rejoice, rejoice, Immanuel will come to thee O Israel.

It was not a silent night
There was blood on the ground
You could hear a woman cry
In the alleyways that night
On the streets of David's town

And the stable was not clean
And the cobblestones were cold
And little Mary full of grace
With the tears upon her face
Had no mother's hand to hold

It was a labor of pain
It was a cold sky above
But for the girl on the ground in the dark
With every beat of her beautiful heart
It was a labor of love

Noble Joseph at her side
Callused hands and weary eyes
There were no midwives to be found
In the streets of David's town
In the middle of the night

So he held her and he prayed
Shafts of moonlight on his face
But the baby in her womb
He was the maker of the moon
He was the Author of the faith
That could make the mountains move

It was a labor of pain
It was a cold sky above
But for the girl on the ground in the dark
With every beat of her beautiful heart
It was a labor of love
For little Mary full of grace
With the tears upon her face
It was a labor of love

-Andrew Peterson "Labor of Love"

****************************************************

"NIGHT WAS COMING ON, and it was cold," the shepherd said, "and I was terribly hungry. I had finished all the bread I had in my sack, and my gut still ached for more. Then I noticed my friend, a shepherd like me, about to throw away a crust he didn't want. So I said, 'Throw the crust to me, friend!' and he did throw it to me, but it landed between us in the mud where the sheep had mucked it up. But I grabbed it anyway and stuffed it, mud and all, into my mouth. And as I was eating it, I suddenly saw -- myself. It was as if I was not only a man eating but a man watching the man eating. And I thought, 'This is who I am. I am a man who eats muddy bread.' And I thought, 'The bread is very good.' And I thought, 'Ah, and the mud is very good too.' So I opened my muddy man's mouth full of bread, and I yelled to my friends, 'By God, it's good, brothers!' And they thought I was a terrible fool, but they saw what I meant. We saw everything that night, everything. Everything!

"Can I make you understand, I wonder? Have you ever had this happen to you? You have been working hard all day. You're dog-tired, bonetired. So you call it quits for a while. You slump down under a tree or against a rock or something and just sit there in a daze for half an hour or a million years, I don't know, and all this time your eyes are wide open looking straight ahead someplace but they're so tired and glassy they don't see a thing. Nothing. You could be dead for all you notice. Then, little by little, you begin to come to, then your eyes begin to come to, and all of a sudden you find out you've been looking at something the whole time except it's only now you really see it-one of the ewe lambs maybe, with its foot caught under a rock, or the moon scorching a hole through the clouds. It was there all the time, and you were looking at it all the time, but you didn't see it till just now.

"That's how it was this night, anyway. Like finally coming to-not things coming out of nowhere that had never been there before, but things just coming into focus that had been there always. And such things! The air wasn't just emptiness any more. It was alive. Brightness everywhere, dipping and wheeling like a flock of birds. And what you always thought was silence stopped being silent and turned into the beating of wings, thousands and thousands of them.

Only not just wings, as you came to more, but voices-high, wild, like trumpets. The words I could never remember later, but something like what I'd yelled with my mouth full of bread.

'By God, it's good, brothers! The crust. The mud. Everything. Everything!'

"Oh well. If you think we were out of our minds, you are right, of course. And do you know, it was just like being out of jail. I can see us still. The squint-eyed one who always complained of sore feet. The little sawed-off one who could outswear a Roman. The young one who blushed like a girl. We all tore off across that muddy field like drunks at a fair, and drunk we were, crazy drunk, splashing ~rough a sea of wings and moonlight and the silvery wool of the sheep. Was it night? Was it day? Did our feet touch the ground?

'Shh, shh, you'll wake up my guests,' said the Innkeeper we met coming in the other direction with his arms full of wood. And when we got to the shed out back, one of the three foreigners who were there held a finger to his lips. "At the eye of the storm, you know, there's no wind-nothing moves-nothing breathes-even silence keeps silent. So hush now. Hush. There he is. You see him? You see him?

"By Almighty God, brothers. Open your eyes. Listen."

-Frederick Buechner, "The Birth"

a song. a song. high above the trees.

So long, Moses
Hello, Promised Land
It was a long, long road
But your people are home
So long, Moses

Hello, Joshua
Goodbye, Canaanites
We're coming to town
Twelve tribes and no crown
No crown, Oh Lord

We want a king on a throne
Full of power, with a sword in his fist
Will there ever be, ever be a king like this?

*******************************

I'll be the first to admit that when I was a music major, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I was one of the most uptight people you'll probably ever know. And any musician east of the Mississippi knew that the best way to get a quick anxiety attack out of me was to play any major scale and leave out that last resolution. You can hear it now, can't you? All the way up to that 7th and then...

nothing.
Just leave it hanging.
*palms up. mouth open.*

People would do it any time they so much as heard me laughing outside a classroom or walking down the practice room hallway. And when it happened, for the first few million years they did it to me, I'd just have to rush to the nearest instrument and play that last note. I couldn't stand it.

Then at some point there came a day that I put two and two together. Turns out, I can actually sing. Weird, right? For a vocal education major...

Nonetheless, it occurred to me that rather than rush to an instrument to play that final note and give myself a little room to move forward, I could just sing it.

So I did.

Every time.

I still do this quite often.

Just a note for those of you who may have heard me just hum one pitch at any given point, there's a good chance I heard something that didn't resolve on its own. So I resolved it. Feel free to judge and diagnose at will. I'm okay with it.

But something has happened within the most recent years...

I'm actually starting to enjoy the open-ended-ness of an unresolved scale...the fading into the air of that last little frayed edge...

the expectation of a resolution...

The advent, if you will...

*******************************

Hello, Saul
First king of Israel
You were foolish and strong
So you didn't last long
Goodbye, Saul

Hail, King David
Shepherd from Bethlehem
Set the temple of God
In mighty Jerusalem

You were a king on a throne
Full of power, with a sword in his fist
Has there ever been, ever been a king like this?
Full of wisdom, full of strength, the hearts of the people are his
Hear, O Israel, was ever there a king like this?

*******************************

I've been thinking these past few weeks about that night in Bethlehem... unclean and dark. Probably cold. And Mary... so young. Even thinking about it now, I shudder and tear up at the sheer horror of giving birth to a baby without my mother next to me -- giving birth without any clear understanding of what apparently cosmic-sized plan for humanity this pain is part. It would have to be part of a plan, right? The darkness, the ache, the tears, and the sweat... such pain. Such blood.

so
much
blood.

tell me it's part of a plan.

tell me it will land...

