musings upon musings

my personality is as evident in the way i write as in anything else: i am rash, impatient, eager to put down and release what i can hear in my head.

planning? structuring? looking ahead? formulating a big picture to fit the pieces within?
pshaw!

but really, it does leave me at an impasse. i have all these ideas, all this beautiful language, and it sits in pieces here and there, not a part of anything larger or more purposeful.
i have been working for a few months now on a collection of memories and musings on growing up in a large Christian family. but even it is in broken pieces down the page, disconnected. how does one learn how to do what it is not in their nature to do?

until i can figure that out, i am simply adding to the mass. that's what im doing this morning! mikey has been encouraging me to get away for a few hours on a saturday morning to write--something that i cant seem to do at home when surrounded by a host of other distractions. i havent had a free saturday in a while, but today here i sit, "alone" (that guy over the intercom, announcing that people's food is ready, is really starting to get to me), writing.

originally, i thought that i wouldnt be able to remember enough about my childhood to put down on paper, but as i write about one thing, another comes back to mind, then another and another until i find myself not nestled in front of the fire place at panera, but back in Pittsburgh, PA climbing trees and making mud pies and having a funeral procession for a tiny mole that we accidentally killed in the yard. I see myself on a hillside, surrounded by family and singing "Shine on, Harvest Moon" while its light is eclipsed slowly before our eyes. i feel myself warm and close in a tunnel we fashioned out of tightly packed snow, or riding our bikes in a circle in the driveway until nightfall.

and tears are coming to my eyes. childhood is a fabulous thing. perhaps that is why we resort back to its innocent state when we enter our gray years. perhaps we are so astounded by it as adults because it holds a magic that we long to have again--a magic that will be ours once more in the after-life.

i know i had conflict with my siblings when i was young, but i do not remember a single one of those fights clearly. at least up until about age 10 or 11, i just remember blissful days of creative play, romping around rural Western PA.

these days, when working through relationships with even siblings is difficult and full of complexity, those memories are so sweet. they are a gift, actually. something that brings me back to a place of love and comradeship even in the midst of learning how to be friends with family members who you may not have much in common with but DNA. i am truly thankful today that i have those fond, fond, remembrances.

fragmented thoughts about history and about loss

a new self-discovery: history is important to me.
personal history. relational history.

it is the one thing that i am running short on these days, and i think i might be starting to panic.

it seems that all the history ive spent years of my life cultivating has gone through a season of pruning. for years, i spent time, love, and energy, and risked vulnerability in organizations and relationships that i viewed as long-term investments. for years, they thrived and helped me grow--fed me and made me feel secure. now when i look at my immediate surroundings, i feel that i am facing new fields to be sown and watered and weeded and tended. new relationships. new endeavors.

i am not the kind of person who faces change and breathes it in like a fresh breeze, inviting it in, excited about its possibilities.

rather, i bury my head in a pillow and scream, hoping it will pass quickly and painlessly.
(it never does).

i am tired. i am tired of investing so much just to watch it slip away from me. and tired of starting over again and again and again. i want history. a solid foundation, a basis for understanding and empathy. but im tired of putting in the work to build it. and im afraid (have i mentioned that yet?). afraid of investing and then saying goodbye...again.

i am reading lewis' "a grief observed" and while i have not experienced a loss like lewis, i am finding his thoughts insightful and helpful. this advent, my season of longing has been accented by grief for some things lost this past year.

here at the end of 24-7 prayer

our 24-7 prayer week has been over ONE DAY.
just one day. i already feel like i should have entirely cleaned my house from top to bottom, written all my Christmas cards, finished my knitting projects and read a book.

just fyi--i have done none of those things.

in fact, i've barely made myself a meal and put clothes on to go to work. yesterday, the rest of the day after cleaning up 24-7 prayer, was rather pathetic. i lay around all day in my pajamas, watching absurd amounts of television.

i feel a bit empty, though. last night, i had a dream that i was in this year's prayer room, slowly wandering from station to station, reading others' meditations and occasionally praying myself. i felt very at peace there. waking up knowing that everything is back to normal, that even that space has been filled back in with clutter and noise, makes me feel heavy.

this year, during my 2am-4am time slot--those deliciously serene, still morning hours when the world is painted in a softer palate than that of garish day...to borrow from shakespeare--i found myself stuck at this one station, staring up at this tiny image of myself that i had painted, meditating on this one thought:

i want to be authentic.

that thought has followed me into this evening where it cornered me on the front stoop and inundated me with emotions grand and terrifying. i am hoping that it is more than hormones, that it is my outer shell breaking down.

that's what i prayed for. i feel the flood of myself clamped until only a small stream gets through to drip slowly into the world. i feel like a ghost version of the weighty me that i sense is in here somewhere. i didnt always feel that way. in college, i felt real--no fuzzy edges but crisp, clear lines. i dont often wish to go back in time--i try to consider that i am where i am for a purpose. but there is something about my confidence and joy that i want to carry into this adult world of mine. im not sure why it got left behind in the first place.

so the tears tonight were welcome. they made me feel very present, and i enjoyed really feeling the autumn breeze and listening uninhibited to the quiet night rhythm of the neighborhood.

i wonder to myself if there might be something difficult and beautiful on the horizon. is it time to dive into the waters we've been sticking our toes in for years? is it time to leave behind the secure for the dreams? will i finally be able to rekindle the girl inside who cut her own hair, wore suspenders on campus and danced the night away with those sweet, burly irish-men? is it time for freedom once more?

waiting

we hate waiting. that's really what it all boils down to. and we hate that our world is made up of one interim after another--gray times, thin and stretching and long...ever so long.
everything is waiting. everything is gradual.
pregnancy.
learning an instrument.
learning anything.
growing friendships.
getting in shape.
(keeping your shape).
making a meal.
perhaps it wouldnt be so bad if we didnt live in a country that stands defiantly, chest puffed out, and shouts "I REFUSE TO WAIT!"
so our friendships are fake.
and we give up our dreams.
and we use surgery instead of the treadmill.
and we drive through to pick up dinner.

the nature of discontent

what is discontent?
is it a seed, nestled deep down that, given sunlight, grows?
is it a passing wind that takes hold of your inner branches and shakes and shakes and shakes a while?
where does it come from,
and what its purpose?
and from where does it gather such strength
to cast all life into question
and pale all happiness in its blinding rays?
its talons grip and squeeze and choke.
and it siphons joy,
and it poisons.
it is a siren song, a whisper, close.
it distorts the melody of shalom.

learning from the past

here's a little something I've been working on this morning (after getting up to go to church by myself and then being DUPED by stupid google maps' WRONG DIRECTIONS and getting lost, missing church and coming home):

maybe i feel natural doing "church" with a small fellowship of people in my home because it is a faded photograph of how my faith began.

let me explain.

in Tim Keller's book The Prodigal God, he says this regarding the early church:
"when Christianity first arose in the world it was not called a religion. it was the non-religion. imagine the neighbors of early Christians asking them about their faith. 'Where's your temple?' they'd ask. The Christians would reply that they didn't have a temple. 'But how could that be? where do your priests labor?' The Christians would have replied that they didn't have priests. 'but...but," the neighbors would have sputtered, 'where are the sacrifices made to please your gods?' the Christians would have responded that they did not make sacrifices anymore. Jesus himself was the temple to end all temples, the priest to end all priests, the sacrifice to end all sacrifices."

let me also paraphrase some of the other things Keller says. He tells us that these new ideas represented in the Christian faith were unlike anything of the day...and that's why the Romans dubbed them "atheists"--it was unclassifiable. They didn't have a category or name for it.

He also says "if the preaching of our ministers and the practice of our parishioners do not have the same effect on people that Jesus had, then we must not be declaring the same message that Jesus did." but that is actually a whole other topic for a whole other day.

