Two thoughts from church this morning:
#1. "It took one day for the Lord to deliver them out of Egypt. It took a lifetime to get Egypt out of them."
and
#2. "There is always a wilderness between the promise and the Promised Land."
13.6.10
11.6.10
Friendly Fire
Sunset is not just a time of day. It's an atmosphere, a quick-to-fade, precious few moments of light, in which the world is not itself. Very occasionally (given Crystal's scheduling proclivities), I'm actually home in the evenings, and some of those evenings, I happen to look out the bay window in the dining room to espy the back yard when it is brighter around the edges. And what always catches my eye is the poppies.
Last summer, my sister got married, and as she was exploring possibilities of flowers and colors, she thought at one point that she wanted poppies. So she ordered a pound of seeds from some supplier and asked Mother to plant them. Mother, happy to oblige, planted a long swath of seeds at the end of the cultivated portion of the garden, and they bloomed in good time, showing their flaming red faces and black hearts with equal openness. And this year, we've had the delight of their presence again.
Imagine... All is green, from the pale bright of the new mown lawn to the shadow and shift of the walnut tree to the dark depths of the corn stalks, already waist high in their army straight lines in the field. Beyond the field, a mysterious few pines, darkest of all against the white sky of sunset. And planted firmly in the middle of a world of gold-washed green: poppies. A chorus of redheads, all cheerfully, defiantly not green.
I particularly like them because they aren't beautiful. Perhaps these are just annuals that weren't meant to see another year, the leftover seeds that didn't make it last year, but decided that the arcane perfection of soil and sun were the cue for their entrance into the world. But they are a ragtag bunch. Some are bleached white around the edges or straight through to the center, faded like my grandfather's eyes when he grew old. Some are torn or wilted with rough and ugly edges. Some have lost petals, gaps in their smiling teeth that will only grow larger with the passage of time. And yet, despite their individual ugliness, they are beautiful en masse. In fact, I picked the only perfect one I found (and it was perfect, not a flaw from petal to pistil) because it made such a smug contrast to its imperfect brethren that it disturbed the poppy groove. A flower like that deserves to die.
They are a band of misfits, none too pretty in and of themselves, but glorified by their community, by their unapologetic flaming red, by their unlikely but true complement to the green around them. They are battle-scarred and glorious, a worthy patch of wildflowers that light up my evening when the sunset glow turns them into a hundred tongues of fire.
Last summer, my sister got married, and as she was exploring possibilities of flowers and colors, she thought at one point that she wanted poppies. So she ordered a pound of seeds from some supplier and asked Mother to plant them. Mother, happy to oblige, planted a long swath of seeds at the end of the cultivated portion of the garden, and they bloomed in good time, showing their flaming red faces and black hearts with equal openness. And this year, we've had the delight of their presence again.
Imagine... All is green, from the pale bright of the new mown lawn to the shadow and shift of the walnut tree to the dark depths of the corn stalks, already waist high in their army straight lines in the field. Beyond the field, a mysterious few pines, darkest of all against the white sky of sunset. And planted firmly in the middle of a world of gold-washed green: poppies. A chorus of redheads, all cheerfully, defiantly not green.
I particularly like them because they aren't beautiful. Perhaps these are just annuals that weren't meant to see another year, the leftover seeds that didn't make it last year, but decided that the arcane perfection of soil and sun were the cue for their entrance into the world. But they are a ragtag bunch. Some are bleached white around the edges or straight through to the center, faded like my grandfather's eyes when he grew old. Some are torn or wilted with rough and ugly edges. Some have lost petals, gaps in their smiling teeth that will only grow larger with the passage of time. And yet, despite their individual ugliness, they are beautiful en masse. In fact, I picked the only perfect one I found (and it was perfect, not a flaw from petal to pistil) because it made such a smug contrast to its imperfect brethren that it disturbed the poppy groove. A flower like that deserves to die.
They are a band of misfits, none too pretty in and of themselves, but glorified by their community, by their unapologetic flaming red, by their unlikely but true complement to the green around them. They are battle-scarred and glorious, a worthy patch of wildflowers that light up my evening when the sunset glow turns them into a hundred tongues of fire.
10.6.10
Soul Embrace
Yesterday's gradual drizzle building up into rain meant only a dim half light to wake to, hardly sufficient to rouse this often drowsy, no longer morning person. It was only complemented by an inner world of gray that did not wish to push back the clouds anymore than the sky seemed likely to clear room for sunshine. At this point, I would like to apologize if I seem to only write when I face the lows in life's heartbeat monitor. But I suppose I simply don't feel a need to wrestle with joy when it radiates its warmth into every corner of my days. I'd rather rest than wrestle.
