i'm a traveler at heart
san diego-catalina-hawaii-san diego
now: hawaii
home away from home
rain all day
paia with gram
sleep in a loft
tonight, i'll dance tango
today, life tugs in the direction of good
Thursday, March 12, 2009
mark 1
...the most intensely beautiful study of scripture that I've ever done. Hours and hours and hours each day spent in a tiny, freezing cold, dimly lit tent, studying scripture, manuscripting and scribbling notes, debating meaning.
Wonderful. Beautiful. Perfect.
No other form of study seems to do scripture, or Jesus, or life, justice.
Day 1, after three hours=frustration.
I completely missed the point.
The Jews were anxiously hoping for and longing for the Messiah in the deepest part of them. They longed for the Old Testament promise to be fulfilled. They longed for Jesus in a way that I haven't known in a long time.
And I missed it.
I wanted to get to the part about Jesus and what He said and what He did. I wanted to talk about the wilderness and His temptation and His baptism. I totally missed the point that John the Baptist was preparing the way for the longing for the Messiah to be fulfilled and he was pointing with his entire life and being to Jesus.
I wouldn't have been able to tell you what it meant to truly long for Jesus in the depths of my soul.
But He is the Messiah, the One who we've been waiting for. And now, my soul remembers what that aching, longing desperation for Jesus feels like.
He has authority, echoing Divine authority.
He has the authority to touch a leper and restore to him his life.
(TOUCH: when something touches something holy, it becomes holy itself)
He has the authority to forgive.
(FORGIVE: set free from bondage, process of washing/cleansing, requires atonement)
He has authority to teach and to cast out demons.
He has authority over the physical and the spiritual realms, over our Spirits.
SPIRIT: our life and vitality
it can be moved in a particular direction, impaired or diminished, then revived again
ruah: as if a supernatural force is taking possession of our Spirit.
manifestations of divine energy
the dimension of our personality where relationship with God is possible
the human life in man--appetites, emotions, passions
What I want for, what I ache for, is that Jesus would have possession of my Spirit, that my Spirit would be under the authority of Christ.
When He came, the Heavens were torn open.
Jesus allowed the Kingdom of God to break open.
OPEN:
can be metaphoric, spiritual, literal or physical
in the Old Testament, heaven opens to send judgment, blessing, salvation
And Jesus is God. And He offers evidence, over and over and over again.
And "Son of God" means something completely different than what I thought it to mean.
And "Son of man" means something completely different than what I thought it to mean.
And "authority" means something completely different than what I thought it to mean.
The strongman has been bound and his house plundered.
And Jesus has not changed.
Wedding guests do not fast while the bridegroom is with them. So we eat.
And I want a new surname, like when Jesus gave Simon the surname "Peter," or when He gave James and John the surname "Boanegers."
(SURNAME: new identity, captures the essence of a person)
I want Jesus to tell me who I am.
And, to Jesus, can I just say "whoa?"
Because really, whoa.
Moment after beautiful moment, whoa.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Authority over the human body and disease, over Spirits, over evil, and even over nature.
All things are under His control.
"Who then is this, that even wind and sea obey Him?"
Whoa.
Finally, His disciples see who He is--fullness of Divinity, breadth of power.
And maybe the tension just completely disappears and the gravity of who Jesus is becomes clear and what else do we need to know?
What else matters?
Wonderful. Beautiful. Perfect.
No other form of study seems to do scripture, or Jesus, or life, justice.
Day 1, after three hours=frustration.
I completely missed the point.
The Jews were anxiously hoping for and longing for the Messiah in the deepest part of them. They longed for the Old Testament promise to be fulfilled. They longed for Jesus in a way that I haven't known in a long time.
And I missed it.
I wanted to get to the part about Jesus and what He said and what He did. I wanted to talk about the wilderness and His temptation and His baptism. I totally missed the point that John the Baptist was preparing the way for the longing for the Messiah to be fulfilled and he was pointing with his entire life and being to Jesus.
I wouldn't have been able to tell you what it meant to truly long for Jesus in the depths of my soul.
But He is the Messiah, the One who we've been waiting for. And now, my soul remembers what that aching, longing desperation for Jesus feels like.
He has authority, echoing Divine authority.
He has the authority to touch a leper and restore to him his life.
(TOUCH: when something touches something holy, it becomes holy itself)
He has the authority to forgive.
(FORGIVE: set free from bondage, process of washing/cleansing, requires atonement)
He has authority to teach and to cast out demons.
He has authority over the physical and the spiritual realms, over our Spirits.
SPIRIT: our life and vitality
it can be moved in a particular direction, impaired or diminished, then revived again
ruah: as if a supernatural force is taking possession of our Spirit.
manifestations of divine energy
the dimension of our personality where relationship with God is possible
the human life in man--appetites, emotions, passions
What I want for, what I ache for, is that Jesus would have possession of my Spirit, that my Spirit would be under the authority of Christ.
