God glasses

Sometimes I wish the ability to see as God does was a little more tangible. You know, you decide to follow Christ, and along with that "new believer's Bible" they hand out by the dozens, you get a pair of God Glasses. Yes indeedy, the key to spiritual 20/20. (The paradox, I suppose, is that that Bible is the set of glasses...but that's another post). Sadly, most of the time I find myself looking at the world through an unchanged set of eyes. I cast my glance around me and immediately make judgement based on less-than-holy standards: sometimes silently, sometimes (unfortunately) aloud.

Recently, I found myself feeling rather grumpy as I began the 25 hour train ride back from California. Hoping to nap, I was instead kept awake by a nearby teenager, talking at a typical teenage volume and playing songs recorded as ringtones on her phone (while singing along, of course.) I moved back to another car to rest, only to have a rather prudish-looking conductor mark the car "closed" after we stopped in Reno. I returned to my original seat, thankful that the teenager had succumb to a nap in the time I was gone. My relief was short-lived: a man across the aisle began staring at me in a way that made me more than uncomfortable. Frustrated, I gathered my things and went to sit in the lounge car, dreading the 22 hours that remained in the trip. I could ask for help from the conductor, I thought, but that guy looked uptight. I inwardly blamed him for being so, and for closing off my precious escape car. While standing outside with my dad at a brief stop, the conductor passed, and I nearly said out loud, "What a prick." I restrained myself, but only from the words. The thought remained, and I inwardly smiled at my wit.

I'm so glad I didn't utter those words. When I later ran into some other conductors and asked about the closure of the Reno car, they asked about my situation and immediately began looking for a way to help me out. Who was it, you might ask, that eventually came to the rescue more than anyone else? The prick. Ah yes, the prudish, uptight prick. He found me a soon-to-be-vacated seat in another car and marked it off so that no one would take it (even claiming the seat next to me as reserved). He offered me his own seat until that seat was cleared (at the next stop). He checked in on me a few times, checked out the creepy man, and made sure a man was seated there instead of another woman. The dude went above and beyond. Uptight? No. Kind and helpful in the extreme. What was that about God glasses?

Later I found myself surprisingly in need of...some toiletry items (ahem). The little on-train store carried no such items (can we say severe oversight, Amtrak?). I was directed to the woman who ran the dining car, but no amount of inquiring around on her part turned up any help for me. Sitting at the table post-dinner, feeling sorry for myself, I found myself looking at the hugely overweight woman who had barely squeezed into a booth nearby. She was an employee in the kitchen. The judgments that flew through my mind were atrocious--I am embarrassed to recall them. As I chatted with the dining car director again, the large woman overheard. Looking up from her silverware wrapping, she said, "Let me go look in my room." She disappeared for a while, and came back with a neatly wrapped care package put together with much consideration. "Thank you so much," I said. "You really saved my rear." "Of course. Happy to help." My mom asked if I owed her anything, and she laughed if off as a ridiculous notion. Walking away, I realized I had again falled victim to poor spiritual eyesight, and God had pointed out the fuzziness of my vision (probably with great delight, as he knows the deep beauty of that woman's heart).

These are minor examples of the adjustments that need to be made every day. In my work, especially, seeing people as God does in an often unsuccessful venture. Looking at a slobbering drunk, homeless person who is acting like a ridiculous jerk, I see,well, a slobbering drunk, homel....you get the point. I have a feeling that isn't what their Creator sees. The principle applies equally to the mirror for me. I look and pass judgement every day, failing to see myself through the lens of God's abundant, lavish love and grace.

May the people of God use the means given us (including that Bible) to begin to change the way we see our world. It isn't as easy or neatly packaged as a literal pair of God glasses, but the opportunity is there each day to seek God, and to allow him to take us from tainted eyes to spiritual 20/20.

time to write

I miss writing. I miss crafting words, capturing my thoughts and then stepping back to look at them as they appear in ink. Aha, I think to myself, that's what you look like! Yet I have not written much these last couple years. Some of that was natural. The move to the trailer meant the loss of home internet, as well as the loss of a great deal of what had previously been free time. As well, my most prolific years involved writing late into the night, which is less feasable now that I am back in the working world and on someone else's schedule.

Still, the excuses aren't sufficient. What did I do this week that was more important? I watched several epidsodes of The Deadliest Catch and scanned the internet for ideas for a fall trip. I wasted too much time on Facebook (Oh FB, how I love and loathe thee...). I took a bike ride. I spent an hour in Target trying to decide which notebook and bike lock to buy. I had tea and did some reading at a coffee shop. I met up with friends, inititally for tennis, but finally for coffee when the courts presented only puddles. Some of these things were important indeed. But some were by no means worth the loss of hours that could have been spent writing. It is a discipline that I have let fall slack. I need a good old fashioned kick in the hind quarters.

