Comforting Challenge

"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." ~Phil. 4:4-7

Most of the time, when I reference that passage, I focus on the latter two verses - don't worry, tell God, you'll receive peace. Quite frankly, doing that is difficult enough. But tonight I had a sense that I should check out the preceding verses. And I was blown away by how much a heart can forget.

Rejoice in the Lord always.

Always? God, seriously now, I know what You mean when You say "always" and . . . no offense, but I think maybe there's been something lost in translation here. You can't seriously mean always. I know, "blessed be Your name, on the road marked with suffering . . . You give and take away . . ." all that. Sure. I sing it, I even believe I mean it most of the time. But . . . rejoice? With an exclamation point?! That really, really doesn't make much sense. Or come very easily, I'll have You know.

Psh. And THEN there's verse five. "Let your gentleness be evident to all." HAHAHAHA! WhatEVER, Lord.

*cough* somehow, "whatever" and "Lord" don't seem to fit well together in sentence form. At least not with that inflection. Sorry about that.

But . . .God?? What do You seriously mean by that? Gentleness implies some sort of . . .sweet innocent caring spirit. You do realize that living a "gentle" life in this world is akin to crossing an interstate, blindfolded, on foot, in the dark, wearing black, right? Gentle people don't survive, Lord. They don't stand a chance. And quite frankly, I am sick of being shredded at every crossroad. I'm sick of trying to be gentle. I'm sick of having to retrain myself to be gentle. I'm sick of giving You everything, only to end up hurting, realize I tried to do it on my own and then have to go through the entire thing all over again.

I don't want to feel beautiful, Abba. I want to be beautiful. I don't want to fight against myself and try to quiet my own heart. There are enough externals trying to mess up everything, I don't need to add to the fury.

Why is it that I can know so incredibly clearly what I DON'T want and simultaneously have practically NO IDEA what it is that I DO what?

And, Abba, why do I want You . . . only to find that I am terrified to live what that truly means?

Randomness and the thoughts that go with it

Yesterday, I flew home. The flight was fairly uneventful...I was in the middle seat between a sweet old asian lady going to Mississippi and a deaf girl meeting her family here in the north.

Of course, I was flying on about 2 hours of sleep, so I slept on the plane. Thank You, God, for iPods and sound proof headphones. Eesh. Upon arriving at MSP, I was reminded with painful clarity why checking luggage is a bad idea. It adds significant time to your departure from the world of harried travelers. Especially in Minneapolis. Minneapolis is the only airport I know of where luggage gets delayed because the little tram things "take a wrong turn" between the plane and the terminal . . . I checked my bag for the convenience of not having to worry about "gels, liquids or aerosols" Heh. The hassle at security may be worth it. I'm not sure what I'll do for the trip back in two weeks.

Thus far, my journeys have already opened windows of opportunity for good conversations with my family and friends. Warren, Abe and I talked last night (yeah, I was so tired that I couldn't sleep. Hate that . . .) And then Annie and I were able to talk a bit on the way into town and back after retrieving pizza this afternoon :-) There is definitely something to be said for being home. Even if I am still sleeping on the couch. Oh well. It's a comfy couch.

I want to learn to play guitar in the worst way. But I feel completely inept. Argh. If I do end up moving home, music is something I will be dedicating significant effort to, that's for sure. Family, music and saving money. Sounds like a plan to me.

There were thoughts of actual sort of consequence that I was going to write about, but for some reason, writing isn't coming to me yet. I think I'm still too soul-weary. Maybe later...

Awesome.

Tonight, I was paid one of the highest compliments of my life.

A guy I respect as a brother thanked me almost profusely and said I was awesome.

Let it be known heretoforthwith that sometimes. . . sometimes it really does pay off.

Thanks, God. :-)

How many kings stepped down from their thrones?
How many lords have abandoned their homes?
How many greats have become the least for me?
How many gods have poured out their hearts to romance a world that is torn all apart?
How many fathers gave up their sons for me?


Only one.
~How Many Kings, downhere

Amazing, how I've been struggling against cynical scroogey thoughts recently. . . it just takes a little perspective. I'm not going to all of a sudden decide to send out scads of Christmas cards to everyone who's said more than "hi" in my life. And I'm not about to go spend money I don't have on awesome presents for my friends and family. I'm not even going to say that I'm feeling miraculously happy when, quite honestly, I'm fighting depression awfully hard right now.

