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)

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)

Between

Between them, you almost don't believe it's happening. Not to you. Not now. "It didn't happen before," you say, and you go on with normal.

But they insist, and then they overtake you, overcome you, and there is nothing else in the world, no one else but you, the pain, the wordless poem about life. You start to rest, take the mental reprieve between, preparing, accepting the inevitable, relaxing into change.

They are real now; you almost don't believe, but their strength keeps building and you know it is just a foreshadowing of a straining, breathless end - that is not an end at all; it is a beginning.

Life stops moving in between. Time freezes; there is too much eternal at stake to notice the seconds ticking by. The same seconds you can't help but notice as you notice everything. Your life flashes before your eyes. It is not what it was five minutes ago, you are not who you were then either - Can any of this be possible?

You dangle on this spinning spider's thread between now and forever and impatience and too soon, and it comes and it goes and it rises and falls and morning comes before you realize, and you'll be in your own skin again.

The stars are falling tonight. The rain is falling. Is the sky falling too? Suspended below heaven, you are falling too, hoping - hoping God knows, He's near, He'll catch you between.

Slowly you open the door. The between is now again.

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I've been reading through Annie Dillard's "Teaching a Stone to Talk" this week before bed. I've been loving it. I think my stream-of-consciousness is picking up her voice a bit. Forgive me, please, if it's a travesty.

More to come, I am sure.





(Image © SXC)

The Word - a Meditation on John 1

In the beginning...

It was the right place to start, the same place the story of our being had begun when Moses had written it long before. But his story was different. It was about the world, but it wasn't. It was about a Man, the God-Man whose love he had known.

In the beginning was the Word...

The Word, a Person, not inscribed on any page, inscribed on every page, 33 years and eons of being that would never be written, for all the volumes in all the world could not contain Him.

The Word was with God, and the Word was God...

I imagine his pen, pausing over the scratched-ink words he'd written, imagining his Friend at the beginning, spinning world and universe and tree and flower and heart in His image, sense his wonder as he repeats himself:

He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him, and without Him nothing was made that was made.

Telling His story, telling our story, the part we didn't know from Moses' telling, the redemption planned from the very foundation of the world, set from the beginning of time, the defeat of Satan before he ever deceived Eve, drew Adam into sin.

In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.

As he wrote, searing pain at what he had seen mingled with joyful incredulity, sunset and sunrise at once, beginning and end tangled up in I Am, Alpha and Omega, incarnation and Resurrection, the Son of Man who was God who was Life and Light, who was his Friend, Jesus.

He was in the world, and the world was made through Him, and the world did not know Him. He came to His own, and His own did not receive Him. But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name: who were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.

Spirit-born again into God-inheritance, drawn by something higher than reason, redemption greater than the fulfillment of the Law - the words flowed faster now, passion-driven, aching with understanding that had seemingly dawned too late for him.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth... And of His fullness we have all received, and grace for grace. For the law was given through Moses, but grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has seen God at any time. The only begotten Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, He has declared Him.

Breath stopped for just a moment as he penned words Jesus Himself had spoken and realization wakened fresh so that he thought his heart would burst with the aching wonder of what he had seen.

All this time, He, John, had been walking with God.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

this grace

It seemed at times there was never a chance at grace, really. "Saved" from one right way into a different, higher right, the true way, the "straight-and-narrow" (which turned out to be wider than many imagined, because it took no work of the Spirit to get there). Just worldview and logic and argument and a good act that wasn't quite an act because it was sincerely lived and believed.

Of course it involved pride-breaking, admitting to disagreeing perspective, trading old perspective for new pride, safety, control - but never true God-humility, that broken, contrite heart-sacrifice where grace-growth is born at the feet of God - no, at the end of His extended scepter.

And so they inflicted the same wounds they received, because the wounds were never identified, treated, healed, never broken open and bled out to mingle with the blood of the One who already bore them in His own body. Instead, pain was covered over with answers and empty God-explanations no one can really be serious about making, no matter how sincere they intend to be.

The meeting was essential for accountability, but most always He was late to arrive, as if He was putting off His visits, salvaging His Name for something holier, something Truer, wishing to introduce Himself as who He was, I AM, the beginning and the end of life-grace breathed from His own God-nostrils into the dust of His Son, into His Spirit meant to hold His own for Him until the day of Redemption.

And that was it - there wasn't a chance outside of Him for grace, no breath without Gospel that is Jesus Christ crucified and alive and full of grace and Truth. Not a chance outside of God-given faith that could not be dredged up or imitated, for who really has faith in a certain Hope these days, when it doesn't hold a certain requested result?

No one has grace for this but Him, for yet a little while, as He is finishing the work He began, spilling over God-patience into the Love that He is and out onto His Chosen who sometimes think they are doing Him a favor with all their good intentions.

For He knows what is not yet seen in His Spirit, that grace and good works and true love is found in knowing Him, and that way is narrow, and discovered rarely without Spirit-help as He reveals I Am to those who think they already are.

I lived here once, and I have been given this grace to not know and this grace to know now.

But the living there...

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Also visit Amber and L.L. Barkat for a bit more on grace and a giveaway...