*******************************

That last push.

Was the universe completely still?
Did the earth take that one agonizing, deep breath with her?

tell me.
i beg you.
tell me there's a plan.

Did the angels cover their mouths and raise their eyebrows in anticipation?
Were they holding hands and suppressing fear-shattering laughter?

*******************************

it's almost time.
Hope is coming for me.

*******************************


Hello, prophets
The kingdom is broken now
The people of God
Have been scattered abroad
How long, O Lord?

So speak, Isaiah
Prophet of Judah
Can you tell of the One
This king who's going to come

Will he be a king on a throne
Full of power with a sword in his fist?
Prophet, tell us will there be another king like this?
Full of wisdom, full of strength,
The hearts of the people are his
Prophet, tell us will there be
another king like this?

And Isaiah said:

"He'll bear no beauty or glory
Rejected, despised
A man of such sorrow
We'll cover our eyes

He'll take up our sickness
Carry our tears
For his people
He will be pierced

He'll be crushed for our evils
Our punishment feel
By his wounds
We will be healed."

"From you, O Bethlehem
Small among Judah
A ruler will come
Ancient and strong."

-Andrew Peterson "So Long, Moses"

**Note: If you do not own or have not heard the entirety of Andrew Peterson's Behold the Lamb of God Christmas album, do not delay. Purchase it. Listen to it the whole way through.

I mean that.

sleep in heavenly peace.

Our enemy, our captor is no pharaoh on the Nile
Our toil is neither mud nor brick nor sand
Our ankles bear no calluses from chains, yet Lord, we're bound
Imprisoned here, we dwell in our own land

Deliver us, deliver us!
Oh, Yahweh, hear our cry,
and gather us beneath your wings tonight.

Our sins they are more numerous than all the lambs we slay
These shackles they were made with our own hands
Our toil is our atonement and our freedom yours to give
So Yahweh, break your silence if you can

Deliver us, deliver us!
Oh, Yahweh, hear our cry,
and gather us beneath your wings tonight
Deliver us, deliver us!
Oh, Yahweh, hear our cry,
and gather us beneath your wings tonight

'Jerusalem, Jerusalem
How often I have longed
To gather you beneath my gentle wings'

-Andrew Peterson Deliver Us


I can’t help but meditate on the word ‘advent’ this month.
Everywhere I look up the word, it’s always included with some sort of Christian doctrine of the Incarnation, which makes sense. But when I finally find it without being sprinkled by vocabulary I’d hear on a Saturday morning Bible cartoon (color me cynical), the simplest definition is what moves me.

‘n. the arrival of something important, something awaited.’

It’s funny, I’d never really taken any time or effort in learning what this season was really all about. It wasn’t until I was finishing up my time at Wheaton that I began to care at all about any sort of liturgical practice. I’d always been pretty sensitive to things that appear ritualistic… it had always rubbed me the wrong way. It’s so easy for us to get caught up in the movements and lose any and all substance…

But then,

then you drown in substance.

And you can’t help but notice the piles and piles of chains being placed on you by your seemingly imperative responsibility to form an entirely original opinion on every single matter in existence (or not in existence, for that matter). You find yourself saying, what is this even for?

What good is this accomplishing?

Where is this all going to land?

What, in God’s name, am I doing here?

The blood pumping thru the veins in your arms and legs is slowing down, turning to cold liquid lead… they burn as you step and drag the dead weight what feels like half an inch forward. You nearly fall backward and glance behind you to see the sharp edges of ice and rock that would serve as your landing spot. More chains.

More opinions.
More substance.
More reasons to quit.

Suddenly, the rituals – the movements almost entirely done by somebody else—don’t look so heretical. They look like relief. Like the only thing close to rest.

You could almost weep thinking of them.

We did this because we saw You do it once. We do this because this makes us feel like You were just here… like You’re close. We miss You.

we miss You.

Advent.

Weeping.
Fasting.

Deliver us.

deliver us.

When I think about all the things I’m waiting for… waiting with such desperation and anxiety… and hope…

I even carved it in my arm. So much to be delivered from…

How beautiful its arrival will be. The only way I can even imagine reacting is weeping and maybe jumping up and down or wiggling my fingers like I do when I think about one of our road trips or a really good milkshake...

Sometimes I can smell its entrance. It gets quiet and thin around me. I don’t know if it’s sunny, but I don’t care. Because everything is changing. Still moving, but slowly. My vision blurs slightly and I try not to panic because I don’t want to miss anything…

I blink and rub my eyelids and my stupid contacts move out of place. I know I look ridiculous trying to get them to move back. And then, without a hint of theatrical staging, no background soundtrack, no makeup or clean-shaven leading man…

with blood and straw
and gore
with dirt stained faces and the stench of livestock and farm filth

He’s here.

We’ve been waiting for You.
Deliver us.

friday.

HERO

My faith in Thee grows graver
With the dawning of each day:
And my feet grow firmer, braver,
As I travel on the way.
My Love! I never waver
Nor dally nor delay.

Unmindful of the gravel,
Fire-drenched with noonday heat
With hungers to unravel
The secret of my feet:
Towards Thee straight I travel
And find it very sweet!

Beloved, I am bringing
Myself to Thee more near,
My soul is hourly ringing
More certain and more clear.
A well of God is springing
Out of each drop of tear.

Since sometimes in my treading
The path I find the eyes
A sudden teardrop shedding
To take by sweet surprise
A waiting star whose wedding
Shall be in paradise.

My faith in Thee grows truer
And taller than a tower;
My soul grows ever newer,
Re-born in deeper power:
My steps grow fewer, fewer
Towards Thee every hour.

Behold me swiftly gliding
A-challenging the stark
Bare waters, smoothly tiding
O’er billows rough and dark,
Unto Thy care confiding
My tempest-haunted barque.

Though shadows grey and umber
In light’s apparent loss,
Like deep and deathly slumber
Brood heavily across
The waters, I outnumber
Their inky leap and toss

With my uncounted splendors
Flung o’er them far and wide,
Until each billow tenders
A truce on every side,
And silently surrenders
To silence like a bride.

No shadow ever hurteth
The light that is the whole
Horizon-calm which skirteth
The ocean of the soul:
Never Thy love deserteth
The boat that seeks Thy goal.