But I will say that God is good. Because He is. And I will keep praying for a heart that is open to His leading and life that is lived for His purpose.

Disappointed

I am disappointed. Supposedly that means that I was hoping. Maybe I'm still hoping? I don't know, really. Mostly, I feel confused.

It's so weird to realize that you know someone so incredibly well as to know that they WOULD do something, but then think that they've grown and matured past a point where that becomes acceptable . . . . only to blink and see them do something nearly inexplicable.

Maybe I should market myself for my insane skillz. Got a position that needs filling? Hire me to be simply interested in it and it will no longer need filling. Guy looking for a girlfriend? Flirt with me a bit to get me interested and then she'll come along.

:-P I'm really not as cynical as this sounds. Abba's teaching me so many things. I just need to get my thoughts out.

Time to stop blogging and start journaling, I guess.

If it wasn't this. . .

Flat on the interstate.

In the dark.

With sleet.

And a wrench that doesn't fit because of funky after market rims.

Thank You, God, for AAA.

Thank You, God, that there was someone at the Wal-Mart tire counter after they closed.

Thank You, God, for protecting all people persons when I crashed into the pole.

Thank You, God, that my property was the only property damaged when I crashed.

Thank You, God, for a friend with friends in the area, a sister who could get online and get phone numbers for me and members of Your body willing to stay up late and open their home to me.

Thank You, Abba, for a man who doesn't know me, but was willing to work on my crunched car without charging a cent.

....Thank You for love.

Is this what healing looks like?

Faith, hope and love can’t be killed, but they sure can be paralyzed.

The question is . . .what to do with that realization? How does a cynic regain innocence and trust? It’s easy enough to dismiss the “romance is for sissies” mentality when you compartmentalize your heart and mind, but when you step back and see the big picture affected, you have to wonder. How did the undertone of distrust in your sarcastic humor become the foundation for an entire worldview? And WHY is it so hard to truly believe and feel the awesomeness of God and His love.

Yeah, love. That from-your-toes-to-your-head ecstatic-in-your-very-soul knowing that you are known. Not perceived. Not remembered. Known. Actively, eternally, truly, known. More than any man can know a woman, more than the people who are so familiar you can’t remember when you met them. It’s all well and good to say “Jesus loves you!” But it’s become so clichéd that we forget what that means. Jesus knows me.

….how I wish I knew Him more.

It’s amazing how that works. The truth of “We loved Him because He first loved us” becomes more and more understandable as I get older. When someone spends so much time and effort in getting to know you, you cannot help but want them back. It may start as a sort of obligation, but come on. He died, went through Hell and came back, JUST to love us. To know us. That’s worth a little more than five minutes of groggy “Hey God, please give me a good day, amen” every other day or so. It’s worth more than singing with arms outstretched in a group of other people singing with their arms outstretched. And it’s certainly worth more than a “pshh. Yeah, I get it” nonattitude.

I’ll never fully understand the insanity of His love, but I’m [re]learning that seeking Him is far more satisfying than trying to figure out what I keep calling my life.

Forget?

Does forgiveness mean having to go back to "normal"?

ICE

In Case of Emergency.

They tell people to save an entry in their cell phone's speed-dial with that name: ICE. I tried to do that once, but I was going to put in my family's phone number back in Minnesota and it wouldn't let me save the same number in two entries. I decided to leave the number saved - complete with special ringtone - under "Homies." If I was unconscious and they couldn't figure out who to call, my recent contacts should reveal a decent amount of action with that number, and if it didn't, there would be someone on the list who had the number.

That's different now.

I got a new phone in January, so my special ringtone is gone, and the entry with that number now just reads "Home" - without any sort of warmth that word used to inspire. It may as well read "blue house in central Minnesota" any conversation worth noting happens via cell phone with my siblings now. The house that I grew up in is a shell.

Sometimes I think that the world is just full of shells, and all the people are hermit crabs, trying to find one to fit in that they like. We like to ooh and ah at the pretty ones, the unique ones, the hardy ones, but in the end, it's just a bunch of funny looking, mostly naked crustacean bug-like critters running around trying to find a safe place to hide.

When a hermit crab's shell is shattered, what happens to it?

I think it sits still, blinking at the sun, wondering who to put down on all of the paperwork for that "should be obvious, but really isn't anymore" In Case of Emergency, Contact:... space.