(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Noticed - A Girl's Remembery

It was Anne's idea to stop. We really had nothing better to do, so I pulled the car into the small gravel lot off Rt. 15 somewhere in podunk Virginia. Granny's Attic, read the sign. It was a little chintzy for my taste, but then, it matched the rest of the ramshackle shop that looked as if it had been a grocery/gas stop in another life.

Anne and I wandered in, browsing through the garage-sale clutter whose age promised treasure to the diligent seeker.

But the treasure was behind the counter, the girl in blue scribbling God-knew-what on a glorified legal pad. I approached with a question about something; she had a bit to say. Her youth was out of place here, but she fit somehow, a centerpiece in this crazy quilt of an antique shop, young and old at once.

This girl was different, innocent still, with a captivating sweetness that lingered, made me want more. She didn't see me, not really. She seemed unaware of my masculinity; her sincere demeanor was unaffected. I wasn't accustomed to that. Most girls... Well, most girls had their thing.

"Our two cats had 17 kittens between them; we're trying to find homes for them," she offered. Funny, how did we get onto cats? Fascinating simplicity... "You could come by our house tonight and pick them up."

Anne wanted a cat. Or two. I wanted to see this girl again.

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He did come that night, with Anne. I don't know if she was his girlfriend, his sister, his friend. Anne took two kittens, and he took a short walk with me, asking questions, studying me.

I thought little of it then. I was eighteen. I made phone calls to colleges in my quiet hours at Granny's Attic, when I wasn't rearranging the old treasure-junk so that it could be found. I wrote stories, dreamed, planned my future. I had a beautiful crush on a college freshman at church whose Southern-accent bass made my head spin.

I graduated and went to college that fall, completely forgetting about the mystery stranger who had come for kittens until I heard from the owner of the antique shop that he had been back, asking about me. Two, three times. Brought a guy friend with him once. He had left me a note with his phone number. Told me to look him up if I was ever in Charlottesville.

I never did. Leaving the story unfinished suited me.

I wonder what he saw that made him want to come back. I pull the memory out every once in a while, just for the romance of it. It's one of those female things, I suspect, offering a bit of mystery, making a girl feel like she is more than she knows, lending a bit of beauty to her self-story.

He saw me; he came back to see again.

Lovely, isn't it?

Inspired this week by Joelle's sweet post, Noticed.

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"Within the next month, what do you think about planning a night to spend with your sisters? ...We’re having our own Sister Parties! What about you? Want to giggle, eat, cry, whatever, and then maybe afterward join us for a little blog party?" - The Run Amuck: celebrating real-life friends

And seriously, you should check out another beautifully-detailed "Remembrancer" over at Stars in Her Fingernails(what I wouldn't GIVE to have this gal's writing ability!)!





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

tiny wrinkled fingers on new, new hands

I think it must reshape us, every time. The week-by-week womb-knitting, the mother-nesting in soft color to soothe and welcome, the stretching, wearying, growing desire for promised joy. And at the end, the pain that fades against the will to embrace new life pushed into air, blue, wet, wizened.

We are named again, mother, and we touch tiny fingers we knew were there, but could not imagine, even for having touched them before.

Was Piper ever so small? I look at her picture, little black eyes open on my chest, listening for the familiar, the heartbeat, my heart pulsing for her.

Now in December, it comes again, another shaping of me, another journey I can't choose, can't deny. My baby boy, a son, will wake to breath, passing through me into life I can't live without the God who has entered the path with me.

I know it will be different; nothing is ever the same. Nothing but Him who is I AM. My burden of knowledge brings the fear again, the uncertainty. Do you suppose fear existed before we tried to know what God knew? Knowing good from evil doesn't secure our lives.

How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God!
How great is the sum of them!
If I should count them,
they would be more in number than the sand;
When I awake, I am still with You.

- Psalm 139:17-18

Precious. From conception, the tiny movements, the moment of birth, the first breath, all leading to wonder and mother-embrace, to tiny wrinkled fingers on new, new hands to tell me of God's thoughts toward me.

Time will pass, for we are bound by it here, and these new fingers will lose their wrinkles, lose this wizened little face and dreamy angel eyes that have known what I have known and forgot and am always seeking.

The waiting shapes me, and I stumble into Love with my fears, learning trust again, remembering His Life, holding to Hope I can't see. It is all faith, all Grace, all more than I really comprehend, more than I explain.

My dust is not enough for this; breathe Life into me, wrinkle my hands and my face and draw my eyes to Your face, my ears to the sound of Your heart, the music of Your voice, as a wet blue babe thrown up on Your breast, and love me, oh please love me more than I know how to love You.

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

The Swing

This will be my last writing installment from my archives for a while, since I also have a birthday post to write today. I hope you've enjoyed the last several days of posts.

I wrote this story when I was seventeen while I was minding the antique shop down the road from our home. I used to work there in exchange for merchandise. I had a teacup collection I was building. My grandma read this one before she died; she teared up reading it, as I did just now, reading back over it. It is still one of my favorite stories.

She sat upon the wide plank swing that hung swaying from the tall oak tree that had been there for as long as she could remember. Her wrinkled hands gingerly clutched the rough ropes that suspended the worn wooden seat. Her eyes were closed. The breeze toyed with a strand of her silvery white hair, kissing her cheeks, then the back of her neck as the swing rocked back and forth. The creak of the old ropes played in her ears, reminding her of all of the times they had groaned out their rhythmic song in gentle cadence to her life.

