the hours of doubt

These are the hours of doubt, when too many words have spilled out -- unchecked -- like contraband. They're editable, erasable. Too many are harsh, too many revealing, too many true. And part of me flees to the drawing board -- the erasing board. And part of me clutches at my own sleeve, drawing me back to the chair to relax and to say, "what's done is done, and it is you."

my fear

I’ll own that it’s energizing to think of words upon words to write – but the energy is always coupled with one of my greatest fears: that the words will be utterly without hope, without the ability to show the slightest glimmer of God.

blank paper

What an amazing thing, when you’ve got more words than paper, and then you suddenly find the backside of a paper square, totally unused. What a gem.

about lamott

I thought these sounded like good book-cover quotes, and it just so happens that I believe them:

"Anne Lamott is one of the few people – perhaps the only person – who makes me think of things to write while I’m reading her. Reading Lamott is a highly productive exercise." -me

"Lamott gives a lot of skill, a lot of truth, and in the end, a little hope. I think I’d be content with a little less skill, if I could only offer more hope – lots of hope – scads and scads of hope." -me

(Okay, maybe the second is more a critique than book-cover praise. But it's still quite quotey.)

prejudice

As I was walking into the library, I met a woman all decked out in her police officer costume. I wasn't sure what she was an officer of, or if she was even an officer at all, since I had never before seen an officer with a Muslim shawl over her head.
I smiled at her, though. Sometimes I do that when I feel sorry for a person, and I usually feel sorry for Muslims. She didn't smile back. Maybe in her lifetime, she had seen one too many smiles of pity directed her way. So I guess I couldn't blame her lack of charm.
Later, when I was reading my book, she was back in the library, quietly patrolling it and never smiling. She really seemed to be on duty, except for the string of wooden beads behind her back, which she click, click, clicked through her brown-black fingers like a Catholic praying through her rosary. For a moment, the thought occurred to me that she might blow the place up -- or something -- but then I realized it would hardly be worth her while. Better a Christian church than a public library.
She stood near the kids awhile, as they whittled away time on the computers. Perhaps she was with one of them -- a mother, no doubt.
But then the black officer clothes walked behind me, and I hurried to shield the words I had written about her. She stopped. Click. Click. Click. Telepathy. She could feel the prejudice emanating from me and my covered words. Maybe she'd just blow my head off.
Then, the library lady came and called the names of children whose time on the computer had expired. My Muslim officer watched the whole thing. I guess the library was having trouble with kids abusing their public computer rights. So it turns out she was there to keep people from getting out of line. Kids who disrespect authority -- people like that.

observation and judgment

The Asian man opposite me has been stuck in his newspaper for over an hour now. I’m happy he’s finally stopped sucking food from his teeth. That lasted a half-hour. I was about to offer him a toothpick, a safety pin, the corner of a book cover, anything that would work better than tongue and saliva. He’s got to have perused the whole paper by now.
Once he took notes from an Ace Hardware advertisement and once he said something out loud – something I didn’t understand, something that sounded like wick-a-low. A little tot just came up, looking hungrily at the library’s globe, but when he saw my Asian friend sitting right beside it, he sneered at the globe and went for the window blinds instead.

. . .

A man in Starbucks started coughing loudly while I was reading my book. Okay, so I didn’t see that it was a man, but it sounded like a man-cough. I felt my eyes get closer to popping out of my head each time the loud car-offing continued.
And then, it got worse. A quick, bluesy song came through the speakers, and he started tapping the table to the rhythm. Twitch your foot, sway your body, do anything but tap the table. Okay, so I’m not positive the cougher was the table tapper, beings my back was to both… but I just couldn’t imagine two equally annoying people in one place at the same time.

like kids

I want to be like the little girl who crawled under the library tables -- just because she wanted to -- before rushing back to her mother's side. I'll admit to having somersaulted through the aisles of the store where I used to work, but that doesn't count: no one saw me.

I want to be like the 3-to-4-year-old girl -- with glasses too big for her face and curls too big for her head -- who grabbed book upon book from the stash of Harlequin romances... simply to find satisfaction in examining the cards and mail-order forms stuck in its binding. I want to be satisfied in things like that.

I want to be like the girl who didn't care so much about the thrill of watching a falcon fly around at a Medieval Times dinner show as much as she cared about the consequences: "what if it poops on our plates?" Hey, good question! Why didn't I ask it first?

the joke

She sees this thing called caring, and she hates it. If caring is caring, how can it come in words not spoken? She dreams like they do, and scorns the lack of friends. If it's purpose she needs, she wonders where theirs is. Hypocrites -- the whole lot of them.

She hears the sounds of laughter. The words "blessing" and "prayer" keep coming and coming and coming. With looks of sympathy -- or hate? -- they cross her gaze, and she feels small. So very, very small.

There are things withheld from her. She sees the secrets behind the hands of the holy, and she knows they're talking about her. Sinner. Loser. Lost one.

Everyone knows she needs to find her way to where they have come because obviously they have arrived. But no one will show her where to step, or how. No one will ask if she even wants to find her way. They just stare at her. They stare and keeping talking behind their hands. And wait for something...

She wishes she knew what that something was. But the biggest joke of all is that no one will ever tell.

come together

Pride glints off both of our pupils as we stare at each other.
"You move first."
"No, you."
"I'm a farmer's daughter. I'm tough. I'm brawny. You give in."

We will come together. We work together, and all those strange people swarming around draw us to the only ones we really know: ourselves. We are not enemies any longer, nor strangers. We are acquaintances. Our eyes meet in the courtyard; we try at a smile.

I see you looking sharp and talented, and my heart remembers that I love you. "Love thinks no evil." We melt at a wink, at bumping into the wall and a pat on the butt. It's over. The long wait is over.

And if we never see the pathways for the proud sunlight in our eyes, we will find each other -- come together -- in the darkness.

zhi yuang and the lights of christmas

The name of Pastor Zhi Yuang on a card in my coat pocket is supposed to remind me to pray for a man who suffers for believing in Jesus. I have a hard time comprehending he exists until I remember what I was told last year about the duties of imprisoned Chinese pastors like Zhi Yuang...

A blister bursts on Zhi's finger as he inserts another bulb into its socket. How many hundreds more must he assemble before the day is over? For all the tiny bulbs strung out in front of him, the prison cell is dim.
A man sharing his cell told him that these were called Christmas lights, and that they'd be shipped to America after leaving the prison. Americans would buy them to decorate trees in winter. The man said he had seen twinkling trees in a picture book once.
Zhi feels like he has assembled enough bulbs to light a tree for every person in the entire world.
Another blister breaks open and blood spills across his fingers. Zhi is quick to wipe it away before it damages his work. He isn't allowed to make errors.
For a moment, the pain tempts Zhi to feel hatred toward the Americans that will wind these Christmas lights around their trees, oblivious to the hands that have cracked and bled and throbbed with pain over the strings upon strings upon strings of miniature light bulbs. Zhi feels the Spirit of God, then, prompting him to love instead. If there were not Christmas lights, there would be something else to assemble.
So Zhi decides pray -- for Americans, for any eyes that see the world brightened by these Christmas lights -- that they would have their hearts brightened by the true Light of Christmas.

semi-rest

My heart is at semi-rest. Armies on opposite hills face each other -- retreated -- but still at war. Dried tears, slaughtered bodies lie after the battle's hushed, but no one's counted the fallen yet. No one knows who's won.

Rumors run 'round about the valient fight put up by the northern army, but -- I know -- the general wants more than stories told of one soldier's fancy swordsmanship or another's skillful evasiveness. He wants victory and won't settle for less.

I look at my wounds. My heart is at semi-rest.

to the moon

To the Moon
Sara Groves

It was there on the bulletin: "We're leaving soon-
After the bake sale to raise funds for fuel.
The rocket is ready, and we're going to
Take our church to the moon."

There'll be no one there to tell us we're odd,
No one to change our opinions of God-
Just lots of rocks and this dusty sod,
Here on our church on the moon.

We know our liberties, we know our rights.
We know how to fight a very good fight.
Just grab that last bag there and turn out the light-
We're taking our church to the moon.
We're taking our church to the moon.
We'll be leaving soon...

all shocked

"Someone shot out our window last night," the lady at Banana Republic said.
We were all shocked. "You wouldn't think something like that would happen in Southlake," we all said.

But it did. Something like that happened in Southlake.

"Did you know Kenny Thompson left his wife? Supposedly, he's got a girlfriend -- right out of his own congregation. And I thought that church was so stable."
"Brett told me he only gets around to reading his Bible about every other day. He says he wants to do better, but his job's just too busy. Can you believe it?"
"Kathleen cussed -- right in front of Grandma!"
"Jim and Peggy -- they're going to marriage counseling. I wonder what the problem could be."
"Annie confessed that she doesn't tithe. She only gives eight percent."

We were all shocked.

receiving praise

You know how you praised me the other day? The words of blessing just kept flowing out and I couldn't stop them. I couldn't say a single thing out loud, though my heart shouted, "No! No! No!" The tears welled up in my throat and hurt so badly because I wouldn't let them out.

I witnessed more praise this morning, not from you but from God via Paul. He said something about "work of faith" and "labor of love" and "patience of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ." I wondered if the Thessalonians could take that type of praise better than I could have. How could there be that much good to say?

You said someone "laid it on thick" yesterday. They mean to praise you -- genuinely, I think -- although I doubt you realize it. Maybe you think there's some ulterior motive or something.