Back to point 1. perhaps the traditional idea of Christian church today has become, in some ways, the Jewish temples of Christ's day. perhaps we are so caught up in the "temple, priest, sacrifice" rhythm of religion that it feels blasphemous for us to say that Christ is just as much in a home gathering of four people as He is in a stained-glass-window-church building filled with 200. to think of it practically, the early Christians began "church" this way. "Church" was really a word that described the entirety of the family of God--the larger picture of the family of Christ-followers scattered across the globe, across gender, age and ethnicity. now suddenly it seems to denote individual bodies of believers who often function as distanced islands on a secular sea, and voila! we find ourselves unable to place the lone Christian floating on a raft in the water who does not "belong" (and I use this satirically) to any one piece of land.

oh, please understand that I am not condemning the organized church. in fact, i feel the same misgivings, the same puzzlement, the same gravitational pull to belong to a building and a worship leader, a pastor and a bulletin and a system of doing things.

it's been harder of late to think that way, though. simply because of doubt and frustration and a heap of anger. because it's hard to sit down and want to read the Bible, or engage in prayer when you aren't so sure what it is or what it looks like, or to have a real, vibrant relationship with Christ when you keep coming back to all those ritual MUSTS and DO NOTS and can't seem to break away from them. golly, it's like these rituals are an atrophied limb that should just be lopped off, but you can't seem to part with it. they had their place once, but now they are just hindering learning to function in a new way.

so this morning, when it felt like God was playing a cruel joke on me--i was, after all, trying to go worship HIM, trying to be a part of a body of believers for HIM--i am going to claim that today is a lesson in this: "Yeah, I'm in a church building. But I'm also at Home. Let's have a cup of coffee."

goodbye, and thanks for all the fish

there's been no poetry in me of late.
what chases the poetry out of someone? is it a dullness of color in the world, or perhaps just a dullness of sight? probably the latter because as i sit here in the morning hours, even under a dense gray sky, the greens and browns are flourishing, shaking themselves dry from last night's shower. it is taking a lot of effort for me to tune my eyes to the song of nature this past couple of months.
it's hard for me to write poetry about summer. although I appreciate all that summer has to offer, i must confess that my soul feels dormant, sleeping until the heat passes over, waiting to wake again when the first breath of fall blows in to refresh me.
it is ironic how fall is my favorite season. it's a season of change, and i usually find myself bucking against change. but fall is also about harvest--bringing in the spoils of labor, gathering with others to enjoy and remember. and...well, and it's beautiful. yes, it's one of the only things in this world that could begin to convince me that change--as painful as it may be--is also vibrant, promising and lovely.


ah, what a bad omen this morning: a lonely school bus making its rounds down my street, extending it's arm for a second to my neighbors, then moving on, rejected. it reminds me that in a few short weeks, i will be standing before my students giving my initial speech of the year ("good morning, students, my name is Mrs. Fissel...") and handing out a syllabus that students and parents will sign, but not read.

"i wanna die with you" crones my teenage neighbor along with his music. i can hear him through the window, open to admit the fan they placed there this morning. he's a little tone deaf, but i can appreciate the sentiment. there are ants invading my coffee cup but i must remember that i am imposing upon their territory this morning. okay....maybe a little more than tone deaf, if there is such a level of inability to hear musical notes.

i am losing another friend in a few weeks. i suppose in some ways, i should be thankful that these transitions have happened so quickly in my life--i guess its like ripping off a band-aid instead of slowly pulling it away from the skin. maybe i should be more specific: another of my close friends is moving away in two weeks. i know that i am by no means losing her as a friend, but i am losing her company, her closeness and the ability to be spontaneous with her. i have many dear friends here in the 'Boro, but at each "loss," it becomes more and more clear to me that they all play a special role in my life and are, therefore, absolutely irreplaceable. this friend is my cuddle buddy, and my bike riding buddy, and one of the best listeners in my life. i am thankful that we've both been available to be together a lot this summer--a secret gift, perhaps, from a God who knew what was coming even though none of us were sure. despite the selfishness of my rant, i will say that i am overjoyed at the reason for their moving and, well, its an answer to prayers that I prayed, so what do i have to complain about?

i remember at the beginning of the summer, in June, looking "far" into the future to this week of July with terror--terror that it would come to soon, and so i put it out of my mind (or tried). i have had a fabulous summer this year. i spent some precious time with people i almost never get to see, and spent time enjoying the sunshine. i slept in some mornings, or got up like today, to enjoy coffee outside before the sun moved in for the kill (it's been in the 100's this summer so i'm sure you understand where all this enmity is coming from, readers....). i traveled to see loved ones and spent long, quiet hours listening to waves crash and massaging my feet in the sand. i even went out of the country to expand my experience with beaches and to be alone with my husband. i played "mom" for a couple of weeks, taking care of house guests, cleaning my kitchen a dozen times a day (or so it felt). i've played a ludicrous amount of speed scrabble. and although i have some dread of that first day of school with students--getting up at 5am, hearing the bell ring, facing an entire new group of faces with nervousness and expectation--i dont feel as alarmed about the second, third, fourth days, or the months until next June. in fact, along with my husband, i have ceased to be able to "see" that far into our future. i'm not sure what the next year has in store for us. i dont think i could have guessed all that happened this year--with friendships and finances and church. maybe that's why i'm not doing much guessing about the next.

he's a little better at rapping than singing. i guess everyone has their niche.

reflections: a voice from a jail cell and homosexuality

i am ashamed that i have gone through 26 years of life without having read Martin Luther King Jr.'s "Letter from a Birmingham Jail." it is both amusing and bemusing that the issue that has brought me to its 10 printed pages today is homosexuality. at first, i was searching through its lines for a quote that i heard in a short speech by Andrew Marin on his blog http://www.loveisanorientation.com. it was a quote about healthy tension that caught my attention and, i confess, i wanted to nab this nugget to put in my facebook status. i thank God that i had the time and interest to read it in its entirety: i can already feel the surface emotions of a deeper impact with layers that i think, i hope, i am just beginning to peel back.

as i thumb through this letter, peppered by steadily-highlighted passages that spoke more loudly to me than others, i don't know where to begin this reflection.

in my life, homosexuality has been a distant issue on which i have developed vague beliefs, the foundation of which can be traced back to my spiritual and familial upbringing and the cultural "waters" i've done most of my "swimming" in. but this space between me and homosexuality has been impossible to maintain as i encounter gay men and women and, more personally, have dear friends who are coming out. it is no longer possible for me to remain impersonal, untouched by the issue, for what i have not sought out has seemed to seek me out instead. i am finding myself, unable to maintain apathy and distance, unsure how to proceed. i have been to a conference; i have heard speakers and read articles and excerpts from books and had conversations with gay and straight people alike but i think nothing has struck me so near to the core as King Jr.'s letter from a dingy prison cell.

here is a man pouring his passionate heart into a letter to his critics. it is a letter full of robust compassion and thunderous conviction. i am touched by the disappointment and hurt he expresses so honestly: rather than a clenched fist, it is an open palm. at that time, this country was torn: a face with two sides, unable to agree on a single expression. each side was equal in passionate certainty of their own belief. But there was a "right" and a "wrong." in the end, right prevailed. as an outside critic who is nearly 50 years into the future on the other side of a conflict that the majority can now agree on, i cannot help but feel a connection between the issue of segregation as King expresses it and our current struggle over homosexuality. i assure you, i am not trying to take away the significance or individuality of each issue in their own right, but similarities present themselves to me that help me as i think through certain questions that sit before me, unmoving. i dont want to talk about politics, though. i dont want to talk about laws and rights and governmental decisions. i do want to talk about how sometimes, we humans can be so certain of our "rightness" on an issue that we are unable to analyze our own motives or see the other side of the conflict. i feel strongly that this is often rooted in fear and self-worth.

i have shied away from tension. i have been uncomfortable talking through issues that seem to have no right or wrong answer, in which both sides have pieces of truth that are hard to contend with. remember that quote i mentioned earlier? "...I must confess that I am not afraid of the word 'tension.' I have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth." i don't want to be afraid of tension, either. i don't want to be afraid to objectively evaluate my beliefs, nor do i want to be afraid of having faith--a universal thing no person can say they dont hold that contains, in its very nature, an element of blindness. i feel the tension between my Christianity and homosexuality and i have felt anger towards it, and fear, and sadness. those feelings have in no way dissipated as new emotions have recently been added to the mix: curiosity, and determination to figure out a "better way" of addressing something that, well, something that God has seen fit to use to GROW this plant of me.

i feel like the "privileged" one. as Andrew Marin of the Marin Foundation would say, i have never been labeled as "deviant to mainline Christianity" so i will never understand what it feels like to wear that Scarlet Letter. King says "Lamentably, it is an historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily." i have grasped the Gift of Grace, worn it like a badge well-earned and from my golden throne, i have spent much of my life judging those who will never earn the same "right"--the "right" to have their thirst quenched by the same bottomless well; all the while, i have claimed to follow the One who offered this water to an utter outcast (*see John 4). i am a part of a culture that treats homosexuals like modern-day lepers, but seems to see that our predecessors who cast out lepers were wrong.

i am a "white moderate, who is more devoted to 'order' than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: 'i agree with you in the goal you seek, but i cannot agree with your methods of direct action'; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom." i am a daughter of the church that "commit[s] themselves to a completely other worldly religion which makes a strange, un-Biblical distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular." i claim, ashamedly, that i have "blemished and scarred that body [of Christ] through social neglect and through fear of being nonconformists" (King Jr.). with deep conviction, i believe that the footsteps of Christ can be seen in apologetic "protests" and "confession booths" at Pride events (see http://www.timschraeder.com/2010/06/30/a-different-kind-of-demonstration-at-gay-pride/ and http://www.pluggedin.com/videos/2010/q2/lordsaveusfromyourfollowers.aspx). i believe Christ stands with members of my church family who step out to say "I'm so sorry for what the church has done to you." it has taken me a long time to take even this tiny step in my perspective on homosexuality and while i am still struggling with the issue's inherent mysteries, i feel excited and energized by this growing movement of apology and love as a step forward, a step into Christ's embracing arms extended towards adulteresses, thieves, lepers and so many other individuals whose lives were full of sins that the Bible identifies as such.