Her lips curved into a gentle smile.

Her first memory of the swing came from her babyhood. Cradled on her mother's lap, she had giggled playfully at each push and sway as her father propelled it in its seemingly endless dance. Echoes of her mother's laughter paid court in her memory to her father's playful grin. She could still feel the tickles he had placed on her little-girl tummy.

Her next memory came when she was three years old, old enough to sit precariously on the wavering seat and cling tightly to the ropes by herself.

"Come on, honey," her mother coached. "In, out, in out...That's it!"

She looked down in studious concentration at her chubby legs, willing them to move in synchrony to her mother's encouraging voice. The swing began to move on its own.

"I'm doing it, Mommy! Look! I'm doing it!" She leapt off the swing, the springtime wind tossing her dark curls as her mother swung her up in a flurry of giggles. The fragrance of honeysuckle perfume filled her nostrils.

During her tomboy years, she remembered swinging sandwiched between her brother's legs while he stood and pumped the swing with his much larger body. She had endured many taunts about not being able to fly as high as the boys, but she had ignored them, taunting right back. Boys didn't know anything anyway.

Things had changed for her when she was thirteen. She remembered sitting on the swing, rocking as gently as she was now, watching her mother, who was seated gracefully upon a homemade patchwork quilt.

She had come into her woman's time that day, surrounded by a golden summer afternoon. Her mother shared with her the joys and triumphs of becoming a woman, sipping lemonade while a lazy breeze cooled the rosy blush of her cheeks.

A cool, rainy autumn day from her fifteenth year darkened her memory. The swing had been wet that day, wet from the tears that heaven cried on her mother's account, tears that washed her own grief-stricken heart. Anguish tore through her soul, so that she could barely draw breath. Her mother would never share another memory at the swing again.

Then her father's arms, warm and comforting as an angel's, surrounded her slender shoulders. "Hush, darling," he whispered close to her ear. "I'm still here. Your mother wouldn't want you to grieve so."

They had cried together then, her father's tears mingling with the raindrops in her hair.

Years later, she had sat on the old swing, floating gently in the lilac-scented air of a June twilight. She stared tearfully down at the glistening crystal in the hand of the man she loved as he quietly asked for her hand in marriage. Her shimmering eyes and brilliant smile had given him all the answer he needed.

That first kiss beside the swing was one she never forgot.

"He's a good man," her father had approved later, as he softly pushed her to the sound of the familiar creak creak of the ropes. He had placed a kiss on her forehead, as light as the touch of a butterfly's wing.

Soon, it was her turn to cradle a child on her lap as her husband propelled the swing. His lighthearted laughter mingled with that of their daughter's in her heart, lingering like a never-forgotten melody in the symphony of her life.

It was she who had taught her little girl how to pump. Gentle springtime fragrances had been borne on the breath of winter's last wind while her daughter's tiny legs pumped back and forth, back and forth...She still felt the grip of the childish arms grasping her in an excited hug as the little girl voice cried, "I did it, Mommy! See! I did it!"

Her father died a few years later, finally going to join the wife he had missed for so long. She had rocked for hours on the swing, unseeing in her grief, only barely aware of her husband's support and love, and of her daughter's cherub face peering into her own asking, "Mommy okay?"

She remembered sharing her own story of womanhood with her little girl who was fast growing up, though now it was she who sat on the patchwork quilt and wondered at the miracle of her baby's transformation from awkward girl to graceful woman. She remembered her inner tears and her questioning heart as she thought of her own mother.

It was at the swing she had found her grown daughter crying from premature homesickness as she prepared to leave for college, and she had consoled her with a smile and a hug, masking her own pain, even as her father had masked his to console her when her mother had died.

"Hush, darling. I'm here. I'll always be here as long as you need me."

She had been crying inside.

Then it had been her time to tell her daughter, "He's a good man. Make him happy," as the strains of Mendelssohn's music floated to their place at the old swing just before her husband came to give their daughter away forever.

What bittersweet joy had swelled in her bosom at watching her child be joined together with the man she loved, to be one flesh forever. She said goodbye, knowing things would never be the same again.

Oh, she'd never forget the thrill of holding her first grandchild in her arms, gently rocking the swing, crooning a lullaby with the crickets and night birds for harmony. Fireflies sparkled around her, magically lighting the summer evening.

She had watched her grandchildren grow up around the swing, only occasionally having to break up an argument over whose turn it was, though swinging on the old swing was a coveted privilege. Their shouts of laughter and carefree games would forever replay themselves in her heart.

It was a grieving time again upon the death of her husband, but this time, there were only the ropes of the old swing to embrace her and tell her everything was all right with their never-ending moaning song. The sun blazed down in disrespectful contradiction to the rainstorm so long ago upon the day of her mother's funeral. She had lost all hope.

Then her youngest grandchild emerged from the house and ran to her.

"Swing wif gram-ma?" The childish lilt had given her a reason to live.

Now, she sat, swaying gently while the wind played with the wispy curls that still framed her careworn face. She opened her pale blue eyes. It was another spring day, and the world around her aged body was bursting with new life.

She rose and lifted the cane that leaned against the firm old oak and began to walk away. She looked back at the swing.

It looked forlorn, moving by itself in the wind.

Sadly, she moved slowly away from it, past the moving van parked in the gravel driveway, past the SOLD sign in the front yard.