Sometimes I hate to look at the good because there's so much work to do, you know? With me. With you. With everybody. But sometimes I wonder what will happen if I don't look at the good. Will I just rot? Will you?

hypocrite

I'm the biggest hypocrite of them all. I'm guilty of standing like the Pharisee and thanking the Lord for teaching me things about Him, things that He didn't teach my publican friends. But I wish they knew, I wish they knew.

I wish they were as religious as I.
Almost.

I have a hard time understanding why they don't learn the things I'm learning. I mean, I've told them a thousand times how it ought to be, how I've been convicted to serve God better in this way. "So, come on, let's all do it together! What, you aren't joining me? But it's God's word! Can't you take me seriously?"

I put this confession way down here, at the bottom of my new postings, so it has less visibility. I'm not sure if I want you to know that I'm the biggest hypocrite of them all.

For all the things God's teaching me, you'd think I'd learn...

step on toes

It it time to step on toes. It is time to drop the bomb and hope I don't blow hearts up in the process. I bump the hand that's begging; then I clench it in my fist to pray. It's raining outside, and my heart is sad. Sad I have to say "no." Sad I don't understand. Sad I do.

I find joy in the peace. I find joy in the freedom, in the giving, in the hope. I clutch the hand God's given me and thank Him for it.

a scene

I slump further down in my booth and stretch my legs out under the other bench. I look taller that way. It’s just me, concentrating on that pose, when a plate smacks the table in front of me. It’s busting at the seams with meatloaf, potatoes, corn. No ketchup to be seen anywhere on the plate. Just my luck.
“Can I have some ketchup with that?”
The apron beside my booth leans in closer. I notice the white of the big, black lady’s eyes are not so white. She slings a towel over her shoulder. It’s streaked with red, brown, and yellow. I don’t even want to know. The empty hand lands on her round hip.
“You taste that meatloaf?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why you askin' for ketchup?” It sounds more like keechup.
I feel my nose wrinkle. “I put ketchup on everything, ma’am.”
“Then, boy, you ain’t never had Miz Beulah’s cookin', now have you?” The look she gives me makes me feel shorter than a toadstool.
“No, ma’am.”
“You taste that meatloaf, then you tell me you need ketchup.”
I’m afraid to disobey. Miz Beulah’s bigger than a house. I stick my fork into the meat with the most impertinence I can muster, but the impertinence comes off more like clumsiness. I think I hear Miz Beulah saying, “Anyone ever teach you how to eat, boy?”
I stick the forkful in my mouth before any more can fall off of it.
“Okay, you happy?” I say with a wad of meat in my cheek. “Now, get me some...” I stop. “Umm... napkins, please.” That is some meatloaf.
Miz Beulah’s scowl suddenly breaks into the biggest happy face I have ever seen. “That’s right, boy. That’s right.” Her laugh is more like a guffaw. “The only thing you need with my cookin' is some extra napkins.”
I nod, shoving another forkful in my mouth. My stomach has no bottom. Not right now.
“Now what’s that you say about puttin' ketchup on everything? Don’t your momma know how to cook?”
I shrug my shoulders, then shake my head. “Why do you think I’m eating here?’
She nods.
“What your momma do for a living, that she can’t learn how to fix you proper food?”
I stop. Not this. Please not this. “She… works… down on Sixth Avenue,” I say with all the composure I can muster.
Miz Beulah gave, at most, a two-second pause. “Your momma a prostitute?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, then. You go home, you tell your momma that ain’t no job.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then, you tell your momma she needs to come work for me. You got that? We’ll teach her to cook food that don’t need no ketchup.”
I don’t think my momma is going to like that idea. But Miz Beulah’s still talking.
“Now, she might have to work longer and harder than she does now, but you tell her that Sixth Street job, that ain’t no job. That ain’t no job.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I wipe my plate clean with the slice of potato on the end of my fork. “I gotta go.”
“You do what I said, now, you hear? You tell your momma, be here at ten tomorrow morning. You got that?”
I’m not sure Miz Beulah understands my mother. But I nod anyway. “Thanks for the meatloaf. I’ll be back.”
Miz Beulah’s furrowing her eyebrows at me as I swing out the door onto the sidewalk.

:: written on 12.January.2005 ::

conversations

I could spend 20 more years without hearing from you through these people -- these random people. I spent my first 20 years without them, after all. Why the contact now?

I think the first was at the McDonald's in Waco, Texas, begging for money to haul his truck. He wasn't really there for me, but maybe that was because I wasn't there for him. There were plenty of others to do the dirty work so I could sit back and be the judge. They failed, I was thinking; they majorly failed.

The second was in Fort Worth, driving by downtown. You really stepped into our car for that one. The answer was an easy one. We had the resources: time, money, relative safety. It was comfortable to send the guy away with gas, not cash. But then, he didn't really ask for cash.

Number three took us by surprise, and he spoke well. Took us round the loop of his crazy mind and onto dark streets. The answer to that one? Who really knows, even now? The answer we wanted wasn't one of your options, so... we just left it blank. Sometimes I wonder about that guy...

There have been handfuls more -- four, five, six. You know, we've passed so many by, it's a wonder we're still in the game. I guess that's what they call it grace. They've stood by the road, with signs and without signs, all wanting something. Yes, they're all wanting something.

And then the next came in a pair. Cleaner cut than previous ones, slower moving too. It's a tricky one, I'll give you that. Love seems to be the only option. A little bit of wisdom, but mostly just love. We'll see how we come out on that one.

Where are we -- number eight? Oh, you know we're farther than that. But all the same, these things don't get any easier, do they? Number eight needs money. No, he really needs it. But do you give money when you don't understand or agree with all the ins and outs? Oh, I'll give my time, my talents. But my money? Oh, that could be abused, don't you know? Theology and principle mix with service on this one. What a catch.

And those are just the unscheduled ones -- the pop quizzes. We can look everything over and say, "Huh. We've sure had a lot of weird experiences lately." But they're too intricate to be coincidence. And the questions keep getting harder and harder and... harder.

t, j

T, I wish you were my brother and, J, my sister. You make me laugh because you're so real, but you make me cry because you don't know Jesus like I know Jesus. I want to tell you all about him. I want to tell you of the joy that's available, accessible.
Slow, plodding days go by -- visits. We'll laugh harder, love more, worry. And it's closer though I can't see it. I see the weekends and the food and the conversation for what it is. But my Father had this all orchestrated already, far beyond cards and spaghetti. And He sees it for what it is. For what it really is.
I pray you'll take a little piece with you -- not of us, because we're pretty thin and shallow of ourselves. But take with you a portrait of the Vine -- we're an extension of the Vine -- and when you recognize the Vinedresser calling your name, you'll know Him for who He is. Who He really is.

automatic

make it automatic
quick
do-it-yourself
do it at home
drive-through
drop off
automatic transfer
one stop
lickety split
automatic
assembly line
do your job
quickly
quickly
smack
pop
hurry now
give it to the experts
the experts
your job's done
in just
two seconds
press the button
click ok
ok
ok
ok
tax write-off
convenient, eh?
make it automatic
automatic
automatic
so they'll never know
that
you're
a
Christian

mulling it over

It doesn't have to be me who answers the call. God will provide for His own without my help.

But if it is me who answers, there will be blessings -- packed down running over abundant and full too many to number flooding and filling my soul.

It doesn't have to be me. God can to choose someone else...
just
like
that.

when

And then he hangs up the phone--

and he's still
starving
and tired--
feeling old
for being so young.

He's still
poor
and hurting
and asking God

when

why us?

Lord, of all the 5.2 million, why us? If you had set it upon our doorstep, it couldn't have been more blunt.
Lord, of all the 5.2 million, how could he have found us? Mission hearts? Bah. You'll prove that true or false through this, no doubt.
Mission trips. Church. Food. Orphans. Paganism. Christianity. They swirl about like insanity.
I'm trying to ease into it. But how can I ease into something that could change my life forever?

some questions

And again, when does personal sacrifice come into play? When do I start to give up my comforts -- finances, pride, security, and knowledge -- to trust?
How could a persecuted pastor from Nepal make this all up? Does he find it amusing to quietly, timidly tell me he and his wife had no food for Thanksgiving dinner? Funny joke. Really funny. Is it comfortable to send the whole of his income to his brothers and sisters who still feel the iron fist of Hinduism pressing down on their faith? He says he needs money to survive so he can keep reaching out; who doesn't? Are his methods so despicable, are his motives so tainted that he doesn't deserve my help?
And when did I deserve God's help? Tell me, when did I become so just and righteous and proper to deserve the grace of God and fellow man?

quiet ride home

We had a quiet ride home from town. A few words floated by in the pick-up that smelled like farm pick-ups do, but they were emptier than the silence. I thought of the deep words that could have come, words for help and words for healing. But it turned out that their absence was deeper.

It was a cold ride home from town. But I'm warm now, so I don't remember the coldness. I can only hear the silence.

The ride home was an item on my schedule. It hadn't been there in a while, so I'd forgotten just how it worked. I forgot that if I ask questions, they should be questions like "what's that called?" and "how's that work?" and not... well, not like the questions I asked. Good thing I didn't think of too many questions.

