victory has a high regard for the Holy One

Reading through the Old Testament is both beautiful and disturbing. On the one hand, we get a glimspe of our amazing covenant God. So faithfully he promises his goodness and declares his love for his chosen people. His power in creation and in fighting for Israel is awe-inspiring at times.

On the other hand, there are stories and commands that make me squirm and unsettle my sense of who God is. Is this really the God I know, commanding his followers to slaughter entire people groups--every man, woman, child, and animal? Is this the God I know, who in one place says that no one but the individual is responsible for his sin, and elsewhere kills entire families because of the transgression of one? I am there right now, right in the middle of an endless list of brutal conquests, as Joshua leads the people of Israel into the long-awaited Promised Land. The stories unsettle me as they always have. Those of us who have chosen to follow the God of Israel, revealed to us in Christ, must grapple with such texts. They are not allegorical. They belong to the genre of history. I cannot deny that.

Yet, as one who lives on the far side of the New Testament, where I read that my battle is no longer against flesh and blood, I find that there is much to learn in these passages. Again and again, God provides the Israelites with strong guidelines and principles for overcoming their enemies and enbracing his promises. His standards for taking the land are high, calling his people to hold obedience--and his holiness--in the highest regard.

One of these principles is indeed total destruction. God warns his people to carry out their conquest fully. He knows that by allowing bits and pieces of the old land to remain among them, they leave the door open to be drawn away from the One who led them there: "You must destroy all the peoples the LORD your God gives over to you. Do not look on them with pity and do not serve their gods, for that will be a snare to you" (Deut. 7:16). The truth of this prediction bit the people of Israel in the proverbial butt many times, as when they killed all but the women, only to find themselves suckered into idolatry by their newly acquired wives. In that place, the blessing of victory falls victim to the curse of a half-assed obedience.

Reading through Joshua this week, a new command regarding taking the land stood out to me. It was one that I had not noticed before. As the Israelites move into the land, beginning with the famed Jericho, God gives them this command:

"The city and all that is in it are to be devoted to the LORD. Only Rahab the prostitute and all who are with her in her house shall be spared, because she hid the spies we sent. But keep away from the devoted things, so that you will not bring about your own destruction by taking any of them. Otherwise you will make the camp of Israel liable to destruction and bring trouble on it. All the silver and gold and the articles of bronze and iron are sacred to the LORD and must go into his treasury" (Joshua 6:17-19).

Keep away from the devoted things. As God has continually told the people to distinguish between the common and the holy (Leviticus 10:10), he calls them here to acknowledge that which is set apart for him. And as usual, the Israelites fall a bit short. A man named Achan takes some of the consecrated items for himself, and the victorious conquest becomes a humiliating retreat at the city of Ai. When Joshua falls on his face before the LORD, disappointed and confused, the God of gods repeats:

"Hidden among you, O Israel, are things set apart for the Lord. You will never defeat your enemies until you remove these things from among you" (Joshua 7:13).

I am sobered by the words: "You will never defeat your enemies until..." I spend so many days--and especially those of late--longing for victory against the enemies I fight, those which are not flesh and blood. There are times when I find myself victorious, but many more when I fall on my face after an embarrassing retreat. This passage brings me before the LORD with a new question: What does it mean to hold onto that which is set apart for you? What does it mean to remove it? I write this post without the answer. Yet as a woman who longs to follow Christ and to claim the land he promised me, I seek to embrace the question. May we all run hard after the God of victory, and eagerly lay aside that which keeps us in defeat.

psalm 51:10-12 becomes my own

Create in me a clean heart--pure in its affections, cleansed from all that makes me feel filthy, pure and white before you--O God, and renew a steadfast spirit--a spirit that clings to hope, a spirit that will endure a lifetime of fighting for holiness, a spirit that stands strong and plants feet on truth--within me. Do not cast me from your presence, or take your Holy Spirit from me--do not abandon me and leave me floundering. Stand beside me even in all my weakness. There is no life outside your Spirit. Restore to me the joy--joy that sustains and motivates, that glimpses the fact that you are better than anything the world offers--of your salvation--"My God is mighty to save," your saving power every day of my life, the truth that your arm is never too short to save--and grant me a willing spirit--soft and ready to obey, moldable and eager to follow wherever you lead, free and alive--to sustain me--to hold me up until the day I see your face.