Through a series of positive events and a dash of contemplation, I gradually came to the point where I could, as I put it to Hadassah, embrace the rain which was so powerfully indicative of my emotional state. But I have a history with rain and loving it and sitting on porches listening to good music with a world of beautiful solemnity filling up my head.
What about today? Today, I woke to the warming remembrance of an incredibly surprising surprise visit from David, Mary Michael, and Trent at Prince Street last night. I was tired, yes, because the combination of excitement and espresso kept me up until three in the morning (also, a book recommendation list for Hadassah), and the early hour of 6:30 that I had to awake in order to be at the prep kitchen clothed and functional by 8. But other than lack of sleep, I had no reasons for complaint. The sun was shining down on me, the world was all as it could be, blessed be His name.
But as the day has progressed, I've reached this hour, no Bradbury-esque three o' th' morn (that was last night), but a fairly respectable quarter 'til ten. I'm almost overwhelmed with missing beloved friends and familiar places, the fragments and habits of eight months of fully lived life. Though the sun has set in the western sky and the only beacons in the darkness are the indolent fireflies, I feel as if I have been so blessed, as if somehow it must still be shining on me as warmly as it was earlier today when I drove down 283 with my windows open and Alison Sudol's sweet voice blasting. And yet that warmth can't penetrate my skin... I'm living in the sun as if it is still raining. How do I embrace rain that isn't falling? Why must I learn the lesson of yesterday today when today is not yesterday or anything like it?
Sweet river roll over me
Let my body find peace and let my mind be free
Oh, my soul sings to Thee
//from "Sweet River Roll" by Josh Garrels//
Through a series of positive events and a dash of contemplation, I gradually came to the point where I could, as I put it to Hadassah, embrace the rain which was so powerfully indicative of my emotional state. But I have a history with rain and loving it and sitting on porches listening to good music with a world of beautiful solemnity filling up my head.
What about today? Today, I woke to the warming remembrance of an incredibly surprising surprise visit from David, Mary Michael, and Trent at Prince Street last night. I was tired, yes, because the combination of excitement and espresso kept me up until three in the morning (also, a book recommendation list for Hadassah), and the early hour of 6:30 that I had to awake in order to be at the prep kitchen clothed and functional by 8. But other than lack of sleep, I had no reasons for complaint. The sun was shining down on me, the world was all as it could be, blessed be His name.
But as the day has progressed, I've reached this hour, no Bradbury-esque three o' th' morn (that was last night), but a fairly respectable quarter 'til ten. I'm almost overwhelmed with missing beloved friends and familiar places, the fragments and habits of eight months of fully lived life. Though the sun has set in the western sky and the only beacons in the darkness are the indolent fireflies, I feel as if I have been so blessed, as if somehow it must still be shining on me as warmly as it was earlier today when I drove down 283 with my windows open and Alison Sudol's sweet voice blasting. And yet that warmth can't penetrate my skin... I'm living in the sun as if it is still raining. How do I embrace rain that isn't falling? Why must I learn the lesson of yesterday today when today is not yesterday or anything like it?
Sweet river roll over me
Let my body find peace and let my mind be free
Oh, my soul sings to Thee
//from "Sweet River Roll" by Josh Garrels//
5.6.10
Gravity
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the
paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of
the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff
they comfort me.
//Psalm 23:1-4//
When we are in the valley of the shadow, when we've hit life's lows and dark places, sometimes it seems like there is no light at the end of the tunnel. We look to the left and the right, but our eyes can see nothing but desolation. What then is there for us? Are we to abandon hope?
I am reminded again of Mr. Cote's wisdom. He always told us that emotions have their place, but that place is not to lead our lives. Emotions color life, but the colors run wild when feelings draw the defining lines as well. While we were in Brazil, I remarked to Chelsea about the contrast between a child's coloring book and that of a teenager enjoying a little regression. Somewhere in the intervening years, we learn better muscular control, we adopt a sense of the oughts so that the Lisa Frank puppies who were once scribbled over in that favorite screaming magenta are now sedately shaded in tones of black, brown, and gold. There is something delightful about seeing what the child comes up with, but at the same time, I should not like to live constantly in such an inconsistent and ill-scrawled universe. A place for everything and everything in its place, as the maxim goes.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
But desire fulfilled is a tree of life.
//Proverbs 13:12//
A joyful heart makes a cheerful face,
But when the heart is sad, the spirit is broken.