That said, any and all are welcome to offer such prodding. It is time to write again.

king David, a candle, and me

I understood something new of the Psalms today. Those who have read them have probably noticed that these songs and prayers of desperation, especially those attributed to David, often seem to have a sort of...mood swing element to them. David cries out in anger or distress for line after line of emotive poetry, and then, click--he spits out a resounding affirmation of God's strength or a beautiful remembrance of God's faithfulness. Psalm 13 is one example that has always lingered in my mind. Most of it betrays David's feeling that God has abandoned him, that David has been left to his enemies without hope of rescue. Yet that same psalm ends with this: "But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me" (5-6) At times such switches simply sound odd.

There isn't a really nice way to say it: I have been pretty depressed most of the time for the last few months. Life feels heavy and hard, and while God continually shows me of his goodness, I feel ignored by him in the deepest areas of struggle and suffering. Frustration, anger, and discouragement have been swirling around in my head, unvoiced to a large degree. Today, however, much of it came spilling out. In jaded and bitter words, I spoke of a God who doesn't rescue us when we call to him, who doesn't come to my aid. I spoke of hopelessness, and I attempted to voice an apathy that, of course, is no more than a cover up for caring so much that it nearly does me in. Hot tears welled up. And there it was: my pain, voiced and echoing in the air inside my car.

In that silence that followed, something in me stirred. Some deep part of me was not satisfied with the statements I had made, felt as if I had defiled the sacred. It was not so much a concern that I had said the wrong thing, or some need for a clean-cut religiosity; rather, it was the feeling that I had spoken untruth about One whom I love. And the feeling did not call me to set aside my emotions, only to acknowledge truth in the midst of them. The truth is that God does rescue his people and has so many times rescued me, even if he seems to have left me now. The truth is that there is no hope at all outside of him, because he is hope embodied, and that my pain at his seeming indifference simply underscores his preeminence in my life. That stirring, that moment of pause, was my own fifth verse--not forced, but rising up from the place in me where the Truth resides. There in that place, the Spirit who has made a home in me held a candle up against the dark feelings that threatened to overwhelm me.

Deep into my bones, I journey with David through the early part of Psalm 13 these days: "How long must I wrestle with my thoughts, and every day have sorrow in my heart?" Yet even as I voice my anguish, I see a flickering. There is a candle somewhere in that darkness, calling me to cling to the ankles of Hope for dear life. It calls me, no matter how weary my voice, to sing to the Lord: he has indeed been good to me.

what's 'want' got to do with it?

Any reader of the Gospels has likely noticed something about Jesus: he says some strange things. For all his oft-quoted eloquent maxims and parables, there are as many portions of his story that leave the reader scratching her head, wondering if Jesus has momentarily lost his marbles despite his divinity. He asks strange questions and gives even stranger responses to the questions others ask him.

One such moment appears in John 5, when Jesus comes upon a man who has been crippled for nearly 40 years, sitting on a mat near a pool famed for its healing properties. Deal was, the pool only healed folks when its waters were stirred by angels, and even then, only the first one in was in luck. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that the crippled man’s odds of being the first one in were not exactly good. There he sat, day after day for 38 years, hoping someone would help him be the first into the healing waters. When Jesus comes near the pool, he sees the man, and approaches him. He looks at the cripple and asks one question: “Do you want to get well?”

Hold the phone, Jesus. Are you nuts? This dude has been sitting on a dang mat for longer than you’ve been in a human body, and you wonder if he wants to get well? Is there a Greek word for “duh”?

It’s funny how life can shed light on things, though. My work with the homeless has given this story a whole new depth for me in the last couple months. As one of our own clients pointed out when we discussed this passage one Sunday, Jesus asks a legitimate question. As an alcoholic, my client knows that the issue isn’t whether or not he is able to get sober, but ultimately whether or not he wants to be sober. You see, despite the complaints we give, most of us have grown to be rather comfortable in our dysfunctions. It’s how we do life, right or wrong. And if we are honest, we hesitate when confronted with the difficulty of changing our habits, learning new coping mechanisms, and facing the challenges of reinventing ourselves. The crippled man, in many ways, faced the same things. A healthy body meant learning to take care of himself, having to work for a living rather than surviving on alms, and generally having responsibilities from which his health had previously excused him. That’s a big adjustment. Perhaps that is why Jesus asks the question: “Do you really want to be well?” [Of course, in this case the guy's answer reads something like, “C’mon, man. It’s not like I’m not motivated. I just can’t get down there on my own. Someone always beats me to it. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m crippled.” And Jesus, sensing the sincerity of his answer, heals him and sends him away walking on a brand new set of feet.]

The question I wrestle with again and again at work right now is this: What would Jesus have done if the guy had said no? “No thanks, Jesus, but I’m pretty used to this gig. Thanks anyway.” What then? Would Jesus have healed him? Rebuked him? Just walked away?

