Dear Valentine's Day,
Hi there. You may not remember me--we haven't spent much time together, besides for my freshman year Valentine's disaster and the fact that my mom uses you as an excuse to send me socks with little hearts on them and I'll take any opportunity to eat chocolate and talk about love.
So, Valentine's Day, let's talk about love. I'm afraid that you've made a bit of a mockery out of something that was so cool. I'm afraid that in the hustle and bustle of trying to find a boy to take us out to dinner, and rushing to the Hallmark store to buy boxes of Valentines and chocolates to say "I love you," or trying to wear as much red/pink/purple as possible without looking tacky (impossible), you have caused us to lose sight of what that day, and every day, should be about.
Valentine's Day, I wish that you were less concerned about reminding me that I'm single and more concerned with reminding me that three little words aren't reserved for a boy, but that I should day them, sing them, shout them, live them, with everyone.
I wish that you hadn't taken love--God's best idea--and turned it into chocolates and flowers and spending money to prove affection. I wish, Valentine's Day, with all of my heart, that you were just like February 13 or February 15, or June 9 or October 21. I wish that you were just like any other day--a day where a boy and a girl fall in love for the first time because of conversation and music and books and laughter, and it doesn't involve teddy bears or an overpriced bouquet of flowers. I wish you were a day when two people realize that they can't live without each other, and it's not extravagant at all, but it's perfect.
I wish, Valentine's Day, that we celebrated you every time a boy does something that makes us feel beautiful, like the luckiest girl in the entire world; I wish we celebrated every time we think, happily, "This isn't real, you're not real," every time we learn how to give, how to care for, how to appreciate another person. I wish we'd celebrate you when walls of fear come tumbling down and love becomes a possibility. I wish, Valentine's Day, we'd celebrate you at every wedding, every time a baby is born, at every church service, every visit from family, with every kind word and every thoughtful action.
I wish, Valentine's Day, that you'd talk about what love actually is.
Love is what put breath in my lungs.
Love is why I believe in God.
Love is my hope for tomorrow.
Love is redemptive and powerful and stronger than the grave.
Love seeks me out. Love does not leave me alone.
Love is giving and compassionate and sacrificial.
Love is selfless, love is just.
Love remains.
So, Valentine's Day, I wish you'd tell all of your followers that after the flowers wilt and the chocolates expire and the bill for the hot air balloon at sunset comes in, love remains. After Valentine's Day gets replaced with St. Patrick's Day, love remains. After we lose hope in you, love remains. After everything, love remains, and that is what we should celebrate.
Love always,
Kara Lee Kimball
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
splish splash (i was takin' a bath)
I’m sitting in the bathtub with Cherry Blossom bubbles and I’m wearing my glasses that I don’t actually need. I’m wearing them anyways, because they make me feel scholarly and maybe even a little bit cuter than normal. Vain, yes, but maybe in some recess of my mind, I hope that feeling scholarly means that my brain will come up with something great. I’m wearing them as I sit in the bathtub with my computer; I disassembled my do-it-yourself shelf and made a make-shift “desk” of sorts that sits on the edges of my bathtub. My computer is sitting on it, hovering over the water, which makes me nervous because I know how stupid I would feel if I had to tell anybody that my computer fell in the bathtub simply because I felt like it was really important to write this while attaining the highest level of relaxation. I’ve got peppermint tea and Jon Foreman is singing peace into my heart, about how we’re broken from the start, and it’s not the happiest of songs, but even still, I’m glad he’s singing it because for five minutes and thirty-eight seconds, I feel like somebody gets what I’m feeling.
I wrote something yesterday. Pages and pages of words, and I wrote it and it was honest and made me feel all too vulnerable, like you, whoever is reading this, knew all too much about me in a few pages, a few thousand words. As if a few thousand words could truly let you know me. Maybe you wouldn’t know all about me—I didn’t talk about my favorite color or favorite book or song or artist or pastime. I didn’t talk about pet peeves or funny memories or flowers and ferris wheels. I didn’t talk about my deepest desires and the dreams I have for the future. But I wrote and wrote and wrote, just to talk, to put a voice to my present reality.
My heart feels weird these days. Happy and hopeful. I can see in so many ways that YHWH has intervened in the last few months, from bringing me back to San Diego to my rooming situation, and even the way my schedule has worked out—four classes so that my soul can rest and fight for peace, four classes to give myself a break. But my heart feels weird, oddly heavy, because that’s exactly what I’m doing: fighting for peace, and needing a break.
So now I’m in the bathtub and the anxiety has subsided, at least for a few hours. It’s left my body, but not my mind. I wish that I worried about my grades or finances or even my future. Unfortunately, grades have never really been a problem and by the grace of God, my dad’s work has been steady, and graduate school is providing the perfect opportunity to put off deciding on a career. No, no, my fight has taken a different form. I wish that I could say that the fight has just begun, but if I’m being honest with myself, this battle has been raging since…as far back as my memory allows.
Two theology classes are a relief—I can learn about the Character of YHWH, the Creativity of YHWH, the Love of YHWH, the Power of YHWH; I can learn about humans in relationship with Him and humans in relationship with humans as He so intended; I can study it and meditate on it and give it some sort of intellectual foundation in my mind for the times when my anxious heart can’t discern His voice, for the times when my heart wants to give up, to give in, to resign.
My homework for last week was to read Genesis. Creation. When YHWH intimately breathed His breathe into our nostrils and brought us into our humanity, into our need of Him, with an intimate kiss; when Creation spoke one giant “I love you;” when Creation was one magnificent display of Power and Glory and Goodness.
There is a life and breath that I was given, and for now, that life feels trapped, and my breathing feels short and shallow. The anxiety is there for a reason, so now I’m discovering why. I am traveling back in time, and digging to the root—investigating my childhood and my parents and relationships and experiences and, in the process, I’m unearthing layers upon layers of pain and frustration and confusion and irrational fear after irrational fear that seem to have followed me. I’m uncovering wounds for which healing was never sought and deep pits of insecurity in my heart for this reason and that reason. It makes me sad and angry and hopeful and tired.
I’m not bright and shiny like I always hoped I would be. I don’t have a bright and shiny family or a bright and shiny history. But this life has made me real. This is real, and this is why I need Jesus. I’m irrational and insecure and scared and there doesn’t seem to be much room for YHWH inside of this tangled web, except that He made me and formed my very being and knows my heart and every anxious thought. And so there must be room. Above anything, there must be room for Him.
I don’t feel bright and shiny, but Jesus says that I am clean. So there is a spring of hope bubbling up inside me. I want to collect its waters in a jar and carry it around my neck. I want to sing and dance and twirl round and round in a dress that rises and falls with every spin.
I don’t always feel capable of love, or worthy of grace, or, you know, any of those other things that sometimes come up. With God, or with humans. But this is where I am right now, and YHWH promises His comfort and His presence, and so I know. I know that peace and redemption will flood my heart. I know that He has hold of me. He is my shepherd, and His rod and staff comfort me.