//Proverbs 15:13//
How do I walk in the joy of the Lord if my heart is sick and my spirit broken? Must I deny depression and sorrow? But as we learned this past year, to do so is to live in the Room of Good Intentions where we don a mask that deflects any attempt to connect deeply with one another.
Two threads intertwine. The first relates to what Mr. Cote said about emotions. They are the sea upon which we are tossed, but our anchor goes beyond the emotions to the firm sea-bed foundation of who God is and what He says concerning our lives. We may move upon the surface and experience the storm, but our trust is in a stronger place than the whimsy of the current so we can rest assured that we will weather the storm.
The second thread goes back to Psalm 23. Corey shared a small epiphany on Thursday evening at small group and it was this: we lie down in green pastures, but we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. We do not rest there. We are in motion, or to quote Meet the Robinsons, we "keep moving forward." Our rest is for a better place where no darkness threatens our path. Complete despair is perhaps the moment when we give up and cease walking through the valley, coming to a rest (if such agony may be conducive to rest) in the midst of our darkest hours.
It is easy to languish into despair, but the greater joy lies in taking His hand, for He never leaves us nor forsakes us, and continuing into the new day beyond.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the
paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of
the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff
they comfort me.
//Psalm 23:1-4//
When we are in the valley of the shadow, when we've hit life's lows and dark places, sometimes it seems like there is no light at the end of the tunnel. We look to the left and the right, but our eyes can see nothing but desolation. What then is there for us? Are we to abandon hope?
I am reminded again of Mr. Cote's wisdom. He always told us that emotions have their place, but that place is not to lead our lives. Emotions color life, but the colors run wild when feelings draw the defining lines as well. While we were in Brazil, I remarked to Chelsea about the contrast between a child's coloring book and that of a teenager enjoying a little regression. Somewhere in the intervening years, we learn better muscular control, we adopt a sense of the oughts so that the Lisa Frank puppies who were once scribbled over in that favorite screaming magenta are now sedately shaded in tones of black, brown, and gold. There is something delightful about seeing what the child comes up with, but at the same time, I should not like to live constantly in such an inconsistent and ill-scrawled universe. A place for everything and everything in its place, as the maxim goes.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
But desire fulfilled is a tree of life.
//Proverbs 13:12//
A joyful heart makes a cheerful face,
But when the heart is sad, the spirit is broken.
//Proverbs 15:13//
How do I walk in the joy of the Lord if my heart is sick and my spirit broken? Must I deny depression and sorrow? But as we learned this past year, to do so is to live in the Room of Good Intentions where we don a mask that deflects any attempt to connect deeply with one another.
Two threads intertwine. The first relates to what Mr. Cote said about emotions. They are the sea upon which we are tossed, but our anchor goes beyond the emotions to the firm sea-bed foundation of who God is and what He says concerning our lives. We may move upon the surface and experience the storm, but our trust is in a stronger place than the whimsy of the current so we can rest assured that we will weather the storm.
The second thread goes back to Psalm 23. Corey shared a small epiphany on Thursday evening at small group and it was this: we lie down in green pastures, but we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. We do not rest there. We are in motion, or to quote Meet the Robinsons, we "keep moving forward." Our rest is for a better place where no darkness threatens our path. Complete despair is perhaps the moment when we give up and cease walking through the valley, coming to a rest (if such agony may be conducive to rest) in the midst of our darkest hours.
It is easy to languish into despair, but the greater joy lies in taking His hand, for He never leaves us nor forsakes us, and continuing into the new day beyond.
2.6.10
Beloved...
My Beloved is beautiful
He is dazzling and excellent
Confession: I don't entirely understand what it means to love Christ. Sometimes I swear that I just knot myself into thought loops that are impossible to reconcile with reality. Like, maybe I'm not so far off track as I feel myself to be, feelings being untrustworthy thermometers. But at the same time, I'm okay with that dissatisfaction. Discontent is wrong when it is a matter of material possessions, but I never want to be content with where I'm at in relation to Jesus. Because this place I'm at, no matter how close, is still too far as long as there is any space between us.
It's funny how we begin to understand things more clearly as life goes on.
He is dazzling and excellent
Confession: I don't entirely understand what it means to love Christ. Sometimes I swear that I just knot myself into thought loops that are impossible to reconcile with reality. Like, maybe I'm not so far off track as I feel myself to be, feelings being untrustworthy thermometers. But at the same time, I'm okay with that dissatisfaction. Discontent is wrong when it is a matter of material possessions, but I never want to be content with where I'm at in relation to Jesus. Because this place I'm at, no matter how close, is still too far as long as there is any space between us.
It's funny how we begin to understand things more clearly as life goes on.
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