She paused.

A car pulled up and a young couple climbed out. The young mother was carrying a little girl.

"Come on, Honey! You want to see the swing?" The young father asked excitedly, hunkering down to look into the innocent blue eyes of his child.

She followed the young family with her gaze until she felt a touch on her shoulder.

"Ready to go, Mom?"

Her own daughter was waiting for her.

She looked into the clear blue eyes so like her own and nodded hesitantly. "Yes, I think so." Her voice trembled with age and emotion.

She climbed awkwardly into her daughter's car, assisted by her son-in-law.

As they pulled away from what had been her home for so long, she looked back one last time, hoping to form one last memory of her swing.

The young mother cradled her child in her arms, laughing, while her husband tickled the little girl.

She smiled.

The Decision

This is a favorite descriptive short story of mine, written before I graduated from high school. I can never quite forget the feel of that wind in my imagination.

Cool autumn winds moan and keen wildly through multicolored trees. Showers of leaves find their whirling way to the ground. Slate-colored clouds scud across the horizon, darkening the landscape of a stately brick building and towering hardwood trees.

A slip of a girl huddles into her jacket, silently surveying the wind-tossed branches above her. Her own dark brown hair is tossed about in the many-breathed gusts, and her expressive brown eyes move as though following the unseen movements of the gale. Cheeks rosy from the chill air lend a sparkle to the eyes that seem old beyond her years, though she can’t be over sixteen. She begins to walk, silently, not seeming to care where she is going, or if she gets there on time.

A million thoughts whirl about in her mind, as wild as the wind that surrounds her. Pensive, she allows her gaze to roam her surroundings as she walks; wondering, waiting, watching. A decision looms in front of her, presenting itself in many options, and her soft brow furrows with confusion as she weighs them.

A drop of rain falls on her face, and a glorious smile forms on her sweet lips as she looks heavenward. A prayer forms on those same lips, and a peace lightens the careworn eyes. For a moment she allows herself to bask in the lightheartedness of a conclusion, then she turns and moves in the opposite direction, this time, a purpose firm in her heart.

The building in front of which she stood stands in silent approval, satisfied that it is still a place of serenity for a soul weary being. Its weathered spire reaches tall, and the bell begins to ring, sounding out a clear, noble melody to the world.
The wind whispers on its way.

One

When it all began, you didn't know. It was magic, of course, this joining of two into one.

But it is a daily thing, a nightly thing, a momentary forever thing. Magic becomes mystery, and we are afraid of the unknown. What was supposed to be one is still two, and two cannot be forced by role or definition or expectation.

One day, the fear is just too great to bear alone. You reach out; your hands touch; your eyes meet across the dailiness; your hearts realize that all this time you have hoped for the same thing.

Love asks you to dance, leading you across the floor together, step by uncertain step, reminding, showing, strengthening the trust between you, making room for your limping, stumbling dance, revealing the mystery you fear as something beautiful.

Then you laugh, and you see, and you hope, and you understand that He is not set against you, and will not come between you, for your one is His prayer, and you two are one in Him.

He is able to keep you from falling.

(Image from SXC)

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?

Continuum

Continuum: A continuous nonspatial whole or extent or succession in which no part or portion is distinct or distinguishable from adjacent parts.

"I am still every age I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child. Because I was once a searching adolescent, given to moods and ecstasies, these are still part of me, and always will be.... This does not mean that I ought to be trapped or enclosed in any of these ages,... but that they are in me to be drawn on; to forget is a form of suicide; my past is part of what makes the present...and must not be denied or rejected or forgotten."

L'Engle writes to explain what is not putting away childish things. She continues in this passage from A Circle of Quiet: "If I can retain a child's awareness and joy, and be fifty-one, then I will really learn what it means to be grownup. I still have a long way to go."

Today for the first time, I feel older. The passage of time has caught me; I am aware. I see who I am in this moment, made up of all the moments I have already lived, all the child I was, all the girl I have been.

I think I will remember the last weeks and months I have lived as a Long, Slow Sigh. Freedom, pain, relief, memory, hope, fears - a long-held breath released as I exhaled years of pent-up air and found myself acutely aware of the now in which I live.

I like the person I am becoming, I think. I have grace to live with my flaws, and God works imperceptible, ongoing change in my heart. I can look at stark reality without dreams and not despair. I haven't plumbed the depth of my identity, and I don't need to know it now, but the things that I know about me are genuine.

Still inside me, and now in the air around me, is who I have been. The past enters the present and the old ache swirls, unfulfilled desire thrust into the fulfillment I own today. Juxtaposed against the happy, the lines of the old pain are cruelly dark, unrelenting and bold.

I ask the question; there is still no answer, and I sigh again to release the breath that caught my throat. I would not wish the ache away, but I do not feel its beauty. Unresolved, it lingers, and all of me - happy, sad, past, present - is reaching out for Him again. He knows the beauty of this marring pain. He knows how time is real to me, how every moment seems eternal when I mark it.

I make peace with it now, and it is here. I no longer need to escape, but to bring it to the light. To know it is part of my happy, part of mine, part of me.