When He came, the Heavens were torn open.
Jesus allowed the Kingdom of God to break open.
OPEN:
can be metaphoric, spiritual, literal or physical
in the Old Testament, heaven opens to send judgment, blessing, salvation
And Jesus is God. And He offers evidence, over and over and over again.
And "Son of God" means something completely different than what I thought it to mean.
And "Son of man" means something completely different than what I thought it to mean.
And "authority" means something completely different than what I thought it to mean.
The strongman has been bound and his house plundered.
And Jesus has not changed.
Wedding guests do not fast while the bridegroom is with them. So we eat.
And I want a new surname, like when Jesus gave Simon the surname "Peter," or when He gave James and John the surname "Boanegers."
(SURNAME: new identity, captures the essence of a person)
I want Jesus to tell me who I am.
And, to Jesus, can I just say "whoa?"
Because really, whoa.
Moment after beautiful moment, whoa.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Authority over the human body and disease, over Spirits, over evil, and even over nature.
All things are under His control.
"Who then is this, that even wind and sea obey Him?"
Whoa.
Finally, His disciples see who He is--fullness of Divinity, breadth of power.
And maybe the tension just completely disappears and the gravity of who Jesus is becomes clear and what else do we need to know?
What else matters?
Friday, March 6, 2009
food for thought
I don't like restaurants.
I love eating, but I don't like restaurants. Partly because they're expensive and I'm slowly running out of money; partly because they make me strangely anxious. I would much rather be in the comfort of my own home, where we can eat, then sit and chat for however long we feel like it. That applies to fast food as well. And birthday celebrations.
I used to think that I liked going out to dinner, especially if I got to get dressed up. I don't. I love eating at home, wearing jeans and some comfortable worn-in top that doesn't cling to every curve or need to be pulled up repeatedly. Plus, I always spill, and I feel much less guilty about spilling on jeans than on my silk dress that I bought in France.
Restaurants stress me out. So many people running around, plus you feel a lot of pressure to make the dinner event as a whole great, because you're paying for the food and the ambiance and you're spending time with this other person, so you better make it good. But I promise a much better conversation if we eat at home. I feel more secure at home, which means I feel more secure with whoever I'm eating with, which means that conversation is bound to be good. Plus, we can pick the soundtrack. And, doing the dishes is oddly relaxing for me.
Is that okay? I'm much more of a home-body than I ever recognized. So come over. We'll cook, eat, and we can hang out while the water runs and the mess slowly disappears. It'll be great. I promise.
I love eating, but I don't like restaurants. Partly because they're expensive and I'm slowly running out of money; partly because they make me strangely anxious. I would much rather be in the comfort of my own home, where we can eat, then sit and chat for however long we feel like it. That applies to fast food as well. And birthday celebrations.
I used to think that I liked going out to dinner, especially if I got to get dressed up. I don't. I love eating at home, wearing jeans and some comfortable worn-in top that doesn't cling to every curve or need to be pulled up repeatedly. Plus, I always spill, and I feel much less guilty about spilling on jeans than on my silk dress that I bought in France.
Restaurants stress me out. So many people running around, plus you feel a lot of pressure to make the dinner event as a whole great, because you're paying for the food and the ambiance and you're spending time with this other person, so you better make it good. But I promise a much better conversation if we eat at home. I feel more secure at home, which means I feel more secure with whoever I'm eating with, which means that conversation is bound to be good. Plus, we can pick the soundtrack. And, doing the dishes is oddly relaxing for me.
Is that okay? I'm much more of a home-body than I ever recognized. So come over. We'll cook, eat, and we can hang out while the water runs and the mess slowly disappears. It'll be great. I promise.
toussaint academy
Today was my community service day. I wasn't going to go because technically it's Spring Break and I was feeling like I just wanted to be alone to think and process through some pretty big things on my plate. I think, though, that maybe God wanted me there. I wasn't planning on going but I did have the brilliant idea to walk up to campus and check my mail, maybe go to Founders, maybe spend some time in prayer. That was the plan. No community service, not today.
But, as I was walking up the final stretch of the hill, the van that drives our group each week just happened to pull out in front of me. Rolling down the window, they yelled "Are you coming??" Shoot. Umm..."Ya!" And I got in the car because I couldn't, in good conscience, say no. The students at Toussaint are much more important than my mail, which would be waiting for me when we got back.
Thank goodness I went. They expected us. There were only three of us today, as opposed to the regular 10, and I'm so glad that I was one of them. We're building relationships and it's frustrating and hard and I'm so glad that I was able to be there today to spend as much time with them as possible, to help them begin to see us as trustworthy and stable and dependable. They need a little bit more of that in their lives.