somewhere in the in-between

Somewhere in the last year, everything shifted. Everything changed. Now, in some strange way, even after spending months on the far side of it all, I am suddenly standing back in the in-between and staring silently out at the scenery. As I told a friend only minutes ago, I am suddenly aware that the landscape of my life is drastically different than it was even six months ago. And to my surprise, I am bushwacking my way through thick underbrush of unexpected and seemingly delayed grief and processing.

The sheer amount of change has been a bit disorienting, as I am left with little familiar footing. I find few constants. The question rings in my ears almost daily: Who am I? I know that I have changed along with the scenery; that is part of life. Yet I ask myself now, Have those changes involved developing new muscles and navigational skills, or am I left only with a sunburn and atrophy in legs that once walked in faith? I do not know the answers to these questions, and what answers are out there seem to be slow in coming.

Of course, some things remain. I am an adventurer who aims her bike tires at the mud that most steer to avoid. I will take a road trip at the drop of a hat, and am always doing strange things just to say I did them. I feel stirred to the core by the suffering of the poor and marginalized, and no matter how many generous rich people I know, I still wonder in my heart if it is ever ok for a Christian to own a Lexus. I think coffee shops are a way of life, and poetry gets stuck in my head almost as often as music does. I see my father in me every time something is broken and I absolutely have to figure out how to fix it. I am moved to tears by music and by the beauty God brings out of our messes. I wrestle with myself and with God constantly, and am insanely introspective, at times to a fault. I live my life with legacy in mind, striving to do things with passion, and seeking to overcome the tendency to live out of fear. I like maps and legos and good books. I generally have a smart alec comment on hand.

Still, the larger questions remain. As I search for a clear view and some firmer footing, I call out with the psalmist: "Lead me to the rock that is higher than I." Lead me, Father, through the grief and joy and sorrow and adventure of change, and carry me safely through when my heart feels caught in the in-between.

we'll find each other in the pages of our stories

My time in Seattle is complete, and I write this while sipping Starbucks in the airport, about to leave the city where the coffee giant got its start. The trip was diverse and rich, and perhaps even more impactful than I know yet. Yes, a good deal of life has come and gone in the course of a few days.

Here in this soggy city, I ate Thai food across the table from a friend with whom I shared games of hide and seek when we were just mountain kids. I held a newborn baby boy in my arms, the first child of a dear friend whom I hadn't seen in far too long. I rode a bike to the frigid waters of the Puget sound and let the waves wash over my usually land-locked feet. I chased down a ferry just seconds before it left the dock, and traveled across the waters to explore the streets of Bainbridge Island, with its cafes and book stores and yarn shops filled with sweaters made by old women. I worshipped at a church that is making an effort to reconcile races that remain divided on the south side of the city, and I grinned as I sang along with the songs that make up African American worship. I listened to the chanting and singing of a compline choir in a great cathedral, soaking in the sound alongside a hodge podge multitude gathered on pews and scattered across the sanctuary floor. I talked over coffee about the injustices of the world and the humor of coffee shop culture, and I talked over dinner about the pros and cons of going for that crazy thing called a doctorate. These past few days leave me with much to let ruminate in my heart and mind.

Spending time with such a unique spectrum of friends has left me thinking about the roles we play in the lives of those around us. I am realizing that sometimes I forget to embrace and enjoy the diversity of these roles at times. Granted, there is room for a sort of natural mourning, the subtle sadness that comes when one realizes that time and space simply don't allow for the kind of sharing life I might wish for. At other times, however, the sadness is the result of elevating one kind of role above another, feeling disappointed and frustrated when relationships can't fit into the particular box that makes me feel secure in my importance to someone. How much I miss when I walk in that limited view!