We had a short ride home from town. Quiet and cold, but mostly just short.

gotta

I've gotta like the unlikeable. I've gotta like the ones that talk a little too loud and forget to smile when they're supposed to. I've gotta forget the words and admit I've lost them, instead of fumbling and fidgeting, smiling and tucking hair behind my ear where it was before I started tucking. When the confidence comes easier, I've gotta remember when it didn't. I've gotta remember when I was just me -- eighteen and influenced and thinking only every other day. I've gotta start listening and realizing that they've stepped the miles between here and there, and I'm only looking over the map of the journey. I've gotta thank them for the love. I've gotta stop proving and start loving. I've gotta keep praying for them, not because they don't understand... but because I don't, and they've gotta deal with me. I've gotta believe that.

veteran's day

There's a line-up of men on the newspaper. Eyes filled with flashes of war and dust, they stare at the camera: tortured heroes. They wear caps instead of helmets now. A few hardened lips break into hints of grins. They're honored on the pages, but not like they deserve. They see the lack of justice, but they don't know how to change it. They just take what they can get, and move on -- to memories and life and then, finally, death.

words?

Last time I was here, the novel was so clear. In the emotion, I knew what needed to be written, although I didn't know how. This time, I feel the emotions again, but they haven't compelled me to writing; they've compelled me to living -- to confrontation and prayer and other such uncomfortable tasks.
I don't know if or when the words will come back. I don't know if they ever existed. They glimmered like a mirage, and then they were gone.

library

Only the brave spend time at the library, traversing its systems, its shelves, its smiles and quietness. It is not an escape; it's a voyage. And cold are the fingers, the words, the books, waiting to be touched.

God fight

she thought she was fighting God.
"why don't you--?"
and "why won't you--?"
and "when will you--?"

she punched the air like
a boxer,
a fighter,
trying to claim the promise
without believing,
without remembering.

"he is faithful who promised"
came around
and made some sense.

but it took some reminders
from him
and some reminders
about what
"in every thing"
means-

and then she knew

she was only
fighting
herself.

truth quote

"Never let logic or practicality get in the way of TRUTH. Keep your relationship strong by journeying into the realm of what God has for you, which is far beyond that which is logical or practical." -c.l.beyer, Summer 2001

I don't remember now what "relationship" I was referring to here (probably one's relationship with God?), but I thought this little blurb was interesting nonetheless.

deeper

We're searching for something deeper -- we all are.

One I told, and she agreed. One wrote to show me. One tries and tries; it's just under the surface, but there. One doesn't show it, but needs it. One shows a little, shows others a lot. One has it, flashes it, just doesn't say it.

I've heard you all practice; you're good -- really good. But to get us all together to do something magnificent? Where does the goodness break down into amateurism? Are we just playing different arrangements of the same song? You know, if we got our act together, maybe others would be inspired to play too.

sadness: 3 portraits

Cry into the dishwater, baby.
Cry and cry,
and hope somebody hears you.
Cry until you're done
and then cry some more
because the dishes are done
and you're still crying.

Cry into the washing machine, baby.
Cry and let go.
But when the letting go stops,
just don't-
don't
block up the entrance
again.
Don't-

* * *

"Many scholars agree that Indian evangelism, as a whole, was not a story of success, the greatest reason being the intense conflict between the two cultures for supremacy over the land. But perhaps equally important was the deep-seated belief of white America that Indians were racially inferior and that their culture was not worth saving." -Ruth A. Tucker in From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya

* * *

Pages of faces flash before me.
Whose are you if not mine?
Whose are you if not anyone else's?
You are not your parents'
anymore
You are your own;
you are God's-
a small comfort
to you
right now.
Orphan children.

the morning after

Thank you to the one who broke through. Thank you to the one who touched when she could have said, "I'll wait till Friday." A wound oozes when it's hurting, gushes before healing. I gushed.
Silly selfishness and pride get in my way sometimes -- okay, a lot of times -- okay, almost all the time -- and it's a wretched thing to get rid of them. It's like pulling teeth, although, I'll admit, I haven't pulled a lot of teeth in my life. My experience with teeth has been to let them wobble and wiggle until they pretty much fall out of their own accord.
Sometimes I leave selfishness and pride in until they fall out, not of their own accord (for some reason, they're perfectly content to stay), but of God's urging. And I fall to pieces until they're gone. Then I realize I'm really the better for their absence.
So, anyway, thank you for leading me through the tough stuff. Thanks for holding my hand, and then checking up on me when I got to the other side.

pieces

Let her bring God back to you, Little Town. Let her step into your world without conforming to it. Let her be herself, fulfill her dreams in you.

The town drunk says, "This used to be a liquor store," and she says, "Did it now?" She knows it used to be a liquor store because she had her eye on it back then; she had already claimed it as a girl, but she didn't know what for. It's too beautiful to be a liquor store.

A lady playing a guitar in the corner brings people in, but it's God who brings the love. It's the love that keeps people coming in for another shot, another smooth escape.

People keep coming in like they want to see the speakers, hear the music, but they don't always pay attention -- most of the time they do, though. Monday or Tuesday is story day -- written, remembered, fiction, not fiction, whatever. She loves those days most because they're so true.

"It's 'cause of you, you know. This place brings people into town," they tell her. No, it's not. It's 'cause of God; all because of God: builder of dreams.

Students studying fill the tables and chairs with their sprawl of learning. She walks into the library and says, "You oughtta renovate the upstairs." But they ask, "How could we afford it? We can barely afford buying new books for our shelves." And she says, "You oughtta put a can on the corner of your counter that says: 'Donations for the Expansion of the Library.' Books are important. Here's your first check." Ha! That'd make 'em do it.

The hours are long, but people keep coming.

She doesn't dress like the rest; she dresses like herself.

She says, "I've got a surprise tomorrow at four. You should come by." She smiles a wry smile. "Why's that?" "It'll be worth it." Four o'clock comes along and she lifts the cloth from her book -- her published book. "In between getting drinks, I somehow found time to write a book. It's 'cause of y'all this place stays open. Drinks on the house and a copy of this for everybody." She winks. "You don't have to read it."

She loves books, and she wants others to love them. Books cover an entire wall, or they did until half of them got checked out around town. She only keeps track because someone else might need to read one of them, and she might need to track her copy down in a hurry.

She loves people, and she wants others to love them. Sometimes it's hard to know where to draw the line, so sometimes she just doesn't.

Clergymen come in and say she's not representing who she ought to represent, or she's taking away their crowd. Gas station says she's taking away their customers too. She gives them a drink on the house, and says she bets their business has actually improved.

She's got jars on the counter, stuffed with money to feed the hungry, rescue the orphans, clothe the poor, birth new Christians. She didn't tell people to fill the jars; they just did. She puts in her salary and wishes she didn't have to pay the bills. People forget the days when jars and shop were empty, but she doesn't. She remembers well.

Sunday is her day off, and she watches the sunset and takes a breath before Monday. She wishes she could do more. She wishes others would come by, others who won't let themselves be touched.

The walls, the pictures, used to be the definition of perfect decorum. Now, the place is kitschy, but it's the reflection of love, so it's all okay.

It's an anomaly; she acts like it's normal. People come from out of town, but just to gawk. The people touched are right next door, and they're addicted to receiving love and giving love. They can't stop.

Let Him be Himself, fulfill His dreams in you.

if you only read the words...

"If you only read the words, you'd understand my heart.... If you only read the words, you'd see that the story isn't so hard to comprehend. You'd wipe my tears, laugh with my rejoicing, and sit and chat when I just need to vent. If you only read the words..." -c.l.beyer, written on 05.august.2005

* * *

God, I'm so dry. Sometimes I don't even care, You know? I don't feel like talking to You, but I know I should... so I do. Here I am. Hit me or something because I'm too weak to reach out.

"The Lord hath called me from the womb; from the bowels fo my mother hath he made mention of my name" (Isaiah 49.1).
"Thou art my servant, O Israel, in whom I will be glorified (Isaiah 49.3).
"In an acceptable time have I heard thee, and in a day of salvation have I helped thee" (Isaiah 49.8).

Yeah, yeah, God. Those are wonderful words, powerful promises. I know in my head that they're true; they're just not hitting me in the heart, You know?

"And I will make all my mountains a way, and my highways shall be exalted" (Isaiah 49.11).

Nice words for someone else. Let me look at the words without reading them. They aren't helping anyway. Maybe You'll do something supernatural. Maybe You can break through this numb barrier. Yes, yes... that's better... words speeding by without meaning...

If you only read the words, you would understand My heart.

Hey, I wrote that.

Did you?

Sorry, God, my mind's wandering. Where did that come from? I was sitting here reading -- kind of -- and...

You didn't mean that for me, did You?

If you only read the words, you would understand My heart.

Okay. I'll read. I don't want to be superstitious or anything, but yeah... I guess it would help if I read the words.

"Sing, O heavens; and be joyful, O earth; and break forth into singing, O mountains: for the LORD hath comforted his people, and will have mercy upon his afflicted" (Isaiah 49.13).

Like I said, nice promises for someone else.

"But Zion said, The LORD hath forsaken me, and my Lord hath forgotten me" (Isaiah 49.14).

Exactly. I know how they feel.

"Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb?" (Isaiah 49.15a)

Um... no.

"Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee" (Isaiah 49.15b).

[Silence]

"Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands" (Isaiah 49.16a).

Kind of drastic, don't You think? But... You feel that way about me?

If you only read the words, you would understand My heart.

Well then. I guess so.

[Silence]

Here I am...

emphasis!

I love emphasis. From italics to exclamation points to capitalization, one can make writing into an amusement park of wild rides.