O let the darks grow thicker
Around the outer seas,
And let the gales blow quicker
And wilder if they please:
My soul without a flicker
Burns through the centuries.

Destruction is mistaken
If with its bleeding-black
Deluge it thinks to waken
Dread on my voyager’s track:
Behold! I am unshaken
By its most dread attack.

My faith in thee shall shield me
Against the darkling horde;
Beloved, thou shalt wield me
Like an all-conquering sword,
And every moment yield me
A splendor unexplored.

--HARINDRANATH CHATTOPADHYAYA, The Divine Vagabond

Wednesday.

O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall,
O calm of spaces unafraid of weight,
Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all
The gaucheness of her adolescent state,
Where Hope within the altogether strange
From every outworn image is released,
And Dread born whole and normal like a beast
Into a world of truths that never change:
Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange.
O dear white children casual as birds,
Playing among the ruined languages,
So small beside their large confusing words,
So gay against the greater silences
Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head,
Impetuous child with the tremendous brain,
O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain,
Lost innocence who wished your lover dead,
Weep for the lives your wishes never led.
O cry created as the bow of sin Is drawn across our trembling violin.
O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain.
O law drummed out by hearts against the still
Long winter of our intellectual will.
That what has been may never be again.
O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath
Of convalescents on the shores of death.
O bless the freedom that you never chose.
O trumpets that unguarded children blow
About the fortress of their inner foe.
O wear your tribulation like a rose...

-Auden. Hymn to St. Cecilia

Tuesdays.

If I don't stand out like a star among the moons
If I am always late and he always backs away too soon
I walk the world with a skin so thin
I can wear no adequate protection
Everything comes crashing in.
If I'm too wide open for this place
But not enough for him to recognize my face

How will he find me
With no one's arms to gather me together?
How will he find me?
Only held by gravity, faded with uncertainty
No longer young and not that pretty
How will he ever find me?

It never seems to matter, the tears I cry.
There's a well inside of me that never runs dry
From being born I guess, and born in life until we die.
The music and the hope for love keep me alive
Still I wonder, how will he find me?

And what shall I do with a drunken heart
With goggle eyes and the troubling hunger
Reaching forward to trick mirror men
Leaning out and in again.
If love is a game how can it be creation?
And if I'm wasting my time
How will he find me?

-The Weepies

just keep swimming.

who, me?

Oh, no. No. You're totally fine. Go on ahead.

I'm just going to wait here...

On my turn...

you heard me.

That's right.

I'm writing a book.

incidentally i'm just waiting for the dusk to kill the day

Aren't Fridays supposed to be like, the best day of the week?

Not sure what happened to mine, but I feel a little bit like somebody snatched it up and ran away with it as I got my first Diet Dr. Pepper this morning at work. I sort of spent the rest of the day hoping they'd bring it back and set it down in front of me. We'd have our laughs and I'd probably punch somebody in the arm only to bicker a little longer about how "you're such a jerk, stealing my shiny Friday benevolence..." hahahahaha...

Yeah, give it back.

*looks around*

Nowhere. I don't know what happened.

Well, I kind of do... but I don't really want to talk about it. As I'd love to be wrong and I'm going to give myself until Monday afternoon before the final verdict is cast...

********************************************

I just need to start the book.
I need to shut up whining about it,
stop staring at the pages like it's going to write itself,
and just do it. Who cares what comes out?
Well, somebody does...
NOT THE POINT.

Just write.

********************************************

I've really no reason to be a whiner about things today. I've had a pretty great past few days/week and a half, really. Tebow, Kings of Leon, Hanson... I mean, kind of amazing.

Y'all know I love Hanson. A long, long time coming... and, O, how I needed to feel young...

********************************************

*sigh*

I think whoever stole my happy Friday tablet took my ability to articulate any sort of depth with them... those rascals. Believe it or not, I actually feel quite deeply today. I'm just not sure the feeling has a word.

Though, if I were going to put my finger on it, I think this video-- this sound... that about covers it... the strange sort of heavy, joyful melancholy that's spinning around my head, buzzing in my ears until my eyelids weigh down and I'm not looking out of my eyes anymore.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZlxDP_JNhNI

Live. Learn. Life. Love. Die. Dust. Gone.

We sit secure in time-honored traditions made,
Never wondering where or when the sickle may come.
If we don't seek our knowledge to be greater men,
When the rain starts falling,
Gonna drown before we get our feet wet.

We build our ivory towers to protect us from the flood,
A fleet of vessels made of wood so they won't rust.
But can we see the bottom of the bottle when we start to drink?
There's fire on the mountain, fire, and it's coming our way.

Can we pick the pieces up?
We're mending Babylon,
Tryin' to right the wrong.
Can we pick the pieces up?

Live. Learn. Life. Love. Die. Dust. Gone.

There's fire on the mountain.

Can we pick the pieces up?
We're mending Babylon,
Tryin' to right the wrong.
Can we pick the pieces up?

Live. Learn. Life. Love. Die. Dust. Gone.

-"Fire on the Mountain" Hanson.

game day.

That's all.

don't knock it.

you've been here before.

thanks, Matt.

What I’m saying is that obedience to Christ for us here is rarely this weight that falls on our heart where it could cost us everything—where it feels like it rip out our person-hood. But sometimes it is.

Sometimes it is.

And the hope we have in the Triune God of the universe is that all His commands and all His leadings are leading us to life and not begrudging submission to His power simply because He could command what He wanted to command. That is not our God. That is not the God of the Bible. So even if it feels like He’s pulling at something that feels so much like its yours that if you let it go you wouldn’t know how to define yourself anymore—that if you let it go you would be naked and afraid…Those commands are leading you to life not to death. He is not trying to take anything from you but what would eventually destroy you, even if that feels like it’s impossibly woven into who you are as a person.

It is idiocy to trade actual godliness for the appearance of godliness.

--Matt Chandler (in a sermon entitled Games People Play Part 2)

glorious.

the first email of the day:

***************

You know, it was a really intense weekend, for obvious reasons. When something that traumatizing happens it sort of jolts you (or at least me) into this ultra-existential mentality where everything is about being a live or dying. Everything I ate had these phenomenal tastes... I was overly aware of every touch, every temperature. Every ache, every itch... every sound outside the window, and ESPECIALLY every tick of a clock. I felt like I never could find a place anywhere in Birmingham where there wasn't a ticking clock in the background. It was horrifying..and liberating...and profound.