The rich and unique roles we can play in one another's lives are beautiful indeed. I may not even talk to Emily for years at a time, but I will remain forever someone with whom she shared childhood games and joint family camping trips. I may not be the friend Angela goes to when the world comes down or joy overcomes her, but we will always be able to sit down over coffee and feel a sort of contented familiarity, a knitting together of spirits who once shared college days and heart talks. And I may not be the friend with whom Aly has a rich history of tears and laughter and shared experience, but I nonetheless remain that friend with whom she shared a long trek through British Columbian rain. I remain a friend with whom she witnessed the wonder of God's provision of companionship when it is needed most, and with whom she she is knit in a particular area of the heart--a passion for a discipleship marked by compassion and justice and love for the marginalized around us.

I want to learn to appreciate the beauty of this: we are part of one another's stories. God has, in one way or another, allowed us to make a unique mark on each other's lives. And that is beautiful. It is secure even as it remain uncertain how many pages of the tale we may share in the years to come. It is secure in the mighty hands of the master Craftsman: the Author of our lives.

return to the PNW

Today, I celebrate a first: I am in Seattle, and it is not raining (at least not as I type this). After my last soggy experience in the Pacific Northwest (see "The Canada Diaries" from July, 2007), I find the brief moment of semi-sunshine to be delightful. I arrived here yesterday on a nearly empty flight; there were 24 of us on a plane that seats 116. The extra room on the flight was consolation for the fact that I had left both cash and food in my friend's car, and would have to use an expensive airport ATM to get cash for a bus, then buy expensive airport food to break said bills. Sigh.

The Seattle public transit system provided the usual moments of bus hilarity. I asked the man next to me when my stop was going to be, only to have him chat my ear off in an Arkansas accent and with alcohol on his breath. Nearby, a teenager (maybe 17) alternated beween jabbering with her friend and sucking her thumb. Yes, you read that right: sucking her thumb. So wierd. A few rows behind her, sitting in the back, was a man who looked like he could have walked straight off the set of Fiddler on the Roof. I wanted to say l'heim! (um...I only know how to write that in Hebrew), but I resisted. I was most drawn to the two young backpackers a few rows up, and I was reminded that I, like most people, have the default button of retreating to that which is familiar.

When I got off the bus in downtown Seattle, I looked at Emily's directions to the public library, where I would wait for her: "Go south 4 blocks." Folks, I am from Colorado. Without the Rockies nearby, I have no idea which direction is South, so I asked directions from a Starbucks barista and headed off in the rain. Thankfully, the airline lost my luggage, so I didn't have to carry too much. (Seriously, not having to carry my luggage, then having it delivered that night is a good deal, if you ask me.) I spent the next couple hours wandering one of the most unusual (and cool) libraries I have ever seen, before meeting with my old friend and going out for some amazing Thai food. I fell asleep that night looking out my window at the Seattle sky line and the Space Needle, all aglow.



This morning, I decided to take a walk before hunkering down to do some work. I wanted to enjoy the fresh air, yes, but I also had a more important mission: coffee. Several blocks up the street, I came upon a durn good place to get groceries: the Durn Good Grocery (true story). After surveying the rather tragic coffee options, I asked the flaming man behind the counter if there was a coffee shop nearby, and he pointed me down the street; "Tell them Steve sent you, the guy from the Durn Good." I finally got my hands on some precious Brew at Irwin's, and headed back to Emily's. So here I sit, needing to get off blogger and start some homework.


These moments away from home, getting myself from here to there between meeting with friends and exlporing new places, are much needed, it seems. Not that I hopped a plane to Seattle to find myself. Still, my self-esteem has been wishy washy lately, and I know by now that it often comes down to a need to be reminded of who I am. It's a battle I have always fought, but it is nonetheless annoying each time I feel my footing get slippery and my heart panics. I forget my own skin and begin looking around me for definition,and that always leaves me a mess. So, as I began a few days ago, I still linger on the question: Who am I? What makes me tick? That post should be coming soon.