This will not be an exhaustive look at the many forms of emphasis in the English language; I'll just discuss some of my favorite methods, as well as -- you can be sure -- some warnings against absolutely WRONG ways to emphasize.

1. Italicization
This is the best way to emphasize a word or phrase. Using italics makes me feel like an author because it was in a novel, I think, that I first discovered the joy of reading italicized words. Italicization makes reading aloud a breeze. It's subtle yet effective, classy but not condescending. (Underlining is the non-technological way of italicizing. It's the emphatic tool of typewriters and hand-written letters; it's useful but increasingly uncommon.)

2. Capitalization
When typing, this is a particularly easy way to emphasize a word or phrase, but it also comes across to the reader as being rather obnoxious. In the Bible, words like LORD and I AM and HOLINESS TO THE LORD are capitalized, which tells me they are very, very important. In casual, everyday writings, however, few words are as important as those listed above. Actually, none are. So, use capitalization very sparingly. (For an example of a correct though intentionally obnoxious use of capitalization, see paragraph #2 of this essay.)

3. Exclamation points
Some famous author once said that a person should be given a ration of one exclamation point to use in writing across the span of his or her entire life. He makes a good point, although I won't be quite so stingy. Exclamation points are fun to stick in odd places (like the title of this essay), but they're most commonly used at the end of sentences containing material which, to the author, is particularly exciting. My caution is this: if you read a draft of your e-mail or other exciting composition, and more than half of the sentences end in an exclamation point, you should either revise it or seriously consider consulting a doctor for hyperactivity.

4. Use of cool words
Probably what I really mean instead of "cool" is "appropriate." But appropriate is often cool, although cool is often not appropriate. You know what I mean. A word in time saves nine, or at least saves you from using other emphatic tools. Case in point: um... I don't have a case in point. Cool, appropriate words take some thought; they aren't the product of a brain on cruise control.

I have only one other warning that hasn't been addressed above. Quotation marks are never, never!, NEVER to be used to emphasize a word. Quotation marks are reserved for the titles of short works such as short poems, songs, short stories, and chapters; they also should surround the words people say and words taken out of something written to which one wants to refer. (That's why they're called quotation marks.) They are not to be used to draw attention to a word or to stress a word. As an example of how not to use quotation marks, consider this advertisement:

* * *

Puppies for Sale!

"Cute!" "Cuddly!"

Call 123.456.7890

"Please take one home today!"

* * *

The person who posted this sign clearly didn't understand how to use quotation marks. The only way this could be considered correct is if someone said "Please take one home today!" and that the dogs were "cute!" and "cuddly!" Even in that case, one should always cite her sources. And on top of all that, this sign reeks of exclamation point diarrhea.

So, you see, the key in using emphasis is simply to avoid quotation marks, and by all means, DON'T BE EXCESSIVE!!!

missionary prayer

Jesus, where and who are Your true missionaries? I read [in From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya] about men like Paul and Peter who carried Your name without political baggage. If they were a citizen of [any] country, they were a citizen of the true, Holy Spirit-filled Church of God. And then there were believers like Polycarp and Perpetua, who would rather have... endured slaughter [and did!] than defame Your name!
And then I read about Boniface and Columba, to whom spreading the Gospel [seemed] to be more about expanding a political power agenda than exalting the Name above all Names! I don't know, and I can't judge, but things certainly looked different in their day than it seems You intended.
Where are the true missionaries? And may I be one of them?
I fear that [in America,]... to be a Christian means nothing; it's rather like saying one is a good citizen. And I want to be more than a good citizen. I want to be Your ambassador. In fact, if being Your child and ambassador means I have to be a bad citizen, let me be a bad citizen!
Give me the courage to love people. Give me the courage to exalt Your Name above all other names. Give the courage to die if that's the plan You have for me -- only so that the Name of Jesus Christ may be exalted and proclaimed.
Dear Lord -- my Father -- and dear Jesus, my Redeemer, I know in my heart that Jesus is the reason I can be forgiven of my deep sin and Jesus is the reason I can live eternally. But help these things make more sense to me so I can tell others about this miraculous plan for the salvation of mankind!...
All glory and honor to You. Amen.

written 28.october.2005

leota

I never saw her
eyes wander-
or judge.
They were steady
with trust.
And I trusted her.

Faith.
Love.
Joy.
They became her.
They were her clothing,
and I was her friend.

I need to trust her now
that the dice have been rolled
and it feels like gambling-
but it's not.

She just loves
so many people,
different than me,
distant from me.

And when
the distance
widens
the love
widens
too?

you'd think

You'd think the more I write, the less I'd have to say.
Nope.

writing and genres

Whenever random people ask me what I write, I usually tell them I'm working on a novel or two. Don't tell, but I haven't worked on any novel for several weeks. Novels are easier to understand, though, than say, Christian-books-for-women-about-how-to-be-a-good-wife. I mention blogging, too, but only about half the people know about blogs.

You see, there aren't any clear-cut answers for the "what do you write?" question. Even when I say, "I'm working on a novel," they want to know what kind of novel. Don't get me wrong: I'm glad they're interested in my life. But I don't know what kind of novels I write. They're just novels. Novel novels. Usually, though, I give people the genre answer, which is only cool because it has the word genre in it, and I used to not know about that word. Genre is cool because it is spelled nothing like it sounds, and even if it were spelled like it sounds, it sounds cool anyway. But I digress (that's only about the third time in my life I've used the word digress).

So back to my novels. I say, "Ummmm... I've written part of a novel that's kind of fantasy/sci-fi, but that's not what I usually write. I usually write... I don't know... it's hard to place it into any specific genre." And that would be one of my smoother answers.

So what do I write? Mostly, I write novels. Novel novels. Novels are stories. Stories about people and the things that happen to them in life. People make decisions -- good ones and bad ones -- and then there are consequences, reactions. Yeah. That's what I write.

the good side of gullibility

I'm searching for the good side of gullibility, but I'm not sure if there is one. Solomon tells me, "in the multitude of counsellors there is safety" (Proverbs. 11.14), but there can also be a lot of confusion. You've gotta pick good counselors, wise ones.

I used to think I had all the answers, or at least most of them. Grounded and solid, I was. My husband told me about this guy that was grounded in something different, and I thought he was nuts (the guy, not my husband). But if he's nuts, a lot of people are nuts. And if I was nuts, a lot of people are nuts. So, I thought, let's just face it: we're all nuts (but less nuts than all the people who are really nuts).

Trees rooted and uprooted a lot probably aren't very healthy. I'm not much of a horticulturalist, but it seems likely, don't you think? I don't want to be an unhealthy tree; I'd rather just soak in a bucket of water observing the soil till I know where I need to be planted. I can't sit there forever because I'll probably rot or something. But it's better than all that transplanting: at least I won't dry out.

I'm gonna try tell that guy (that nuts guy) he's probably not so nuts as I thought. He's got a lot of good roots and resources. And like I'm gonna tell him, too: "God has given us an awful lot of information about his plan and his character, and if absorbing and understanding that information gives him more honor and glory, I want to do that." Sounds pretty solid for being so nuts, don't you think?

In conclusion (because I don't know how else to end this thing), I want branches that reach up and out to Christ. I want boughs heavy with fruit. I want to soak up the sun and the rain and the wind until I'm firmly grounded: "just like a tree planted by the water, I shall not be moved" (V.O. Fossett, based on Psalm 1.3).

wonder

"Wonder is that feeling we get when we let go of our silly answers, our mapped out rules that we want God to follow. I don't think there is any better worship than wonder." -Donald Miller in Blue Like Jazz

Okay, why is it that wonder ("to have curiosity, sometimes mingled with doubt") is so much different than wonder ("a person, thing, or event causing astonishment and admiration; marvel")? The first is almost degrading; it's filled with confusion and questions. When I wonder in the first sense, I want answers. I don't like to wonder.

I've been wondering (in the first sense) about theology lately. I was raised to believe Arminianism rather than Calvinism, but then I started listening to radio preachers who teach the latter. Lately people have been telling me I should believe a mix of the two. (They call it "moderate Calvinism.") To be painfully honest, none of them make sense to me. No one has answered all my questions yet. Is there something wrong with not putting God into our man-made forms and formulas and just admitting God is God even though we can't formulate a logical reason why election and eternal security do or do not occur? Just wondering.

When I read Donald Miller's sentence "I can no more understand the totality of God than the pancake I made for breakfast understands the complexity of me," I laughed out loud. But then I realized, "Huh. That's not really very funny," and then I felt very small. "The little we do understand, that grain of sand our minds are capable of grasping, those ideas such as God is good, God feels, God loves, God knows all, are enough to keep our hearts dwelling on His majesty and otherness forever." Amen, brother.

How can we shift to the second sense of wonder? How can the part that's "mingled with doubt" turn into something that, even though it has no answers, accepts the unknown with peace and awe? I wonder.

getting out of forms

I'm feeling compelled to get out of forms. I'm feeling like, if I don't starting loving people -- for real, I'm going to be missing out on God's purpose for me.

I stare too much. I think negative thoughts too much. I judge people and hold them up to standards I could never live out. Deep down, I'm a protester and a Republican. I hate that. I am a really, really good girl... at least that's the only part you'll ever see.

There is so little time to love on people, so I know I need to get started now -- today. The hard part is that I don't really know how most of the time. My judgment radars go swirling around my head like screaming bats. I wish I could just knock them out with a sledgehammer. You're like: "Knock whom out? The people or the radars?" Yeah, sometimes I don't even know.