King Jr. cited a time when "the church was not merely a thermometer that recorded the ideas and principles of popular opinion; it was a thermostat that transformed the mores of society." he feared that "If today's church does not recapture the sacrificial spirit of the early church, it will lose its authenticity, forfeit the loyalty of millions, and be dismissed as an irrelevant social club with no meaning for the twentieth century." i am a willing participant in this very deterioration that is occurring in the twenty-first century, all for the sake of my own reputation and gain. i dearly love a church that has become more about being right than becoming a home for the abandoned. i have great difficulty associating with the low, and especially with seeing myself as a sinner. the Brennan Manning quote that i have made into a personal slogan "we are beggars showing other beggars where to get the bread" has not penetrated my life in a meaningful way but been used to add layers to my self-righteousness so that i am able to feel superior not only to non-believers, but to other Christians as well.

i am on my own journey of redemption, one that i only glimpse in those precious moments when i am dismounted from my self-righteousness by a harsh truth about myself or some other such thing. despite a seeming hopelessness in the church and its place in the world and culture i live in, i do have a lingering hope. after reading King Jr.'s "Letter from a Birmingham Jail," i am reminded that he was writing about his convictions on a controversial issue that had some resolution. every generation has what C.S. Lewis might call a kind of "intellectual superiority" in which we believe we have reached the "final answer" on things, only to be proven wrong when we return to the Earth and are replaced by our children and grandchildren. perhaps these questions on homosexuality will experience a kind of resolution in the future, hopefully an advancement that won't leave Christians behind and one that will be aided by our lives, not in spite of them.

these reflections are dedicated to my dear, brave friends who are faced with these questions in a personal way that i will never experience (just as i can never truly appreciate the African-American's struggle for civil rights), and who have gently and graciously allowed me into their lives despite my ignorance and insensitivity as i grapple with questions about faith and sexuality. i love you; forgive my unloving-ness.

vulnerability

the oyster me
is faintly beating
a soft thing within that
a single moment could puncture
a fragile thing
full of fleshy, dependent life
it rises and falls with simple trust
in the center of its weighty shell

i like contacts because...

when it rains, i dont have to constantly wipe them off to be able to see.

when i'm snuggling, they don't poke my husband in the eye.

when i'm putting my hair up, the dont get tangled in my pony tail.

when im playing around on the computer at school, my students cant see the reflection of the computer screen in them and catch me in the act.

when i'm working out, i dont have to reach around them to mop the sweat off my brow.

when i open the dishwasher to unload the dishes, they dont fog up.

when they slide down my face...oh wait, they dont slide down my face.

when the sun is beating down on me in the summer, i can wear sunglasses to defy its obnoxiousness.

when you look into my eyes, you can actually see what color they are.

when i look up, i can see the whole picture around me rather than two square-shaped pieces of it.



why do i miss glasses?

ive always worn them.
my husband thinks they're cute.
i feel intellectual.
i can hide behind them.
they dont make my eyes dry out.
they take less time.

mostly, my husband thinks they're cute and i like it when he thinks im cute.

being an adult is blurry and smells like propane

i felt very grown up yesterday while i was getting gas in my car. it was such an automatic move--pulling up, getting out, swiping my card and starting to pump. i remember when it didnt use to be so automatic. every move was very calculated and i felt like everyone was watching me. now it's just a fact of life. one more thing between me and home at the end of the day.

maybe this time was different because i was wearing contacts. pumping gas in contacts for the first time--exciting stuff, eh? but really--maybe all this "grown-up" stuff started there. i made that decision, to try contacts. i got an appointment; i talked to my doctor; i set up the process; i paid the bill. last time i thought about contacts was when my mom asked if i was interested because she was making my next eye appointment. that must have been when i was in college.

it felt strange--and kind of frightening--to make a big decision like that (it feels like a big decision to me, anyway...it involves money and a real life change for someone who has worn glasses since she was a pre-teen). it also got me thinking about why it was such an unusual feeling. does that mean that i dont make very many big decisions for myself? in truth, when the idea popped up, i wanted mikey to tell me whether or not i should do it. i rely on others' opinions about my decisions a lot. perhaps that's the clincher: this is a decision that i am making for specific reasons and i am doing it without input from anyone. is that what being an adult really is? not all the time, i hope. i like to think that life and living it are primarily about community--not the individual.

i'm busy being a grown up these days: molding the minds of children who ive been with all year and will lose in few days to the eleventh grade (it's a real loss, let me tell you; being a junior warps you into an entirely new entity). writing tests and being a staff adviser and signing a contract to work next school year. over the past several weeks, i have felt my heart filling up with things to write, but every time i sit in front of the screen or pick up a pen and open my journal, my voice is silent, my tongue listless (i just looked up "listless" on dictionary.com and it means "spiritless"...what a perfect synonym. why didnt i think of that one?). there doesnt seem to be an existing vocabulary for the things i want to say.

i looked for a cello today at a music store in winston. i have been wanting to play for a while and with our tax return, we suddenly have the means to make that happen. i am excited by the prospect of giving a real voice to the music inside me--a voice not dependent on any kind of accompaniment but only harmony between my bow and fingers. i am stuck now between visions of learning with ease and pictures of a frustrated me throwing down my bow in disgust. i guess we'll figure out which it is soon enough.

well, my eyes are dry and tired and for some reason, my head is banging.
perhaps it's all the first person shooter going on next to me.

image

naked.
that's how i imagine heaven.
in heaven, i am completely naked (please refrain from imagining this. if you must be imaginative, imaginatify yourself naked).

it's interesting that in the Bible, when it talks about the garden of eden (you know...where everything was perfect and in its rightful place, functioning as it was intended and being all harmonious and stuff), it is specifically mentioned that they were naked and weren't ashamed. now, all the pictures ive ever seen of adam and eve involve dainty features, smooth skin, chiseled abs and proportionate features. in short: they are perfect specimens of the species...what would they have had to be ashamed of??? and yet, when the whole sin thing goes down, suddenly, they are self-conscious and cover themselves up. thus, the concept of nakedness. they didn't call it nakedness before that. they probably called it....oh, i don't know...BE-ING? perfectly natural, right? hey, remember: garden of eden=harmony/functioning as intended/perfection etc.

i feel pretty comfortable when i'm naked. in fact, on those really bad days when i cant even stand the FEEL of me, my safe place is unclothed and hiding somewhere, like under the covers or the bath tub. sometimes it feels like my clothes are just reminding me that there are unsightly things about me. when i am out of those defining boundaries, i feel more free. less painfully aware of my everything. in general, just less aware of myself and more aware of what is around me instead.

i started writing on my mirrors a while back. this was so that when i looked at that reflective surface, i could see something else other than my blemishes and stubborn hair and fat rolls. the goal is to actually put words there that act as a buffer between me and my image--scripture or other meditative thoughts that can filter the way i see myself. most of the time it works, but i have also found other ways to be aware of my body that bypass the whole mirror thing, and i still find myself consumed by image. sometimes i can even look at my mirror and not even notice the dry-erase letters right in front of me...as if they weren't even there.

keller 101 (pt 1)

keller's newest series on the prodigal son (luke 15) has really impacted me lately. it was right on the heels of his series on esther. maybe it was the sermons, maybe the speaker...or maybe its just that im in a place to listen these days...maybe. i havent cried out to God in a long time--i mean, literary crying: the salty, wet kind. i just havent felt any kind of emotion--anything other than apathy--since...well, since i dont know when. so i thought i'd try to think through the progression of thought that led me to a small breakdown in my car on wednesday:

sermon 1 was from esther and what first struck me was this idea that God is in the small happenings of our lives: in the things that seem unimportant--perhaps even annoying non sequiturs in the chronology of our lives. in the bigger picture of esther (the book, not the person), the end result of the story was GOING to be annihilation of a people group, a tragedy only derailed by things like (not listed chronologically or in order of importance) 1. the king's drunkeness, 2. esther being an orphan, 3. vashti's banishment, 3. the king not being able to sleep at night etc. the list really goes on and on. keller pointed out that typically, when God showed up in the lives of the israelites to rescue them, it was in huge things (ie: the 10 plagues, the parting of the red sea, bread from heaven, destroying the walls of jericho with trumpets). the book of esther is a story that shows God's involvement on the "molecular" level, if you will--an encouragement that his presence is with us over mole hills as well as mountains.

i have both of those in my life--simultaneously, in fact. there are some things happening--re-evaluating our church membership, for one--that i would call "mountains." but mostly, my life is a series of events, some of which frustrate me in their seeming unimportance or pointlessness. when i am able to piece some of those things together (which i often try to do), and they fit into the larger puzzle of my life, i get excited. many times, i feel like i'm standing here with these fragments in my hands (remembering that i was never really very good at puzzles) wishing i knew where they went.