It’s slow, contrary to my racing heart; and He is hope in the midst of the darkness of the anxiety itself, even though, more often than not, I don’t feel it. I want the songs to be true. I want to overcome by the blood of the Lamb and the word of my testimony. I want to shout unto God with a voice of triumph and a voice of praise. I would like to enter the city of the Living God. I would like to join in the chorus of thousands upon thousands of angels singing Alleluia.
I wrote something yesterday. Pages and pages of words, and I wrote it and it was honest and made me feel all too vulnerable, like you, whoever is reading this, knew all too much about me in a few pages, a few thousand words. As if a few thousand words could truly let you know me. Maybe you wouldn’t know all about me—I didn’t talk about my favorite color or favorite book or song or artist or pastime. I didn’t talk about pet peeves or funny memories or flowers and ferris wheels. I didn’t talk about my deepest desires and the dreams I have for the future. But I wrote and wrote and wrote, just to talk, to put a voice to my present reality.
My heart feels weird these days. Happy and hopeful. I can see in so many ways that YHWH has intervened in the last few months, from bringing me back to San Diego to my rooming situation, and even the way my schedule has worked out—four classes so that my soul can rest and fight for peace, four classes to give myself a break. But my heart feels weird, oddly heavy, because that’s exactly what I’m doing: fighting for peace, and needing a break.
Exodus: YHWH says, “I will fight for you, you need only be still.”
So now I’m in the bathtub and the anxiety has subsided, at least for a few hours. It’s left my body, but not my mind. I wish that I worried about my grades or finances or even my future. Unfortunately, grades have never really been a problem and by the grace of God, my dad’s work has been steady, and graduate school is providing the perfect opportunity to put off deciding on a career. No, no, my fight has taken a different form. I wish that I could say that the fight has just begun, but if I’m being honest with myself, this battle has been raging since…as far back as my memory allows.
And I wish that YHWH would take it all away. I wish that He would make everything new again.
Two theology classes are a relief—I can learn about the Character of YHWH, the Creativity of YHWH, the Love of YHWH, the Power of YHWH; I can learn about humans in relationship with Him and humans in relationship with humans as He so intended; I can study it and meditate on it and give it some sort of intellectual foundation in my mind for the times when my anxious heart can’t discern His voice, for the times when my heart wants to give up, to give in, to resign.
My homework for last week was to read Genesis. Creation. When YHWH intimately breathed His breathe into our nostrils and brought us into our humanity, into our need of Him, with an intimate kiss; when Creation spoke one giant “I love you;” when Creation was one magnificent display of Power and Glory and Goodness.
There is a life and breath that I was given, and for now, that life feels trapped, and my breathing feels short and shallow. The anxiety is there for a reason, so now I’m discovering why. I am traveling back in time, and digging to the root—investigating my childhood and my parents and relationships and experiences and, in the process, I’m unearthing layers upon layers of pain and frustration and confusion and irrational fear after irrational fear that seem to have followed me. I’m uncovering wounds for which healing was never sought and deep pits of insecurity in my heart for this reason and that reason. It makes me sad and angry and hopeful and tired.
I wonder if this is part of the fight; I wonder if YHWH wants me to know what He is taking away, though I hesitate to predict what He will do.
I’m not bright and shiny like I always hoped I would be. I don’t have a bright and shiny family or a bright and shiny history. But this life has made me real. This is real, and this is why I need Jesus. I’m irrational and insecure and scared and there doesn’t seem to be much room for YHWH inside of this tangled web, except that He made me and formed my very being and knows my heart and every anxious thought. And so there must be room. Above anything, there must be room for Him.
I don’t feel bright and shiny, but Jesus says that I am clean. So there is a spring of hope bubbling up inside me. I want to collect its waters in a jar and carry it around my neck. I want to sing and dance and twirl round and round in a dress that rises and falls with every spin.
I don’t always feel capable of love, or worthy of grace, or, you know, any of those other things that sometimes come up. With God, or with humans. But this is where I am right now, and YHWH promises His comfort and His presence, and so I know. I know that peace and redemption will flood my heart. I know that He has hold of me. He is my shepherd, and His rod and staff comfort me.
It’s slow, contrary to my racing heart; and He is hope in the midst of the darkness of the anxiety itself, even though, more often than not, I don’t feel it. I want the songs to be true. I want to overcome by the blood of the Lamb and the word of my testimony. I want to shout unto God with a voice of triumph and a voice of praise. I would like to enter the city of the Living God. I would like to join in the chorus of thousands upon thousands of angels singing Alleluia.
I would like to enter the courts of YHWH. I would like to stand, barefoot, as a child before Him and experience the Living God. Peace that grips me. Happy that has a hold on my heart. Humbled.
Monday, January 26, 2009
heaven breaks
It’s 8:30 p.m. and it is definitely a lazy Monday. It feels a bit like my day has consisted mostly of cuddling on the couch and eating cookies and frozen waffles—the best kind of day. I’ve been trying, and failing, to talk myself into doing my history reading; it’s all very interesting, but other things seem to be capturing my attention.
My apartment is perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. We have a whole shelf full of games, and wicker baskets and lots of colorful mugs and vases and pillows; there are little trinkets here and there, including mason jars and a cute little set of giraffes. I love giraffes. We have coffee table books and tea-a-plenty. It’s home. It’s home and I love it. My bedroom is even better, with my card collection pinned up and constantly inspiring me, and my do-it-yourself stained shelf with flowers, and all the other little things that make a room a home. By the end of the week, my roommate and I will have matching forts under our beds. We also both wore blue colored contacts and make weird sound effects, often. It’s going to be a good semester.
We’ve been back for only a few days now and have already shared so many laughs, played our newly invented card game and eaten lots and lots of food together. We have bedtime talk and it feels so good being back in the same city, the same school as some of the greatest people I know. I am so excited for what the next weeks and months hold. Classes and game nights and dinners and friends that are so much like family. It’s been so good for my soul.
And I need it to be good for my soul. I need it because making a new home, starting over, resettling and rebuilding, can be exhausting; change is not my strong suit. Change makes me anxious and nervous and weird. It’s these times of big change where God seems to do a ton of work, where He seems to bring up things that I had lodged in the deepest crevices of my heart. And I feel like I’m learning Him all over again and maybe even, in some ways, for the first time. Cool, but exhausting. The kind of exhausting that makes me want to cuddle up on the couch with hot chocolate and listen to “Needle and Thread” on repeat and watch the fan blades spin. In my cozy apartment. Just because I can.
It’s days like today, when I come home from class and wrap myself in a blanket and listen to the wind outside that I want to pick up the phone and call someone. To tell him to come over and watch the fan blades spin with me; to sip hot chocolate and enjoy the cozy ambiance; to sit in silence and just listen to Sleeping at Last bring that song directly to my soul; I want to invite him to hear about my crazy heart that beats four times as fast as it should and makes me feel like a phony human being, instead of the real me, made of flesh and blood. I want him to just listen, or pretend to listen, to my word vomit, and somehow, be the kind of contagious calm that I need. And then I wouldn’t need to say another word. Maybe we could play team solitaire or war or Scrabble. It’s days like today when I wish I could just call and invite him over for dinner. I could make spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread, or Mac 'n Cheese with hot dogs, or maybe I could try my grandma’s pancakes with chocolate milk or orange juice. It’s a breakfast for dinner kind of night. We could sit on the couch and tell stories and talk about history and politics, or not, because I hate politics, or we could talk about our favorite spots in the whole wide world. We could make plans. We could share life together as our lives weave around each other. Life is always better when it's shared.
