the hardest line I'll ever draw

From November 16th-March 16th, life at our ministry (FMS) is different. During that four-month stretch of freezing, Colorado weather, we open up a few motel rooms, put down pads instead of beds, and pack in as many homeless folks as we can. The ministry began four years ago when an FMS client froze to death one winter night. It's not that most of them don't have warm enough gear to get them through. It's that they get drunk enough to not quite make it up to camp, pass out, and never wake up. These are those who would die without the program. They are saved from death, while others are spared a winter's worth of shivering the night away. 

Anyway, that means that, for now, I am sleeping five nights a week on that motel room floor, supervising the women who come to us out of the cold. During the hours before bed time, we all gather (men and women) in one room to watch movies, heat up some food, or whatever helps pass the time as we spend the evening in close quarters. 

So there's the scene: cramped motel room full of staff and clients, only some of them sober. Now here's the character du jour: Shawn. Shawn is the worst alcoholic I have ever encountered. Only when asleep and first waking is he sober, and even then his motor abilities have been severely hampered by his constant intake of cheap cooking sherry. He is a tragic character in so many senses. His parents, both supportive and wealthy, would gladly pay his fines, pick him up, put him in treatment, and allow him to live at home if he will make but one decision: the decision to pursue sobriety. Shawn chooses not to, and so he drinks himself closer and closer to an early death every day. He is still in his 20's. 

Shawn is not only our drunkest customer; he is also our most disruptive. He stumbles in cussing and raising cane, refusing instruction from staff and even challenging physical attempts to help him into the part of the room called the "drunk tank". He brings total chaos to a program that needs some sense of order to work. The rules we have about that kind of behavior are for good reason: to be able to provide a healthy atmosphere, and to stay in the good graces of the motel that hosts us. 

And here is difficult line we must draw. If anyone is at risk to pass out and freeze to death, it is Shawn. Yet we risk our entire winter ministry (and the sanity of all involved) if we let him stay when he is physically and verbally disruptive. The choice is clear in the end: we must draw the lines that will allow us to to continue to provide warmth to as many as we can these winter nights. This means we must offer Shawn the chance to come in sober and well-behaved....but be willing to send him back out into the winter night if he chooses not to. We have to make the choice to send the one out into the cold so that we can continue to bring the many in. 

I write this much for prayer as for reflection. As I write, Shawn is being told that he needs to begin coming in sober and calm, or he will not be allowed to stay. Pray for the kind of clear hearing that could only be a miracle for an alcoholic like Shawn. Pray for courage and wisdom as we are called into difficult decisions. We pray most of all that we will never have to face news that this tragic young man succumbed to the chill of a winter night. May God grant us grace to love him well and wisdom to know how to do it. 

so, where exactly IS that field?

These were purchased at two different gas stations, in two different states on the way to Michigan last summer. Yes folks, even the postcard makers can't tell Nebraska from Iowa. 

love is messy business

My time thus far at Feed My Sheep has reminded me of many things, one of the most important things being this: truly loving people--acknowledging and honoring the dignity of every person--is messy. In working with the homeless, I will often get my hopes only to have them disappointed: the chronic alcoholic will make it 15 days sober, then come in slobbering drunk one day. The woman who shows signs of making changes will fall for one more invitation to spend the night with an abusive man. And the woman who seemed to be calm and collected will suddenly deteriorate into fits of disturbing and scary schizophrenia. There will be success stories, of course. We serve a God of overcoming. Yet we dwell among a people prone to self-destruction. Truly loving people means journeying across both sides of that coin of relationship between God and humanity.

The messiness of this thing called love, epsecially love for those with whom we would like to disassociate, makes most people avoid the task at all. To my great disgust, I recently sat at a meeting full of community leaders and listened to voices asserting that we ought to just pack that worthless bunch we call homeless onto a bus and send them out of town. Let them be someone else's problem, they say. Let someone else do the messy work of offering dignity to the dirty. While such an attitude disturbs me, it calls me to ask myself whom I regard in such a way. I may embrace the homeless and despise the rich. It is no better.