Is there anyone who ever remembers
changing their mind from the paint on a sign?,
is there anyone who really recalls
ever breaking rank at all
for something someone yelled real loud one time?
~John Mayer, Continuum

I won't yell it real loud; it is not all mine to cry out. But I will break rank. I will be changed and I will remain and I will love and I will believe that this mark on my soul is a Father's mark on my heart, the ache that made me His own. The point where I learned of sacrifice. The sacrifice that taught me His Life.

I feel light fall across my face, and there is my shadow behind me. The sigh mingles with a welcoming breeze that brushes eddying autumn leaves aside.

I am aware now. I hold joy. I am no longer childish, but I am not grownup. I am whole, yet in Him I am becoming.

I still have a long way to go.

Sound of My Dreams

A couple years ago, I began a document with a number of random essays in an attempt to find my writing voice. I was looking for an easy post today and ran across this entry from March 30, 2006. I needed this today.

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My window was open again.

Dusk was creeping across the landscape now, and I was comfortably settled in my “window seat,” a padded bench situated just beneath the window sill, writing in my journal.

Well, thinking about writing, at least.

The smell of the cooling evening air drew my attention to the world outside my window. I noticed the lingering fingers of the sunset streaking the few clouds that framed the stage for the first few stars braving their first appearance for their nightly show.

I was 17 years old. The world was at my feet, and I had dreams and plans and wishes and goals and my whole life to make them happen. I was as yet unreached by the responsibilities and burdens of adulthood, but I was old enough to think myself an adult. I’m sure I had been journaling about my most recent crush—Kemper was his name, I remember. He was a thoughtful Southern boy with the deepest bass take on the Virginia accent I’d ever heard. I was old enough to realize that I wasn’t old enough for marriage, but I was quite convinced there could be a someday in this crush.

I smiled at myself in my “adult” wisdom as I thought about it. You’re being silly, Kelly.

Silly or not, though, the thoughts were pleasant, and as I drank in the beauty of the evening floating through my window, I spun more dreams about what I’d do when I was free to make my own decisions and choose my own path in life. I didn’t bother turning my light on as I sat quietly, chewing on the eraser of my mechanical pencil.

The darkness crept over my bedroom, bathing me with a strange warmth. I wasn’t frightened. I could hear the peepers on the pond across the field, keeping their vigil, singing their comforting song that had often lulled me to sleep during the spring and summer. I felt safe.

Seven years later, I found myself walking through the lobby of my office building at my 8:30-5:00 job when I passed a college student, a boy of about 18. He came flying through the main doors, his hair tossed in the wind, breathing heavily as he rushed past without seeing me, quite intent on catching someone beyond me. His eyes were alive with the fire of the warmish spring day beyond the doors, and with a youth not yet touched by disappointment. The world was his.

I found myself suddenly homesick.

That evening, my husband and I opened our study window to let the freshness of the new spring night in. The sound of the peepers drifted through the screen, drawing me back to another time and place, when the world was younger, when nothing was impossible.

It’s never terrible to be young. It’s just terrible to be too old to remember your innocence. I hope that the smell of the night air and the songs of the peepers will always remind me of my youthful dreams. Who knows? I may be grown up and jaded now, but they could still come true.

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Hey, if you have any thoughts or critiques on this piece, I'd love to "hear" them.

Remodeling

Piper's blog has been annexed.

Now that I am no longer afraid of posting more than once in a day (I really am neurotic sometimes, you know), I decided there is no reason why I can't post her updates here at my blog.

Honestly, maintaining several blogs at once is too overwhelming. I have changed her link to simply pull up all posts labeled Piper.

Thank you for reading!


P.S. For anyone who checked my "Songs of a Restless Heart" blog, it has also been annexed. You can find most of the material from that blog under "poems" and "prose."

Rain In Spring

It is raining outside today. Our first April shower. You can see the world opening its arms to receive it, as the grass grows greener and the first spring leaves begin to peek from their buds and shed their protective covering. It’s not a harsh, stormy rain, but a gentle drizzle that cloaks the world in its comforting, romantic shadow.

Sometimes, spring can be such a capricious child. She hops back and forth from cold to warm, bringing sunshine and wind or wind to keep you guessing. She takes your kites high above the earth and makes you dare to wander outside without your jacket.

But in the soft warm rain of today, she is a child who knows what it is to be wounded. A child, perhaps grown a bit into womanhood, she doesn’t call you to adventure. Instead, she whispers a quiet allure to hope. “I am here, can you see the life I bring?”

Love is like the spring, sometimes clear and full-blown, inviting risk and excitement, and sometimes misty and teary-eyed, yet bringing life and renewal. I remember a love that exploded like the first new crush of spring, but time and tears have worn away the innocence, and the love I now own—and receive—carries the misty romance of the rain that washes the dust from the world and reminds me there is life.

In a way, it is more beautiful, more inviting, than the exciting spring-child that blows you anywhere you want to go. For now I am called to tears, and to heartache, and to healing and joy that comes from outside myself. The risks I am to take bring a bit of wet discomfort for all of the beauty to burst forth.

Sometimes too, I am drawn to God’s love as if it were the spring-child, longing for that excitement of my youthful crush on Christ. In the warmth of the rain I find that He has not moved, and He is as faithful as ever to renew my hope. Even now, He nourishes me and draws me nearer to Him, more deeply than before.