For now, I begin with one thing I do know about myself: I will forever be in love with the Colorado sunshine, no matter how much I love a cup of coffee in Seattle.

the soundtrack of my life

Often times, it seems that my life has a soundtrack. Music has a hold of my heart in so many ways, and often plays a part in walking me through good times and bad, giving voice to anguish and rejoicing alike. Because songs are so connected to life experiences for me, it has become common practice to add a date to any mix cd that I burn. It allows me to look back on the time of life during which the songs were particularly important to me. It is a melodic journal, I suppose.

Recently, I came across a cd labeled, "Fall 2005". I was surprised to hear how obvious the theme was: the love of God. Looking back, I recalled that time, a season in which I was awestruck by divine love. It was a unique time for me, since God's love is something that I generally struggle to embrace. In the fall of 2005, however, it was sinking in deep.

I could not have known when I was burning that cd that the coming season would not only bring a chill to the Colorado air, but would also bring a long winter to my heart, burying my soul beneath frozen ground. Spring would not come around on the inside until another full year had come and gone. Even more importantly, I could not have known that, in the midst of that bleak midwinter, I would be offered a sort of poison with the promise of bringing warmth to my heart.

But the Father knew. I look back now, and I am astounded by my response to that offer. "How can you walk away from it?" I was asked. The response was immediate and real: "I know that it would place a wall between me and Jesus. I have learned by now that it would keep me from his love, and I absolutely can't risk that. I cannot risk the loss of friendship with my God." Those words are not my natural M.O. They were the fruit of the season of preparation represented by the songs on my cd. God was preparing me for what was to come. He was impressing upon me the knowledge of his love, knowing that it was the only thing that could carry me through the long winter ahead.

How beautiful. The soundtrack of my life is a story of God's faithfulness to me. It is the melody of a God who is taking care of me long before I even cry out for help. Honestly, there were many months when I looked at that bleak time and felt that he must have abandoned me, left me hanging. I suppose I had to make my way to a place of hindsight before I could see things clearly.

In the silence that follows the raging storm...it is now that I can hear him singing. Yes, I can hear that he's been singing all along.

sometimes the road seems long

It’s dark in this place,
this chamber where I fight my lonely battle
with the never-ending onslaught of
temptation,
of shame.
I don’t (do?) want to give up,
but,
[as you know]
I’ve been asking for my freedom for some time now.

There are days when
it begins to feel futile,
this pleading with you to remove the poison,
entreating you to lift up the shade
and let some sunshine in.
Yet the venom
it seems
remains,
rising up from some inexhaustible place,
some giant aquifer of tainted water
filling me up on the inside.
I feel
sometimes
that I am like a polluted well.
I am to others
like a glass of water in Mexico.
Like Montezuma’s Revenge,
I am bound to wreak my own brand of relational havoc.

[I admit]
there are other days,
when I am able to see them:
tiny flowers emerging from
what looked to me like a sickening plot
of heart-soil
[a soiled heart?].
Sometime I catch a glimpse of
the paradoxical way
that this misery is mulch,
loam
for the lot
where the beauty of redemption takes root.

Yes, sometimes I’m able to see
that it’s all exquisite
under the light of grace.
But today I do (don’t?)
want to give up.
Today I feel like there’s
no end in sight.

Perhaps in my weariness,
in this dark place,
I simply want to find a breathing space
[for one day]
where a life that displays
his beauty
leaves me in something
other
than muck.

back to life for the holidays

Well, it's a Scribbled Ink Portrait first: an entire month between posts. That, my friends, is how you know life is too busy. Saying I don't have time to write is like saying I'm too busy to eat or breathe. I'm sure it will take time to catch my breath and get a month's worth of life down on paper.

With that busyness, Christmas has caught me by surprise this year. For the first time ever, I spent my Christmas Eve doing the shopping I failed to get done beforehand. I'll still have some to do when the big day has passed. I haven't even listened to many Christmas songs this year, changing the station when they'd come on the radio. Something in me just wasn't ready, perhaps wasn't in the spirit of it. 

In fact, after three hours of last-minute shopping today, wandering through half-empty shelves and navigating a sea of other under-prepared givers, I was in anything but the Christmas Spirit. I felt frustrated, tired, and surprisingly lonely. Christmas was under the grey cloud of family tensions and American consumerism and stress. 