It’s days like today, when I make myself comfortable on this couch and leave the phone in the other room; days like today make me thankful for my new home. It’s days like today where I watch the fan blades spin and dream about this guy who will sit with me and hold my hand on days where I just need to watch the fan blades spin. It’s days like today when I find myself wandering the campus, ending up in the breathtaking chapel, on my knees, praying for Heaven to break. And even if today was a “watch the fan blades spin” kind of day, I’m eternally grateful that my fan is in this room, at this school, with these people, and that God speaks while the fan spins.
My apartment is perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. We have a whole shelf full of games, and wicker baskets and lots of colorful mugs and vases and pillows; there are little trinkets here and there, including mason jars and a cute little set of giraffes. I love giraffes. We have coffee table books and tea-a-plenty. It’s home. It’s home and I love it. My bedroom is even better, with my card collection pinned up and constantly inspiring me, and my do-it-yourself stained shelf with flowers, and all the other little things that make a room a home. By the end of the week, my roommate and I will have matching forts under our beds. We also both wore blue colored contacts and make weird sound effects, often. It’s going to be a good semester.
We’ve been back for only a few days now and have already shared so many laughs, played our newly invented card game and eaten lots and lots of food together. We have bedtime talk and it feels so good being back in the same city, the same school as some of the greatest people I know. I am so excited for what the next weeks and months hold. Classes and game nights and dinners and friends that are so much like family. It’s been so good for my soul.
And I need it to be good for my soul. I need it because making a new home, starting over, resettling and rebuilding, can be exhausting; change is not my strong suit. Change makes me anxious and nervous and weird. It’s these times of big change where God seems to do a ton of work, where He seems to bring up things that I had lodged in the deepest crevices of my heart. And I feel like I’m learning Him all over again and maybe even, in some ways, for the first time. Cool, but exhausting. The kind of exhausting that makes me want to cuddle up on the couch with hot chocolate and listen to “Needle and Thread” on repeat and watch the fan blades spin. In my cozy apartment. Just because I can.
It’s days like today, when I come home from class and wrap myself in a blanket and listen to the wind outside that I want to pick up the phone and call someone. To tell him to come over and watch the fan blades spin with me; to sip hot chocolate and enjoy the cozy ambiance; to sit in silence and just listen to Sleeping at Last bring that song directly to my soul; I want to invite him to hear about my crazy heart that beats four times as fast as it should and makes me feel like a phony human being, instead of the real me, made of flesh and blood. I want him to just listen, or pretend to listen, to my word vomit, and somehow, be the kind of contagious calm that I need. And then I wouldn’t need to say another word. Maybe we could play team solitaire or war or Scrabble. It’s days like today when I wish I could just call and invite him over for dinner. I could make spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread, or Mac 'n Cheese with hot dogs, or maybe I could try my grandma’s pancakes with chocolate milk or orange juice. It’s a breakfast for dinner kind of night. We could sit on the couch and tell stories and talk about history and politics, or not, because I hate politics, or we could talk about our favorite spots in the whole wide world. We could make plans. We could share life together as our lives weave around each other. Life is always better when it's shared.
It’s days like today, when I make myself comfortable on this couch and leave the phone in the other room; days like today make me thankful for my new home. It’s days like today where I watch the fan blades spin and dream about this guy who will sit with me and hold my hand on days where I just need to watch the fan blades spin. It’s days like today when I find myself wandering the campus, ending up in the breathtaking chapel, on my knees, praying for Heaven to break. And even if today was a “watch the fan blades spin” kind of day, I’m eternally grateful that my fan is in this room, at this school, with these people, and that God speaks while the fan spins.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
ooh, when the sun comes up
I’ve become an old woman. You know, one of those old women who take time to reflect on the old year before the new one begins--the comings and goings, the things that God taught me, and hesitantly project my wishes and dreams for next year; one of those old women who wants to go around the table and talk about the same things with the people I love. In my heart it feels as if, when the ball drops tonight, 2008 will in so many ways, come to a close. The confetti will fall and we will welcome 2009 joyfully. I’m ready for 2009. I’m excited for it, I’m anxiously awaiting midnight, when we’ll bang pots and pans and dance around in our party hats, celebrating the new year and all of the potential that it holds.
At this exact moment, one year ago, I was cleaning up somebody else’s vomit, and was in the midst of the very worst, the darkest, period of my struggle with anxiety. 2008 began with fear and insecurity, not just in myself, but in relationships and circumstances and life. It feels so good to know that, one year and a long journey later, I will be celebrating with my very best friends, eating Chili dogs, and that, throughout the course of the year, things have changed so dramatically that I sometimes can’t even believe it.
I learned a lot this year. I had to. I learned a lot about myself and about God and about relationships; I learned a lot about prayer and about grace; I faltered and fell many, many times, and, this year, I was reminded time and time again of my humanity, of my imperfections. I made plans, only to have them radically altered or fall apart completely; I made some great decisions, and I made some weird ones; I had things figured out, and then, it became so clear that I didn’t. I learned my strengths and I really learned my weaknesses. People came in and out of my life, like a rotating door. The people in my life twelve, nine, six, even three months ago, have come and gone, some leaving deep ruts in my heart and imprints on my life, some gone without a trace. This year was a rollercoaster, a toss-up. It feels a bit like 2008 was a year of constant change, in the strangest ways. Physical location changed multiple times, people changed, relationships changed, I changed. To be completely honest, it was an exhausting year, with very little time for rest. It was a year filled with beautiful struggle, with anxiety and heartbreak and fear that led me straight into the heart of God. And it altered my heart along the way. I wouldn’t change it one bit. I am left at the end of 2008 with the feeling that tomorrow, I am starting fresh.
I know that when I wake up tomorrow morning, things will be the same. I’ll still wake up at 11:00 and go downstairs for my usual bowl of Fruit Loops. I don’t concern myself with silly New Year’s Resolutions like “eat healthy” or “exercise more,” which I am sure to break. But I do have hope for the new things, the fun things, the wonderful things that are on the horizon. I can peer a ways into the future and tell you that 2009 absolutely, without a doubt, holds the wedding of my best friend, holds applications for graduate school, and holds an old school that feels new. Our family will have a series of very significant birthday parties, and I will have some sort of a summer adventure. Those things are marked in the calendar. But what excites me more than solidified dates are the little things, peppered here and there, that make my life, and my year truly exciting, truly blessed.
I constantly wonder what 2009 will hold. I wonder, and hold out hope for the people I will meet and the things I will do, the places I will go and the adventures that await me. I wonder if 2009 will be the year that I finally decide my major, of if it will be the year that I meet my husband (and then throw up because this is simultaneously the most exciting and scariest thing imaginable), or if this will be the year that I fall crazily in love, and I wonder how God will surprise me with Himself next year. I already feel the excitement bubbling up inside me.