i wonder if esther sat around in the palace at night trying to figure out why these things were happening to her. she's a pretty silent main character. keller took a moment to point out esther's sin. she certainly wasnt a daniel, shadrach, meshach and abednego--refusing to eat outside their dietary laws in nebuchadnezzar's palace. they could have been killed for that! lucky that they weren't. i'm sure esther could have been killed, too, for refusing to go through all those beauty treatments or refusing to sleep with the king. she didn't, though. and...well, God used her to save most of her people from an evil plot to destroy them. at least from our perspective on the story, if she hadnt done what she did or been where she was, lots of innocent people would have died. im not really trying to make a point. i'm not sure what to say about all that except "romans 8:28," i guess, to slap a platitude on it.

definitely no 20/20 here

i basically have this thing called "big-picture blindness." i simply cant see or consider anything other than what's right in front of me. it's really a killer when trying to plan your life for the next five years, or dealing with a stressful situation, or guessing your christmas presents. it gets me in trouble, makes me a horrible advice-giver (the phrase "hindsight is 20/20" was truly created just for me). i am beginning to think that it is what is at the root of my impatience and stress.

recently there have been some shocking happenings in my life that would not have been such a surprise if i had any ability to anticipate and gauge the situation. mikey is great at stepping back and taking everything in and has incredible discernment--he chooses to share this with me sparsely either because he thinks it's funny or because he is afraid reality would blow my little mind.

ive really been wishing lately that i could trade in my vision for a broader perspective, though. maybe then i wouldnt be blindsided by things, or when going through a spiritual trial, i wouldnt completely forget about heaven. is this one of those "my cross to bear" kind of things that, in dealing with it, eventually makes me stronger? or is it something that i could learn if i stopped being so stubborn and listened to life?

i finished crime and punishment. oh, and my snake died.

i didnt want to, but i felt just like him. raskolnikov, that is (that was surprisingly easy to spell). obsessed with myself. desperately trying to justify myself...yet surrounded by people willing to sacrifice and love me through it. that's what i got out of it, anyway--that, and russians call each other by five names interchangeably to mess with your head.

last sunday morning was our second-ever "home church" which consists of eric and melody spencer, nate richardson and mikey and i. we have breakfast and sit around talking in someone's home. it starts out (although i make it sound so formulaic and established, we've only done this twice) casual as we talk about our homes, movies, work etc. and then somehow, an hour and a half later we have dived into some rough waters, treading water and holding on to one another for support. i have enjoyed these conversations. i love being able to share ideas and ask real questions and feel supported, validated and challenged all at one time (the teenager next door has been working on the lawn all day. this reminds me that having children can be used to great benefit....oh wait, yes, that's him trying to kill a bee with the weed-eater.)

this particular home-church, we shared many of our doubts, which i found fitting as it was Thomas Sunday (the second Sunday in the 50 days of the Easter season) and we were allowing ourselves to be Thomases. i guess it all came to the topics of the validity of the Bible, different religion and cultures' perspectives of God, and the mystery of God.

later, after the spencers left, nate and i talked about forgiveness. i need to think about this a little more, i think, but the ideas that we shared (particularly the ideas NATE shared) were pretty impactful to me. he spoke about being forgiving as a reaction to pain inflicted on us instead of desiring revenge or wishing harm to the perpetrator. he talked about how realizing God's deep love for him compelled him to wish good for others--sanity to those lashing out and wounding others out of their insanity.

especially this year, i have spent a lot of time pouting and being angry and frustrated with my interactions with people. i have often wondered if God could even love some of the people i have to deal with--although that sounds juvenile (and it is) and self-righteous (also correct), it is true. when nate said that, i thought about those people and realized that the only thing i wish for them is retribution, justice...karma. my kids are memorizing romans 12 so i've been reciting with them in the morning "do not take revenge, my friends...'it is mine to avenge; i will repay,' says the Lord" and, of course, not thinking about what i'm saying.

in our conversation about forgiveness, we talked about how even when people get "revenge" (for example, attending the execution of someone who killed a loved one), it is not healing. that's why mandela led his country towards forgiveness rather than retribution: he realized that the only way to break the cycle was to transcend it.

and that's what forgiveness is...a transcendence.

well, this is a hodge podge of things but i had to write something. takes one entry to break the silence, usually, and then more follow in its wake.

24-7 Easter prayer

this week has been 24/7 Easter in greensboro. this whole holy week has been accented by events in this sacred space. passover...maundy-thursday...good friday...and now preparations for easter morning.

it has probably been my favorite one that i've been a part of (excluding the first one because i only attended that one, and because that one will always be my favorite since it marks the beginning of this new prayer life in me). it is because i felt real ownership in it this year--like i was not only hands, but a voice and a brain behind it. it is exhausting though. every day of going to work and then rushing over to be there for an event, or to watch the door, or to relieve becky, or to simply be there because it's where i want to be. it has been my joy to play an active role in this event...but this morning i am tired. i am tired of being pulled in so many directions (i blame my job, mostly!) and my life not feeling like my own. dishes have grown into a monstrous, pungent tower; the yard looks like a jungle; piles of washed and unwashed clothes lay strewn about; the floor is clearly in need of being vacuumed; and our fridge is so empty it echos when it's opened. my life feels scattered like so many seeds on a field and i only hope something fruitful emerges from this chaos.

i was thinking last night about how the first year i ever went to a 24/7 prayer room (by becky inc.), i spent a lot of time at each station, doing every little thing. every year that i am involved in organizing or "putting on" a prayer event, i do less and less of the stations. i love almost all of the stations we set up this year, but some of them, i have not even done myself. i was wondering to myself, and to God, i suppose, if i should feel guilty about that. then i had this thought that setting up the room, maintaining the stations and "chaperoning" the door were my worship. i do this at home, too. i set up all these personal stations and get excited about all these new prayer ideas at home but i only do them sporadically, or for a little while before moving on to something else. my good friend Heather was the one who encouraged me not to feel discouraged and to recognize the worship and prayer that i was doing even though i wasn't being disciplined and following through as much as i wished i could (or would...).

this year, i desperately wanted to feel emotionally alive and connected to the room and my experiences in the room. i wanted to cry, i wanted to be overwhelmed with emotional realizations. i wanted to feel deeply the messages of holy week. i stopped to meditate, i came to help lead worship for 4 hours straight, i fulfilled my personal time slot praying from 9-midnight one night. maybe God didn't bless me in that way because i was doing it for myself...or maybe because i was too busy to truly stop and be meditative...or maybe it became about DOING, about RELIGION and not about Jesus...or maybe im supposed to be okay with our relationship not being emotionally charged all the time (although it's JESUS! so i feel like it should be...)...or maybe it was all these things or none of these things. i am not naive enough, i dont think, to suppose that i was just one of these things or had just one of these feelings the whole week. i am a roulette of motivations and emotions and desires--never the same combination, even in the same moment. all i know is that i feel empty this morning, and emotionally shut down and...well, and a little disappointed.

perhaps it is tiredness, a disorganized home, and a week of eating junk food on the go with no exercise that makes me feel restless and irritable and frustrated this morning. i want to do what i want to do with my day but the "must dos" have piled atop this declaration of freedom and buried it. i am staring at a blank piece of folded paper that will become my grocery list, and mikey is paying bills and i am hoping i can stop to buy some flip-flops so my poor feet can breathe in this stifling weather (it's not fair--it's not summer yet!) before i go on to the church for the rest of the afternoon.

i feel trapped in my skin this morning
completely weighed down by this body and sick of thinking about how to shape it
and how to clothe it
and how to care for it
and how to carry it around
and thinking about what other people are thinking about when they look at it
i am sick of thinking about me
but then my brain is full of trying hard not to think of myself
and i think of myself all the more.
who will save me from the body of death?
thank you Jesus.

train of thought

i bought new socks today. they have pretty patterns and there is no cold air finding its way through an intricate pattern of holes to reach my toes.

have you ever listened to the siren of an ambulance go off nearby for a minute or so before realizing that its a sound effect in the song you're listening to?

i think i've had the same thing of foil for almost two years. i really thought i used more foil than that.

tasty combination: cheddar goldfish, craisins and lightly salted whole almonds.

yes, i eat things off of the floor if they have just recently fallen.

last time i made meat lasagna, i forgot the meat. i shall not make this mistake again.