Then, I went to the Christmas Eve service at my home church. As we began to sing the hymns, I could not stop grinning. Surrounded by the voices of a community I love, I was brought back to Christmas. We often miss the words, but they are beautiful:

"Joy to the world, the Lord has come. Let earth receive her King! Let every heart prepare him room!"

"Silent night, holy night. Son of God, love's pure light... the dawn of redeeming grace."

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel will come to thee, O Israel!"

"Long lay the world in sin and error pining, then he appeared, and the soul felt its worth!"

I am antsy in my chair just writing those words! They are beautiful, rich with hope and promise and wonder. The last example above, from O Holy Night, is perhaps my favorite line from any Christmas carol, because it is the most precious part of my own story. Can you hear the thrill and rejoicing? Long lay the world, pining away in hopelessness. Then he appeared, and the souls of God's people felt life again. All of this began on a still night in Bethlehem. That is Christmas. It is 100% hope.

Yes, it still feels surreal that tomorrow morning is the big day. But that grin on my face tonight brought life back to my heart. I still need that hope. I am in need of that baby in a manger as much today as the world was in need of him on that silent night so long ago, and he is in my life. In him, my soul begins to feel its worth. May we rejoice! 

Yes, rejoice, for Emmanuel has come. Merry Christmas, friends!

invisible

I recently spent time with some people around whom I often feel invisible. Sometimes they choose to acknowledge me. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes I'm part of the conversation, engaged and laughing. Other times, I begin to speak and eyes turn away, starting new conversations as if I'm not even there. It happened twice just last night, as we were sitting around the table at a restaurant: I would have someone's eye contact, begin speaking, and watch them shift their gaze and join in on a conversation with the person next to me. It is a horrible feeling, a potpourri of sadness and loneliness and anger, especially when it is a group of people among whom you are supposed to belong. Eventually, you just want to stop talking altogether.

Later, I realized something: My evening around that dinner table gave me a taste of a feeling that some people experience every day. It has left me thinking about those in the world who spend every day overlooked and unacknowledged. I think of the homeless, who are often left wandering as nameless, storyless men and women whom no one cares to know. I think of those in lower socio-economic brackets, whose voices are seldom heard by any of those in power. They are not greeted as quickly and with the same friendliness by store employees. They are denied many opportunities that people like me so often take for granted.

Being invisible for one day--not even a full day--can feel crushing. I can't imagine living my whole life in that place. I find myself, in these moments of perpective, called back to the words in Proverbs that have challenged me all year : "Speak up for those who cannot speak up for themselves..." That has meant so many things to me over the past several months. Tonight, it calls me simply to this:

I want the kind of heart that refuses to make others feel invisible. I want to really see people, and for them to know that they are seen. May God grant me the grace, despite all my selfishness, to truly begin to live my life that way.

the colors change and so do I

I love the seasons. When I lived in Hawaii, land of eternal summer, I grieved their absence rather profoundly. As I have written before, my life sort of follows the changing seasons. They set a rhythm for me, inside and out.

Looking back at a post I wrote last May, I have to pause and give praise to a God who is so faithful to me. At the time, I was still picking up the pieces of a very broken summer, fall, and winter. I was praying that this year would allow summer to come to my soul again, a time of warmth and healing and joy. Oh how God answered that plea! My summer was rich with all three of those things.

Entering fall now, I find myself back in rhythm with creation around me. I feel much of life shedding its leaves, many subtle deaths that, though sad, feel natural. I see a thousand little seeds fall to the ground like those that drop from pine cones, and I look forward to what I know will be beautiful when the time comes back around for things to bloom.

Indeed, there is much change going on in and around me. Relationships shift; some slip away for a season like the sun, others wrap around me like a favorite sweater. Brisk winds blow through the streets of my trailer park and rattle the branches of the way I see my world. School work piles up with the leaves on the sidewalks outside. I joyfully soak up the fall sunshine--so much less oppressive than the summer heat--all the while looking toward the impending cold with a bit of fear and hesitation. The air is crisp as I stand on the brink of all that winter will hold. It is beautiful.