Loving people is messy because we must acknowledge that so little distance lies between our situation and that of any other human being on earth: the geography of our birthplace, a parent who offered some guidance, one little chemical in the brain, a stable job market, or the propensity for addiction. To truly love, we must give up the right to disassociate. We must surrender us-and-them. It is a gargantuan calling for any of us to aspire to, myself included.

What I am called to remember is that, on the inside, we're walking in similiar shoes. All of us homeless until we find a home in him. All of us a slave to something until we let him free us. All of us filthy and unkempt until he purifies our hearts. To love one another is to embrace the common mess. It is hard. And it is the highest calling of our faith, save for loving God himself. And just so we wouldn't cop out and say that loving God is all we need, he told us that they are one and the same: "For whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me."

Return to the Wood Hood

I am writing today from my long-time favorite coffee shop, back home in Glenwood Springs. This is the coffee shop where I wrote poetry on paper napkins, laughed over silly things with high school friends, composed my valedictory address, caught up with friends on visits home...it is a restful place for me. Looking forward to afternoons in this quiet place is one of the more exciting parts of this move back to my old stomping grounds. 

The new job has been a joy thus far, even with the usual stresses of starting new things. I spend my days laughing with a hilarious group of eccentric homeless folks. Some are bitter and hard. Some just make me laugh with their resilient humor (and occasional drunkenness). At times, most will give a glimpse into a soul saddened by finding themselves in such a place in life. They are wonderful, teasing me, watching football with me, and teaching me a few tricks on the guitar. Granted, it isn't utopia. A few people creep me out a little, and the drunkenness is as ornery as it is funny. But the life found in those personalities provides something akin to rose colored glasses most days. 

Yes, here I am, back in the kind of small town where the coffee shop is about to close...at 4 pm. But I'll be back, me and this borrowed Mac. Back with stories to tell. 

one thing ends, and another begins

It is night for coffee shops. There is an early fall chill to the air outside my window. For the first time in a long, long time, I have nothing on my schedule and my heart is seeking warmth and solitude. There is no better place for me tonight than this quiet table and my mug of coffee, writing a much needed update by lamplight, enveloped by rich, red walls and classical music.

Blogging, like most things, fell victim these last couple months to the final stretch of my Master's degree, which I officially finished on September 19th. It was a time for pushing much aside so that I could git 'er done. And now she's done, and I am breathing in the sweet relief that comes with time to write. Time to read. Hours for driving into the mountains to soak in the yellows and reds of fall. The latter of these is how Richard and I spent the day yesterday, eyes wide and jaws agape as the road brought us corner by corner to new vistas and blazing groves of Aspens. Incredible, this seaon.

It is a season of change not only for the leaves, of course, and moreso for me than has been the case in the past couple years. Earlier this week, I accepted a job working with the homeless in Glenwood Springs, CO--my hometown. Two weeks from today, I will pull away from this place I have grown to love and drive toward a new stage in my life. I'm full of the usual mix of emotions: a touch of confusion, a dose of sadness, a dash of excitment. The feelings come on at the strangest times. Last night I started bawling while watching Curious George. Seriously.

My thoughts are many these days, and I am excited for the time ahead, a season where I can sit to share them here. A strange new place in life where a night for coffee shops doesn't also have to be a night for homework. I look forward to our conversations there.

crazy talk

I've been reading the prophets lately, and I am beginning to feel like a lunatic. One might venture to guess that this is because many of the prophets seemed a little looney themselves. It is not necessarily a sane man who wanders around naked for years and cooks his food over dung in order to pass on some sort of message from the LORD. As uncomfortable as it is for those of us who want to be faithful, God called these folks to act like crazy people at times, often incurring the ridicule of their countrymen, all for the sake of God's message. Yet I am still fully clothed, and I cooked my breakfast over good old natural gas this morning. It is not their actions, but the prophets' message that is making me feel a little crazy.