So, anyway, I'm going to start praying for love and for malfunctioning judgment radars. I'd be thrilled if you'd pray with me.

waiting

Dishes are done and I'm undone... waiting.
The air conditioner kicks on; it's colder alone.
Me -- a flapping, purposeless piece
without you.
I'm not frustrated or discouraged
because I can't afford to misuse my time
on the phone with you.
I can't afford to misuse my moments
in your sight -- a smile --
in your arms.
They mean everything, and they connect
the two pieces that were never two --
only lonely
in the waiting...

nothing to say

I've been challenged to blog every day, but what do I say? I want something big to say, something monumental, something drenched in truth. But sometimes -- usually -- I don't feel any significance in my conglomeration of thoughts:

fragments of praise - faded dreams - frustration - loneliness - yearning for fellowship with real people - yearning for home - hope for words - searching for significance, purpose, love - self love - self hatred - fear - contentment - thankfulness - hunger - knowledge and conceit for it - regret for not admitting fault - regret for admitting it too often - pleasure - sorrow welling up hard in my throat- joy spilling out like a river from my soul - confusion - pride - music - love - friendships begun - friendships scattered, shattered - truth and ignorance - victory - everyday plodding - jealousy - culture - narrowness - broadness - new dreams and passion - I've only begun

bird in a cage, in two parts

Cold, blocking bars
and eyes
and words.
They tell you lies.
You believe them
because
t
he bars
a re
in
th
e
wa y
and then everything's
dis to rted.

Someone told me:
"Don't expect them -
or her -
to believe
or behave
like you do."
So I'm not surprised -
really -
but still sad.

This is probably
the only warning
you'll get
about the vigil.

Freedom -
warning or no -
is always glorious.

* * *

The people have been gathering around your cage, and you're a wounded bird. They're sick, those people. Sometimes I think it's sick as in demented, but I have to remind myself it's sick as in sick -- ill, infected, unhealthy. But they tell you lies, and you believe them because you're in a cage. A cage! -- and you have bars blocking truth.

I want to see you break free. I know it's hard because once you break through the bars of your own cage, there's all those people.

We're planning a vigil for freedom. For your freedom. It's been "help," "help," "help." And I guess it still is "help," but we're gonna shout it louder, shout it longer, shout it together.

For freedom!

isel

Isel, do you know how perfect I wanted to be for you today? I wanted to be this role model you could look at and say, "Wow. I want to be like her."
You're such a beautiful girl, such a normal girl. And I'm so glad I don't have to be perfect anymore.

the body

I cannot put Christ in the straightjacket called church, although he works through it. I cannot bottle him up, package him, paint a picture that depicts his love, his suffering, his scars, his glory, his work. I cannot explain a theology that represents his character. He's too big, too broad, too explicit, too perfect. He dwells in a body; he dwells in a temple. The temple has hands; the temple has feet. It breathes. It works. It loves. Oh, how it loves!
But, for all I'm worth, I cannot describe that body. I only know its humanity -- its hands -- because Christ, working through the body, reached out and touched... me.

future country

Some people couldn't imagine living anywhere but the city. I, on the other hand, would be heartbroken if someone spilled the news to me that I would never see open pastureland out my bedroom window again. It would hurt to know that I will never again see the light show of thousands, millions -- billions? -- of stars on a daily basis.

Fields green, then brown with harvest. Cicadas chirping at the night. Hay tucked into big round bales, in rows, just as useful for running on top of as for feeding cattle. Trees, barns, lanes -- places to dream. Wide open yards, smelling sweet with freshly mown grass. Grass that was cut by a girl singing her lungs out because the roar of the riding lawn mower invites her to. Insects biting, but the itch saying that summer's here again. Gravel painful beneath bare feet. Grass cold and soothing afterwards. Hills dipping down, out of sight from the house, where I'm finally... alone. Talking out loud, singing, praying, with no one to hear but God. In the still of the morning, five -- no, six -- deer stopping, listening, waiting, bounding in the back yard. Climbing trees, jumping out on the best tree swing in the world. Building fortresses of grain bins, propane tanks, cattle chutes, or... air. Empty roads -- just me. If a car comes, a flick of the wrist says, "Hello, stranger. Welcome home."

Yes, it would sting to know. So, if you happen to see only suburban streets and star-deprived skies in my future, keep it to yourself. Because I prefer to dream...

inspired by j.l.s. and home

sister

How is it that you should come to me with your tears, your sack of burdens? How could I begin to anoint the feet that have walked steadily as any woman I know?
You are my sister.

I thought I was the one longing for relationship. I thought I was the one with spiritual battles. I thought I was the one with self-righteousness and pride too ugly to bare.
You are my sister.

At a time when I couldn't be trusted, you trusted me. In a moment when I couldn't minister, you cried for help. I am the one who asks for help, don't you know?
You are my sister.

I am your sister.

castles

I had a vision of growth and promise. I didn't write it down, so my castles have already begun to crumble a bit under the weight of hours and conversations and someone else's scrutiny.
I never know if my castles -- hopes and imaginings -- are healthy. I think they are sometimes, until I realize that I've spent a half hour in them, maybe more, without even that much time of building real castles in the day. When that happens, I just pray that God'll take the moments I've created as a prayer. "Father, forget the specifics. Make the desires of my heart in tune with Your heart. Build better castles, bigger castles, more beautiful than I can ever imagine."

"Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him." -1 Corinthians 2.9

I think that applies to my castles too.

to my readers who still are...

When the crispness* of autumn rolls in,
and I can get away with wearing long sleeves again;
when I crack open a good book,
pulled from my old school bag;
when the breeze reaches me from the window,
as a read a precious, handwritten letter;
when I can sit outside the coffee shop in the morning
without the weight of humidity upon me;
when a walk in the park sounds better
than an air-conditioned night with a movie;
when those books keep cracking open
and my journal keeps calling
and my school bag feels so natural on my shoulder
and I develop a strange hunger to learn;
then...
I wish I could be, like you,...

...a student again!

*Although 80 degrees may not define crispness by your standards, it would if you had experienced over 100-degree temperatures just two days before.

hope again

Hope -- it drips down through the cracks of the strong, hard crust I've built about me. It washes my face clean of the tears. When I said, "God, I want to repent, but I don't know if my pride will let me," He said, "I paid for pride on the cross too."
"But," I said, "I don't understand my heart. I don't know what's wrong. How can I repent for that which I don't understand?"
"I understand it."
He understood it. He understands it.
And that's how hope dripped through the cracks and lifted up my eyes.

good writing

I love good writing, full of intention. I love to read the words of a master of the craft, where every comma, every dash and dot, every adjective and adverb is there because it's supposed to be. Someone once asked me, "You think [so-and-so] means think instead of thank?" Nope. I sure don't. Because if so-and-so's anything like me, every letter is there for a reason, and those passionate, writing-loving eyes scanned -- no, examined -- the work before putting it out there for other people to pick apart themselves.

* * *

When one knows the rules of writing, she's entitled to break them. If she doesn't, better stick to the grammar book or only write in secret. That way, the children won't learn bad tricks.
When one thinks she's a master of the craft, she better keep studying. Because as soon as she claims to have all the answers to the world's writing problems -- usually through her lofty tone, the real masters will be on the look-out for her to slip up. And then they'll laugh at her, and probably won't tell her what she's done wrong; they'll just leave her to spin her wheels in the muck of ignorance.
It's not a bad thing to try new techniques. In fact, it's probably good practice. One must always keep in mind, however, that being honest -- being oneself -- is one of the most powerful tools in communicating truth to the rest of the world. I say, don't act like Emily Dickinson or Shakespeare too long; the world will soon tire of the role-playing and go on back to the real masters, hoping their old friend will come along soon.

like spring

Late summer and the grass was dry
in our backyard-
but we watered it like crazy
and it started greening up again.

It rained yesterday-
rained like crazy.
Help from
both ends,
I guess.

New patches of green are showing now-
like spring-
green against brown.
I guess there's always hope

worship

If I should sing words-
music
about God-
and let the words
slip by
without meaning-
without letting them touch
my heart-
or God's-
it would be better
if I had not sung them
at all.

growing pains 2

Yeah, so I was just here, enjoying the view... and then I felt #5 creeping up on me. Ouch! What's up with that? I guess I knew it would hurt a little, but Daddy-Sir, this hurts a LOT! And, for some reason, I thought I was an exception to #9. Nope. I'm not.

i am glad you're happy...

...and I'm not being cynical either. I love to see the relationships in bloom, the passion to serve and praise and love. You know it's all about Jesus, don't you? It shows. It really does.

But you also know it's different here, don't you? It's different in a lot of places. I don't know if it's your job to concern yourself with those "other places," but it might be. It might be.

It's different for a lot of people too. You know some of them, and you talk to them. Do me a favor, won't you? When they ask, when they sneer, when they scoff, when they wipe away a tear, tell them -- please -- that it's different for me.

growing pains

When you're going through a growth spurt, you've gotta remember some things:

1. God deserves praise for giving you the nutrients to make you a prime candidate for growth.
2. Things are gonna look different.
3. You're gonna look different.
4. Emotions peak.
5. The process hurts.
6. You'll need lots of rest and, yes, even more food.
7. You'll be able to do things you've never done before.
8. Some people won't know what's happening.
9. You might not even know what's happening.
10. You'll never be the same again.

unexplainable

You can only explain so much, and then you must leave the explaining to God.

the Pain inside her

She tears madly at the pink packet of Sunshine sugar, and tiny white grains shower all over the Plexiglass table top. The water ring from her goblet of iced tea seems to attack the sugar, leaving it drenched and sticky.
“And you’ve had enough time with the menu, ma’am?” a voice rumbles.
She looks up at the tall, blonde server. “Of course. But I think I’ll have the special.” A sparkling grin sends him away.
Bodies, in the shape of a family, sink into a nearby booth. The restaurant’s too dark. And stuffy.
Really, they ought to refill her iced tea. It’s gotten all watery.