Yes, I love the seasons. Especially fall. Thank God for the sun and the grey, the dying and the new life, the shifting and the growing that come with the seasons of my soul.

collision: a proverb and me

{The Scene}
A phone conversation

{The Players}
-"my voice"
-my brain
-[my actions]
-(my internal corrective, a.k.a. the Spirit)
-King Solomon, the Proverb man



{Act I}

"Really…yeah."

You have got to be kidding.
Have you lost it?

(listen!)

"I’m sorry, can you say that again?"

[despite effort, return to pondering my rebuttal]

This is

"uh huh….good."

not good.
Shoot, am I lying?

(come on, now , listen! listen!)

"Was it…?"

Crap, that's a loaded question.
[mentally struggle to unload question]

ugh, are you serious?
[start to squirm with irritation]
Is this logical, or am I just...

(seriously, Katie, you’ve got to listen!)

{Enter: Solomon and his darn Proverb}

He who answers before listening— that is his folly and his shame. (18:13)

{Act II}

"Yeah. Good."
This is craz…
[let it settle]

"Mm hmmm"
But I…
(give it time)
[wait]


"Good."
[breathe and let it go]

[sigh]

Oh man, I disagree.
But for now (Lord help me)
before I speak,
I’ll listen.

small town Saturday: tater gleanin'

I followed in Ruth's footsteps last weekend, and in the footsteps of generations of Israel's poor. For one afternoon in the fields of Alamosa, I gleaned what was left from the harvest, food that would have gone to waste but will now be handed out at local food banks.

I've done a lot of mission trips. Most of them have been with pretty evangelical groups, meaning that the verbal sharing of the gospel was primarily, if not exclusively the goal. My church in GMF, however, continues to show me different ways of serving. Hence, their mission trip for the year involved simply walking the dusty (and windy!) furrows of potato fields, gathering food for those in need. It was an awesome time of being with other folks from the congregation, while learning a little about the life of a migrant farm worker and helping with such a simple yet necessary task. Also included in the trip was a tour of the local mushroom factory, which provided yet another glimpse into the world of a low wage agricultural worker. Truly eye-opening.

As God continues to open my heart to the need for the church to care for matters of social justice, I fell more and more blessed by opportunities to serve in related capacities. I want to know and live out the gospel, and I want to experience it even in the places where preaching the gospel means picking up sack after sack of left-over taters.

small town Sunday: the messiness of being the body

Being the body of Christ is a complicated thing sometimes. We have choices to make, issues to navigate, denominations and factions to wade through. Granted, we can choose to bury our heads in the ground beneath our particular brand of pew, which has become the sad decision of far too many followers of Christ. In my own life, I believe that would be an irresponsible brand of discipleship.

Green Mountain Falls is not exempt from the complications of being the body. For the coming year, they have hired an intern. She comes to us from a seminary in Denver. She’s also a homosexual.

Now, the church in Green Mountain Falls is connected to a denomination that openly ordains practicing homosexuals, and I knew that. I had chosen to stay because I trust the Pastor and because I don’t want to run from a local body in the name of boycotting its mother denomination. I had chosen to stay even when I first saw the woman come to visit the congregation, because I believe that the church is a place where all should feel welcome to walk in.

But now what? Suddenly I face a situation that is no longer a matter of sharing the pew with someone whose lifestyle I disagree with, or of choosing not to judge a small town church by its big city denominational lines. Now it involves things like sitting under her teaching. While I was away in Montana, the church had a meeting, and I returned to a sanctuary sans many familiar faces. Their decision of discipleship called them away from Green Mountain Falls in the face of what they deem to be unacceptable compromise.

I may catch some flak for this, but I’m not leaving yet. Sure, I’m full of a lot of questions. I do not hesitate to say that I disagree completely with the ordination of homosexuals. Still, I also disagree with division and hatred and fear. Where is the line between these things and discernment? I don’t know. But I believe the matter deserves some wrestling with, and that being the body requires me to think deeply when considering walking away from the people who fill those pews.