Kaitlin sent me a text late Friday night that said she'd gotten a phone call from someone who had spoken with Cameron's mother; She said it wasn't an accident, that Peter meant to take his life. Peter meant to die.

He meant to just quit life.

And he did. They pronounced him dead at 2 am Saturday. Peter is dead. On purpose.

When I got that text, without even really thinking or processing it, I literally got out of bed and onto my face in the floor of the bedroom. I've never, in my entire existence, wept like I did then. And it was among the most profound layers and layers of feeling I think I've ever ever had... I was sobbing so fast and so hard that the only words I could manage to pray or even remotely whisper were "It's so dark here... do something."

It was all I could write. All I could say about the entire situation -- be it however muddled with my current circumstances (rather, my current understanding of my circumstances and my childhood and who I am and what's been done to me)-- was that it's all so dark. And the darkness is so oppressive. Then the greatest thing I think I've ever experienced...

I was in that floor and I could almost see myself at the feet of God Himself... begging for Him to get us out of here, it's so hard and heavy. It's so dark, I said. Do something. Do something beautiful.

And as clear as I can see the message (not the words, but the message) I'm writing you right now, He lifted my face (after a bit of struggle) and gave me this overwhelming desire to feel around on my own face, my own body. I'm okay.

I'm okay.

I'm here. I'm still alive. This has happened. This is my life. These things have happened to me. All of these things have happened to me. And somehow, by some unspeakable grace in my life, I'm still here.

I'm okay.

And He's doing something beautiful.

That was my weekend. It doesn't merit any smiley faces I suppose. But I think I might be a little different today than I was a week ago. And what's the point of a story if the character doesn't change, right?

Anyway, I suppose all that was to say, I'm glad we're okay today. And I hope my perspective can stay in this sharply focused place that is right now... though I know it's only a matter of time before it moves again...

and so it goes.

Be alive today.

drums. here it comes.

I'll just not say anything. Someone else always does this part better.

**************************************

To understand reality is not the same as to know about outward events. It is to perceive the essential nature of things. The best-informed man is not necessarily the wisest. Indeed there is a danger that precisely in the multiplicity of his knowledge he will lose sight of what is essential. But on the other hand, knowledge of an apparently trivial detail quite often makes it possible to see into the depth of things. And so the wise man will seek to acquire the best possible knowledge about events, but always without becoming dependent upon this knowledge. To recognize the significant in the factual is wisdom.
-Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.
-CS Lewis

"whate'er my God ordains is right, Though now this cup in drinking may bitter seem to my faint heart, I take it all unshrinking. My God is true, each morn anew, sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart, and pain and sorrow shall depart"
-Samuel Rodigast

**************************************

I will restore the fortunes of my people Israel, and they shall rebuild the ruined cities and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and drink their wine, and they shall make gardens and eat their fruit. I will plant them on their land and they shall never again be uprooted out of the land I have given them. Says the Lord your God.
-Amos 9:14-15

**************************************

Behold, I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have spoken to you.
-Gen. 28:15

**************************************

smoke is rising from the houses
people burying their dead
i ask somebody what the time is
but time doesn't matter to them yet

people talking without speaking
trying to take what they can get
i ask you if you remember
prospekt how could i forget


drums
here it comes
don't you wish that life could be as simple
as fish swimming 'round in a barrel when you've got the gun
oh and i run
here it comes
we're just two little figures in a soup bowl
trying to get the other kind of control
but i wasn't one


but here i lie
on my own in a seperate sky
and here i lie
on my own in a seperate sky
i don't wanna die
on my own here tonight
but here i lie
on my own in a seperate sky
-Coldplay "Prospekt's March"

**************************************

Though He slay me, I will hope in Him.
-Job 13:15

just the stirring in my soul.

It really was the kind of morning that lasted all afternoon. I would like to say that it's not still looming over my head in some creepy fashion...but it so is.

A really odd day, today. And I know I should be asleep, say, 50 minutes ago. But I'm not. And all I've wanted to do for 2 straight weeks is write. It's the weirdest thing. I spend so much of my life narrating my experience while I'm living it. And I think, yep, this is how I'll write this. But when it comes to sitting here with this damned blinking cursor...

Nothing.

It never comes out. I do not understand. Does that mean it's just not time for it to come out from it's delightful swim in my brain? Or am I not trying hard enough?

Both highly possible options. And whatever the answer is, I'm doing it tonight. I'm hardly planning to narrate the innermost workings of my dark and twisty soul at this point. You're hardly ready for all of that. Hell, I'm hardly ready for all of that. Tis why I pay somebody to tell me it won't kill me!

*ha*

There are so many places in my life that I so wish I could fast forward through. And yet, I feel. So. Old.

And I'm not saying that because I think I secretly manage to possess more wisdom or maturity or self-awareness than most people my age (however true that may be, it's no secret, right ;) ). I honestly feel like my life is 3/4 over. Like I've done and felt most everything there is to do and feel in life. Most of it dark and uncomfortable and deep. A lot of it I wouldn't trade for anything in the whole world. The only feeling I really think I was cheated out of is that of youth.

I'm not sure I've ever really felt young.

Wonder if they make a pill for that...

I can't help but think that because I believe that I belong ultimately to the greatest Storyteller there is, no detail of my existence will go unseen or un-wrapped-up, if you will. Including that of never being young...

What's the opposite of Peter Pan?

If I could just get a break, a little bit of peace in my circumstances, a little bit of stability and independence, I would make that happen and be the kind of young that I actually, physically am right now. Because I only get to do this once. And God knows, I shake in my metaphorical boots thinking of screwing it up.

I know what you're thinking. I need to relax. A vacation, even. And you're absolutely right. Would you like to donate to the fund? Because I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I took an incredibly impractical job roughly 80 miles from where I live that pays next to nothing all because Jesus told me to. Translation, I'm broke. Send money.

I'll take a vacation if the option comes to the front. I'll do fun things that will contribute to my milkbox missing youth. But ultimately, He knows what I'm missing. And I'm starting to ache for it so bad I'd start selling pieces of my soul to find it.

Not quite to that point yet.

Unless you know a wealthy buyer?

I kid, but only a little.

I'm rambling. I'll stop now.

Here's to Tuesday -- may it, in the gentlest and classiest way possible--beat the hell out of Monday.

black.