I suppose I have my own ideas about how life and hope and love should work, but sometimes I am reminded that I am not God, and that He knows what is best. There is nothing that is outside of His control. Perhaps the regrets I feel for what is past are misplaced. I am only human, and He is still molding me into something beautiful. Even the rain brings life and romance and passion.

Knight in Disguise

Here is a picture for you:

There is a beautiful princess locked high in a tower with no staircase in the far reaches of a distant kingdom. She is guarded by a powerful spell that nothing but true love can break. The spell was placed upon her by a hideous dragon whose every breath feels as fiery darts as he gazes upon her beauty from his seat upon the walls of his keep. The dragon, his lands already in the hands of her father’s men, is merely biding his time until he can devour her. He will wait until it will hurt the king the most.

The princess is torn between hope and despair. The distance between her prison and the rest of the world is great, and only a very valiant warrior would attempt to slay the dragon. The days pass into weeks, which pass into years, and she grows resigned to her fate. There is nothing for her but death in this, her exile.

Now, everyone knows that princesses should be rescued from high towers, and everyone knows that only true love could break the spells that hold them captive. But no one dares make the trek to save her from such a powerful enemy. After the dragon took her captive, they forgot about her. They forgot about the king’s sorrow at the loss of his daughter, and he can find no one to make the journey for her rescue.

But one day, a knight who loves the king very much becomes aware of his sorrow. He does not know the princess, but this noble knight knows that he must restore her to the king. Bravely he sets out on the journey, passing through many dangers as he travels. His desire to see the princess and set his love upon her grows through each trial.

The princess hears of his coming—the dragon tells her how the knight must die for rescuing her. He is often angry now, for each time he hears of another victory by the knight for the king, his fear grows. Such a valiant knight will stop at nothing short of his defeat. How dare the king send someone to remind him of his own diminishing power!

But his power has not yet waned. The dragon’s breath grows hotter and hotter, and the princess feels as though she will be engulfed in his fire. She cries out for the blackness to surround her. Each time she dares to hope that the knight will arrive, the dragon pours out his fury upon her, and she knows that it is only a matter of time before he must destroy her knight.

Finally, the knight is at the door of the dragon’s keep. The dragon, by this time so incensed he won’t wait for his kill, throws the door open and blasts the knight with his full fury. The knight raises his shield and stands, firm in his love for the king and his desire for the princess.

The battle is long, and the princess, at last free from the dragon’s breath, stands breathless at her tower window, weeping as her knight is beaten down again and again, crying for him to please get up each time he falls until at last, he cannot get up. He seems dead. Perhaps he is.

The dragon roars his triumph and flies to the tower to destroy the princess, but it is too late. The spell that he cast upon her could only stand if she was never loved, and when the knight gave his life trying to rescue her, he freed her from the dragon’s power. She leapt from her tower, and now, overwhelmed with love, she runs to the knight and lifts him to his feet. But the dragon will not be so swiftly beaten. He leaps to the attack, and the knight, finding his strength renewed with hope, steps between the princess and the dragon with his sword.

And of course, the princess is rescued because he slays the dragon and carries her back across the kingdoms to the home of her heart.

Now, as you can see from my story, the idea of “fighting for” someone seems to be a rather female idea. When guys think “fight,” they think very much as you do: take out the world, win a war, take down the bad guy. Guys, as a general rule, like action and violence and gore. Women, however, prefer romance and tears and heartbreak—always with a happy ending.

Every woman dreams about being a princess. Every woman’s heart longs to be rescued from her tower. The tower may be a broken heart from a previous relationship. It may be scars from her friendships. It may be her own fears of being loved, or of never being loved. Though women deeply desire relationship, they do not always accept it. I think a lot of men simply assume that they are ice cubes, or that they don’t care. A woman longs for someone to look inside of her, past her prickles and walls and see her as someone beautiful, someone worth rescuing from her dragon, someone even worth dying for. She wants to be someone that a man can’t live without. She longs for a strength to lean on, and to be a strength for someone else.

When I spoke of the young man who refused to fight for me, I spoke of someone who had once been a dear friend, who had once seen my beauty and loved me for it. But he was too afraid of offering his strength on my behalf. There were too many people telling him that he shouldn’t. (Here you see another example of a dragon.) I couldn’t go to him—he was calling the shots, and even though I tried, he wouldn’t even acknowledge me. He didn’t stop to care about my heart, to try to ease the pain he knew he was causing me. I think he believed the pain would make me hate him, and he wouldn’t have to worry about being responsible for me.

When I speak of “fighting for me,” I am using a figurative term to explain that he was not willing to slay my dragons. He was not willing to make the journey to understand my heart. He was not willing to lay his own fears and security aside to stay the course of what love he did hold for me.

Now, I am three weeks married to a man who did not seem to be a warrior at the beginning. He wasn’t one to dive into situations without knowing what he was getting into. He struggled a lot with fear and thought he’d find only a broken heart in loving me. But love me he did. He took a risk that no guy has ever taken with me. He took a risk that maybe I was worth loving, and that maybe there was something inside me that was soft and tender and able to love, even though I had previously been so hurt. He walked past the walls of my fear and offered me his love—even though it might cost him everything. He pulled out his sword and did battle with the lies that I believed about myself. And since we’ve been married, he has laid his life down for me nearly every day, putting himself aside for my needs.