Toussaint is a school for homeless kids in downtown San Diego. Some of them have been homeless for years, some for weeks; all have been through something incredibly traumatic, something that you can only understand if you've been there yourself. We go each week to do a mural project with them, to build solid relationships with them, to encourage them, as college students, to keep dreaming and keep working towards their futures.
We've been going for a few weeks now, and it has been so much harder than I expected. I'm still in the process of figuring out the role that we're supposed to play in their lives. Are we their friends? Are we their mentors? Do they value us at all, or are we just another thing that they have to do as part of their program? Do they want to talk to us about all of the things going on in their lives, all of the things that they've been through, their daily heartbreak? Do they know that we care? There's no black and white answer.
There's no black and white answer, no manual for what we're doing, and it's frustrating. I'm frustrated. I'm frustrated for them--that what they've experienced is so unfair, that they don't know what we're talking about when we say things like "community" and "home" and "family." It breaks my heart that when I talk about my parents being supportive and loving and nurturing, they don't get it. I feel guilty. And I'm frustrated with them--that some of them seem so anti what we're doing, so disengaged. I'm frustrated with myself that I'm frustrated with them--that I have this idea that they should value their time with us because we come once a week just to do this really cool art project with them. Then I realize, of course, that they have every right to be frustrated too. They have every right to distrust us, to wonder about our intentions, to judge our dependence and whether or not we'll follow through. They have every right to be frustrated about the injustice that they face every single day.
But we're trying to build relationships; we're trying to tell them that we do care--about their pasts, and their present, and their future. We're trying to tell them that what they've experienced is not right and it's not fair and they didn't deserve it. It's hard. I want to sit down with each of them, or maybe give them a punching bag, and just tell them that it's okay to cry, it's okay to be pissed off, that I don't know who wouldn't be. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. I want to make sure that they know that they are valued, that they have so much potential, that they are talented and creative and funny and smart. I want to tell them that I have no explanation for them, I have no idea what to say or how to help them cope or grieve their losses; I want to tell them that I admire their strength.
But right now, it feels forced and awkward and there is obvious tension between the role we're currently in and the one that we want to be in. So next week, we'll paint and listen to music and eat together, and hopefully, that will be the beginning of a beautiful community, one that they understand and can come to love. We'll see.
But, as I was walking up the final stretch of the hill, the van that drives our group each week just happened to pull out in front of me. Rolling down the window, they yelled "Are you coming??" Shoot. Umm..."Ya!" And I got in the car because I couldn't, in good conscience, say no. The students at Toussaint are much more important than my mail, which would be waiting for me when we got back.
Thank goodness I went. They expected us. There were only three of us today, as opposed to the regular 10, and I'm so glad that I was one of them. We're building relationships and it's frustrating and hard and I'm so glad that I was able to be there today to spend as much time with them as possible, to help them begin to see us as trustworthy and stable and dependable. They need a little bit more of that in their lives.
Toussaint is a school for homeless kids in downtown San Diego. Some of them have been homeless for years, some for weeks; all have been through something incredibly traumatic, something that you can only understand if you've been there yourself. We go each week to do a mural project with them, to build solid relationships with them, to encourage them, as college students, to keep dreaming and keep working towards their futures.
We've been going for a few weeks now, and it has been so much harder than I expected. I'm still in the process of figuring out the role that we're supposed to play in their lives. Are we their friends? Are we their mentors? Do they value us at all, or are we just another thing that they have to do as part of their program? Do they want to talk to us about all of the things going on in their lives, all of the things that they've been through, their daily heartbreak? Do they know that we care? There's no black and white answer.
There's no black and white answer, no manual for what we're doing, and it's frustrating. I'm frustrated. I'm frustrated for them--that what they've experienced is so unfair, that they don't know what we're talking about when we say things like "community" and "home" and "family." It breaks my heart that when I talk about my parents being supportive and loving and nurturing, they don't get it. I feel guilty. And I'm frustrated with them--that some of them seem so anti what we're doing, so disengaged. I'm frustrated with myself that I'm frustrated with them--that I have this idea that they should value their time with us because we come once a week just to do this really cool art project with them. Then I realize, of course, that they have every right to be frustrated too. They have every right to distrust us, to wonder about our intentions, to judge our dependence and whether or not we'll follow through. They have every right to be frustrated about the injustice that they face every single day.
But we're trying to build relationships; we're trying to tell them that we do care--about their pasts, and their present, and their future. We're trying to tell them that what they've experienced is not right and it's not fair and they didn't deserve it. It's hard. I want to sit down with each of them, or maybe give them a punching bag, and just tell them that it's okay to cry, it's okay to be pissed off, that I don't know who wouldn't be. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. I want to make sure that they know that they are valued, that they have so much potential, that they are talented and creative and funny and smart. I want to tell them that I have no explanation for them, I have no idea what to say or how to help them cope or grieve their losses; I want to tell them that I admire their strength.