I'm pretty sure that I've spent the majority of the past 3 years or so in my car. And it's funny the kind of thinking that can go on while you're driving. Obviously, I'm not driving now. Nonetheless, I almost always think that it's the significant days that provide the juices of creativity. Define significant? Yeah, I can't really, but you know what I mean. I'm starting to discover that my best batches of creativity or insight come on the most random days, the most random times --

the most significantly insignificant days.

It is no secret to anyone who even pretends to know me that I would just about pay any price for the Movie Theater experience. And yes, more than one time a day. Par Exemplar: yesterday. I saw two great movies, and it's funny that I didn't realize until this morning how seeing them and letting my guard down (in a way I haven't actually done in a good while) has affected my state of mind. I was in desperate need of a change of scenery. Sadly, I find myself needing that a lot recently. I hope that's okay.

I guess nobody really decides for me, though, right? So I say, it is okay. Thanks.

Nonetheless, my two great movie experiences gave me the smallest yet sweetest taste of validation that I think I may have had in a long while. Not in that silly fairytale sort of way (and certainly not to say that fairytales are at all an unacceptable form of hopefulness in their own right). More in a "hey, will you back the hell away from what feels like worthless, eternal agony for a second and notice that good plot lines always move somewhere" kind of way.
Whatever that means.

That all said, I think I might have figured something out. I know that's vague and whatnot, but let's face it. We all know that if I tried to articulate it every single one of you would get that look on your face... that "ok, what are you talking about" look. Never gets old. :)

Point of my story: See good movies.

about me.

Oh, perilous place, walk backwards toward you .
Blink disbelieving eyes, chilled to the bone.
Most visibly brave, no apprehended gloom
First to take this foot to virgin snow.

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment.
I am a wunderkind.
And I lift the envelope pushed far enough to believe this
I am a princess on the way to my throne

Destined to serve, destined to roam

Oh, ominous place, spellbound and unchild-proofed
My least favorite chill to bare alone.
Compatriots in place, they'd cringe if I told you
Our best back-pocket secret our bond full-blown .

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment
I am a wunderkind.
I am a pioneer, naive enough to believe this:
I am a princess on the way to my throne

Destined to seek, destined to know

Most beautiful place reborn and blown off roof
My view about-face whether great will be done

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment
I am a wunderkind.
I am a ground-breaker naive enough to believe this
I am a princess on the way to my throne

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment
I am a wunderkind.
I am a Joan of Arc and smart enough to believe this
I am a princess on the way to my throne.

Destined to reign, destined to roam.

A hymn.

If to distant lands I scatter
If I sail to farthest seas
Would you find and firm and gather 'til I only dwell in Thee?

If I flee from greenest pastures
Would you leave to look for me?
Forfeit glory to come after
'Til I only dwell in Thee

If my heart has one ambition
If my soul one goal to seek
This my solitary vision 'til I only dwell in Thee
That I only dwell in Thee
'Til I only dwell in Thee
-Brooke Fraser

until there's fog inside the glass around your summer heart

Today's lyrics are brought to you by the intensly genius William Fitzsimmons. At first, I thought this song was about David. And maybe it is. I'll not make any conclusive decisions about it. But the more I listen and the more I understand this kind of gray place...struggle and questioning and a sort of dark honesty...the more I think this may actually be about Paul...

Just something to think about.



Passion Play

I should not have hid where my heart can't follow
'Cause this grace gets too far and too hard to swallow
I've been running from Saul, he's been givin' chase
When I look in his eyes, all I see is my face

You're still on my back after all these years
Chasing me out of hell and my nice veneers
I don't know how you stand when you've got no floor
Or how you can breathe with your hands on boards

I just want to be not what I am today
I just want to be better than my friends might say
I just want a small part in your passion play

Do you hear when I call in the midst of it all?
Do you hear these here words when I sing this song?
Are you caught up in me like I heard you say?
Or some big cashier that I'll have to pay?

yet this I call to mind...

Once upon a time, my days were not so intense.

Once upon a time, I didn't feel like I needed to take a lap around the perimeter of my house just to "lighten" my own mood.

Ree-diculous.

And frankly my dears, it's getting frickin' old.

Misunderstand me not, however. I am noticing the tiny pieces of something good that fall around me occasionally. And O, how grateful I am for them. Little shards of hope scattered about my feet, sticking like snowflakes to the ends of my hair or clumping up in the "waterproof" (a term I use quite loosely) mascara making its way to the ends of my eyelashes and even sliding down my face more times a day than I'd like...

*sigh* One day, I'll never have to do this again.

One day, I'll be whole. It won't be such a struggle. It won't be war anymore.

And I can finally take this armor off.

**********************************************

Burned another 300 calories tonight on that elliptical-machine-from-hell. I'm determined to be a champion over that thing. Even if it costs me all my limbs... and at this point, that's pretty much what it sounds like it will cost...

I need to be more consistent with that. Ahh, the day I burn 500 calories in one trip... I press on!

Or I pass out.

*lol* That's Biblical, right?

**********************************************

And now, for the newest addition to my sad attempt to be consistent:
The Top 10 Songs I'm Presently Obsessed With:

1. "Element" by Matthew Mayfield (you love this song, whoever you are, I promise)

2. "Open Road" also by Matthew Mayfield

3. "Falling" by The Civil Wars (located at www.myspace.com/thecivilwars) all their stuff is amazing...

4. "Beloved One" by Ben Harper & The Innocent Criminals

5. "Love, Reign O'er Me" by Pearl Jam (located on the Reign Over Me soundtrack)

6. "The Mess I Made" by Parachute (you also love this song)

7. "The Ballad of Love and Hate" by The Avett Brothers

8. "Poison & Wine" by The Civil Wars

9. "I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You" by Colin Hay

10. *drumroll* "How He Loves" by John Mark McMillan (for once, I actually think David Crowder should have left this one alone...)

**********************************************

And I realize just how beautiful You are
And how great Your affections are for me...

if you find the key, would you set me free?

How do I speak of today? I choose...

an email. Sent to my sweet friend, Andrea.

********************************************

Hi, ma'am.

It is high time we hang out. This is getting ridiculous. I feel like I haven't seen you in 6 years. And that's just way too long. Seriously.

I've been thinking about what books I need to send you. I haven't been reading as much recently as I probably should. I'm just so worn out. The driving back and forth to this job is about to kill me, though it is the only real "alone" time that I have. It just doesn't seem to cut it, you know? Plus I have SO much more going on in my life right now that sucks my bubble, I constantly wake with one half full and just try to keep it above par. I hate that. But I guess it's just the way it is right now, you know? This is the part of the story that gets hard to read. Like, maybe something's going to happen after this, maybe it's not. Will it just fade out? Will there be a surprise plot twist? Will a hero return? Or die? Or will there be a hero at all?