I am still amazed. From the midst of my fear and sorrow, I find myself rescued. No longer rejected as a nothing, but cherished and treasured. No longer do I feel exiled, or resigned to my fate.

I wandered alone, long forgotten on a barren moor
The wind moaned o'er my wailing
The seeping sorrow froze me
I fell, desolate
No one saw where I had fallen--
The birds were silent.

"You ravished whore!" the distant hills echoed back to me...
I could answer nothing.
The storm was endless.

Then one God-blown ray of light pierced the empty groaning,
And morning came.

"My beautiful, my beloved, Oh, my princess..."

It was you
I could come home to your arms--
And you loved me.

Diamonds in the Rough

Diamonds, she called them.

Nobody knew.

They didn't even know.

She smiled softly to herself. They had wanted to help her. Even though they hadn't had the courage yet to follow through, she knew they'd find it one day.

Other cars had passed her that morning, driving on their way past her vantage point on the bridge. They must have had things to do, she supposed.

Why were people so busy all the time? They never stopped to notice the beautiful.

She chuckled. They thought she was empty?

Oh no. She had her thoughts. She hadn't ever been a normal person. Never one to say much, she had always faded into the background, not wanting to be noticed, but noticing more than they thought she'd understand.

But she understood.

As a child understands when someone is afraid, wounded, or lonely, she saw and understood. She understood gentleness and love. She knew beauty when she saw it, and evil too.

Those two had been beautiful. Diamonds.

They had passed her once, then turned their car back to check on her. She hadn't expected them to notice her, but suddenly the window on the passenger side was down.

The girl in the passenger seat glanced nervously at the man beside her, then turned to query, "Are you okay? Do you need any help?"

She chuckled again, remembering. She'd been so startled that they had stopped, she couldn't get her mouth to move. Finally she had managed a reply, gazing deeply into the girl's eyes.

They were a startling green, she noted, kind, but frightened. There was no reason to look away. The girl would not harm her.

The girl had offered to help once more. "Do you need a ride somewhere? Is there anything we can do?"

Absently, she had refused, caught in the beauty of those green eyes. She heard the man offer help, heard herself absently refushing. She didn't need help.

There were depths in the girl's eyes. She saw fear, gentleness, awkwardness. She saw concern--real concern, not the condescending, know-it-all attiduted she received so often from people who thought they knew more about the world than she did.

The girl, caught in her gaze, had not been able to break eye contact. She looked as though she wanted to, but as long as she did not look away, she would not. Finally, the movement of their car tore their gazes apart.

She knew the girl had seen her--really seen her.

For a long time, she sat quietly on her bridge, staring after them.

Yes, they were diamonds. They would find life, real life, the kind that wouldn't leave them empty and uncaring.

She smiled again. How beautiful.

"Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these, you have done it unto Me..."

"If a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food, and one of you says to them, 'Depart in peace, be warmed and filled,' but you do not give them the things which are needed for the body, what does it profit? Thus also, faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead..."

Hope

The light was everywhere, dancing on the breeze through the star-like daisies of her meadow. She called it her meadow; she had found it, after all. Nestled in a clearing surrounded by the thick warmth of a hundred thousand firs, she had her own special world, far from the darkness and fear that drove the outside.

She came here when she needed to think, to be a little girl again. Something strange happened as she stepped from the cool darkness of the forest into this sunlit haven. Her cares fell away, and she was transformed from a burden-weary warrior into a child who could dream again. Sometimes, she just ran and laughed, for the sheer wonder of the freedom to be able to do so. Sometimes, she spun and spun and spun until she couldn’t stand up anymore, falling to the softness of the grass beneath her flying feet, looking up to watch the clouds spin into patterns with her dizziness.

And sometimes, He came to meet her, though He was always there. She just didn’t see Him every time. Sometimes, He just liked to watch her silently from His spot in the trees, laughing with her as she examined a funny bug or giggled over the antics of the deer that often visited the spot.

She was never afraid here. The darkness never threatened.

He came today to meet her, and she ran to Him eagerly to be scooped up into the safety of His arms, burying her face in His shoulder, smelling the sweetness of His love for her.

“I’ve something to show you, Little One.” He smiled.

Her eyes rounded with anticipation as He set her down.

Suddenly, she was surrounded with butterflies, little angels that swirled around her until she was dizzy. With a delighted gasp, she spread out her arms, and chased them across the meadow to the warmth of His smile.

“Come here!” He called, reaching His arms out to her.

She ran to Him, now and again bobbing from side to side after another butterfly. If only she could catch one!

He knelt on one knee and lifted her into His lap, gazing deep into her eyes from depths that she could not fathom. His gaze moved from her eyes to a tall blade of grass just near His hand, and He pointed.

There, on the blade, perched the most beautiful butterfly she had ever seen. Its golden wings glowed iridescent in the sunlight. It did not fly; it seemed unafraid of their movement.

She looked at Him with wonder. “Can I touch it?”

At His nod, she reached gingerly to brush her finger across its wing. It felt like velvet and satin and silk, all at once. The wing moved lightly beneath her touch. Her eyes lit.

And then it crawled onto her finger.

It was a barely contained hush that came over them both as the butterfly rested weightless on her hand. She looked at Him, and His eyes sparkled with the same excitement she felt, sharing the secret of the moment with her as only He could do.

As the butterfly took flight, she watched it go, and in a way, her heart flew with it.