If I could, I would predict a year of community and growth and laughter and wonder. I predict a year filled with wide-eyed wonder at the goodness of Jesus, and an even bigger movement for social justice. I predict a year filled with dinner parties turned into worship nights and a year filled with provision and restoration and intimacy with Jesus. I predict rest and an ever-growing sense of family and security. I predict a year where I wear my “special occasion” perfume for more than special occasions. I predict a year filled with creativity and energy, beauty and inspiration. I predict experiences and circumstances that push us further and further into God Himself, in the best way. I predict joy and praise and love. I predict that this year, God will become our reality, and that we will accept nothing less.
I predict these hopes and dreams for my life, my family, my community, my world.
Maybe this will be the year that we come awake.
At this exact moment, one year ago, I was cleaning up somebody else’s vomit, and was in the midst of the very worst, the darkest, period of my struggle with anxiety. 2008 began with fear and insecurity, not just in myself, but in relationships and circumstances and life. It feels so good to know that, one year and a long journey later, I will be celebrating with my very best friends, eating Chili dogs, and that, throughout the course of the year, things have changed so dramatically that I sometimes can’t even believe it.
I learned a lot this year. I had to. I learned a lot about myself and about God and about relationships; I learned a lot about prayer and about grace; I faltered and fell many, many times, and, this year, I was reminded time and time again of my humanity, of my imperfections. I made plans, only to have them radically altered or fall apart completely; I made some great decisions, and I made some weird ones; I had things figured out, and then, it became so clear that I didn’t. I learned my strengths and I really learned my weaknesses. People came in and out of my life, like a rotating door. The people in my life twelve, nine, six, even three months ago, have come and gone, some leaving deep ruts in my heart and imprints on my life, some gone without a trace. This year was a rollercoaster, a toss-up. It feels a bit like 2008 was a year of constant change, in the strangest ways. Physical location changed multiple times, people changed, relationships changed, I changed. To be completely honest, it was an exhausting year, with very little time for rest. It was a year filled with beautiful struggle, with anxiety and heartbreak and fear that led me straight into the heart of God. And it altered my heart along the way. I wouldn’t change it one bit. I am left at the end of 2008 with the feeling that tomorrow, I am starting fresh.
I know that when I wake up tomorrow morning, things will be the same. I’ll still wake up at 11:00 and go downstairs for my usual bowl of Fruit Loops. I don’t concern myself with silly New Year’s Resolutions like “eat healthy” or “exercise more,” which I am sure to break. But I do have hope for the new things, the fun things, the wonderful things that are on the horizon. I can peer a ways into the future and tell you that 2009 absolutely, without a doubt, holds the wedding of my best friend, holds applications for graduate school, and holds an old school that feels new. Our family will have a series of very significant birthday parties, and I will have some sort of a summer adventure. Those things are marked in the calendar. But what excites me more than solidified dates are the little things, peppered here and there, that make my life, and my year truly exciting, truly blessed.
I constantly wonder what 2009 will hold. I wonder, and hold out hope for the people I will meet and the things I will do, the places I will go and the adventures that await me. I wonder if 2009 will be the year that I finally decide my major, of if it will be the year that I meet my husband (and then throw up because this is simultaneously the most exciting and scariest thing imaginable), or if this will be the year that I fall crazily in love, and I wonder how God will surprise me with Himself next year. I already feel the excitement bubbling up inside me.
If I could, I would predict a year of community and growth and laughter and wonder. I predict a year filled with wide-eyed wonder at the goodness of Jesus, and an even bigger movement for social justice. I predict a year filled with dinner parties turned into worship nights and a year filled with provision and restoration and intimacy with Jesus. I predict rest and an ever-growing sense of family and security. I predict a year where I wear my “special occasion” perfume for more than special occasions. I predict a year filled with creativity and energy, beauty and inspiration. I predict experiences and circumstances that push us further and further into God Himself, in the best way. I predict joy and praise and love. I predict that this year, God will become our reality, and that we will accept nothing less.
I predict these hopes and dreams for my life, my family, my community, my world.
Maybe this will be the year that we come awake.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
on Christmas and a home that has come to life
There is something wonderful about family. There is something wonderful about the people that you share blood, experience, genes, home videos, and all that other stuff with. I’m sitting next to Gram on the couch. She’s resting, and I’m using every opportunity to cuddle. The room is being quietly lit with the bursts of color on the tree, Christmas music is playing lightly in the background, and the house is full of life, it seems for the first time. The smell of sugar cookies is lingering and I get up for “just one more cookie” a few times an hour, while my mom and grandpa laugh and work on Christmas dinner together. My brother lit a huge fire in the fireplace, while I set the dinner table—our respective “pride and joys.” Christmas.
Christmas is different this year. I keep stealing glances at the tree, standing tall, and beautifully decorated with decades worth of ornaments, poinsettia leaves and pine cones tucked inside as well. It’s just pretty. There are eight people, and lots of love, in the house today, double what I’m used to. Stories are being told, and mostly, there is laughter and ease. We’re taking pictures just to make sure that this isn’t a dream. It is a dream.
Christmas is different this year. Family is different this year. I sat in church today, the Christmas Eve Candlelight Service, and stifled my teary eyes as I sat, mom on my right and dad on my left, singing “Oh, Come Let Us Adore Him.” Yes, let’s. I’m twenty years old, and this is the first time in my life that I sat next to my mom and my dad during a church service, and it feels doubly appropriate that this message happened to be about Jesus bringing light into the darkest areas. So yes, let us adore him.
I love my family, and I love the holidays, but to put the two together has never been easy. Or, I guess, it has never been “whole.” Family holidays, to me, has always meant halves, or portions, split time, awkward negotiations, tension. Divorce tends to do that. They laughed when I talked of spending holidays together. It’s crazy, Kara—I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to accept it. We all love you, but there is too much history, too many complications. No doubt, there is history and complications and it’s messy. But for seventeen years, I have longed for togetherness and I truly truly believed in the very deepest part of me that it was not only possible, but that maybe, just maybe, God wanted to do a miracle.
Today, I was sandwiched between two people who, for years, have spoken to each other only out of necessity, about alimony and child support and health insurance for the kids, two people between whom there was so much hurt and unforgiveness that really, reconciliation seemed, understandably so, impossible. So when the worship team sang “Oh, Come Let Us Adore Him” this afternoon, I acknowledged that the God to whom I sing is capable of the impossible. Let me tell you about reconciliation, let me tell you about redemption.