She feels it within her.
Kicking. Moving. Growing. Screaming.
Pulling, wrenching at her heart.
Sometime, she thinks, her heart will just come out of her, and will lie, panting on the floor, tired of fighting. Tired of trying to believe she can’t feel it.
Breathing. Living. Crying. Dying. Hoping.
Hoping she won’t ignore its presence. Every once in a while, it seems so easy, like she can just put a lid on the container, seal it up like it doesn’t matter, put it on a shelf somewhere and pretend it doesn’t exist. But it’s still bleeding.
Giving. Sharing.
Sharing every pain. And when she thinks it’s only her, feeling her physicalness, feeling human, then it screams out its pain, deep inside, and it’s so terribly hard to ignore the cutting.
Swelling. Carving.
Whittling her apart, making its place, just like it thinks it can, without invitation, or warning to her about its power. But yet it goes about its business.
Loving.
Because that’s its job. Sometimes she wonders if it can do anything else. If it knows how.
But then she wonders: Why would something that loves me tear me into so many small shreds, spread me out and make me utterly helpless?
And so, she believes the lie that they’ve all been telling her – that it’s dead. That what she’s been feeling is only her mind playing tricks on her. Or emotions. That’s all. They pass. Surely. After she can take that crying, wrenching mass and toss it out. Like it’s nothing.
Then the emotions will go away. And then there will be nothing.
But memories – kicking.
Moving.
Growing.
Screaming.
Pulling, wrenching at her heart.

He hands her a piece of white cloth.
“You’ve dropped your napkin, ma’am. Here you go.”
“Oh! Thank you… Jerry, is it? You’ve really been an excellent waiter. Really you have.” She smiles. “I love an enjoyable dining experience. It just seems to relax me, you know. Are you featuring any desserts this evening?”
A petite menu appears from behind his back, and she orders the crème brulee.

:: written in 2002 ::

passion born

It crept upon me and seized me because it was directed by the Spirit of God.
Where else could it have come from? Not from me, that's for sure. One month ago, worries and prayers were in its place. I longed for others to help chase away these problems -- location, job, church, everything.
As worries flee, joy -- great joy! -- replaces them. And with joy, passion.
And then I remember... I prayed for this passion. But so brief, so seldom was my prayer that I almost forgot I had prayed it. But God heard it...

and planted,
and watered,
passion
for Him
and for His people.

And now I can pray for them, that they can have passion.

skill and punch

I've seen both -- the skill without the punch, and the punch without the skill. I've also seen the skill and the punch together. Dear God, could You teach me both?

make me thankful

If I become distanced, and count you an enemy instead of a friend, remind me of your love. If I forget to speak, ask me questions. If I forget you've traveled this road much longer than I, tell me about how you've tripped and fallen and then kept walking on. If I forget to listen, pray for me. If I forget to be real enough for you to understand what I write and speak and do, remind me -- but gently. If I forget to tell you how very much I love you, tell me you love me... and then I'll remember to tell you too.

"trying" is a futile word

You laugh in the face of the thunderstorm, while I thirst for its rain. You scoff at the black, dusty earth, but you forget that all roots are buried within it. You eat the fruits of the land with relish, but sneer at the bruises on their flesh. Locusts come. You don't care. You are proud to call yourself a farmer. The bruises come from your hand.

::

Trying is a futile word, reserved for boys learning to ride bicycles and students winning good grades. It's not for me, who's done all possible to make this thing work, waiting for an act of God to push the power switch. ON. That's the signal I'm waiting for, while I learn to be satisfied with the OFF if that's all there is for me. Is my lightbulb broken?

::

I dig my hands into soil, black and rich. It smells, it looks, it feels fertile. Nothing grows. Dirt gathers under my fingernails, and the sunshine is hot on the back of my neck and arms. I sweat. I pray. But when nighttime comes, my hands come up black and empty.

untitled

Why do you come, when you know all you'll find is a land stripped bare? Is it really worth your journey, when death is the likely outcome? You've seen corpses of your relatives, lying abondoned -- alone. Yet you still come. Must you test the authority of this land till they're compelled to exterminate you all?
I've seen you drag yourself through pollen, coming through it, coated like a candy. I've seen you crawl and dig for that meager scrap of food that everyone else -- even I -- overlooked. Do those desperate searches really fill you? Do they really satisfy your cravings?
Search for the world of deeper fulfillment. Go back to your home, where the grass and dirt feel cool against your feet, and the sun rests warmly upon your backs.

You won't do it, will you?

Stupid, stubborn ants.

evidence

From the unpublished post, torn, written earlier today:

"I'm torn between jumping at an opportunity for which I was not searching, and sticking with a plan that may gradually turn sour."

There's nothing quite like hoeing up a garden in 92-degree heat just before noon on a Friday to make a girl realize: "No, I don't want to be a secretary. I want to be a writer."

Even if you fail?

Yep, even if I fail.

a stab at poetry

I wish
I could be like them
and not be afraid
to write --
just write!
I wish I didn't have
to be afraid
of the comments
criticisms
praise
falling
down
over my words
like water,
weakening them,
strengthening them.
I wish I didn't have
to be afraid
of giving
meaning
to the words.
I wish
I didn't know that
giving meaning
means
a microscrope
has been placed
over my life.

wheelchair woman

Forgive me, ma'am, for calling you "wheelchair woman." I guess in my head, that's all I know about you: that you're female, and you're in an electric wheelchair.

Oh, yeah. I guess there's something else: last time I saw you here, at the car wash, you asked me for money. I saw you before we talked, and you were digging into the change slots of the vending machines, hunting for forgotten coins. I was glad for the opportunity to give you a dollar, and I patted myself on the back for the good advice I lent: "In this heat, maybe you should get a water instead of a Mountain Dew; it'll quench your thirst longer." I doubt you listened to me.

I'll admit, I was a little disgusted to see you here again today. Oh, great. She's made a profession of this. I planned what I would say when you wheeled up to my parked car: "Let me go buy you some water, and here, take this Testament; it's living water for your soul." That would be stepping out of the box for me, and I guess I was looking forward to the challenge.

But I washed my car, and you didn't wheel up to me. Maybe I was prepared for the challenge, but I was also a little relieved to not have to deal with the situation.

As I pulled out of the garage, I looked back at you in my rearview mirror. You were dipping your fingers into the change slots of the vending machines. You hadn't asked me for money; you hadn't asked me for anything.

Ma'am, I'm sorry I judged you. In all my planning, I forgot to love.

epiphany

I've acquired a bit of habit in my housework. As dorky as Flylady.net sounds, and as disturbingly popular as it is, it really has been a lifesaver in the way of helping me establish healthy routines for my day. I'm not saying I have them down pat. Some days I soar; some days I crash and burn. But in the overall scope of things, God has been working overtime in that area of my life. The results are obvious.

That's it: "the results are obvious." My house is consistently cleaner than ever.

One of the most helpful gems I've learned in this process is that I must let go of my perfectionism. I didn't even know I was a perfectionist, but apparently, yes, perfectionism is what holds a wife back from cleaning her house... because she doesn't have enough time (or motivation) to do it the "right" way. So... I let the perfectionism go. Oh, sure, sometimes I try to pick it back up again, but overall, the idea of letting it go makes sense to me now. Flylady taught me that "housework done incorrectly still blesses your family."

Now, before you start making fun of me, let me just say -- I'm excited! You know why? Because I finally have a versatile enough tool to use in my writing disciplines. Perhaps perfectionism is what keeps me from writing. And because I cling to that perfectionism, I have low self-esteem due to the fact that I'm a writer who doesn't write (at least not enough to be considered a "writer"). But if I let that go, and just make writing a habit, even if it's the raunchiest writing you've ever read, I'll be more of a writer than ever. Ha!

sporadicity

Nothing... and then it pours.

I hope, dear Reader, that you're used to it by now, and it doesn't purturb you too much that my blog postings come and go. One thing is: you don't have to worry that they'll be gone forever because I keep learning things, believe it or not, and learned things are blogworthy.

war

Spiritual warfare, this stuff is. The moment you think it's just you fighting your little fight -- with maybe a bit of God's help from somewhere far, far away -- it hits you. You hit rock bottom. And the sadness, the pain, the confusion... they're all just so big you have to pray, whether you believe it'll help or not.

You start to think you're something. (How, in the middle of so much stress, can you actually think you're something?)
"Gotcha," the demon says, although he speaks so softly, you think you heard something else, someone cheering you on. "Right on," the voice whispers.
"Thou shalt have no other gods before me, not even thyself."
You didn't hear that one at all, even though it was there. It was definitely there.
"This is about something else entirely," a demon coos. "It's about you. People shouldn't treat you unjustly. You deserve to be appreciated. You deserve to have an easy road."
But you start to understand that you are wrong, and selfish, and maybe you should apologize for your unfair thoughts. It's at least something to think about.

