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.