Th concept of social justice--of God's care for the oppressed and disadvantaged--has become increasingly important to me over the past few years. This year, as I read through the messages of these great speakers for the LORD, I began to circle and note every place where I read the word justice, as well as things like the poor, the orphan, and the widow. And it has been incredible. I had always known that such issues are important to God, but a thorough reading of the Old Testament leaves one with the impression that the issue of justice is very near the top of his list. The breaking point for me came a couple days ago in the form of Jeremiah 22:16, speaking of one of Israel's greatest kings, the young Josiah: He made sure that justice and help were given to the poor and needy... Isn't that what it means to know me?" asks the LORD.

"Isn't that what it means to know me?" What an incredible statement. God says here that to give justice and help to those who truly need it is a critical part of our even knowing him. It calls to mind the scenario painted by Jesus regarding the judgement day (Matthew 25). In the very context of calling them to account for failing to give justice and help to the hungry, thirsty, naked, and imprisoned, Jesus sends them away saying, "I never knew you." Do we hear that? "You did not actively love the least of these, and therefore I never knew you."

This is shaking a lot of foundations for me--hence, the feeling a little crazy. So many assumptions within the church are sounding off kilter. I am thinking in extremes, and it's uncomfortable. Yet I need to go there, need to question painfully before I can come around to balance. And so the doubts ring in my mind.

There's the notion that God means the poor in Spirit, so the CEO who doesn't know him falls into the category. In that case, Christians should make sure to enter that realm and minister to that kind of poor. I don't think I buy that anymore. I think perhaps God meant the poor. The oppressed. The downtrodden. Literally. There's the idea that we can most effectively influence the world by making sure we have believers planted in every realm. If everyone dedicated themselves to justice stuff, we'd miss a lot of folks right? It feels crazy, but I don't think I buy that anymore. More and more, I sense that if the Church (and I don't mean the institution) truly dedicated itself to the disadvantaged--and I mean gave up everything for that cause--there isn't a corner of the world that wouldn't have to take notice.

There are so many things I have taken as givens that I am growing completely uncomfortable with these days. It's a little scary. I feel a little crazy. But I want to answer the call of Hosea 6:3-- "Let us press on to know [God]!" Yes, let us press on to know him. If Jeremiah was anywhere near on target, I'm going to have to factor in a few things when I begin that hunt to know him. I'm going to have to consider the words of God himself:

He made sure that justice and help were given to the poor and needy... Isn't that what it means to know me?" asks the LORD.

back in the saddle...or seat

Due to a lot of travel (posts on Alaska and Michigan to come) and a whole lot of heat in Colorado Springs, I haven't gotten much time on my bike this summer. Poor Pedro (and new road bike, Rosie) have had a little exercise, but not the major outings that summer usually brings. What's a girl to do when it's 90 degrees out?

However, I am writing tonight from Leadville, where I came to spend a couple days with my mom. Leadville is one of the highest towns on the continent, situated at about 10,200 feet above sea level. Anyone who has hiked around high elevation knows that 90 degrees is a pretty unlikely temperature up here! And indeed, to my delight the highs are just in the 70's this week.

That glorious temperature drop meant that Pedro and I got to hit the trail today. After getting directions (and a pump adapter, which I promptly lost) from the guys at the local bike shop, I drove out to a trailhead right next to Leadville's Turquoise Lake. The trail is beautiful, following the pristine shoreline for several miles. Of course, Colorado weather being the unpredictable entity that it is, I spent time in sunshine, rain and hail within just a couple hours. The latter two made for some splendid mud puddles, which in turn made for a happy me.

I had forgotten how much the lessons I learn biking keep me centered. Not quitting, taking on challenges that look scary, smiling at the adventure of it all. Looks like I need to get Pedro out some more in the coming months, even if it does feel like riding in a convection oven sometimes.

the glory of grace

I have never had an easy relationship with grace. I have been told that I extend it well at times, but recieving it has always been a great battle for me. I put pressure on myself for every little thing--down to the silliest and most insignificant decisions and actions--constantly living as if under the threat of judgment, disapproval, and failure. It's ridiculous, really. But we all know that we fail to see how ridiculous our own delusions are most of the time.