Tonight, eight of us will sit around the table and pray over the meal, thanking God for His gift of Jesus, thanking God that we can all be together. I will try to hold back tears so as not to make anybody, mostly my brother, uncomfortable. They won’t see it, but in my heart, I will be singing to my Jesus because this holiday season, He has given me the one lasting desire of my heart. Christmas is about giving Him praise, and worshiping my Savior who came as a baby, and even still, His grace is astounding. We’ll squeeze onto two couches and open gifts, fewer than last year because we’ve certainly all learned a bit about money, and a bit about Christmas. We’ll all be proud of the dinner that grandpa made, and the crafty gifts that my brother welded for each person; Mom and Gram will whisper “grown up woman” things back and forth to each other, mom and dad will joke about Christmases long since forgotten, things that happened prior to my memory; grandpa will take pictures, and Tyler will sit with his wonderful girlfriend, whom he really adores. Gerald will fall asleep half way through, and hopefully dad will like his remote control airplane. Even if he doesn’t, Tyler and I will be acting like four year olds, giddily shaking boxes and ripping off wrapping paper as if the very meaning of life (or something...) is inside. Tonight, eight lives that were once separated by bitterness and fear and all things dark will weave together and bring restoration and love and peace and joy. Talk about Christmas.
All season long, we talk and talk and talk about how Jesus is the light of the world, lighting up the darkest areas, bringing light into our desperate and dampened lives. My family has become His playground. Today, I celebrate Jesus in a way that I have never celebrated. Today, I celebrate my God who conquers the impossible and explodes my family into life, together.
Christmas is different this year. I keep stealing glances at the tree, standing tall, and beautifully decorated with decades worth of ornaments, poinsettia leaves and pine cones tucked inside as well. It’s just pretty. There are eight people, and lots of love, in the house today, double what I’m used to. Stories are being told, and mostly, there is laughter and ease. We’re taking pictures just to make sure that this isn’t a dream. It is a dream.
Christmas is different this year. Family is different this year. I sat in church today, the Christmas Eve Candlelight Service, and stifled my teary eyes as I sat, mom on my right and dad on my left, singing “Oh, Come Let Us Adore Him.” Yes, let’s. I’m twenty years old, and this is the first time in my life that I sat next to my mom and my dad during a church service, and it feels doubly appropriate that this message happened to be about Jesus bringing light into the darkest areas. So yes, let us adore him.
I love my family, and I love the holidays, but to put the two together has never been easy. Or, I guess, it has never been “whole.” Family holidays, to me, has always meant halves, or portions, split time, awkward negotiations, tension. Divorce tends to do that. They laughed when I talked of spending holidays together. It’s crazy, Kara—I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to accept it. We all love you, but there is too much history, too many complications. No doubt, there is history and complications and it’s messy. But for seventeen years, I have longed for togetherness and I truly truly believed in the very deepest part of me that it was not only possible, but that maybe, just maybe, God wanted to do a miracle.
Today, I was sandwiched between two people who, for years, have spoken to each other only out of necessity, about alimony and child support and health insurance for the kids, two people between whom there was so much hurt and unforgiveness that really, reconciliation seemed, understandably so, impossible. So when the worship team sang “Oh, Come Let Us Adore Him” this afternoon, I acknowledged that the God to whom I sing is capable of the impossible. Let me tell you about reconciliation, let me tell you about redemption.
Tonight, eight of us will sit around the table and pray over the meal, thanking God for His gift of Jesus, thanking God that we can all be together. I will try to hold back tears so as not to make anybody, mostly my brother, uncomfortable. They won’t see it, but in my heart, I will be singing to my Jesus because this holiday season, He has given me the one lasting desire of my heart. Christmas is about giving Him praise, and worshiping my Savior who came as a baby, and even still, His grace is astounding. We’ll squeeze onto two couches and open gifts, fewer than last year because we’ve certainly all learned a bit about money, and a bit about Christmas. We’ll all be proud of the dinner that grandpa made, and the crafty gifts that my brother welded for each person; Mom and Gram will whisper “grown up woman” things back and forth to each other, mom and dad will joke about Christmases long since forgotten, things that happened prior to my memory; grandpa will take pictures, and Tyler will sit with his wonderful girlfriend, whom he really adores. Gerald will fall asleep half way through, and hopefully dad will like his remote control airplane. Even if he doesn’t, Tyler and I will be acting like four year olds, giddily shaking boxes and ripping off wrapping paper as if the very meaning of life (or something...) is inside. Tonight, eight lives that were once separated by bitterness and fear and all things dark will weave together and bring restoration and love and peace and joy. Talk about Christmas.
All season long, we talk and talk and talk about how Jesus is the light of the world, lighting up the darkest areas, bringing light into our desperate and dampened lives. My family has become His playground. Today, I celebrate Jesus in a way that I have never celebrated. Today, I celebrate my God who conquers the impossible and explodes my family into life, together.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
plenty of paper
I turned twenty this year. Twenty, I’ve decided, is an awkward birthday year--not a teenager but not quite twenty-one—and it is kind of weird to figure out how to celebrate, besides for eating inappropriate amounts of chocolate cake, which is always mandatory. Apart from turning twenty, this birthday was different than any other birthday that I’ve ever had for a whole bunch of reasons, mostly that I feel older, and I feel like I've grown. And how much I’ve grown is marked, in my life at least, by birthdays and journals.
A lot happens in twenty years. That’s two hundred and forty months. Seven thousand three hundred days. That’s enough time to make some serious headway on laugh lines and worry wrinkles, and I’m sure I’ve got both. Twenty years is a long time. And my twenty-three journals can tell you, in detail, what I was feeling and when, how it’s affected me, and how much has changed in my soul. My twenty-three journals over the past seven years are a testament that twenty years of life has been wonderful and hectic and fun and spontaneous and anxious and sad and happy and awkward and uncomfortable and challenging and exciting and all of the above, times fifty.
Some journals are more special than others. One begins in a particularly hard time and documents, over the course of seven months, a journey from paralyzing anxiety and self-doubt to noticeable joy and confidence. I love that journal. That journal has within its pages the excitement of a new relationship and my constant freak outs that accompanied it, some of my biggest fears coming to the very forefront of my mind, impossible to ignore; that journal traveled the world with me, and documents every eye-opening experience, every intimate moment spent with Jesus, every creative burst of energy. It’s amazing to look back and remember, and to look forward with hope, knowing that if that was possible, then really, anything is.
Some, many, were gifts, and anybody who has given me a journal has done me a great service, more so than I even understood when I began writing in them. Writing in journals used to just be a way to write my history as it was happening, a cool gift that I could give my children in the future, and a way to look back on how I’ve grown and transformed, and I really have. These journals, though, have become so much more because as I’ve grown up, I’ve discovered a love, a passion, for writing, with journals being my outlet, my blank canvas.
I turned twenty this year. The fourth of August. For my birthday, I was given what was, at the time, the most beautiful and thoughtful gift I’d ever been given. A journal that was so much more than a journal. A hand-made, hand-painted, hand-sewn journal with a hand-written note; truly, it was an incredible gift, and I felt that this gift meant that I, with my passions and my quirks and my daily routines, was truly known. I was nervous to write in it, hesitant that my words would destroy it. It was so special, I thought that it should be saved for something equally as beautiful, equally as inspiring. I wanted to fill its pages with the best I had to offer, just like I wanted to give the gift-giver the very best of me, too. I just wanted to read and reread that letter, over and over again, letting its words sink into my heart. I never did and never will write in that journal, regardless of the empty pages that I see staring back at me. In the short period of time where writing in this journal was acceptable, no inspiration came. And I had angst over what to do with it once that window of time closed—I couldn’t throw it away and waste the creativity and affection that went into making it, just for me. I couldn’t write in it, and I certainly couldn’t leave it on my nightstand, waiting in vain to be filled with inspiration. My hopeful and scrambled thoughts would need to find their home elsewhere. I packed it away at the bottom of my hope chest, and moved onto the next journal.