From the Ashen Archives

I’m not uncertain anymore.
I know just what I want
I want what I can't seem to see
I want the gift He bought

No, I am not uncertain anymore
I know there’s more than this
I just wish that I could make you see
And in doing that, convince myself

Sometimes it feels so selfish
This pleading of my heart
A long tormented gnashing
The rift reality starts

Make me beautiful again
You know I yearn to be

Make me beautiful again
Let my eyes wake up and see

Make me beautiful again
For life has lost its spark

Make me beautiful again
Put a song back in my heart

Make me beautiful again
I’m begging, crying, please

Make me beautiful again
Know my soul for me

Ball and Chain...

...Forever.

That's how my brother expressed his sentiments to my chatter about the incessantness of wedding plans.

While I've laughed off the "ball and chain" quote before, and still believe it's not the reality of marriage, I found myself agreeing with him to an extent. It's something I simply cannot comprehend. I can remember loving and all of the emotion that went with it, but I can't comprehend it, or imagine ever loving again. And I don't mean in the classic "I will never love again, for I have had my one true love" sense. I just . . . .don't think there's anything left in my heart to love.

Not that I feel dead inside, even though, to a degree, I do. It's like a forest fire ripped through my very core over this past year. The combination of everything has me wishing I could swear off trusting anyone ever again. If I don't want to deal with my own mother, what makes me think I could love anyone?

Haaaaa. *sigh* I should go to bed. I'm exhausted. What's it like to not be exhausted?

Freedom

An eagle, wounded after falling during her first attempt at flying, sat in cage. Perhaps “sat” is not the right word, but “perched” does not fit the situation either. For reasons too various to quantify, eagles do not belong in cages, and so it is really impossible to describe what the noble bird was doing. “Sat” seems to fit, though, because it indicates a sort of slump, when used in reference to eagles.

While the eagle sat, her heart was in tumult. At first from the pain of injury, but after that faded, the realization that she was caged. It bears repeating that eagles do not belong in cages. The eagle knew this in her heart of hearts, and so she was deeply troubled to find herself, well, caged.

The eagle sat in the cage for what felt like an eternity, and all the while, the storm within her raged. Her feathers molted, she matured and changed in appearance, but if you looked closely, you could see that she was not a true eagle. Eagles do not belong in cages. But this eagle was caged. In fact, she was caged for so long that she began to forget what it was to be free. No matter what she forgot, her heart always remembered: she was an eagle. And eagles do not belong in cages.

One day, the eagle’s heart nearly burst with the importance of what it knew.

“Get OUT!” it cried from within her. “Get out and FLY the way you’re meant to!”

Something within the eagle snapped, and though she could not have explained why (eagles rarely explain anything) she decided to fight. The talons which had never been used clawed at the bars surrounding her and the wings that barely knew what it was to stretch explored their reach by beating the enclosure until it broke. As the cage fell away, the eagle found herself slowly rising into the air. When she realized that she was flying and finally in her rightful home – the sky – a screeching cry erupted from her heart. The echo reply made her take notice of her new surroundings, and the immensity of sky overwhelmed her for a moment. Then a warm air current found its home beneath her wings and bore her even higher and she knew: she was made for this. She would never sit in a cage again.

I'll Know When I Get There

I'll know when I get there
I don't know if it's worth it
And I don't know if I'm good enough
All I know is I'm giving it all I've got
And I'll know when I get there

It's hard to tell just where you're at
When you're looking for somethin' that ain't on a map
I've just gotta believe it's down that road somewhere
And I'll know when I get there...

~Keith Anderson, I'll Know When I Get There

I am Tired. (yes, with a capital T)

Tonight, I am tired. I am tired of missing Dad and tired of fighting with Mom. I am tired of struggling to do the right thing; tired of wondering what the right thing is. Tired of seeing people's fear and pride rule them; even more tired of my own. Tired of not being truly happy for more than a few moments until I remember. Tired of getting mad at myself for remembering. Tired of trying to forget.

I would say that I'm tired of seeking God, but I don't think that's quite it. I'm tired of the fact that it's such a struggle to seek Him. I'm tired of trying. Tired of pleasing. Tired of politically correct. Tired of being slightly unconventional for unconventiality's sake. Tired of expectations and the lack of them. Tired of whining.

I'm tired of me. My selfishness and the rut I seem to exist in.

I'm tired of thinking. And I'm tired of trying to explain it.

Cliched Language of Love

I come upon discoveries in the middle of the night.