But right now, it feels forced and awkward and there is obvious tension between the role we're currently in and the one that we want to be in. So next week, we'll paint and listen to music and eat together, and hopefully, that will be the beginning of a beautiful community, one that they understand and can come to love. We'll see.
shades of grey
I'm a black-and-white kind of girl. All or nothing. Perfect, or a waste of time. My eyes pass over the middle ground in search of the "perfect" way.
But life is rarely perfect, and life rarely falls into black-and-white containers. Thank God.
Life can't just be black and white, cut and dry, yes or no. If only it were that simple. But life is push and pull, tension and release, charcoal and slate and heather and silver and taupe. Life is so undefined, decisions are so relative, we fall in-between. It's frustratingly beautiful.
My life is constantly lived in all shades of grey, because there is tension between the black and white. I feel myself pulled in every direction, with no answers and little clarity. So I'm just going to write. I'm going to let my writing fall in the grey. I'm going to begin an attempt to navigate the grey. From now on, you won't get just little bits and pieces of my black-and-white attempt at perfection. The grey means you get it all.
So here's my life, bouncing around like a rubber ball, falling into the perfect shade of grey.
p.s. I didn't just go emo...I still love colors...
p.p.s. I prefer the European spelling of grey. It makes me feel intelligent and cultured.
But life is rarely perfect, and life rarely falls into black-and-white containers. Thank God.
Life can't just be black and white, cut and dry, yes or no. If only it were that simple. But life is push and pull, tension and release, charcoal and slate and heather and silver and taupe. Life is so undefined, decisions are so relative, we fall in-between. It's frustratingly beautiful.
My life is constantly lived in all shades of grey, because there is tension between the black and white. I feel myself pulled in every direction, with no answers and little clarity. So I'm just going to write. I'm going to let my writing fall in the grey. I'm going to begin an attempt to navigate the grey. From now on, you won't get just little bits and pieces of my black-and-white attempt at perfection. The grey means you get it all.
So here's my life, bouncing around like a rubber ball, falling into the perfect shade of grey.
p.s. I didn't just go emo...I still love colors...
p.p.s. I prefer the European spelling of grey. It makes me feel intelligent and cultured.
Friday, February 20, 2009
one of those nights...
It's one of those nights that evolved itself into something beautiful.
It was supposed to be a homework night. A sit in my room and type essay question after essay question about theology and marriage and books that I haven't quite gotten around to night. But these friends of mine came knockin' and now, here we sit on the big comfy couches in the lounge, listening to Bon Iver, debating pronunciation and talking about imaginary friends.
"I had two imaginary friends when I was growing up. They were called Bob and Dolphin."
Laughter. Intrigued, we asked questions.
"No, they were both humans. And they played games with me."
Laughter.
And then the stories came, with intermittent fits of laughter, echoing through the high-ceilinged room.
"My imaginary cat friend's name was Mr. Pickens."
Obviously, more questions.
"I don't know, we played by the window a lot."
Story after story after story.
And just like the evening, conversation evolved. I love that about these nights.
Lent. Sea-kittens (or for normal humans: fish, aptly renamed by PETA). Aristotle and anthropocentrism.
"No, but they weren't like my real friends, like my intimate friends."
"Oh, like Bob and Dolphin?"
"NO! I'm talking about my real friends, my stuffed animal friends."
"I clearly remember the day Bear lost an eye."
How do people even exist? We are SO weird.
It was supposed to be a homework night. A sit in my room and type essay question after essay question about theology and marriage and books that I haven't quite gotten around to night. But these friends of mine came knockin' and now, here we sit on the big comfy couches in the lounge, listening to Bon Iver, debating pronunciation and talking about imaginary friends.
"I had two imaginary friends when I was growing up. They were called Bob and Dolphin."
Laughter. Intrigued, we asked questions.
"No, they were both humans. And they played games with me."
Laughter.
And then the stories came, with intermittent fits of laughter, echoing through the high-ceilinged room.
"My imaginary cat friend's name was Mr. Pickens."
Obviously, more questions.
"I don't know, we played by the window a lot."
Story after story after story.
And just like the evening, conversation evolved. I love that about these nights.
Lent. Sea-kittens (or for normal humans: fish, aptly renamed by PETA). Aristotle and anthropocentrism.
"No, but they weren't like my real friends, like my intimate friends."
"Oh, like Bob and Dolphin?"
"NO! I'm talking about my real friends, my stuffed animal friends."
"I clearly remember the day Bear lost an eye."
How do people even exist? We are SO weird.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
hey, love!
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
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 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.
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