The forces rushing at each other are so fierce you're in a daze. You think you're just taking a bath, thinking about life, about what's happened. And then you recognize your wretchedness, and God's bigness.

And somehow, at that moment of recognition, you realize that a battle has just been won.

baptize me

Forgive me, Lord, for thinking I'm a good Christian. Forgive me, Lord, for standing myself up against the world and hoping others will see my nice house, nice hospitality. Nice. Yeah, nice tea that I can't take criticism against. Hospitality, my foot.

And I said the same to You, Lord; I said I was really something. "Oh, I know I'm such a failure," I said, "but not as bad as..." Forgive me for that, Lord.

You let me pray, Father. You listened, and I sniffled. And I felt You work. I felt the belief settling in. But I didn't learn... not until... I listened.

And I saw me.
And I saw You.
And I saw You filling in my gaps.
And then, I saw... there was so much You.
And then I realized... that I was nothing.
That it was all You.
There were no gaps to fill in because there was nothing of me to start with.
Only You.

Grace -- not on top of my efforts, but in spite of them.

meaning it

This was my last week of work outside of our home... at least for now. I finished up my last scrapbook pages -- pieces of art, depending on how you look at it. My last page was one dedicated to you. I called you dedicated and driven, hard-working and romantic, and then, "just plain charming." On the opposite page, there was a picture of us. Too much light in the picture, but it was still us -- not the best photographers, but the two best lovers I know. I wrote on the bottom: "small wonder I'm so in love with you."

I've thought about scrapbook pages, especially those created for class samples. They're always so generic, you know, and say things like "FRIENDS" and "Thanks for being YOU." Thanks for being YOU. Okay, I'll admit it: that's what my page said. But you have to make it versatile.

But anyway, those pages... it would be so easy to lie. So easy to make up a happy story about a happy man and wife who love each other and live happily ever after. It would be easy to make up character traits just to go with the pictures.

But the fact is... I don't have to make it up. Because it's real life, and as true as truth gets. And my last page... it's stapled up for the whole world to see.

remember

I think I've figured it out, and it's the failure to remember.

"Remember how God promised Abraham a chunk of land that Abraham hadn't even so much as walked on? Then God said, 'You know what? I'm gonna give this to your descendents!' And Abraham was like, 'What descendents? I don't even have any kids!' But it happened. Remember that." -Stephen, Acts 7.5, paraphrased

Remember the moment when God invaded your heart. You were bent on serving Satan, and God said, "No way. This child is mine."

"Remember how Joseph so sickened his brothers that they sold him as a slave? God didn't forsake him then; He had a plan! When the problems were the thickest for Joseph, as he was rotting in a prison cell after being accused of molesting the captain of the guard's wife (when all he had done was try to escape from her luring!), God delivered him. How? He set him up as ruler, second only to Pharaoh himself! Now how's that for remembering?" -Stephen, Acts 7.9,10, very paraphrased

Remember how often you prayed for victory over that sin, and it just wouldn't come? Remember what happened? God asked you to pray more, ask more, cry more, plead more. And then after he broke the wound and let the infection seep out, then he healed you! Remember.

"Don't forget the best part of Joseph's story: Joseph was the only guy wise enough to figure out a way to save Egypt from its seven-year famine, and that's why God wanted him in control of the empire. Remember what happened? Those eleven brothers, the same ones who sold him as a slave, came to him, begging for corn to stay alive. Joseph toyed with them a bit, to test their hearts, but the best part of the story is this: Joseph forgave 'em. Yep. Now, don't tell me God didn't have his hand in that one." -Stephen, Acts 7.11-13, very paraphrased

When they talk about the sorrow and randomness of the world, and how everything can be explained by humanism, remember! Remember how God created peace where there was nothing from which to create it. Remember how he prepared the enemy's heart, and made him into a friend. Remember!

"Remember how God brought the Israelites out from bondage, and how he actually made a path of dry ground in the middle of the Red Sea, so His children could get across it! God's mercy never fails.
"Remember that the path didn't stay dry. Oh, no! As soon as the Israelites were safely on the other sides, the walls of water came crashing down and slaughtered the Egyptians pursuing them. Remember it... because God's mercy never fails!" -Psalm 136.11-15, paraphrased

Remember how right and wrong cannot be explained by reason. Remember that when they say, "There is no absolute truth," you must reply, "Is that a true statement?" Remember, remember!

There is absolute truth,
there is redemption,
there is peace,
there is love,
there is joy.
there is.

Remember when you felt it, because I know you did. Remember it.
And then remember it again.

training day

God said, "Pop quiz."
And I said, "Okay."
"You don't have to do it, you know. The opponent will never know the difference."
I know, but I decided to accept the training anyway. I was compelled.

She just doesn't understand the game like you do.
Really, is that it? She just doesn't understand the game, because she hasn't seen it played except by one team? She's seen that team's techniques, as it dodges, and dodges, and dodges.
"Play offense!" I wanted to scream. But I didn't. Instead, I thanked her for showing me her techniques.
I tried to play fairly, tried to remember the rules, even when my opponent committed technical errors.
She called it sad.
And carnal.
I think she was referring to me.
She said she was just playing the game, but each move she made seemed to be directed right at me. I confronted them all, but I didn't kick them right back in her face. I couldn't do that to her, you know.
Even though she couldn't see past my facemask, I pray she still saw me.
And I pray she still saw Christ.

It wasn't until afterwards that I discovered my sweaty armpits.

Dear Lord, I think I passed.

mrs. brown

Mrs. Brown came in alone with her jeweled barrette and frizzy hair, smiles all around. It was a wonderful day, and we were beautiful people. She came late to the counter where I taught, but who could deny such a woman?
I had slapped the book together in half an hour, minus interruptions; it was no masterpiece, let me tell you. But Mrs. Brown thought it beautiful, perfect.
I laughed about the book, the thought it lacked.
"This is so neat," she said.
With each page, I explained that she had creative license.
"I want it just like yours," she said.
I showed her how.
"What's your name?" she asked.
I motioned to my name tag, and told her.
Mrs. Brown wants to take some of my classes. She wants to spend more time here.

I joked that Mrs. Brown is good for my self esteem. I joked more than once.
And then I hear Mrs. Brown signed up to come here three weeks in a row to begin with. That first night, tears replaced smiles.
"My husband hit me."
I wonder why she could tell us that.
"This is only about the fourth time since we've been married," she said.
Only. Yeah, okay.
Only.
Mrs. Brown keeps signing up to come here on the weekends. She wants to spend more time here.

griever

What do I say from a distance? How can I really help the pain?

I dreamed last night that I put my arms around you and held you tight for a long time. Yes, she was my cousin, but she was your daughter. You're the one who hears the echoes of her laughter and feels that great, big void where she used to stand. You'll make it through the motions; I know you will. But when everything's over, she'll still be gone. And what can I say to that?

I'm working on "I love you" because anything else would probably be a mere Bandaid: it won't stop the pain. And after that's over, I want you to know that I'll pray, pray that God will become bigger every day until the joy outweighs the pain. Somehow, He will.

one hundred percent

You try hard to make it look like one hundred, but we all know it's not. I wonder if you think you're fooling us into believing you're complete. I don't know if it's zero or ninety. But really, without one hundred, it may as well be zero.

"Thinking" doesn't cut it, girl.

You say I'm being harsh?
Maybe.
But I have to be.
I wish I could be harsh more often.

What do you think, hear, feel? What do you wish? What do you dream?
And why won't you let us in?
Forget about us. I'm praying for one hundred.

born

"I must be obedient or I'll miss them all. There are too many coming to not be writing." -08.june.2005

I believe the stories come from God. I believe the dreams did too. They crept up on me and surprised me with their drama, their wit, their truth. I had very little -- okay, nothing -- to do with it. And even now... I was compelled. Compelled, I tell you.

Shoot, I'm running out of time if I don't start today. What'll happen to the stories if I don' t get them down, ink on paper? They'll die, that's what. They'll die.

Boom -- NOW! -- there it was. And I HAD to write before I forgot. I've forgotten songs, and dreams, and tasks. But I don't have to. I choose to.

I believe.

----

Dear Reader (yes, I really am talking to YOU), I'm just curious -- what does all this mean to you? I posted it because I thought it might be interesting to you. So, you can take it or leave it... but I'd be interested to know which one.

apostrophe's

Take a long look at the title of this blog posting, and imprint this on your brain: THE TITLE IS GRAMMATICLY INCORRECT. Got it? I suggest reading this posting over and over again until the title grates on your nerves as badly as it does mine.

This is a lesson on apostrophes. If you're tempted not to read it, it may be that you're the very person who needs to! I've heard many people complain that they're bad grammarians because the English language has so many exceptions; there are no hard and fast rules. If you're that type of person, rest easy: you don't have to learn (m)any exceptions when using the apostrophe.

Rule number 1: Never, never, never use an apostrophe to pluralize a word. People most often misuse the apostrophe by sticking it right in front of the "s" that makes one thing more than one thing. WRONG! You cannot say "I have two cat's." Never. That is always, always wrong.

Now, some people tend to get confused when they start using last names. Ask yourself: What is the thing I'm tempted to apostrophize (yes, I made that word up) possessing? Then ask yourself if the word you're apostrophizing could be divided into two words (that is, is it a contraction?). If the word (or name) you're using is not possessing anything and cannot be divided, DON'T use the apostrophe. Trust me on this one. The following use of punctuation is correct:

The Smiths are coming.