This aspect of struggle can be crippling at times for me. It's the voice inside my head telling me that everything I do is wrong, that I am not enough--not beautiful enough, not selfless enough, not disciplined enough. It is not the voice of truth, but it shouts loudly all the same. As a woman who wants desperately to live a life that in every way proclaims the truth of a gospel of freedom, it is an often uphill battle.

Recently, I read through the Psalms of Asaph, one of the more prominent names attached to these wonderful poems. As I read Psalm 79, a Psalm that mourns sin and destruction and loss, I was struck by the ninth verse: Help us, O God of our salvation! Help us for the glory of your name. Save us and forgive our sins for the honor of your name.

As I read this, I found myself reminded--and newly astounded--by a deep truth: it is to God's glory for him to show me grace. I often feel that it is my behavior and perfection that will bring him glory, and I chastise myself severly when I think I have failed. How can it be to his glory to recieve grace for such failure? Yet there it is in writing. There it is in the middle of the Word of God; he gets glory when he forgives us and helps us as our Great God of Salvation.

I pray more and more that I will learn to recieve that with humility, and even more, with JOY! Yes, I want to live a holy life, and I will seek it with all my heart. But I also want to live a life that expresses this great truth: his grace when I fail can still be used to bring my Father glory.

quiet spaces

As I sit down to write, my knee-jerk reaction is to explain where I have been, to justify my more-than-a-month of bloglessness. But it is what it is. We all know that life sometimes shows up in ways that push just about everything aside for a while.

It has been a difficult week for me. My heart is heavy with upcoming transitions and sad losses. All the while, the looming monster of homework deadlines makes its presence known. Yet God, in his grace, has allowed a few quiet moments for my heart, and for those I am so grateful.

A few days ago, it came in the form of taking a walk, after finishing one novel and before starting another, both for my Theology and Contemporary Literature class. I read them with homework in mind, taking them in as I would a cup of coffee consumed for its effect rather than its enjoyment. Just to ward off the headache, or in this case, the inability to answer a test question. That is one of the things I look forward to most about graduation, actually; I can hardly wait to read books for their flavor again, lingering over the words the way that I would slowly sip an expensive latte in a favorite coffee shop.

For my walk, I chose a route meandering down the alleys, so that the sound of my footsteps on gravelly dirt could compete with the noise of passing traffic. The alleyways revealed middle-of-the-block houses that would otherwise go unnoticed. They are small, some with neatly painted garages and bright flowerbeds, others with dilapidated roofs and used-to-run cars nestled in unmown grass. Occasionally, there is an overturned canoe or a rusting fishing dingy, both of which would seem more at home if there were water anywhere nearby. There is not.

It is spring, and helicopter leaves (what are those really called, anyway?) are beginning to cover the sidewalks. I paused every so often to toss one into the air, smiling slightly as I watched it spin whimsically back to the ground. At one point I plucked a puffy white dandelion and sent its seeds floating into the wind with a puff of breath. These, too—spinning leaves and floating white seeds--are coffee shop-paced things, but I know by now that I can’t do everything at the speed of productivity and still handle life, so I do them anyway.

Another one of those frivolous, latte moments came in the form of stopping to sit by a pond last night. I had come to the park on my mountain bike, hoping to ride off some stress. Not really wanting to move (sometimes the hardest things to get going is a heavy heart), I managed to drag myself out the door just in time to enter the quiet world of the rugged park at dusk. Just a few minutes before arriving at the pond, an absolutely huge owl had surprised me by lifting off and gliding away just a few feet away, where I had not even noticed its presence. Now, I sat near the water, hearing only the distant hooting of another owl, the melodic chattering of springy-type birds, and the chirping of a single—but very loud—cricket. The quiet of it created some space in me, where I had felt nothing but tightness and anxiety before. Thank God, I thought, for the warm air at dusk, and enormous owls, and ponds and crickets and mountain bikes. Thank God for letting me breathe when I need it most.