J. Alfred melancholy

what is my "prime"
but the height of unawareness of myself,
making it seem the most happy time
before realizing those things not visible through these rose-colored glasses

"oh do not ask 'what is it?'
let us go and make our visit."

why shouldn't i speak of time
all poets speak of time and how rapidly it is passing
on a wing'ed chariot, according to andrew marvel
and so we make the most of it

"that is not what i meant at all,
that is not it at all."

there is a sadness in the realization
a sadness in these moments spent before the mirror
pinching and tweaking
then startled back in somber recognition
that i am wasting time in meaningless frustration

"i have measured out my life in coffee spoons."

to imagined a white-haired mother
an aging father
to take my place as an adult, calling the names of my parents
in that tone...it is
unbearable

"it is impossible to say just what i mean!"

how do we move forward
with such crippling reality sniffing about our door ways?
yet we seem to be unhindered
we still live furiously

"would it have been worthwhile..."

i remember the heightened sense of things
its prickling sensation, its spreading warmth that starts
from deep within
and i miss it like a friend

"full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse...at times indeed, almost ridiculous."

we gain, we grow but i feel the losses
i tell myself that there is joy in every stage
but the joy of youth taunts me and puts distance
between us

"i grow old ... i grow old."

ignorance is a comfortable armchair
innocence its footrest
i cannot pretend anymore to lounge there in
the warmth of the sun
i have discovered that it is evening and i cannot seem to believe a lie
a wish, perhaps

"i do not think that they will sing to me."

why do we write if not to give ourselves hope?
this aching absence in our chests
is the voice of wisdom
we only feel the emptiness because we were designed
to have it filled

"till human voices wake us, and we drown."

while watching the sun set

i see you sun
i see you descending
i climb higher and higher following the moon,
ancient and stark in its fullness against the night sky
higher and higher
and you unfold before me like a secret
you are falling
descending
your great light
spreads across the tops of the mountains
a last burning exhale,
thrown into the air with boldness,
making them glow as if they are ablaze
and yet this burning is so peaceful
i find myself wanting to be consumed by it
but also feel taken over by gentleness, becoming gentle
like these delicate, soft colors.
how softly the trees stand against the gathering darkness.
they are serene,
un-wanting, accepting exactly where they are.
they softly sway.
they ask for nothing
and how could they?
they sit here at the top of this mountain,
they watch you descend
they watch you burn the mountains and the hills on your way down
why would they ask for anything more?
what more could they get?
i wish i were a tree and
content with my view.


you are breathtaking.
you steal my breath
and my words.
and i am grateful to finally be wordless

grateful
to be wordless while i watch you descend.


it is never final.
it is reoccurring, and your ascent
is just as breathtaking
and your consistency is comforting.

knowing isnt helping

i know i know
im not the only one
suffering
and in the line-up
my suffering hasnt even
qualified on the forms
for emergency
i know i know i wish
i knew
i know im not acting like
i know
i know im acting alone like
no one knows the trouble ive seen like
no one could ever understand
like woe woe
oh woe is me!
i know my suffering doesnt compare
to yours
and i should suck it up and
move the hell on
but im hurting so deeply and telling myself
its not as bad as so-and-so
hasnt been as healing as i thought it would
so please help me gain some perspective
and please love me when i dont have any.

reader's warning: just skip this one altogether

i exit my facebook account to the log-in screen and catch a glimpse of the image of a smartphone with a caption that reads "leaving facebook? try facebook mobile!" even when i try to get away, it tells me that i don't have to! there's a better way to fuel addiction! all these ways to be "connected." i am so "connected"...only to find that i'm really not that connected at all.

i was doing very well these past weeks. on top of lesson plans and grading, being focused. getting stuff done. motivated. after a long weekend i find myself back to square one: distracted and filling my time with social sites and blogging. i dont drown my sorrows or channel my uncertainties into work. i find that i just dont want to do it at all.

"your religion is what you do in your solitude."

i guess facebook is my religion. yuck.

previously, i was working on answering some questions about Elie Wiesel's memoir Night. i'm going to be making my kids write about their experience with the book, and i want to have thought through my own questions first (well, i got them from somewhere else, actually). so i ended up thinking about how we humans end up hurting each other no matter how hard we try not to. i also starting thinking about how we all seem to have this disease of wanting to be better than someone else. the two are, obviously, connected. one of the questions asks:

Could something like the Holocaust happen today? Discuss more recent genocides, such as the situation in Rwanda in the 1990s and the ongoing conflict in Sudan. Does Night teach us anything about how we can react to these atrocities?

i wish i could say, "no!" but these days, i feel so attuned to the innate brokenness under our "put-together" selves that i just cant. as long as there is greed, self-protection, insecurity, selfishness (the list goes on and on), id have to say "sure. something like that could happen again." to some degree, it happened in cambodia, in rwanda, in darfur.

and in some respects, we're doing that kind of thing now: deciding that there's a hierarchy, that we're better than someone else and we have a right to oppress them. that the rules of humanity don't apply to those who are less than us. gays and lesbians come to mind, by the way.

here i am sounding so self-righteous and enlightened. see what i'm talking about? i say that i am "attuned to the innate brokenness under our 'put together' selves" but what i mean is that i am "attuned to the innate brokenness under your 'put together' self."

i actually dont see my own stuff at all. maybe that's what im trying to do this lenten season? repent. realize brokenness in myself as well as the world around me. its been difficult so far. i find myself unwilling to listen or be quiet and reflective. i find myself unwilling to believe that there's anything wrong with me at all even while clutching at my gaping wounds. i am very willing to believe that if i give up this "thing" for 40 days, if i fast regularly (not even cheating on sundays!), the slate will be washed clean and i can go back to functioning as normal. independent and alone.

tea and taxes

i am switching to tea for a while. i love its lightness, and the nuances of flavor that spread over my tongue with each taste: with every sip, i feel as though i am entering a mansion with countless doors to open, endless rooms to explore.

one of those small pleasures in life. i just hope im not trading one addiction for another (probably a hopeless hope; aren't we spending our lives doing just that?).

this morning i am sorting our life into piles. insurance, water bills, verizon, mechanic receipts. i am surrounded by little islands of paper that i have populated with numbers myself. it's hard sometimes not to let my spirits be dragged into a seemingly redundant cycle with little redemption. working, spending, paying, working again. i feel it most after a long day when i get home just in time to eat a quick dinner (if you can call it that) and grunt a few words to my spouse before trying to get some sleep in before it starts all over.

today was the first day of real sunshine in a while. i sat reading under its golden rays for a while, soaking it in like a flower or a blade of grass, trying to get my color back. it helped infuse me with a little hope, i think. this is the first winter i can remember that really seeped under my skin to my bones, freezing me up within. i am ready to be unfrozen.

usually, i dont like being a hermit, but today mikey and i stayed at home just doing things with each other and it was really nice. we didnt get into our cars once. didnt get out our wallets, or out of our PJ's until well past noon. we've just been here experiencing each other for a change and despite having to weather moody moments, i feel connected again (like when two magnets get within range of each other--ZIIP!).

and now we're going to eat some home-made dinner and play video games. that's right. VIDEO GAMES.

man's greatest challenge

i am musing over my salad and melba about valentine's day and what i see it doing to these girls here at school. it is undeniably in their faces: they all want a boyfriend RIGHT NOW, and are eying each others' significant other with envy and desire. they don't want to keep him forever--they just want him for Sunday.

i can sense their gathering anticipation, growing louder and louder in their body language as the day approaches. already in their mind, they have painted a picture of what it will be like, and assume with the naivety of their 15 years that they are telepathically transmitting this to their boyfriend and that he is most certainly receiving the message without a shred of mis-interpretation. each time they walk by him, an orchestra plays and they see roses and presents and....well, the pimply-faced adolescent is on a conveyor belt heading swiftly to his demise under the crushing weight of his chosen female's expectations.

that poor kid cant accomplish what older, greater men than he have tried to since the beginning of recorded history (and before, i'm sure): satisfy the deep longing of a woman's heart.

over my twenty-some years of life, i have celebrated valentines day in a plethora of ways. for most of my childhood, it meant learning about St. Valentine, making a super-cool valentine's box out of cardboard, construction paper and the odd art supply and fashioning personalized valentines to drop into each of my sibling's respective boxes. then there were the years of angst-filled teenager, sighing over images of people in love and wishing i had someone to take me on a romantic date. following was the single college woman phase, adamantly opposing the entire concept of valentines day and proving it by going out on the town with my other single ladies. as a woman newly in love with the man who would become her husband, i was giddy with excitement imagining what may or may not happen--thrilled with being doted upon and surrendering to being starry-eyed. now, having been married almost 5 years, i find myself trying desperately to stave off the conscious and semi-conscious expectations assaulting my brain.

