, my post-baby-squared body. I'm writing out the unmade bed, the toddler-toys all over the house, the dishes that I don't do, the laundry I barely notice until I realize how much Pete is doing for me, for us.

I'm opening the door, because I can't keep it closed any longer. This needs to be real. I need to leave my denial behind and spill out the dark the same way I need to spill out the fun and the light and the shallow.

I didn't start this blog for the whole world. I started it to write what I couldn't say. My goal here is not to cloak me or present someone I am not. What good is Jesus to you or to me if I write outside my humanity? What merit does my grace-description hold if I don't share my need of it?

...

I suppose I could journal it, instead of putting me out here for examination and suggestion and judgment. But as long as I can hide from it, I don't have to acknowledge it, and for me the writing of it makes it real. The saying of it, the sharing of it clears my head. It takes the swirling, toxic phrases that play on repeat and turns the light on them, revealing them for the lies they are.

Paul wrote to the Corinthians of a thorn in his flesh that God didn't remove.

I know the depression is my thorn.

I am struggling to understand how God's grace is sufficient. I know it is for me. But I need it to be sufficient for Pete and for Piper and for Bredon.

This is not the way I pictured my life.

But it is what it is, and part of living my life means living this too.

I hope, as always, that you will pardon my dust.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Metaphor

New Orleans.

Everywhere, you could see lingering evidence of the storm. Whole apartment buildings stood gutted. Water marks crawled up walls, seeking disguise beneath mossy grime. Houses that had been homes stood empty, windows shattered, gone. There was a boarded-up Walmart that was missing its sign. A Burlington Coat Factory with a Baby Depot hosted only shopping carts in the parking lot. Car lots with spanking new vehicles boasted only temporary or damaged signs. We drove over Lake Pontchartrain on a bridge that had been patched together.

After the storm, there was talk of abandoning the city. Leaving it a ghost town, a silent, eerie memorial to Katrina's wrath. So many were killed. So many lost everything. So many chose not to return.

But some did return. There were new houses, new siding, new landscaping in neighborhoods that still housed condemned and destroyed homes. The city's French Quarter was packed with humanity and gridlocked traffic around the famous Café du Monde. New Orleans was hosting some rather important football game in which fans for both teams wore red and white. And parallel to the patched bridge was a new bridge being constructed of pieces from the old.

At first, I didn't notice the damage still visible in New Orleans. Like any other city I have visited, I was first struck by the character of the city. I could taste its wildness, its passion, its pain, its memory. As we left the city, however, I saw. There was an ache that brought tears.

Aftermath. That was the word. The word that focused the emotions of my journey, my personal storm, the word that focused what I was seeing all around me. And then, hope.

After every storm, there is life. Not everything dies. But the damage - that stays. Unless someone returns to restore it. Unless someone rebuilds what was broken. If someone can see hope for future in the ruins of what was, even what was can be raised again to bring life.

There is no measure to time out the aftermath. It is what it is, and each day is a new day, when piece by piece, old bits of rubble may be gathered, removed, salvaged, turned into something new. It will never be what was, but then, who knows yet what it was meant to be?

...

I ran across this post in my archives the other day, first posted in January of last year, and I thought it bore a repost, which I often think when I reread my old writing after a while. This, of course, got me to thinking that this must be some sort of shameless, narcissistic self-promotion, and I wondered if anyone else felt that way about a favorite post of theirs.

So I decided to turn my self-promotion into an other-promotion opportunity and give you a chance to link up one of your favorite posts from your archives. Yes, this is your chance to promote yourself too. I am being an enabler. I hope this is okay.

When I get my computer back, I'm sure I'll come up with a button for this, but for now, just repost your favorite on your blog today with a link to my blog and drop the permalink into the MckLinky below before Sunday at 11:00 p.m., EST.

Oh yes, and be sure to leave me a comment after leaving your link - just so I know you're here!

If it goes over well, I'll make it an every-other-Friday feature.

And for a promotional bonus: next Friday I will feature a shout-out to a favorite from the posts left here, in addition to my own repost.

...







(Image © SXC)

What's In His Name?

Her name was Bethany.

It was such a big deal that her name was Bethany. It still stands out in my mind. I get into names.

She said that God had given her that name.

She said that she had known God intimately, the way I wanted to know Him.

She said that God had taught her to surrender fully and completely.

She said a lot of things.

But she never mentioned the name of Jesus.

...

Want the rest of the story? I'm guest-posting for @katdish today. Click over to "Hey Look, a Chicken!" to find out how God used my encounter with Bethany to reveal my own incredible need for Jesus.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Unwrapping This Hope

I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.

In Haiti, they mourn. In Darfur, they suffer. In Thailand, in China. In New York City. In our neighborhood. In our own homes. In our hearts. Sometimes, it seems the clouds can't lift. It seems there is nothing but this gray, these tears, this pain.

The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed.

In spring, expectation bursts forth, defiant buds pushing through wintered ground, daring to blossom, as if they have forgotten the heat of the summer, autumn's hazy sorrow, winter's killing chill. The sun rises after night, spreading glory over day. Joy comes in the morning.

Creation waits. We wait.

For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God.

Creation captive, frustrated, waiting, groaning under the weight of God-hope. We who know, who have this inkling of His glory - we have encountered Christ, and we begin to realize redemption, reckon ourselves alive to God, stand fast in God-justified free.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.

The earth shakes, trembling, shrieking, falling into itself and over itself, writhing in pain, knowing what we know deep - we are not what we are meant to be. The mother knows as she travails, when transition comes on strong, when she cries out for "God, God, help me, help me please!" and then her baby comes.

And so we wait, and ache, and try to hope.