*shrug* Yes, I've begun to think of my life as this long, detailed Austen-novel-meets-creative-

non-fiction story. It's really quite fascinating. And who knows, maybe a book will come out of it after all... What can I call it? It has yet to be determined. Maybe that's a title in itself: TBD.

I wish you had taken that Theology and the Literary Imagination course with us with Dr. Mitchell. I'm still living under some of the unbelievably profound things that he said at least 85 million times per class period...one of them being that our eternal life has already started, "We're just carrying around our death on us right now."

Never in my life would I have truly felt that to the marrow of my bones. Not even then. I got it, in my head, but it didn't resonate and bounce around my imagination and my understanding and my emotions until this part of the story. And who would think that letting go of the death that you're just damn near sure built you would be such a daunting and grievous task? Because in comparison to the death I've been carrying, Life should feel so liberating. It should be something that calls me at my core and dispells fear and doubt without any effort. But it doesn't. It calls, yes. But it calls from so far it seems...it seems it's not even for me at all. You know?

Point of my long, drawn out story - - Jesus and I are going through times. Feels a little like marriage counseling, if I'm being honest. Makes me tired. Makes me sad, too. Because sometimes I am consumed with such fear about analyzing and cleaning out these parts of myself that have been so...wounded... I'm so consumed with that fear for a number of reasons, but the most are so easily out-rationalized. Which makes me more miserable. I should know (and I do, rationally and theologically) that all I have to do is approach and ask Him for help. To save me. To remember me. To breathe into me. To find me...

But I can't seem to bring myself to do it.

And of course, I feel ridiculous for not being able to do it. But when it comes down to the core reason why I just can't... it's simple unbelief. I can't bring myself to ask...because I could not bear for Him to tell me no.

What if He doesn't come for me? What if I just float and sink or fall between cracks, as I have in nearly every other aspect of my existence? What if there is no story at all?

What if there is just this wandering character... with no direction...no plot...no development. Just a space filler. An accident.

I know it's not true. I do. In my heart, I know that I carry a ring. It's my job to take it to the end...to throw it into that fire. To be rid of it. To do something important for the course of redemptive history... I know He wills that for me.

Sometimes I just can't feel it... I can't feel anything but how oppressively heavy this ring is.

And those are hard days.

*sigh*

Anyway, that's pretty much my little bruised heart these days. I am seeking rest. I never thought I'd be too tired to even believe Truth...as I do love Truth so. But I am too tired to believe.

And here's the sweetest part of this entire experience.

I don't even have to. Because He will do it for me. All who wander are not, in fact, lost.

How He loves us so...

So, in happier news, I visited a church in Birmingham this past weekend that was maybe one of the greatest experiences I've had in awhile. I HIGHLY recommend you looking up David Platt (from The Church at Brook Hills in Birmingham, AL) and listening to the past 4 messages (I think the first starts with The Mystery of Mercy or something like that). He does a 4 week series on the book of Ruth. And it was...

unbelievable.

I wept through all 4 messages. It took zero music, zero atmosphere. Sitting on my bed with my Bible open and listening to him teach. Weeping. It was so encouraging. You will love it. I can promise that.

I know you feel "up in the air." I know that feeling. I believe the great philosopher Dr. Seuss calls it "The Waiting Place." Not easy. And there's not really anything that I could say to you that would shed light in that place, I think. At least there aren't any words for me... but I do know that while your in that little patch of darkness, I may not be standing right next to you, but I'm out there. So consider this an official waving of my tiny candle "I'm over here!! You aren't by yourself!" And you by no means are failing ANYTHING.

No such thing. Go on and cut that chord.

I can't wait to see you.

I'll bring the tea.

-meg

********************************************

Just trying to find a home.
Take me home.
Cause we're tired of changing.
Our heartbeats are fading.
Our days are numbered.
The clocks, they keep ticking...

...We look in the mirror
It shatters with shame...

...I have seen Who You are
I have seen what I am
And we are desperate, we're desperate, we're desperate

Lay me down on
Shores of the widest sand
Soft like that woman
With the fight of a thousand men

just take me away from all that I am...

“Well, anyway, I looked up and saw the very last thing I expected: a huge lion coming slowly towards me. And one queer thing was that there was no moon last night, but there was moonlight where the lion was. So it came nearer and nearer. I was terribly afraid of it. You may think that, being a dragon, I could have knocked any lion out easily enough. But it wasn't that kind of fear. I wasn't afraid of it eating me, I was just afraid of it - if you can understand. Well, it came close up to me and looked straight into my eyes. And I shut my eyes tight. But that wasn't any good because it told me to follow it.”
“You mean it spoke?”
“I don't know. Now that you mention it, I don't think it did. But it told me all the same. And I knew I'd have to do what it told me, so I got up and followed it. And it led me a long way into the mountains. And there was always this moonlight over and round the lion wherever we went. So at last we came to the top of a mountain I'd never seen before and on the top of this mountain there was a garden - trees and fruit and everything. In the middle of it there was a well.
“I knew it was a well because you could see the water bubbling up from the bottom of it: but it was a lot bigger than most wells - like a very big, round bath with marble steps going down into it. The water was as clear as anything and I thought if I could get in there and bathe it would ease the pain in my leg. But the lion told me I must undress first. Mind you, I don't know if he said any words out loud or not.
“I was just going to say that I couldn't undress because I hadn't any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that's what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bathe.
“But just as I was going to put my feet into the water I looked down and saw that they were all hard and rough and wrinkled and scaly just as they had been before. Oh, that's all right, said I, it only means I had another smaller suit on underneath the first one, and I'll have to get out of it too. So I scratched and tore again and this underskin peeled off beautifully and out I stepped and left it lying beside the other one and went down to the well for my bathe.
“Well, exactly the same thing happened again. And I thought to myself, oh dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off? For I was longing to bathe my leg. So I scratched away for the third time and got off a third skin, just like the two others, and stepped out of it. But as soon as I looked at myself in the water I knew it had been no good.
“Then the lion said - but I don't know if it spoke – ‘You will have to let me undress you.’ I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.
“The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know - if you've ever picked the scab off a sore place. It hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Edmund.
“Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off - just as I thought I'd done it myself the other three times, only they hadn't hurt - and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobbly-looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me - I didn't like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I'd no skin on - and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I'd turned into a boy again. You'd think me simply phoney if I told you how I felt about my own arms. I know they've no muscle and are pretty mouldy compared with Caspian's, but I was so glad to see them.
“After a bit the lion took me out and dressed me –“
“Dressed you. With his paws?”
“Well, I don't exactly remember that bit. But he did somehow or other: in new clothes - the same I've got on now, as a matter of fact. And then suddenly I was back here. Which is what makes me think it must have been a dream.”
“No. It wasn't a dream,” said Edmund.
“Why not?”
“Well, there are the clothes, for one thing. And you have been - well, un-dragoned, for another.”
“What do you think it was, then?” asked Eustace.
“I think you've seen Aslan,” said Edmund.