It was just a journal. I guess.
I’ve written in three since then, which, given the four short months since August, makes me wonder what else I did with my time. The answer: a lot. These months have been the most wonderful months, filled to the brim with people, laughter and spontaneity, sleepless nights and life. I wrote about it all. I especially wrote about the big changes on the horizon, where I see my life headed and what is next, constantly peering into the past, trying to learn from mistakes, gathering as much insight from my experiences as was humanly possible.
At the semester's end, when my two best friends at school drove me to the airport to say goodbye, not just for break, but in a way, for good (we’ll never cuddle in my bed until four in the morning and tell stories and take pictures on Photobooth, and we’ll never yell for each other from the room next door, and things are certainly about to change), they pulled out a journal. It wasn’t hand-made, or hand-painted, or hand-sewn. It was mass-produced and I could find hundreds, if not thousands, of people with an identical journal. The handwriting was barely legible, but when I read the words, and felt the thought behind them, I discovered that though they had hardly known me for three months, they knew me. The thoughtfulness of this gift proved it. No person, they said, should have a monopoly on giving journals with nice letters in them, regardless of who that person was. They knew how much I loved that journal, and how hard it was to put it away for good. They knew about my passions and my flaws, they saw it all--they saw me when smiles and laughter were bubbling out of me and they saw me when I couldn’t stop the tears; they saw me when I was too nervous to say how I felt, and they saw me when I spoke with boldness; they saw me at 3 in the morning, after the delirium had set in and they saw me, cranky and edgy and stressed, after writing three papers. They knew the real me. Crazy study habits, ridiculous bursts of energy, awkward interactions, talkative, quiet, and everything in between. With such knowledge of me, they gave me this journal, with two of the most beautiful letters, the most heartfelt and thoughtful things that anybody could ever say to me. I sat in the airport and cried, looking like the biggest weirdo in the Southwest Airlines waiting area, reading what they wrote me, acknowledging that this gift, this journal, was by far the best gift I’d ever been given.
I wasn’t filled with hesitation about filling its pages with my life, as messy and complicated as it sometimes is, or as hopeful and passionate as it can be, too. In fact, knowing the people who gave it to me, the only way to even do this gift justice was to fill it up with the most honest expressions of my heart, with every frustration and every passionate whim, every logistically planned out detail, every fear, every revelation about the greatness of God, every single dream about where my life is going.
When I got home, I pulled that other journal out of my trunk, and I opened it. I remembered how I felt when I looked at it for the first time, when I read the letter and hugged the gift-giver, feeling so special that this journal was for me and was created with me in mind; I remembered the value that I had once placed on this book and the words inside. I traced the cover with my finger, traced the picture that had been delicately painted on, traced the used binding, traced the words, reflecting on the creativity and, I daresay, love that went into making it. I reread the letter, wondering what kind of feelings it would evoke, because that letter once made me feel like the most beautiful, special girl in the entire world.
It paled in comparison. Because with time, I’ve changed. Things have changed. The girl who got that journal so many months ago is hardly around anymore. I’m the same, and yet, I’m incredibly different. I’m part old but mostly new. This new journal marked a new moment in my life. I didn’t celebrate it with balloons or a fancy dinner or cake, but, in my heart, and in journal world, I celebrated just how far I’ve come, and I celebrated the people and the deep love that I do have in my life, as unexpected as it was.
I’ll still keep that old journal, and remember affectionately what it used to mean to me, with no hard feelings. I’ll look at it and remember how perfect it was way back then. And when I write in my new journal, I’ll remember who I am now, a new creation, a better, more creative, inspired, laughy, joyful, passionate, confident, still anxious, still awkward, still indecisive, version of myself.
A lot happens in twenty years. That’s two hundred and forty months. Seven thousand three hundred days. That’s enough time to make some serious headway on laugh lines and worry wrinkles, and I’m sure I’ve got both. Twenty years is a long time. And my twenty-three journals can tell you, in detail, what I was feeling and when, how it’s affected me, and how much has changed in my soul. My twenty-three journals over the past seven years are a testament that twenty years of life has been wonderful and hectic and fun and spontaneous and anxious and sad and happy and awkward and uncomfortable and challenging and exciting and all of the above, times fifty.
Some journals are more special than others. One begins in a particularly hard time and documents, over the course of seven months, a journey from paralyzing anxiety and self-doubt to noticeable joy and confidence. I love that journal. That journal has within its pages the excitement of a new relationship and my constant freak outs that accompanied it, some of my biggest fears coming to the very forefront of my mind, impossible to ignore; that journal traveled the world with me, and documents every eye-opening experience, every intimate moment spent with Jesus, every creative burst of energy. It’s amazing to look back and remember, and to look forward with hope, knowing that if that was possible, then really, anything is.
Some, many, were gifts, and anybody who has given me a journal has done me a great service, more so than I even understood when I began writing in them. Writing in journals used to just be a way to write my history as it was happening, a cool gift that I could give my children in the future, and a way to look back on how I’ve grown and transformed, and I really have. These journals, though, have become so much more because as I’ve grown up, I’ve discovered a love, a passion, for writing, with journals being my outlet, my blank canvas.
I turned twenty this year. The fourth of August. For my birthday, I was given what was, at the time, the most beautiful and thoughtful gift I’d ever been given. A journal that was so much more than a journal. A hand-made, hand-painted, hand-sewn journal with a hand-written note; truly, it was an incredible gift, and I felt that this gift meant that I, with my passions and my quirks and my daily routines, was truly known. I was nervous to write in it, hesitant that my words would destroy it. It was so special, I thought that it should be saved for something equally as beautiful, equally as inspiring. I wanted to fill its pages with the best I had to offer, just like I wanted to give the gift-giver the very best of me, too. I just wanted to read and reread that letter, over and over again, letting its words sink into my heart. I never did and never will write in that journal, regardless of the empty pages that I see staring back at me. In the short period of time where writing in this journal was acceptable, no inspiration came. And I had angst over what to do with it once that window of time closed—I couldn’t throw it away and waste the creativity and affection that went into making it, just for me. I couldn’t write in it, and I certainly couldn’t leave it on my nightstand, waiting in vain to be filled with inspiration. My hopeful and scrambled thoughts would need to find their home elsewhere. I packed it away at the bottom of my hope chest, and moved onto the next journal.
It was just a journal. I guess.
I’ve written in three since then, which, given the four short months since August, makes me wonder what else I did with my time. The answer: a lot. These months have been the most wonderful months, filled to the brim with people, laughter and spontaneity, sleepless nights and life. I wrote about it all. I especially wrote about the big changes on the horizon, where I see my life headed and what is next, constantly peering into the past, trying to learn from mistakes, gathering as much insight from my experiences as was humanly possible.