As I wrestle in the months to come, I’ll still be here with the stories of a church that will not cease to be beautiful and endearing. The children’s sermons will still provide moments of hilarity, and the pews will be full of wonderful characters. There will be cake to go with the coffee, and the conversations will be memorable.

And me? I’ll be right there too, thinking and praying through all it might mean, this complicated thing called being the body of Christ.

ivy league hiking

Well, it was a bit last minute, but I managed to squeeze in one 14er before the snow falls and the season ends for those of us who are at least a little sane. After a rather rugged drive to the trailhead the night before, we spent a perfect fall day hiking to the summit of Mt. Harvard (14,420 ft). The Aspen trees were showing their colors, and the sky was that amazing, high-altitude blue. Of course, at about 13,000 feet you always start thinking, "Why doe people do this? We are insane." You know, it's that point when oxygen has fled the scene and every step over a boulder is laborious. But oh, the views and the joy of the summit! Here are some pics from the outing. Since I managed to misplace my camera that morning, credit goes to Joel for these shots.

On the drive to Buena Vista, we say the most incredible sunset as we crested Wilkerson Pass (my favorite part of the drive!) and crossed the high mountain plain.

A stream crossing on the way up. The mountain is the background is Mt. Yale. I was supposed to climb that earlier in the summer, but I was sick. Sigh.

The cairns were massive. It may sound weird, but I think cairns are really beautiful.

I wandered off a little at the summit, just to take it in for a few seconds (it was sort of a crowded summit day, unfortuntely). You can't tell from the pic, but I'm freezing my booty off.

Since the camera flashed, we all look photoshopped in. But I promise, this is not a backdrop at a photo studio.

the signs are everywhere

Many of you know that I am a big fan of funny signs, always looking out for them. In fact, I saw one yesterday that will have to make its way to this blog sometime soon. For now, though, here are some of my favorites from our journey to Montana.

I don't know whether to say this reeks of pessimism, realism, or faith. But it sure does make me laugh.

We finally found it, the oft-referenced hell on earth. We went the other way, in case you're wondering.

She's just following instructions...

In the "town" of Moran, near Grand Teton National Park. I like my version best.

We all know that rules come about because someone has actually tried the now prohibited action. Apparently, the clientele of KOA has a hair dying issue. We also appreciated the lack of comma in the "thank you" section.

small town Sunday: voicemails and new life

Ah, relief. Two Dot, Montana was great, but Green Mountain Falls just feels restful. The sun did not shine on my pew until I sat in it, and I felt as if it were welcoming me home. It all felt so familiar: the spoken invocation of God’s presence, the call to a freeing rather than guilt-inducing time of confession, and the chance to say to those around us what Jesus himself might have said—“peace be with you”. I cannot help but want to say shalom every time we do this.

Early in the service, the Pastor did something strange (though he often does, so it wasn’t all that surprising). Telling us we needed to listen to a message, he dialed voicemail and held his cell phone up to the pulpit microphone. “That’s a first,” I thought. The message began with an odd, rhythmic sound similar to TV fuzz. At the very end, a voice: “That’s your baby!” His wife, he told us, had made that call from the ultrasound appointment. It was the sound of their baby’s heartbeat. What a fun way to announce it!

During the children’s sermon, he spoke of forgiveness. “I need to ask your advice,” he said after a few minutes. Still addressing the children, he said, “What do you suggest I do to help teach my child about forgiveness?” When (after a minute or two and few awkward responses) the children walked out and he returned to the pulpit, he laughed and told us, “Hey, gotta start getting advice wherever I can right now.”