“What is it?” She whispered, not wanting to break the spell of the moment.

He drew her close so that she could hear the beating of His heart. It was quiet, gentle, and it reminded her of the soft whirr of the wings of the butterfly as it had prepared to lift from her finger.

“It is hope, Little One.”

She lay back, sinking into a deep sleep, content to rest in the shelter of His arms, not needing to ask anymore questions. She knew that He would lay her down and be gone when she awoke, but He was always with her, even in the darkness of the world outside her meadow. She had glimpsed Him.

And He would be here when she came here again.

My Dream of Love

The Princess was wounded.

She knew it wouldn’t be long before she needed help. This day had worn her defenses down until she had nothing left to give, no way to fight any longer.

She felt eyes upon her in the thronging crowd of people in which she was trapped. Frightened, her gaze swiveled around.

There, not far from her, stood a Man. He was tall and darkly clad, and his eyes carried a depth of sorrow that matched her own—yet how could he know her pain? She found herself mesmerized, for the darkness of his eyes held more than the sorrow; it held a love like no other love she had ever seen or known. There was compassion, rest…safety in those eyes. Hope. Unexplainably, she trusted him. But who was he? There was something familiar about him, though she’d never seen him before on her journeys.

There was a touch at her elbow, and she turned, wondering how she was ever going to meet yet another need as she realized again her pain and weakness, longing all the while for the Prince to come to help her, to be there to look to across the crowd, to know that she could send a smile his way, and find a smile in return. Perhaps then, she could find the strength she needed to keep going. Oh, but she knew he wouldn’t come. He hadn’t in the past, and he would not be here now, no matter what fairytales she might construct in her exhausted longing.

Again, she felt the gaze. Turning back to meet those eyes, she felt a new thread of longing run through her soul, something different from what she had felt so long for the Prince. With this new longing came a deep knowing that she was not free to return the love in those ebony eyes. There was something so familiar in those eyes. Could it be the Prince?

But no, it couldn’t be. He was dead. He had walked away, abandoned her to her fate with nothing to hold onto but his good wishes. Yet the King had bound her to her love for him, for it seemed that He had decided her fate for her. She had no future to hope for with the Prince, for the King had only given her that love for today. He did things that way—only one day, one step, one moment at a time. He wanted her to trust Him for tomorrow, no matter what it might bring.
Another spasm of pain rocked her body, and she gasped for air, watching the eyes that still held hers darken with the weight of her burden. An ache grew within her to be free to love this Man who understood what no one around her had seen since the Prince had left her alone. But she couldn’t. Fear filled her, for she knew if she loved this Man, she would be betraying the love in her heart for the Prince.

Suddenly the crowd around her was dancing. The Princess was surrounded by hundreds of the knights of the kingdom circling and spinning their partners, dancing their own dance that seemed bent on sweeping her into the torrent of movement whether she wanted it or not. Someone took her arm and spun her away from her curious inspection of the Man. Away from those eyes. A strange weakness came over her as she tried to dance, and her dizziness increased.
The dance quickened—she couldn’t keep up. Her legs crumpled beneath her, and she collapsed into a heap on the ground with the others whirling mindlessly past, nearly trampling her in their exuberance. She was helpless, too weak to move, to even lift her head. And she was alone and suffering in the midst of their reckless gaiety.

Blackness threatened as the pain enveloped her afresh. She cried out weakly for someone… anyone to kneel and stay with her. If only they would stop dancing past! Couldn’t they hear her? Couldn’t they see?

But no one came.

Until… There was a touch at her shoulder. She looked up, suddenly realizing that she was crying. Through her tears, she watched as the Man knelt beside her. In the mist of her weeping, he appeared as the light of morning, and she watched a single tear fall like a diamond upon her breast, over her heart as he moved her head into his lap. He gently touched her hand. She grasped his hand with cold and trembling fingers. His touch was warm and firm and comforting.

And then he began to sing—a wordless melody of love and hope, a song she had never heard before, but a song so beautiful she wanted always to remember it. She wanted to sing it back to him, but had no words, no voice. Still he held her hand, and she found to her surprise she no longer feared to love him. He didn’t speak, or do anything to try to help her. But she didn’t mind. His presence was enough. She wanted him to stay there forever, for she felt stronger, and she knew that he would be able to lift her when she was strong enough to stand. Perhaps, he would even hold her hand when she stood.

Soon, however, the knights realized that she was on the ground. Not seeming to see the Man, they pulled her from the ground, lifting her away from him, tearing her grip from the hand that still held hers. They carried her away, so that she could rest and heal, and she accepted their help. Still, something caused her to look back. His eyes were full of sorrow and longing as he stood looking after them. She tried with her tears to reassure him, to somehow express her regret for his pain…

He gently extended his hand, reaching after her, still holding her gaze with his own eloquent eyes. In that instant she knew that he had loved her when he first laid eyes on her. The knowledge filled her with a soaring joy that warred with the ache of mourning that held her captive. Her heart belonged to another, yet the love this man held for her would not take her love from her against her will. She was free to own or to give her heart as she chose.

The Princess was startled to realize something else as she gazed back into the depths of those eyes, a truth that blinded and deafened her to turmoil around her, unfolding inside her heart with a strange awakening light.

He would always be there waiting, watching, and loving her.