At the semester's end, when my two best friends at school drove me to the airport to say goodbye, not just for break, but in a way, for good (we’ll never cuddle in my bed until four in the morning and tell stories and take pictures on Photobooth, and we’ll never yell for each other from the room next door, and things are certainly about to change), they pulled out a journal. It wasn’t hand-made, or hand-painted, or hand-sewn. It was mass-produced and I could find hundreds, if not thousands, of people with an identical journal. The handwriting was barely legible, but when I read the words, and felt the thought behind them, I discovered that though they had hardly known me for three months, they knew me. The thoughtfulness of this gift proved it. No person, they said, should have a monopoly on giving journals with nice letters in them, regardless of who that person was. They knew how much I loved that journal, and how hard it was to put it away for good. They knew about my passions and my flaws, they saw it all--they saw me when smiles and laughter were bubbling out of me and they saw me when I couldn’t stop the tears; they saw me when I was too nervous to say how I felt, and they saw me when I spoke with boldness; they saw me at 3 in the morning, after the delirium had set in and they saw me, cranky and edgy and stressed, after writing three papers. They knew the real me. Crazy study habits, ridiculous bursts of energy, awkward interactions, talkative, quiet, and everything in between. With such knowledge of me, they gave me this journal, with two of the most beautiful letters, the most heartfelt and thoughtful things that anybody could ever say to me. I sat in the airport and cried, looking like the biggest weirdo in the Southwest Airlines waiting area, reading what they wrote me, acknowledging that this gift, this journal, was by far the best gift I’d ever been given.
I wasn’t filled with hesitation about filling its pages with my life, as messy and complicated as it sometimes is, or as hopeful and passionate as it can be, too. In fact, knowing the people who gave it to me, the only way to even do this gift justice was to fill it up with the most honest expressions of my heart, with every frustration and every passionate whim, every logistically planned out detail, every fear, every revelation about the greatness of God, every single dream about where my life is going.
When I got home, I pulled that other journal out of my trunk, and I opened it. I remembered how I felt when I looked at it for the first time, when I read the letter and hugged the gift-giver, feeling so special that this journal was for me and was created with me in mind; I remembered the value that I had once placed on this book and the words inside. I traced the cover with my finger, traced the picture that had been delicately painted on, traced the used binding, traced the words, reflecting on the creativity and, I daresay, love that went into making it. I reread the letter, wondering what kind of feelings it would evoke, because that letter once made me feel like the most beautiful, special girl in the entire world.
It paled in comparison. Because with time, I’ve changed. Things have changed. The girl who got that journal so many months ago is hardly around anymore. I’m the same, and yet, I’m incredibly different. I’m part old but mostly new. This new journal marked a new moment in my life. I didn’t celebrate it with balloons or a fancy dinner or cake, but, in my heart, and in journal world, I celebrated just how far I’ve come, and I celebrated the people and the deep love that I do have in my life, as unexpected as it was.
I’ll still keep that old journal, and remember affectionately what it used to mean to me, with no hard feelings. I’ll look at it and remember how perfect it was way back then. And when I write in my new journal, I’ll remember who I am now, a new creation, a better, more creative, inspired, laughy, joyful, passionate, confident, still anxious, still awkward, still indecisive, version of myself.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
a beautiful mess
I'm supposed to be writing a paper for my Jesus class about Jairus' daughter and the hemorrhaging woman. It's my favorite story in the Bible...maybe of all time...and the fact that I get to write about it makes it so clear that I absolutely chose the best major. But I can't get past even just reading the story without weeping.
My backpack-messenger bag-purse thing is exploding with books about miracles and healing...a research paper...I don't know how I'm going to write a historical paper about an event that, 2,000 years later, changed my life....I don't know how I'm going to write it without it being infused with words that make it so clear that this story has reached into the deepest parts of my soul...that Jesus has reached into the deepest parts of my soul.
I love this story. To me, this story is Jesus. Throw away the rest of the Gospels, the letters of the epistles, get rid of Acts and Revelation...get rid of it all (though I never would...), this story is enough to show me who Jesus is. This story alone forced me into a love that I can't explain or escape. Intimacy, inclusion, grace, power, understanding, compassion. And I've been soul searching...going deeper than I ever have before, being met by a God of grace, by a great Love that leaves me restored, that leaves me in awe.
There are no words to describe it. He thought of everything. Everything. And I can't think of anything, certainly not enough to describe this...but it puts me in a state of awe, of wonder, enough to forget my beating heart and my racing thoughts and remember that God is God. And I am...not. Less than God, greater than a sparrow. His eyes are above me, surrounding me, holding my gaze; my breathing slows, and the pounding stops, and He is God.
It's a love that has been present since time itself, that wove me together with needle and thread...this love created me with all of my quirks and idiosyncrasies; it's a love that can't be ignored, that He forces me to see, that wakes me up in the morning and lulls me to sleep at night; it's a love that requires more of me than I ever thought I could give, that is not satisfied with my comfort, that expects more of me, and, in turn, leaves me craving more more more. It's a love that I don't deserve. That is the beauty of it.
And I don't always know how to let Him love me; to receive it into my soul sometimes requires vulnerability that I don't always feel comfortable with...to let down my guard and give into His heart. To love Him back sometimes feels like a journey that will never be complete. To love Him, sometimes, happens with ease; other times, He digs it out of me. To love Him sometimes means that He takes a metaphorical jackhammer to my heart and breaks through walls of distrust, walls of fear, walls built in response to humans and heartbreak. And after rereading what I just wrote, I'm not sure if I'm talking about God or about a human.
The walls do come down though. I sing and shout and praise, and they come down. Like in Jericho, they crumble. And my heart lays, tenderly beating, in His hands, my pulse getting stronger and stronger, empowered by the transfusion of Love that is constantly occurring.
And now, I'm feeling antsy. I know who I am, and I know what I want, and I'm waiting, waiting, waiting, for what feels like forever. It's taken a year to get me to this place, and I'm arriving, albeit not always gracefully. Old things are reaching their conclusion, and new things are beginning, and I'm anxiously awaiting my next adventure. I want to shout it out and tell everybody about my big plans, the dreams that keep me awake at night, hoping and praying, but, maybe by the grace of God, I hesitate. I'm afraid He'll change my mind and, once again, redirect my course, and I don't want to explain that to the masses.
And it's been quite a year. It's been a year that, had you shown it to me in advance, I would've laughed. Looking back back back, there are things that I never thought I would survive...and there are joys that I never thought I would experience. It's been transformational and difficult and fun and wonderful and, in a word, beautiful. Beautiful in its twists and turns, and in its ability to keep me guessing, keep me seeking, keep me in a state of perpetual wonder. Even now, beautiful. Always, beautiful.
My backpack-messenger bag-purse thing is exploding with books about miracles and healing...a research paper...I don't know how I'm going to write a historical paper about an event that, 2,000 years later, changed my life....I don't know how I'm going to write it without it being infused with words that make it so clear that this story has reached into the deepest parts of my soul...that Jesus has reached into the deepest parts of my soul.