The Voyage of the Dawn Treader – Chapter 7

run in place.

I get in these moods sometimes where I can't figure out what I should be doing that might be productive (like actually finishing the writing I've started). So I generally just follow the white rabbit I call iTunes Genius and let it dictate music I love until I nearly drain my bank account and have nothing but further introspection and melancholy to show for it.

And believe me, it's twice as fun as it sounds ;).

I like finding new music. And generally, I like to discuss music with people. Lately, I've found that I really hate discussing music with people who think they're open-minded or "indie" only to find that they are in fact elitists who simply want to tell me I haven't arrived...

Question: Where am I going? I forget this whole "arriving" thing... not sure I bought a ticket, thanks.

What else annoys me...

Ah, yes. The hovering. End it already. Clearly, its generating no response that you could possibly deem positive. I'm all but tucking tail and running away. I'm sorry. But, no.

I don't have enough friends here. I really hate being that one girl in the room with no husband.

I know it's lame and cliche and whatever other word a smart kid would use to describe a situation that he or she may or may not know a hill of beans about... but it's starting to take a LOT of effort on my part to keep from thinking about it or feeling almost... exposed... does that make sense?

Can you hear me, invisible crowd?

*sigh* Keep trucking ahead.

There has to be something on the other side of this. I know it will be beautiful.

I know it.

*****************************************************

You know what? I used to be really funny. Like, I would effortlessly write things that were just funny. Must be a funk I'm in...

Hate that.

*****************************************************

In other news, I must give props/shout out to Jenna for introducing me to Parachute. I love having people in my life who just know what fills my bubble.

Also, I think I'm actually going to jump on the Sufjan Stevens train. I know, I know, how oddly trendy of me. The thing is, I never really thought the guy could sing. As a matter of fact, his "honesty" or whatever it is we're calling folks who really have no talent these days kind of grated on my nerves. But after spending some time with the older album Seven Swans (I think 2004), he might be growing on me. We'll see. I'll keep you *wink wink* posted.

I have a song.

Sometimes, when I think about college, I get really sad.

I'm not crazy about this "in between" place. I've heard it's a really good thing that I'm doing. Waiting until I've got things figured out before I try to go start a family or something. Waiting until I've found the one whom my soul loves. Waiting until I'm out of debt (or at least close to it).


...waiting, waiting, waiting.

Is anything moving at all? Is everything moving except me?

**Note: There's a wedding reception going on downstairs... lots of sappy music and happy people. Making me a little nauseated. Sadly**

Slow dances. Dressy dresses. You know, I never did that really. And when I did, it was so uncomfortable. God, so much of my life has been uncomfortable.

Did I do that?

*******************************************

*sigh* I'm not old.

I'm not old.


I'm not that old.

*******************************************

I guess it just really comes down to not passing up the opportunity to cry. I'm not feeling sorry for myself, because I know I have a story.

This is just the part that feels like I don't.

the farther I ran, the harder it fell

I gotta tell you, this business of growing up? It ain't for sissies. And you can take that to the bank.

************************************************

One time I thought I could change my own life. I thought it was "time." Actually, I thought there were lots of "times." I would've initiated something and seen it through, but with a severe lack of deep encouragement--or I guess, no real core understanding of the goal...maybe no goal at all-- I fell flat on my face and began the cycle of death all over again.

That's what we do, right?

It is. You can argue 'til you're blue in the face. But it's what we do. And I'll keep doing it until I finally come face to face with the realization that I can't do a damn thing to change my own life. I'm useless in so many layers. So many ways...

I fear being useless. I think somewhere deep down I feel like it's my God-given right to be useful. And yet, He did give me that right. And I threw it away with one opportunity to know something. Cause we always prefer what we can touch with our hands to what we can't...

So now I choose this life, this echad. I'm carrying my death around on me here and I want it off. I can see it now. With my waking eyes. And at a time, I thought maybe it defined me. That the trauma, the betrayal, the abandonment, the lies... that somehow what all those things had done to me were some deep part of me. If I let it go...if I dared to believe that I could have another life...what would be left of me? Pieces? or worse...nothing at all.

Am I even a person at all?

Or did Death build me?

************************************************

It's a memory in the sun, or it's hell in the darkness.
Maybe it's all around to see if we try.
Maybe it's been inside of me all this time.
************************************************

Death didn't build me at all. Death has nothing to do with me anymore. Death lied to me. Death betrayed me. Death mutilated my self-perception and made me a stranger to my traumatized body.

And Death is defeated.

Because I've been rescued.

************************************************

I've been rescued by Life.

Life has name.

And He makes me useful again.

He makes me like I would've been if Death had never touched me at all.

************************************************

It rained almost all day today here. It was steamy and borderline disgusting outside. I usually love summer rain, and I did love the smell today. But I abhore the humidity. So when I walked outside after dinner, I knew the greeting of the hot wet wool blanket of Alabama weather was going to slow me down on the evening work-out via the elliptical machine in the carport. I've been building my tolerance for that damnable machine for awhile now. Slowly but surely I went from lasting barely a minute and a half (I jest not) to 14 minutes, roughly 180 calories.

Tonight I felt like pushing my limits. Carefully, I started moving and breathing just right, like I knew what I was doing. I fought the urge to laugh at myself or be consumed in my self-consciousness and just go inside before I got too disgustingly sweaty for anybody to even look at.

Who was I trying to impress anyway?

Me. I'm trying to impress me.

And I'm trying to get to Africa.