"it's a trap!" the logic side of my mind screams, only to be suffocated to silence by my irrationality. indeed, our saturday morning fight was stemmed by the "holiday," as i sat holding the fragments of my broken and impossible desires (some of them incapable of being articulated--try to fulfill those, fabio!). after weighing all the good times and the bad, i come to this conclusion today at this stage of me: i wish i could ignore that this day existed.

likely to happen?
*sigh*
probably not.

classical music and...snow?

one of those secret pleasures (that is about to not be secret anymore) of mine is on monday nights, after small group, getting into my car to drive home, blasting the heat or putting down the windows (depending on my temperature needs) and turning the volume dial up until i hear the sweet swelling of classical music through the speakers: "performance today" on NPR. i listen to it all the way home, sometimes waiting in the driveway to hear the end of a piece that i am especially enjoying.

i was so thankful for it last night. my head was so full of the most unpleasant and anxiety-infused thoughts that i needed to be distracted. not all music does that for me, but something about classical music whisks me away. i allow myself to concentrate on all the different parts, how they cooperate together to create a gorgeous fullness, and there's just not room in my head for much else. last night, i got home and put my seat back down so i could relax while i listened. i stayed out there for a while, clearing my head.

i wish it had lasted for longer, but when i went inside the house, my thoughts came back in a rush. it was like trying to keep rain off a windshield in a thunderstorm.

we have a two-hour delay today. i havent found the balance between relief and frustration yet. as long as they don't cancel, i think ill be okay. i keep looking outside to see snow flakes drifting into my driveway but nothing has happened yet, although the skies look so heavy this morning.

mikey says they're pregnant....pregnant with precipitation.

biological hocus pocus

cream, dense with flavor
poured into the heart of black
and spreading slowly out to each corner--
a web of white curling around the dark color of coffee
every day magic
connecting and fusing into a rich, new thing.
the way your body responds to mine
when i am close
with an arm as automatically programmed as machinery
yet organic and alive
every day magic
it comforts me, this
instinctive awakening to my skin alone.

pancakes 101

let me explain something about pancakes: they are incredibly versatile. once you make them in the morning, you don't have too much cooking left to do for the rest of the day.

at the beginning of the day, they are pleasantly warm and sweet under melting butter and sticky syrup.

satisfying afternoon rumblings, their soft bready-ness is savory under crunchy peanut butter and bananas.

in the evenings after dinner, they are a delectable dessert smothered with whipped cream and fruit compote.

(in other news, i have problems with the words "fruit compote"--too close to "compost" for my liking.)

dawn hasn't left my hands as soft as it promised

it's not that i mind washing dishes by hand so terribly. actually, washing dishes by hand brings back memories--mostly really good ones!--of being in the kitchen with my siblings, cleaning up after dinner. or standing in the assembly line at my grandmother's waiting for each dish to dry thoroughly and put up on the shelf--wringing out the towel when it got too wet (just like in Africa...............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................)

anyway.
so obviously, it's not that. AND i even went back to an old 10,000 Homes creative prayer action and prayed for the care center being built in kabokweni while i washed and dried. so it also wasn't a waste of time.

but what DO i mind? thank you for asking (even if your request did sound a little like "get on with it, already!"). i mind very much that after spending the time to load up the dishwasher, when i open it again, all the time and water spent did nothing but throw flecks of food up into the cups on the top rack and then go the extra mile to bake them in during the dry cycle. then, i handle the dirty dishes for a second time, scrubbing harder than ever to get the crusted mess off of each piece. (or, there's always the ever-popular method of denial in which you just run them again and again until you can't lie to yourself anymore).

what good is technology anyway? what's the point of owning a dishwasher when you have to rinse each dish thoroughly (basically "washing" without the whole soap element) before putting it into the machine to get...washed?

makes me feel not-so-bad about skipping the extra step, and the frustration, by just going straight to handwashing.

washing dishes can be a real communal thing. who started this whole rushing-through-life thing, anyway? didn't meals used to be a whole community process, from start to finish? my family did it that way when i was a kid, and we sat around one long table ("halllllooooooo down there.....can you pass the butttttteeeeeerrrrr?????"--there were 12 of us, okay?) and talked and laughed. even after-dinner chores must not have been so bad, since all i can remember about it was flicking each other with wickedly wet hand-towels, and soaking up to our elbows in soapy water while we chatted away (i always liked the role of putting the food away...i just liked condensing things into small, neat containers and storing it away to be opened again later like a little present).

in Africa, mikey and i went back to these...roots(?) when we would gather in the cold kitchen with hayley and manga, inventory our food and then throw something together. the point was not really the dish itself. it was the cleaning, chopping, cooking, setting-the-table, eating, washing up and especially--perhaps entirely--what happened among us during all of that which was the entire purpose of the act.

i just heard from an Africa-friend today and i find myself overwhelmingly eager to reply immediately, though i don't even know what to say. its a conversation i am thirsty for. talking with her reminds me of being there. talking with her taps into this secret part of me--the Africa part that only a few people know about. when she writes to me, it is with such affection in her beautiful, unveiled voice of pure self, inviting me into her life, that i am compelled to accept and walk forward.

sometimes i ache for Africa with such a physical ache. it throbs and reminds me with each pulse how empty that part of me is...the Africa part...the part that can only be filled with Africa's crisp winter air and open skies and rich colors. the part that can only be filled with the faces of Africa. Manga and Hayley and Amanda and Carla and Ryan and John and Rae and Elizabeth. sometimes i don't think it will ever stop hurting.

we are too eager

It is such a marvel to me how seldom it is truly appropriate that we humans speak into each others spiritual lives. My marveling enters in because, while the appropriateness is seldom, the act itself continues, leaving behind a gory wake. This seems to be especially true of Christians--probably because our sense of morality and truth compels us to communicate this to others, especially those we see are not living as they ought to.

I am not trying to enter into the controversial haze around the issues of there being one God, one Truth, and a Christ-follower's commission to extend that Truth to those who do not have it.

I am simply reflecting today on elements of human nature that I have observed and this thought: it seems that one's journey and consequent experiences cannot be rushed.

For a virtual smorgasbord of reasons, we are often stepping into the boundaries of each others lives to offer warning, concern, sometimes demands. With the best intentions, we find ourselves trying to save one another from the fires over which our hands are poised, but sometimes the truths we know from our own mistakes and disappointments are not clearly truth to the other, and they must feel the smoldering flame before that becomes absolute truth for them, too.

In truth, humans are all bumbling through their stories towards the end, no matter how careful we try to be, because to face reality, this course is full of obstacles, many of them invisible, and a stubbed toe can simply not be avoided. Sometimes, they are just a part of the direction in which we chose to travel and are used to turn us slightly to the right or left.

Now, it is unequivocally true that someone should not stick their finger into the whirring blades of a garbage disposal, and someone who knows the pain of that does have a responsibility to cry out "Stop!" I am, however, addressing the fact that some people will lose their finger anyway and that this experience will be only one of many painful moments that have the potential to lead to real growth.

Also, as hinted by the opening sentences, my real focus is situations that, while they may be reflected in the physical, have a very real spiritual root. It is very hard for many of us to ignore things in others lives that are morally, philosophically, spiritually incorrect in light of Christian Truth and not say something about it. Even with intentions of the greatest purity, when we find ourselves insisting that another believe and live out of a truth which they cannot understand or believe at this point in their journey, we do not accomplish even our own puny goals, much less the eternal goals for that person's life.

And so the question remains: what do we do when, out of genuine love, we feel compelled to reach across those boundaries into someone else's world?

I am asking myself this question. Today, I reflect on these three thoughts:

Remember Jesus, who shared meals with tax collectors and lifted the Adulteresses' head.

Speak for the good of those who cannot speak for themselves.

You are only the true authority of one thing: your own story.

ohsnooooooes!

it snowed. like, a whole whole lot. truly, the last time i saw this much snow was when i was in college--class was canceled and we took trashcan lids and sled down icy stairs late into the night and woke up to eat breakfast early in the caf, then went back to our rooms to sleep until noon.

no powdered eggs, but the fun and relaxation is still there this side of college. i went out and played in it when it was an unbroken white blanket begging to be jumped in. two layers of everything (three layers of some things) and a self-knitted hat and mikey and i ventured out for a nice long icy walk. we came back to build an igloo with our neighbors the spencers but it was so fluffy and powdery that it refused to be shaped. so i just romped instead--fell backwards to make snow-angels, climbed up in the back of the truck that's stuck in our backyard to cozy down into the fluff (comfy but cold) and made face impressions, licking the snow off my face after pulling away to gaze down at my handiwork. the other adults just stood around and chatted while i acted a fool. i was a little sad to be alone in my kid-at-heart state.

ive been thinking a lot this snowed-in weekend about growing up in western Pennsylvania. one winter, we could hardly open the front door because of how high the snow was. you know how much bigger things look when you are little? well, i was a small kid at the time, im sure, because when we went outside, i recall sinking down until the snow was almost over my head. we followed each other out in a line--big kids first to blaze the trail. in PA, it was always such good snow for being imaginative! we advanced well beyond simple snowmen. of course we built whole snow families, and forts and--my favorite--elaborate tunnels that twisted and turned like a huge white snake through our yard. we had a hill right outside our house and every winter, we cleared a sled-run from the top, across our driveway and into the adjacent field, coming to a nice stop as the ground leveled out. we had a long green toboggan (yes, that's what we call some types of SLEDS up north) with yellow lining that folded out and held three or four people. the front was curved upwards and the thing really picked up speed when you got it going. amazing how doing the same thing over and over again can still be as enjoyable as the very first time.

playing with my siblings in the snow was so much fun. i never remember being miserably cold or being annoyed at having to put on and peel off layer after layer each time you wanted to go in and out. i just remember how wondrous the yard became--covered so quietly by that sparkling, magical blanket. i remember laying on my back, staring up at the packed roof of our snow tunnel, talking to my brother or sisters. i remember climbing up the slippery ladder of our tree house and surveying the white ocean beneath us. i loved snowball fights and snow angels, and i still do. but playing in the snow alone just cant compare to having epic wintery lord of the rings reenactments with your siblings (its hard to fight orcs back into their icy caves by yourself). this winter, i will continue to enjoy the snow, if mostly from in front of my window with a cup of coffee and a book, and some memories from childhood winters long passed.