There was cake, of course, this time in celebration of a congregant’s 65th birthday. I forwent it in favor of some incredible homemade zucchini bread, and I sat and chatted with various folks about school and life and the 14er I had hiked the day before. That day, I felt more at home there than I ever have before. Now, as the fall quarter begins and my travel becomes less frequent, I find myself ever so excited for a promising new year, full of small town Sundays.

back to the basics...and I mean basics

This quarter, as I begin to apply my long year of Greek to the work of actual exegesis, I am also entering the world of biblical Hebrew. I cannot yet compare it to Greek for actual grammatical and structural difficulties, but I do know one thing: that darn alphabet sure looks funny! It is a whole new ball game learning a language whose characters don't resemble anything I've used before. So, in hopes of developing legible--maybe even beautiful--Hebrew handwriting, I have gone back to the basics. Bring on the Scooby Doo writing notebook, complete with helpful dotted lines!


This, however, looks nothing like what I was doing in kindergarten.

small town Sunday: Two Dot

Away from home again, last Sunday found me driving across Montana, hoping to cross into Wyoming before stopping for the night. In the name of taking a bike ride, we had chosen a route along state highways, rather than the interstate-only version (which I generally avoid anyway). One of the highlights of this Sunday drive was passing through the town of Two Dot (population less than 100). I mean, the place is named Two Dot...it doesn't get much more small town than that!



Note the vehicles parked out front. Yep, that's a 4-Wheeler.

Check out that fire truck!

Something tells me "State Bank, Two Dot" has long been forgotten by the rest of the state...

World Famous? Seriously? I'd like to know the story behind this sign.

Two Dot highway, a ribbon of asphalt stretching to nowhere, which apparently didn't even merit the paint for a center line.

the problem with bootstraps

I'm not a fan of streaks when I feel like I am posting only pictures, but I have felt a little speechless lately. Yes, I have been busy as well, and there has been little spare time for pausing to compose any sort of profound post. But more than busyness, it has been the heaviness of heart, the whirlwind of thoughts in my mind, that has made me a woman of few written words.

Any writer knows, there is a sort of nakedness when one comes to an empty page. Sometimes it is a refuge, a place to write the myriad thing you are dying to say. Sometimes it is scarier than that. Sometimes we know that nakedness of the unwritten words will call us to name a darkness--a barren place--that we would rather let linger, anyonymously and unacknowledged, somewhere in the back of our minds.

In my life, there is a certain place of weakness that causes me to panic a little. A fairly intense fear of abandonment kicks in, and my mind begins screaming, "Pick yourself up! Snap yourself out of it! And do it quickly, or you'll find yourself alone." Of course, we can't always do that. We aren't always strong enough to pull ourselves up by our proverbial bootstraps. Right now, I don't feel like I can even find my bootstraps. Maybe not even my boots.

When, in desperation, I picked up 2 Corinthians 4 one day and started to read a passage my heart knows well, I was reminded of a great truth: God is made great in my weakness. We talk about that a lot, but it is a very different thing to embrace it when one feels painfully, embarrasingly, helplessly weak. We'd rather proclaim that truth from the pulpit than be found clinging to its ankles when the world has knocked us to our knees.

Ultimately, as I realize the truth of it all, I see that it comes down to a matter of what I want my life to say. If I want others to be astounded at me--"Look at that amazing girl, the way she picks herself up and walks with strength"--then I'd better start looking for my boots and take a hold of the straps. But if I want my life to be a testimony to God's goodness--"Look at that girl. God shows himself so strong in her life."--than the call is to stop squirming, stop striving, and embrace my weakness. God calls me to relax myself into it, and to turn my face in surrender toward his great glory and strength.

I think of a song I've been listening to, speaking of the fear to be weak: "But I guess I was wrong. I should have known all along: when I'm weak, you are strong in me...My deepest point of need is the better part of me, because when I'm weak you are strong in me."

The kingdom of God is paradoxical, isn't it? Turns out, in that topsy turvy kingdom, that the greatest strength I have to give is the true offering of my weakness. The greatest thing I can offer anyone is the strength of the God I love.

I'd say that's a good thing. After all, I don't like boots much anyway.

breather

It's been a chaotic few months, to say the least. Travels and trials and the adjustment to trailer life have made for little writing and a less than calm heart at times. Over Labor Day, however, I got one night in the wilderness, and a much needed moment to sit high on a rock, soaking in the evening sun and being still. In the hills with my Creator...I love the view from there.