The few days ahead are going to be difficult. I know this. Yet I know that God will know just when I need to breathe. And I know that when I didn’t even think it could come, I’ll find myself near an alley garden, or a hidden pond, or another space that only God can create.

the sanctity of scent

(I recently posted this on another blog, but wanted to share it here.)

When we first moved into the trailer, I remember that one thing stood head and shoulders above the rest when it came to adding difficulty to the adjustment. The ants?A little annoying. The small space? A bit frustrating. The heat? Somewhat aggravating.

The smell? Completely disheartening. It almost put me in tears several times, and not because it was making my eyes water.

I am learning that there is something sacred about smell. It makes sense even when one looks at it scripturally. God refers to Israel's actions and heart as either a pleasing aroma or a stench to him. Disobedience is literally compared to an offensive smell! And indeed, there is something about smell that touches us in a deep place. Ask a missionary what was hard about adjusting to a new place, and more often than not, you will hear about the odor. Observe a mourning family member with their nose buried in the clothing of the lost loved one, holding on to the scent. Watch the way that a particular smell can bring back memories so vividly that one will laugh out loud or melt into tears.

The rising spring temperatures are beginning to bring out the smells that winter had subdued in our home. Walking into the trailer, we are often stunned to feel our senses offended by a foul stench. More than that, we walk out of the trailer knowing that our clothes smell the same way. It is a little awkward. And I can see it on all of our faces: it is disheartening.

In our society, we make quick judgements based on how someone smells. We go so far as to think of someone as lazy, uneducated, or worthless when they walk in smelling badly. Yet here I am, well-adjusted, a leader in many settings, with an almost-completed master's degree, and I smell the same as those among whom I live. It is such a tangible--and uncomfortable--part of living in solidarity. Sometimes I want to just escape it, to run away and live somewhere where my clothes will smell sweet. Yet I realize how shallow that is in the end. Jesus calls us to lay down our lives for him. Period.

Let us be a people, a group of Christ-followers, who give a second thought to our assumptions about those whose odor offends our senses. Perhaps they have a spouse who smokes, and will not quit despite their pleading. Perhaps they work a job that would make most of us cringe, just because they are committed to feeding their families. Perhaps economic circumstances have forced them into housing that, no matter how clean they themselves are, will forever carry the scent of careless previous tenants.

Ultimately, we must face this: the judgment we hand out is a far greater stench to God than anything or anyone that may cross our paths today.

when the ink runs dry

I am realizing that I am not a writer.

That will sound strange to many who read this, but it is true. I am not, as klerch, a writer. I have nothing to say. Yes, the scarcity of posts over the last few months have had much to do with busyness. But mostly, I am realizing they have to do with the a greater scarcity: on my own, I truly have nothing to say. I am only a writer as klerch, daughter of God, lover of Christ. Writing is his gift to me. When writing comes out of me, it is his own voice speaking to me and through me.

I have known it for a long time now--known it in the quiet places in my mind--but a recent time of worship brought it to the fore: Somewhere in the last couple years, I have lost the sweet intimacy that once marked my relationship with God. I am walking with him, sure. Still learning things. But I could not sing the words that once brought me to tears: "Your love is extravangant...I find I'm moving to the rhythm of your grace." My ink has run dry.

And I have had nothing to say.

Ever so persistently, I hear the Father calling me to return to a place of intimacy with his Spirit. I am weary of watching the writer in me--that sweet gift of his to my heart--collect dust in the corner while I soldier on like a walking set of dry bones. I long for his breath to bring me back to life, for him to be writing his own love and grace all over the pages of my heart.

In Christ and Christ alone, I am a writer. It is the greater truth of who I am. May I soon find myself moving to the rhythms of his grace, and feeling his words flow through my fingers again. I know he is waiting there. And I know he has much to say.

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.