(yes, i am aware that lord of the rings came out when i was in college.)

memories from a song #2

"summertime, summertime
brought me back to thinking you were mine
all those times
we laid it down and left it all behind, we were blind
oh, the summertime.

we could ride, we could ride.
take my hand and watch the world go by.
laugh or cry, well we need to try,
get off the line, time to fly
oh, the summertime.

go on ahead
and let it fade away
no looking back
you know the past will stay.
it's you and me, we could get out of here
jump in and go and we could drive for years
where we could feel alive...

here we are, here we are,
windows down we see a falling star
stop the car
waiting for nothing but our beating hearts,
going far
oh, the summertime.

so feel the air, feel the air,
take the map and point to anywhere
i don't care
fingers through your hair,
the sky i've seen is blue and green
oh, the summertime.

driving away, leaving it all behind.
just driving away, away, away...
driving away, leaving it all behind.
just driving away, away, away....


its the perfect temperature because the windows are down and we are driving fast and there's a breeze and i'm not even cold, even though im always cold. my hand is hanging out the window and i'm moving it through the wind with fascination, feeling it rush over and under and shape me even as i am shaping it. you are next to me but we are in bucket seats so i dont feel the warmth of your body. we aren't touching because we're not at that place yet, although in a few years, unbeknown to us both, our hands will be joined by a minister and our ring fingers will permanently display a promise. for now, in this moment in time, you are driving me through the neighborhoods of greensboro with the windows down (the sunroof would be open, too, if it werent broken) and you are teaching me that this city is a grid. you ask me to choose and we take a turn here and there, just to see where it will take us. no matter where we turn, you know where we are and i settle deeply down into this bucket seat and feel safe. we share a love for nighttime driving, for driving as leisure. we share the same sense of freedom as we feel the summer air wash over us, saturated with its scent of sun and heat and earth. i feel totally unfettered, letting all the sounds and sights and senses become a part of me and move me to breathe deeply, sing out loud, drum in patterns on my bare knees. summer had melted into my skin, caressed me golden, and my mind a window thrown open, its curtains billowing out beyond the sill. were you already captured then?

(song lyrics "Summertime" by Mae)

the Blueberry

i pull into the parking lot, a bronze B&W before me, a yellow mustang with black racing stripes behind me. my '02 blue mazda protege 5 is sheepish between these two money-stacks and i wince when it squeals against the cold and hurls me against the roof when we go over the speed bump as if it had no shocks at all. we each settle into a space between white lines and i wait for a few minutes, fiddling with my keys and slowly taking the last few sips of coffee while i watch my students rise from their vehicles like titans from chariots. i sit quietly and reflect. i pat my dusty dashboard and alight cheerfully onto the curb.

invited in

"One of the signatures that has developed out of our marriage that I love most is the fact that when our door is unlocked, people don't even knock--they know they are going to only hear the call "come in!" and no one is going to get the door for them anyway. I love this because it says to me, 'I know I am welcome.' " (www.fisselsonamission.blogspot.com)

i wrote this as i was updating our fissel blog about our married life. when i wrote that last line, i was overwhelmed with this sense that THAT is something i want to be able to say when i come into the presence of God. i want to feel like i am being invited in, not that i'm barging in. i want to walk into the moment with Him as if i were walking into my own house, comfortable, familiar, at ease. i want to know he is waiting at the top of the stairs, relaxed with a cup of coffee in his hand and another on the table waiting for me, just the way i like it. and in this embracing atmosphere, i want to settle in and talk and talk and talk. talk until i am absolutely blue in the face and have no breath left, and not suddenly feel that i am sitting alone.

by myself.

in an empty room.

one coffee mug before me.

and that i am very, very silly.

about cages and tears and other depressing things

gosh, it was a rough day today. i don't cry very much, but when i do, it's quite a production. after all, it's been building and building, waiting behind the curtains for that one event that throws them back to start the show. there are no dress rehearsals for tears in my world. no sniffles and single tear drops trailing down my cheek. just floods.

i was able to wait until i was behind the wheel of my car before it began. even between sobs, as i took deliberate breaths in and out to even my breathing, my lips were quivering with an emotion too heavy to hold in my chest.

the whole way to my friend's house, i cried. i imagined myself coming down the walk to her front door and collapsing into a puddle in her arms at her greeting. but i coudn't do it. i couldnt be as vulnerable as i wanted to be. and i wanted to be, let me tell you. i did manage to be honest, to be what i felt in that moment without trying to control the hurt in my voice, the water welling behind my eyes, but it was a very deliberate, concentrated effort and i feel exhausted by it all.

my eyes have felt dry and heavy all day. even standing in line at the golden wok, i felt somewhat a shell of myself, having been emptied in a mazda protege 5 and a soft couch off of whilden. i felt like people could notice. the thing about crying, the thing about being vulnerable, is that all that stuff that you have fashioned into bricks and then stacked carefully one by one into a hefty retaining wall--what was the original thought? oh yes, the thing about crying is that your wall has been utterly demolished, and there is nothing between you and the world, between you and that person next to you who could do or say who knows what and you would have no defense against it. maybe that's why when the guy in front of me turned to ask me for directions to the panda express five miles away when you take a left off of bridford parkway onto west wendover, i stuttered and said i didnt know.

most of the time, this nakedness is terrifying. well, it always is. but...there was this one time that i spoke at a women's conference. it was really difficult to sit in front of those women and pour my heart out to a wide range of souls--close friends, new acquaintances, total strangers. after getting through my speech, some of it intelligible despite the tears, i experienced such a stripping of self, such a fragility that i was terrified when i stood to walk back to my seat among the crowd. who would i sit next to? what would they think of me--or worst, say to me--in response to this personal outpouring?

ah, it was so beautiful. i was immediately surrounded by unspeakable love and affection--friends who enveloped me with arms and hearts so quietly, so gently that i wanted nothing but to fall back into their warmth and light with no inhibitions. i dont think ive felt anything quite like it. it was a mysterious thing, this emotional filling up--so tangible that i felt the pouring into me like a physical substance. and it was because i was wide open and undefended: a garden stretching beautiful and natural into wide open space. i never would have felt such a saturation if i had been sitting securely behind my walls, quickly deflecting, making sure i didn't let anything in that could potentially weaken me or show me to be weak.

i dont know where i got this inclination to hide myself, to push away. when was the first time i raised a shield in my own defense? was it held in the tender hand of a 7 year old? when did it become a behavior, as much a part of me as my own fingers? in puberty? earlier? does everyone easily become an expert in isolation? is it a human thing, an American thing...a Laura thing?

ive been home since 1 and now at 10 i still havent unlocked this cage around my heart to talk to the one whom i desire to know me more than anyone else. ha ha, well, i was talking about my husband, but i just realized how closely that description matches someone else...

no, i havent been able to talk to him yet either.

a hairy conspiracy

"I'm shedding like a cat!" I cry and the student I am helping giggles, but I can't concentrate on her question. My eyes are attuned to see each spiraling hair dangling from glove, hanging from the edge of a sleeve, clinging to the collar of my coat and all driven back to my body by the pull of static when I try to remove them. Even now, there is one mysteriously hidden down the front of my shirt and I conveniently can't reach down to fish it out for the sake of propriety and the innocence of my students. When I look around, all I see are hairs. I gently pull one from the fibers of my hand-warmers and hold it to the side like a worm ready to be hooked. I watch it float with feathery lightness to the ground just to make sure it's not still grabbing hold of me. I survey myself: my hands, my sleeves, each shoulder, and sigh with relief to see myself purged. My hairs grin wickedly at one another, barely able to contain their glee in a soft swish when I move my head.