I love this story. To me, this story is Jesus. Throw away the rest of the Gospels, the letters of the epistles, get rid of Acts and Revelation...get rid of it all (though I never would...), this story is enough to show me who Jesus is. This story alone forced me into a love that I can't explain or escape. Intimacy, inclusion, grace, power, understanding, compassion. And I've been soul searching...going deeper than I ever have before, being met by a God of grace, by a great Love that leaves me restored, that leaves me in awe.
There are no words to describe it. He thought of everything. Everything. And I can't think of anything, certainly not enough to describe this...but it puts me in a state of awe, of wonder, enough to forget my beating heart and my racing thoughts and remember that God is God. And I am...not. Less than God, greater than a sparrow. His eyes are above me, surrounding me, holding my gaze; my breathing slows, and the pounding stops, and He is God.
It's a love that has been present since time itself, that wove me together with needle and thread...this love created me with all of my quirks and idiosyncrasies; it's a love that can't be ignored, that He forces me to see, that wakes me up in the morning and lulls me to sleep at night; it's a love that requires more of me than I ever thought I could give, that is not satisfied with my comfort, that expects more of me, and, in turn, leaves me craving more more more. It's a love that I don't deserve. That is the beauty of it.
And I don't always know how to let Him love me; to receive it into my soul sometimes requires vulnerability that I don't always feel comfortable with...to let down my guard and give into His heart. To love Him back sometimes feels like a journey that will never be complete. To love Him, sometimes, happens with ease; other times, He digs it out of me. To love Him sometimes means that He takes a metaphorical jackhammer to my heart and breaks through walls of distrust, walls of fear, walls built in response to humans and heartbreak. And after rereading what I just wrote, I'm not sure if I'm talking about God or about a human.
The walls do come down though. I sing and shout and praise, and they come down. Like in Jericho, they crumble. And my heart lays, tenderly beating, in His hands, my pulse getting stronger and stronger, empowered by the transfusion of Love that is constantly occurring.
And now, I'm feeling antsy. I know who I am, and I know what I want, and I'm waiting, waiting, waiting, for what feels like forever. It's taken a year to get me to this place, and I'm arriving, albeit not always gracefully. Old things are reaching their conclusion, and new things are beginning, and I'm anxiously awaiting my next adventure. I want to shout it out and tell everybody about my big plans, the dreams that keep me awake at night, hoping and praying, but, maybe by the grace of God, I hesitate. I'm afraid He'll change my mind and, once again, redirect my course, and I don't want to explain that to the masses.
And it's been quite a year. It's been a year that, had you shown it to me in advance, I would've laughed. Looking back back back, there are things that I never thought I would survive...and there are joys that I never thought I would experience. It's been transformational and difficult and fun and wonderful and, in a word, beautiful. Beautiful in its twists and turns, and in its ability to keep me guessing, keep me seeking, keep me in a state of perpetual wonder. Even now, beautiful. Always, beautiful.
Monday, October 13, 2008
grammar
if only there were a way to write that didn’t feel so insanely vulnerable
like the naked dream on replay
which i’ve never had
but i feel like it would feel somewhat like writing
like bearing your soul for the world to read and stand all over
with their response hidden from my eyes
i know that i don’t have to write
but sometimes it feels like words are all that I have to offer
and i’m not using punctuation because i don’t like the finality of periods
commas are okay
because there is still more to come
i’m not good at talking unless i really know what to say
or have it planned out
i stumble over my words and get too excited
i’m awkward and unprepared
sometimes for important conversations, i write it out first so that it’s
perfect
because i don’t want to screw it up
i usually do anyways
but when i write, my mind and my soul come together and everything is
clear
and even if you don’t, i get it
for me,
writing is cathartic
writing is worship
i love music
a lot
a lot a lot
but words
connect me with my Jesus
everything is a story
i hope that my story points to Him
i hope that my words point to Him
writing is scary
because i want to shout from the rooftops about
His goodness
but how do i do that without letting you into a part of me
that is reserved for very few
that is reserved for One
or two, someday
how do i tell you about His mercy without telling you that
i need mercy
how do i tell you about His strength without telling you that
i am weak
how do i tell you that He bound up my broken heart without telling you that
i am broken
how do i tell you that He is peace without telling you that
i know anxiety
and i don’t particularly feel comfortable having my
life on display
it felt safer when i knew that my mom was the only one reading
anything that i wrote
but if it is what He wants, then
here it is
right now, i don’t like the finality of periods
maybe it’s not just with periods
i don’t like finality
period
(haha)
except in some cases
like love
and marriage
and that a ring means forever
and ever
you can put a billion periods after my wedding day
i like that
but sometimes i don't like finality
that something is over, forever
it feels like giving up
walking away, without hope
and i have hope
maybe it isn’t giving up
maybe it’s letting something new begin with the excitement of
Capitalization
and i love that newness
still, i am an idealist
i don’t want to give up on anything that
He still has plans for
except there are somethings
i wish would just end
with 8,000 periods behind it
………………
because it just needs to be done
but life is a run-on sentence
or maybe thirty
with commas and semi-colons and parentheses
and i don't know where it will go
and i don't know where to put the periods
because i'm not writing this story
like the naked dream on replay
which i’ve never had
but i feel like it would feel somewhat like writing
like bearing your soul for the world to read and stand all over
with their response hidden from my eyes
i know that i don’t have to write
but sometimes it feels like words are all that I have to offer
and i’m not using punctuation because i don’t like the finality of periods
commas are okay
because there is still more to come
i’m not good at talking unless i really know what to say
or have it planned out
i stumble over my words and get too excited
i’m awkward and unprepared
sometimes for important conversations, i write it out first so that it’s
perfect
because i don’t want to screw it up
i usually do anyways
but when i write, my mind and my soul come together and everything is
clear
and even if you don’t, i get it
for me,
writing is cathartic
writing is worship
i love music
a lot
a lot a lot
but words
connect me with my Jesus
everything is a story
i hope that my story points to Him
i hope that my words point to Him
writing is scary
because i want to shout from the rooftops about
His goodness
but how do i do that without letting you into a part of me
that is reserved for very few
that is reserved for One
or two, someday
how do i tell you about His mercy without telling you that
i need mercy
how do i tell you about His strength without telling you that
i am weak
how do i tell you that He bound up my broken heart without telling you that
i am broken
how do i tell you that He is peace without telling you that
i know anxiety
and i don’t particularly feel comfortable having my
life on display
it felt safer when i knew that my mom was the only one reading
anything that i wrote
but if it is what He wants, then
here it is
right now, i don’t like the finality of periods
maybe it’s not just with periods
i don’t like finality
period
(haha)
except in some cases
like love
and marriage
and that a ring means forever
and ever
you can put a billion periods after my wedding day
i like that
but sometimes i don't like finality
that something is over, forever
it feels like giving up
walking away, without hope
and i have hope
maybe it isn’t giving up
maybe it’s letting something new begin with the excitement of
Capitalization
and i love that newness
still, i am an idealist
i don’t want to give up on anything that
He still has plans for
except there are somethings
i wish would just end
with 8,000 periods behind it
………………
because it just needs to be done
but life is a run-on sentence
or maybe thirty
with commas and semi-colons and parentheses
and i don't know where it will go
and i don't know where to put the periods
because i'm not writing this story
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