Last names can spark confusion because of the commonly used phrase: "We're going to the Browns'." An apostrophe is appropriate here because there is an implied word: house. That is, "We're going to the Browns' [house]."

Now, some people (even those who write grammar books) feel that when one uses abbreviations or numbers, it's okay to add apostrophes to pluralize those words. While a grammar teacher may not count off for calling compact discs CD's rather than CDs, I'd like to challenge you not to do it anyway. It's more correct to stick with this rule of thumb: never, never, never use an apostrophe to pluralize a word! When you apply the rule to EVERYTHING, including TAs, the 1950s, and SUVs, apostrophes make a LOT more sense!

Rule number 2: You may only use an apostrophe in possessive words or contractions. Now that I've thoroughly bashed your confidence in using apostrophes at all, there are places you may (and must!) use apostrophes (unless, of course, you've decided to always write sentences like, "That ball belongs to Jennie" rather than "That is Jennie's ball"). First, you may use an apostrophe when implying possession of some sort. For instance:

Chuck's daughter owns a ukulele.

The daughter belongs to Chuck. Coincidentally, the ukulele belongs to the daughter, so we could also say:

The ukulele is Chuck's daughter's.

That sentence may be awkward to say, but it's correct. The possessed object (the ukulele, in this instance) doesn't have to be preceded by its possessor. (If you noticed any exceptions to my rules in this paragraph, by chance, we'll address those problems at the end of the lesson.)

There are cases when you must add an apostrophe to an already pluralized word. For example:

The girls' dressing room rang with laughter.

The rule here is easy: if the pluralized word already ends in "s," there is no need to add another "s" after the apostrophe. If the pluralized word does not end in "s" (children, for example), go ahead and add the apostrophe and the "s" (the children's game).

Going back to singular words, there are cases when a singular word ending in "s" possesses an object. In these situations, it is considered grammatically correct to either add the extra "s" or leave it off. It's your choice. Take these sentences for instance:

Jesus's disciples followed Him.
or
Jesus' disciples followed Him.

Both examples are correct. I personally prefer the former version because it looks the same as all the other singular possessive words in my writing: they all end in 's. But I digress.

There is one -- and only one -- more reason to use an apostrophe, and that is in contractions. You remember contractions, right? Your elementary school teachers probably drilled them into your little brain before you were steady on a bicycle. Contractions are simple. They are apostrophized words that have one or more letters missing because they have joined two words together. And here's the rule of thumb to remember: The apostrophe stands for the missing letter(s). Examples are:

can't
don't
haven't
we're
you're
y'all

The first four words on that list make a lot of sense. You're and y'all can be a little tricky, but they can be easily mastered if you carefully follow the rules I've laid out.

When using your or you're, always ask yourself (I still do every time!) if you could substitute the words you are for the word you've chosen. If you can't, then your is your word. Just remember: your is possessive, you're is a contraction. Use the same rules with their and they're.

And now we've gotten to one of my biggest pet peeves: the misspelling of the word y'all. I have even seen public signs misspell this word to read ya'll. That only makes sense if the original words before dropping a letter and combining them were ya and all. And since that is laborious to say in any case, we can only conclude that the original words before the contraction's creation were you and all. The dropped letters are ou, so the apostrophe clearly must follow the y. Got it?

Here is the coolest part about this whole topic. Since an apostrophe can stand for missing letters, you can easily make up words that are grammatically correct. There is nothing wrong with making up apostrophized words; we do it in spoken English all the time. The most important thing is that your reader understands what they mean. The reason these aren't in the dictionary is because there are just too many possibilities to list! Perfectly legitimate words include:

his're
y'all're
wouldn't've

One word I use often is it's, as in "It's gone too far." While it's commonly stands for it is, it can also stand for it has. Readers easily figure that out from the context.

Now , we'll move into the two exceptions (that come to mind right now):

First, contractions can be tricky because of certain words like ain't. English teachers hate this word, and I presume that's because it doesn't follow any of the hard and fast rules I've listed here. (Ai not cannot replace ain't.) Quite frankly, they can't explain the word to students, so they just say it shouldn't be used (by calling it slang). I would only take their side if those same teachers also outlawed the word won't. Now, explain that word to me! To be perfectly correct, willn't seems to make a whole lot more sense! Here's what I think: If you outlaw the word ain't, you must also outlaw the word won't. Neither or both. English teachers, take your pick.

And number two, pronouns can occasionally give you a bit of a problem. In a previous paragraph, I hinted that I had just disobeyed my rules by using one of those "exception" words. The words "it's" and "its" should be used thus: "It's broken" and "Here are its pieces." Like I said, it's a pronoun thing. Sometime in the history of the English language, someone decided pronouns didn't need apostrophes, so he invented words like theirs and hers and yours. Its is the trickiest because it always precedes the thing it possesses, unlike other pronouns. Theirs, hers, and yours only come at the end of a sentence or phrase, and they have special, different words (their, her, and your) for the times when they need to come right before the thing they're possessing. There's a name for those cases, but you don't need to know it. It's quite likely that through speaking the English language, you have no trouble remembering when to use theirs and when to use their. It comes naturally. It's only in using the word its (and whose/who's) that you tend to forget, unlike the man who invented the word, that there's no apostrophe.

I know it's probably been a long time since you've been in English class, and a longer time since you've done a grammar worksheet, so here's an exercise to hone your recently learned skills. Fix all the problems in the following passage and leave your corrected version in my comments box if you'd like, unless you'd like to avoid any criticism.

* * *

Eddie Blogreader glared at me. "You're posting is ridiculous," he said. "Who really cares about apostrophes?"
"I do," I told him.
"But your writing this blog posting to a wide audience. Million's could read this. Don't you think you're wasting people's time?"
"No," I retorted. "Think about the average blogs' contents. Are discussions about PEZ dispensers' adventures any more worth ones time than lessons in grammar?"
"Well... no." Eddie scratched his head. "But come on, we're not all Hubers'. Or Beyer's. Ya'll're crazy. Its high time has come."
"Who's high time? What's high time?"
"Its time for my Super-Powered Blog. It'll leave all of you womens' blogs in the dust." Eddie sneered.
"Oh, really?" I said laughingly. "Well, maybe you'll come around to my way of thinking after you've been rejected from job interviews because you're resume was filled with grammatical error's."
"Fat chant's."
"Chant's? Don't you mean chance?"
"Whatever," Eddie huffed. "Those things're supposed to come up on the spell check."

it's called hope

Building up, improving, holding steady, and then I crash.
Loud and obnoxiously. Full of self and that's about it.

The days stop.
Somehow I show up at work, gritting my teeth against irks. I still remember to fill my belly with leftovers and my mind with flashing computer screens. But that's about it.

Things become more lifelike on Sunday. The shadows in the distance -- shapes of people and dreams -- start to become clearer. I almost recognize them. I have Love beside me reminding me to live. I experience life with him.

Life.
I see it, and I want it too. Oh, I reach. I see it...
... and can almost... almo s t
t o u c h

justify

Justify. How do I justify a conviction? How do I grasp a breeze? Who knows what blew across me and influenced my whole being? Who hears the whisper in my heart? Who but God? Yes, indeed. Who but God.

I cannot justify.
But I can testify.

someday

Someday better than today, I'll invite you over. The sun will be slanting through the blinds and the grass will be greener than ever. Somebody's worship music will be drifting through the room. Somebody like Michael Card or Keith Green or Chris Tomlin. Maybe all of them taking turns.
The house'll be clean. Just to see it will lift my spirits higher.
Fresh gerbera daisies will be smiling on the table. They always look happiest in that lime green vase of mine. It would be nice if everything is ready on time. But even if it isn't, it won't be a problem because you can help me with the finishing touches. You don't mind; you're just that way.
We'll talk about enjoying the sunshine, but we'll probably opt to just stay inside. We have the whole day to enjoy the weather. For the moment, we'll be content at the table next to the kitchen, where your hair shines because of the way the sun peeks through the window. When we've had our fill of arranging plates of food, and when I know you feel right at home, I'll pour the tea.
Then, we'll sit down and have ourselves a good talk.

there with you

I wish I had all the answers. I wish I could show you that I'm there too. I wish you could know that in all this hurt, there is God -- I AM.

I wish I had all the answers? No... even if I had all the answers, I wouldn't know what to do with them. I wouldn't know what to do with yours or mine. Because it's not about having all the answers. It's about trusting.

How can we believe -- together -- that this is beyond having the answers?
I wish we could just hold on to each other, crying, hurting, until it's all over.
Maybe in spite of the miles, maybe in spite of the fact that we've only seen each other a few times in our whole lives, maybe in spite of the pain, the fear, the confusion, we can each hold on to Jesus's hand.
And then -- then! -- I can be there with you.
Because if we're both grasping the same Person's hand, we're together. Right?

be still.

Be still and know that He is God.
Be still and know that He is Holy.
Be still, oh restless soul of mine,
Bow before the Prince of Peace,
Let the noise and clamor cease.

Be still and know that He is God.
Be still and know that He is faithful.
Consider all that He has done,
Stand in awe and be amazed,
And know that He will never change.

Be still-
And know that He is God.

Be still.
Be speechless.

Be still and know that He is God.
Be still and know He is our Father.
Come rest your head upon His breast,
Listen to the rhythm of
His unfailing heart of love,
Beating for His little ones,
Calling each of us to come.

Be still.

- - - - -
written by Steven Curtis Chapman