Moments later, I start the ritual over again.

i dream in...

i spent the morning commute dreaming.

last night was not good for me.

or it was very good for me--i haven't decided.

last night several dear friends implored me to enjoy life, not to wait to pursue my dreams, to take that leap into the unknown and be okay with both failure and hardship as long as i'm in pursuit of that for which my heart burns with passion.

listening to them made me shiver with fear, anxiety and excitement. i couldnt help but hold before my eyes painful scenes of letting go, of leaving, of saying goodbye and moving on. i couldnt help but feel fear twisting in my gut.

when i dream, i dont dream in office supplies and long doubled white boards newly cleaned. i dont dream in text books and literary terms and tests warm from the printer. i dont dream in colorful vis-a-vis on overheads, a podium white and firm at the front of the room, a solitary stool behind it, in button-down shirts and sweater vests, in red pens making red markings across black ink and A's, B's and "see you tomorrow, Mrs. Fissel's."

i dream in browns--creamy ones and bold ones, dark roasts with fresh cream. i dream in cozy spaces with markers and post-its and lit tea lights with flickering, circular glow. i dream in pastels and paints in poetry with metaphors and push pins on maps at 3am. i dream the smell of fresh cinnamon buns and a bell tinkling above the front door and ceramic mugs, cool to the touch. i dream in clicking keys and letters forming and reforming, in punctuation and sentence structure. i dream from the tiny firmness of laptop keys to soft yarn with wayward fly-aways, taming them with each stitch, and magazine cut-outs arranged to form a new thing and cards heralding the ordinary with color and image and words, always words.

i'm not in despair--not yet. i'm not a wilting flower, each day more dry and liable to crumble at a touch--not yet. but one day, i would like to dream awake. to feel alive with my eyes wide open. and i can't decide if i have to jump out of the boat to feel that way, or just try another deck.

memories from a song #1

not talking about a year,
no not three or four
i dont want that kind of forever in my life anymore
forever always seems to be around when things begin, but forever never seems to be around
when things end
so give me your forever.
please? your forever
not a day less will do
from you

people spend so much time
every single day
runnin around all over town givin
their forever away
but no, not me, i wont
let my forever go
and now i hope that i can find my forever a home

like a hand-less clock with numbers on an infinite of time
no not the forever found only in the mind
forever always seems to be around when things begin
but forever never seems to be around when things end

so give me your forever...please? your forever
not a day less will do
from you

these words take me to that four-way traffic light, or through the K-mart parking lot (coming in by the dumpsters and driving at break-neck speed out the front to try to catch the light by Denny's onto campus). i am sitting low in the passenger's side, staring out the window, lulled to a comatose state by the blur of trees and buildings in the muted blue of morning. i am thinking about class and the soft scratch of no. 2 pencils (the mechanical kind now that we're in community college--although i do miss the feel of slender polished wood between my index and middle fingers) on notebook paper. i am thinking about the weather and how it will affect my lunch location, and about thick, hot fries right out of the basket with plenty of ketchup and salt and--if i'm very lucky--a chicken finger shared by some generous soul (probably a sister or a friend as close as a sister). i am thinking about the echo of our voices on the walls of building 10 and if the seats will be free in front of the new television and how long we can throw quarters against the wall (as if we were still in high school) before someone comes out to say "stop!" as if we were still in high school. i am thinking about how that first kiss felt, shared through the open window of an old mini van. that is what i am thinking of. i am young and when i hear those words forever, i catch them in my hands, shaped them into a heart and give them freely to the one who stirs the butterflies to dancing.

(song lyrics "Forever" by Ben Harper)

diatribe on holy matrimony

it's amazing to me how naturally evil comes to us...how quickly we can devise the most perfectly cynical and hurtful things to say or do that are crafted uniquely to our chosen target and will slay them at a breath. this is why it matters so much when someone is able to change the tide of their thoughts and choose to act in opposition to these inclinations.

today, as i was walking around my neighborhood...enjoying the pleasantly cool weather, it was very difficult not to think about all the things i could say or do that would destroy mikey. i thought about how sweet revenge would taste on my lips as i made him hurt for ways he hurt me. i got a tiny glimpse, though, of my own destruction in the process.

i don't think i listened very closely to my marriage vows. today, when walking around my neighborhood..."cooling off" from a marital argument, i was thinking to myself that there should be more specific promises (or warnings) in marriage vows. truth be told, i was only really remembering back to the "rich, poor, sick, healthy" part and i had to google marriage vows before i remembered all that stuff about honor, respect, love, comfort, in good times and bad etc. i also ran across that line that always makes me tear up a bit: "this is my solemn vow."

so i started thinking about vows (and wishing i'd worn a bra so i could take off my coat, as walking was making me sweat) and covenants and promises and how they're in a league of their own. they're like ancient sages looking down at "feelings" splashing around mindlessly in a kiddie pool.

i often feel like an adolescent playing at marriage. at the end of our fights, i feel so stupid...like i just can't get it right, like i'm still letting mindless things throw me into despair. and when mikey looks at me and listens to me stumble through my expression of hurt or anger or frustration, i feel at war between the side of me that identifies with the bruised emotion and the side of me that realizes it's a tiny pothole in our journey together.

anyway, the conclusion i reached by the time i turned onto braceyridge is that i'm going to have this fight again. probably tomorrow. definitely next saturday (mikey said he'd put a reoccurring event in our outlook calendar in case we forget). but marriage is a promise. i made a promise, a promise, a $*%&!@* promise.

marriage is a covenant, a commitment, a vow, a promise. a promise, a promise. i made a promise.

"yes, i meant 'ybame' instead of 'maybe.' you're a genius."

i'm the kind of texter that goes the extra mile with punctuation. capitalization not so much, but commas and periods (and even the occasional parenthesis) are important to me because they affect TONE. how will someone know when I mean something as an after-thought and not a primary idea without the DASH??? they could mistake my equal importance on the entire thought without such essential additions. caps I care about mostly when I want to express a frustration or emphasis that the feeble exclamation mark cannot contain.

most of the time, I appreciate and utilize text messages as a valid form of communication but sometimes it causes me to mourn the not-so-long-ago time of real letters with paper and ink. i am brought to such remembrances in moments of using auto-complete when it finds every other possible combination of letters but the word that i want, and i think to myself: if i had a pen in my hand, i would be in control of this.

meat and meetings

meatloaf was a disaster, by the way. well, i heard it tasted good but i didn't eat any of it because i was afraid of it. it WOULDN'T COOK. every time i took it out and dug it up and peered into the folds of meat and bread crumbs, i saw pink and PINK scares me (sometimes not only in meaty situations). so i went out and got us fast food after cooking for a few hours; some friends who like rare meat devoured it later and as of today (four days later), they are still alive. so maybe not a total disaster, but disappointing nonetheless.

i thought of all these great things to write about this weekend, but i didn't get a chance to sit down and now they've all left my head. i've often thought about buying a little tape recorder to talk into when my hands are indisposed. ESPECIALLY for in the car. my best thoughts, best metaphors, best imagery seems to wiggle into my brain in the early hours of the morning commute. on the way home i am grumpy and distracting myself with NPR, but the morning is somehow peaceful and still and i find myself quite enjoying putting on cruise control and sipping my coffee all the way to winston. i hope in my life-time they invent the automatic car. i mean, the kind of car that automatically drives itself somewhere, or at least has the option. i like being in control sometimes, but other times id like to be free to watch the scenery go by or read a book or write or knit. i thought of how they could do it, too...sensors on the side of the road. tracks would be too primitive (that is SO Jurassic Park). i havent though through all the scenarios but maybe this will make me famous once all the trouble-shooting is done (shhhh, i know they had cars like that in Minority Report, but thankfully, no one watched that movie).

for some reason, since Christmas, my creativity has truly bloomed. i have a new-found love called card making (first sparked by Emily Garrett's mad skills), and i think i might be finally ready to knit again. i'm even entertaining the idea of an account on etsy, but i'll have to stock up on completed projects before i'm ready to take that dive. im also tired of not writing anymore. i used to be proud of my writing, but i practiced a lot in college with my e-journal. i still go back and read those entries and laugh at my own cleverness. these days when i write, i feel like the tin man in The Wizard of Oz when he first meets Dorothy. at least he knew what would get his limbs moving again; i'm not so sure about my muse yet. speaking of Dorothy, i just recently read Wicked and am trying to work up a review of it when I figure out why exactly I liked it so much.

as i drove home last night through my neighborhood, i passed a teenage girl hugging herself close against the cold walking down the side of the road. her carefully applied make-up suggested to me that she was not on her daily work out. on the contrary, as i turned right off of carolwood, i soon passed a teenage boy in the process of zipping up his hoodie and sauntering in the direction of, i can only assume, his romantic dusk rendezvous with said girl. it reminded me of secretive meetings in mikey's old crown vic (that were more often than not interrupted by cautious policemen) and the warm, tingly feeling of being near the one i loved--i'd like to say a more appropriate scenario than the hormonal fling formerly mentioned, seeing as how we're married and all, but i'd have to say "not really" if i were being honest with myself.

but oh how irresistible the draw of love!
(ie: the raging of hormones)