Maybe it's the stillness of night, or the fact that talking with friends over IM just necessitates better word skills than I require of myself throughout a day of mindless work that brings out the clarity of thought that makes itself known. Or perhaps it's simply the fact that I still play silly little kid and hate to go to bed, so I come up with excuses. Whatever the case, I think better at night, and when I have the presence of mind to write down what I think, the results are often better than anything written during normal daylight hours when practicality reigns.

So it should come as no surprise when I find myself better able to express how this whole grief process feels at night. It happened tonight as I was talking with Natalie:

Nat: you've said before how it doesn't seem real still
me: yeah, I'm wondering when it's going to
Nat: does it when you're missing him?
me: sort of?
me: I don't know. it's all just so stinking weird
me: like, when I was telling people that my dad died back in May, I felt like I was lying
me: and that hasn't really gone away
me: it feels like a random plot twist in a book I'm reading
me: not really real, but shocking nonetheless
Nat: wow
me: and that's the first time I've expressed it right
me: cuz that's exactly how it feels
Nat: hmm
Nat: so maybe
Nat: instead of what everyone thinks or says about grief
Nat: maybe being able to express how it feels is a big deal.
me: for me, anyway :-P
me: I don't know
me: it's a mess
Nat: I don't know, that seems like it's fairly significant, especially with how much you express things through writing
me: mhmm

That conversation led to talking about how writing itself is overused and thus despecialized in the culture we've been dunked into (ie: homeschoolers turned leaders not so anonymous, or HSTLNSA) and the fact that making writing and words and the like so commonplace, it's almost as though a language - a love language - has been prostituted and turned to profanity. Unfortunately, there are limits on even late night thought, so that conversation didn't flesh out quite as much as I would have liked. I guess there's always tomorrow morning...er, night.

These are the sorts of things that I can express in the dead of night when I should be asleep. Just why I can't seem to get them out when I'm actually awake, I have no idea. Hopefully this will change, because, in all honesty, staying up late just so I can think is getting to be a bit old. I think all day long, just never get the chance to show anything for it.

And on that happy note, I am signing off and heading to bed.

Fairytaled Reality

When Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy was put on the big screen, fandom erupted across the world. The epic tale speaks to the hearts of millions upon millions of people, and the special effects aren't too shabby, either.

In the midst of the frenzied rush for capes and elven decor, fansites exploded across the internet. It's amazing what you can do with a little bit of time and photoshop; especially when the root material is good to begin with. People take this stuff seriously. There are stories and chatrooms and icons and all sorts of things that make me wonder if the person on the other side of the internet realizes that reality exists. But there is another part of me that wishes I had the ability to express my heart like that.....

Ever since I was first acquainted with Eowyn's character in LotR, I have felt a sort of...connected understanding, for lack of a better term...to/for her.

Eowyn literally means "horse joy." But before I knew that, I loved the fact that there was a female character in a movie that wasn't lambasted or stupidly glorified for her desire to fight beside her brother. The whole response to the "what do you fear" question gave me goosebumps the first time I heard it, and it does to this day.
"A cage. To live behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire."

My friends who have held a conversation of any length about what moves my heart in its deepest part probably see why that rings true to me. But it goes beyond that, to the fact that Eowyn loved a man she could not have. She was not meant to have him, and even when I watched the movies, I found myself wishing that she could. In some ways, I still think that she and Aragorn make a better pair than Aragorn and Arwen. When I did some research on the whole relationship, I found that Tolkien originally meant for Eowyn and Aragorn to be married. Unfortunately, that would have ruined the whole Arwen aspect. Tolkien thought of killing Eowyn in the great battle, but [fortunately] decided against it. The resulting "houses of healing" section is another part that gives a glimpse into Eowyn's character that I totally relate to:

Gandalf: Great gladness it is to see you wake again to health and hope, so valiant a lady!
Eowyn: To health? It may be so. At least while there is an empty saddle of some fallen Rider that I can fill, and there are deeds to do. But to hope? I do not know.

And there are things like the fact that her left arm was injured, and her horse was gray, and her hair is blonde....

And then there's Theoden. While he's not Eowyn's biological father, he plays the role of father in her life, and she sees him when the enemy has talons so deeply entrenched that Theoden is quite out of his mind. Yet, even when things are darkest for her, personally, she loves and is faithful. (the fact that Theoden is so weakened is one reason she is so strongly attracted to Aragorn...) When Theoden is released from the darkness, the love that he has for Eowyn is made very evident and he tells her that he "would see [her] smile again....no more despair" When he falls on the field of battle and dies in Eowyn's arms, he has no regrets.