So without a lot of music tonight on that machine, I just kept seeing Africa in my head. I don't know what I would intend to do there. Maybe nothing. Maybe just watch. I don't really know my job. But Jesus and I had quite the conversation tonight about it. And for the first time in a long time....for the first time in my entire life......it's close. My job. My purpose. My dream.

Africa. is close. I could smell it when I closed my eyes and the sweat was producing a mixture of steamy fog and mascera over my contacts. The air was so hot I thought I might not be able to breath any deeper than a shallow huff now and again. But I was determined. Breathe deeply, Megan. Make it last. After this experience, I'm not sure I've ever actually been determined before. I think I've just been afraid to die. So I kept breathing.

But tonight I was more than breathing. I was breathing deeply. In thick, summer wool air. And as if the sky was ripped apart like velcro, the rain fell by the ocean-full. I could see the mud splashing in the yard as raindrops that looked as big as my fist were pounding down. Water was pouring down off the side of the house and blowing into the carport, splashing into my face and on my arm every once in awhile. Right in time... I could take deep breaths so much easier in the rain.

Then it came to me. He whispered it just as sweetly as if He were weeping with me--cheering me along, telling me I was a hero--This is what grace feels like.

And the farther I ran, the harder it fell.

************************************************

Jesus is wild.

And He is so gentle with me.

************************************************
"You are guilty of no evil, except a little fearfulness. For that, the journey you go on is your pain, and perhaps your cure: for you must be either mad or brave before it is ended..."
--CS Lewis, Out of the Silent Planet

dark and twisty

There's distance in the air and I cannot make it leave
i wave my arms' round about me and blow with all my might
I cannot sense you close, though I know you're always here
But the comfort of you near is what i long for

When I can't feel you, I have learned to reach out just the same
When I can't hear you, I know you still hear everyword I pray
And i want you more than i want to live another day
And as I wait for you maybe I'm made more faithful

All the folly of the past, though I know it is undone
i still feel the guilty one, still trying to make it right
So i whisper soft your name, let it roll around my tounge,
knowing you're the only one who knows me
You know me

Show me how I should live this
Show me where I should walk
I count this world as loss to me
You are all I want
You are all I want

confessions from the quarter-life crisis

If you had told me when I was 15 that I would be this person in ten years, I don't think I would've believed you.

In fact, I think my head would've exploded.

Not because I'm any thing grand or significant as far as the world knows. But something has happened to my brain.

I say, sometimes, that I spend a great deal of time at the metaphorical deep end of the pool. I'm almost always spending my time in the deepest, coldest parts of the proverbial sea when most people are perfectly content to float around on the top...maybe letting the water run over their faces once now and again, to keep cool.

I just can't stay up there. And maybe I have just stayed down here too long. Maybe my brain is lacking in proverbial oxygen... whatever that means.

See, I just shoved the words "metaphorical" and "proverbial" along with some huge analogy of my life into a tiny paragraph and quite literally expected you to follow me without a second thought.

There must be something wrong with me.

***********************************************

I love the idea of a life created to just enjoy you.

You know I would work. I would go where you wanted. I would be your voice the very moment you wanted to use me to be heard. I would.

And yet, you calm me in the midst of my terror and angst and say

just
enjoy
me.

I do.

I enjoy you.

***********************************************

In case you're wondering, whoever you are, yes. I am every bit as intense as I sound.

And yeah, I'm working on it.

***********************************************

I have to believe it's worth it.
the intensity that people find so exhausting.
the passion that gets so often misinterpreted for anger or cynicism.
the aching in the softest parts of my soul for the sound of your voice in this world.
the tendency to tear up at any mention of your name.
the pain of self analysis.

Righteousness is expensive. And Jesus is demanding.

But it is because He is faithful. He is demanding because I love Him. And the part of me that would ever hold anything from Him intentionally is slowly dying. I will kill her myself. Because I have been made new...as if she never existed.

***********************************************

As terrifying as it sometimes is to think of the reality of making a life in a completely indigenous part of the world, a million miles from home--it looks like cake to me when compared to tip-toeing around petty American Christian understanding of the Christ, and what exactly He means for us to be here.

Either I am completely out of my mind, which is a perfectly logical possibility (at that, it has yet to be disproved or dismissed), or I can see things that matter. Surely, in all these years of organization and governmental hierarchy within what we so quickly call "the Body," someone, somewhere, has seen this. And said to themselves, "What the hell are we thinking?"

This can't be it.

You come here. You come to this ailing, dying planet that you sang into motion and existence. You look us in the eyes and heal our aching bodies. You washed your hands when they got dirty, you felt the scorch of the mid-day sun and thirsted for cold water, you spoke a language with an accent, you hummed or whistled the songs of the angels while our deaf ears sat trying to put you in a tiny, rational box. You show up here to love us in our faces. We could see you. We could touch you. We could smell you when you needed to bathe, we could brush the dust off of your robe when you'd been sitting in the dirt... you were here. You came to be with us. You came to show us how to be at all. Then you came and finished it. Settled the debt, satisfied the wrath, set right the cosmic order of righteousness and justice. And you simply said for us to be witnesses of what we know of you and the God you mysteriously are. You wanted us to just be like you.

And somehow we ended up understanding your commandments and life on this planet to mean we meet together twice a week, pretend we don't have any real gut-wrenchingly humiliating problems, sing a couple songs, listen to a moral story (which, let's face it, is more often than not one of the dumbest things ever allowed to be spoken) and called it participating in "the Body."

In the South (where American culture is backwards and inside out)(not to mention about 6 years behind), it's a social necessity.

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*sigh* You know what, just...

just whatever it is you are doing with all of this beating around in my head, it would be awesome if you'd let me know.

Just whenever.

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Note to self: New thing to pray for, a reason to lighten up.

cause your love is perfect

You repair all that we have torn apart and
You unveil a new beginning in our hearts and
We stand grateful for all that has been left behind and
All that goes before us

You've got all things suspended
All things connected
Nothing was forgotten
'Cause your love is perfect
You are our healer
And you know what's broken
And we're not a mystery to you
(to you, oh Lord, to you)

We will dance 'cause you restore the wasted years and
You will sing over all our coming fears and
We'll stand grateful for all that has been left behind and all that goes before us


Lord, you mend the breech
And you break every fetter
You give us your best, but what we thought was better
And you are to be praised
You are to be praised

(to you, oh Lord, mender of the broken)

--Watermark, Mended

close enough

Something's going on.

I haven't figured it out yet.

But I know something is going on.