For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.

An unseen hope that comes by faith, that grows in every spring our hearts know, that doesn't wither in the winds of autumn or freeze in winter's chill. A certain hope that at the end of this labor, death must die, and God will birth His life again into us by His Son.

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 groans that words cannot express. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will.

I shy away from that pain, from memory. Cling to smaller joys, try to ignore the longing. But always, it is there, in the depth of my spirit, constantly groaning, whispering of glory not my own, of God-joy, of peace that passes understanding.

Oh wonderful groaning, wonderful God who intercedes in heart-language we can't speak!

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified.

The suffering,
the groaning,
the waiting,
the hope;

The God,
His plan,
His Son,
His intercession for us...

We will be what He meant us to be, and He will be glorified.

How big is this God of ours?

(A meditation on Romans 8:18-30.)

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My friend Emily at Chatting at the Sky hosts a weekly "noticing" party - giving us a chance to unwrap and share the little gifts (and the big ones!) God gives to us in the midst of our dailiness.

Do you have a gift to unwrap today? Stop on by and link up with Emily, and share in the (mostly) paperless unwrapping!






(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Rain Song

It's raining today. Seems like it's raining everywhere, as if the sky is falling with all the tears of all the loss that I see at the edges of my world right now.

It's always harder to hope in the rain.

Rain

It's hard to listen to a hard hard heart
Beating close to mine
Pounding up against the stone and steel
Walls that I won't climb
Sometimes a hurt is so deep deep deep
You think that you're gonna drown
Sometimes all I can do is weep weep weep
With all this rain falling down

Strange how hard it rains now
Rows and rows of big dark clouds
When I'm holding on underneath this shroud
Rain

Its hard to know when to give up the fight
Two things you want will just never be right
Its never rained like it has tonight before
Now I don't wanna beg you baby
For something maybe you could never give
I'm not looking for the rest of your life
I just want another chance to live

Strange how hard it rains now
Rows and rows of big dark clouds
When I'm holding on underneath this shroud
Rain

Strange how hard it rains now
Rows and rows of big dark clouds
When I'm holding on underneath this shroud
Rain

Strange how hard it rains now
Rows and rows of big dark clouds
When I'm still alive underneath this shroud
Rain Rain Rain

Patty Griffin, Rain

"My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life." (Ps. 119:50)

He still bottles our tears.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

In His Love

I do not love easily. My devotion to anyone is probably best described as "cautious." Sometimes I think this is because I am self-absorbed and I just don't notice others; sometimes I recognize my human tendency to shield my heart against pain.

After Piper was born, I wrote the following while I was reading through L'Engle's Two-Part Invention, the story of her love for her husband, Hugh.

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"I write in my journal that the more people I love, the more vulnerable I am.

"Vulnerable--the moment we are born we are vulnerable, and a human infant is the most vulnerable of all creatures. The very nature of our being leads us to risk."

"When I married, I opened myself to the possibility of great joy and great pain and I have known both. Hugh's death is like an amputation. But would I be willing to protect myself by having rejected marriage? By having rejected love? No. I wouldn't have missed a minute of it, not any of it.

"The girls and I have acquired two kittens. They are vying for my attention. One of them starts diligently grooming me. The other bats at my pen. This is less an invitation to play than an announcement that it is time for bed. Even with the kittens I am vulnerable as they curl up trustingly beside me and hum their contented purrs."

~Madeleine L'Engle

"Then another came, saying, ‘Master, here is your mina, which I have kept put away in a handkerchief. For I feared you, because you are an austere man. You collect what you did not deposit, and reap what you did not sow.’ And he said to him, ‘Out of your own mouth I will judge you, you wicked servant. You knew that I was an austere man, collecting what I did not deposit and reaping what I did not sow. Why then did you not put my money in the bank, that at my coming I might have collected it with interest?’"

~Luke 19:20-23

I finished Two-Part Invention on Tuesday morning. I cried as I read the above passage, almost the last in the book.

Suddenly in my focus was the fact that I am human. No matter how I have lost in the past or may lose in the future, there is no way I may protect myself entirely from the vulnerability that comes with opening my heart to love. And God is still God, and I can't decide that I know His ways, putting Him in a box and hiding even the one "mina" of love and faith He has given me.

At least put it in the bank...

That line has been going through my head all week. I don't even have to go out and invest my love in some huge project. I can let it grow. I can stop hiding. I have a husband and a baby who need my love. I just need to live it where I am, and let it go, instead of holding it to myself for fear of loss.

And I can love God as He is too. He doesn't want my fear. He wants me to know Him. This is eternal life, to know God and Jesus Christ whom He has sent. I don't have to store up my dreams for when He returns. I can love Him now, stop ducking His radar. Stop running.

No matter what I do, I will never stop being vulnerable. Better to risk pain than to refuse joy.

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Now I have a husband and two babies, and I cautiously embrace joy. My heart is not ready this love, for the loss that must come because we are Adam and Eve and hold only the hope of redemption in Jesus just now. And we are never ready, are we, for we were not meant for this.

But even the loss I have lived before comes to fruition now, with comfort to share, with this alive that keeps me connected to the hearts in my home. I am not the woman I hear myself being these last few weeks. I'm the fearful one, not the brave one. I'm the angry one, the patient one. I'm the "safe" one, not the one who takes these risks to hold and cuddle and kiss and smell and invest my heart where it may be broken.

But if this gentling, this love, is what comes of knowing God and being moved by His love, then I am this woman. I am a redeemed one - Eve undone, Eve now-held.

It is quiet wonder.

Who am I that He should choose me to bear this fruit?

Who are any of us?





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)