I am failing miserably at expressing everything right now, but I thought it would be worth getting out of my head so I can possibly refine it later. . . . . .

God with Skin On

When I was growing up, our pastor would use the phrase "God with skin on" on a fairly frequent basis. It stemmed from an anecdote he told about a little kid who was scared of something (I don't remember if it was monsters or a storm or what). The child's father would come in and say "Oh, it's ok, God is with us all the time, He's protecting us," and the kid honestly shot back with, "I know! But I want God with skin on!!" The congregation would chuckle appropriately whenever this story was told, but recently, I've been thinking about it a bit more.

I'm not sure when I really figured out that I wanted God with skin on. I guess part of me has always known that, but there have been times when I really really wanted someone, anyone, to just hold me and tell me that everything is going to be ok. The first time that I consciously realized that there was not anyone to actually hold me was under a pine tree in mid-December. Some friends and I went for a moonlit walk in the snow, and after they went inside, I stayed out to look at the crisp winter sky. I was acutely aware of how much I missed: home, my exboyfriend, attending classes full time...the list went on. And all I wanted was a pair of strong arms and a soft voice. Just hold me and tell me it will be ok. Wrap your arms around me until I drift into that blissful netherworld of sleep. But there were no arms, and there was no voice. The yearning in me heart had to be silenced...or at least ignored.

The practical side of me settled for "ignore" and I got busy with Stuff again. Besides, I was going home for Christmas in a few weeks, and Daddy was always willing to oblige with hugs. I could cuddle up next to him while watching TV at night, or go into his office in the middle of the day just to say "I love you" and I didn't have to worry about him thinking I was pretty enough or anything. He just loved me. Anytime I needed a pair of strong arms, he was there.

But now, two years later, Daddy's dead. And the old yearning is tugging in me again. It's harder to quash some nights. The air is cold and loneliness seeps into even group activity. I feel distanced from those around me. I don't want to. I don't try to stand apart. I just feel . . . part of another life. I've always felt this way. It's as if everyone around me is living life, and I'm watching. Why?

Why can I not find the total completeness that I know exists in Christ? Why can I not content myself with Him fully? What am I doing so wrong that causes this ache within my very core? I despise my physicality and the fact that I want to worship something tangible. I am bereaved at my foolishness, and long for simple fellowship.

On some level, I know that I hope for and believe that completeness is possible and indeed forthcoming. Yet, on a more shallow plane, I feel utterly lost. These are the thoughts that really keep me awake. Not the lists of things that I should do or want to do or might do someday; just what is it that God has planned for me, and why can't I seem to be content with that the way I know I should be?

Happiness

I hate happiness. It is nothing more than a shadow shield for idiotic giddiness that does not last.

Perhaps I'm being a bit too strong in my wording, but I am exceedingly aggravated with certain person right now who can seem to declare nothing more than "I AM SO HAPPY" while those around said person are struggling in major ways that are, apparently, ununderstandable.

Grrr.

It's not that I don't like being happy. It's not even that I don't like other people being happy. Quite the contrary, I find happiness quite enjoyable, and follow the biblical mandate of "rejoice with those who rejoice" whenever I can. But when happiness is being claimed at the cost of general welfare and Right, I cannot and will not join in the goofy grins and sproingy silliness.

I cut that paragraph short because it doesn't really have to say much more of anything, and it got me thinking on a commonly stated fact: joy and happiness are different things. Rejoice with those who rejoice is more of a direction to share in joy, not happiness. Joy is a fruit of the spirit, and altogether good. It is found in any circumstance, because it's part of faith. Happiness is fleeting. It comes, and then it goes.

It is because of this, and the fact that I am SICK SICK SICK of hearing "I'm so happy" when it is quite apparent that the rest of us are miserable and sick to our stomachs, that I am outlawing happiness.

Thank you, you may return to your previously scheduled existence.

Phenomena

I have stumbled across a strange phenomena in the realm of relationships.

Men are looking for friendship. Faithful friendship that demands nothing else and is there no matter what. And they want it from women. They aren't looking for a mother; they have a mother already. They aren't looking for a girlfriend; even though they maybe perhaps are. They want a female friend who will talk with them, listen to them, not say a blasted thing....but just be there.

SO WHY DO THEY HAVE TO PICK ME AS THE WOMAN TO BE THEIR FRIEND AND NOTHING MORE?!!?!

Ugh.