Doing case management with a population who consistently befuddles me by turning down the help that could get them out of their homelessness and addiction, I often think about Jesus’ question. In essence, I feel like it is what I am asking my clients: “Look, we are here to help you. But do you want to get well?” They may not say it outright (though on occasion, it’s pretty close), but their reply is often “no.” They don’t want wholeness badly enough to leave the familiarity of their dysfunction behind. Just this week, we offered an intensely alcoholic man who was being released from the hospital a warm place to stay for a couple weeks, if only he will commit to staying sober during that time. His drinking, of course it what landed him in the hospital in the first place, as he lay drunk in a tent for days and let his feet freeze and rot. His dad has given him much the same offer we have—fly him home, take care of him—if he’ll give rehab a shot. But it’s a no go. This particular client does not want to get well. So what do we do with him? It is a land of grays we walk through in situations like this.

Now I know that rehab is a lot more work than the miraculous healing the crippled man received. But all the same, the question is a fair one for all of us: Do we want to get well? When we call out to Jesus to change us, heal us, save us, are we really ready for the responsibility of living out that changed life? It calls me to pause, this notion. It calls me to dig inside to see what dysfunctions I may be asking for freedom from—to picture myself laying on that mat—and to be prepared to answer the willing but searching question of my Savior: “Katie, do you want to get well?”

holding on to hope

Hope can sometimes be difficult to find these days. As my life becomes further and further entwined with the broken lives of my clients, I realize the courage involved in this thing called hoping. Hope takes courage because it is risky; it involves putting ourselves out there, wearing our hearts on our sleeves with the full knowledge that things may not turn out as we’d wanted them to.

This has been especially apparent around Feed My Sheep these days. Two of the clients who had been winning their battle with alcoholism have relapsed entirely. We hear tales of them passed out in their own messes, or bruised after a return to those who abuse them. Three other clients finally hit bottom and asked for help—we sent two off to rehab and one back to be with supportive family. This is cause for rejoicing, and we hope for them. Yet we also feel the pull toward guarding ourselves from the possibility of their failure, from the prospect of a day when they, too, will return to the bottle and reacquaint themselves with a life of self-destruction. Others simply suffer, and we wonder how to speak hope to them. One man just found out that his daughter is in a coma, unlikely to recover. His other two children are already dead. As he stumbles into the shelter and cries out to me in his drunkenness that a man should not outlive his children, I feel at a loss for words.

The battle for hope does not end with work. In my personal life, I find myself facing long struggles that seem never-ending. At times the weight of longing for freedom and healing seems too much. When eloquence is rendered futile by the unutterable things of the heart, I return often to Luther’s prayer: “I am yours; Save me” Teach me to hope, I ask the One whom Paul calls “the God of hope.” Teach me to hope.

A rereading of Hebrews 11:1 recently underscored for me the importance of this risky thing called hope: “But faith is the substance/realization of what we hope for; it is the proof/inner-conviction of things not seen” (translation mine). A look back at Hebrews 6 recalls the centrality of faith to being a true Christ-follower: “Without faith, it is impossible to please God…” Yet a closer look at verse 11:1 reveals that the definition of faith comes with an assumption: it assumes we are hoping for something. To surrender hope renders faith null and void: The verse would basically read, “But faith is the realization of…nothing.” We can’t lay aside hope, saying “I’ll believe it when I see it,” and pass it off as part of surviving the job. It is simply impossible to give up hope and still claim to be a people of faith.

I long for our ministry to be founded on deep and abiding faith. I hunger for my own life to be a life marked by confident trust. And so I must take the risk: I must never give up hope, no matter how painful and vulnerable it can be. I must never shut down the places of my heart that long for things I can’t yet see. Faith is the realization of hope that my clients can overcome, that broken hearts can find restoration, that long battles can be won. And hope is the daring choice to allow God the chance to prove that the promise is true.

finding God in Creation (no wilderness required)

Living in Colorado, and especially among the population of Christ-followers here, one hears a common statement: “I experience God most in his creation.” What they mean, of course, is that stepping away into the magnificent landscape that surrounds us allows for an encounter with the divine which is difficult to find in the midst of everyday life—in the midst of traffic and conversations with the boss. Of course, there is much truth to the sentiment. Just yesterday, as I descended from the summit of a nearby mountain, making my way through snow and Aspens under a blue sky, something in my soul was stilled; I felt as if God would have an easier time getting my attention in that quiet wilderness than he would during a day full of running errands.

Indeed, anyone who knows me well knows that I am addicted to the mountains. I can breathe out there. I can climb up to a higher view and look down at a world that is not as big and scary as perhaps I might have imagined. Yet something recently struck me as I thought through that statement again, that assertion that it is easiest to find God in “creation”. I was sitting in a worship setting, singing about how “the earth is filled with his glory,” and I became aware that I picture the same sort of wilderness setting every time I sing such songs about an earth that reveals God’s greatness. I picture the glory of God as displayed in “creation”. The thing that struck me (and the reason that creation is in quotation marks) is that the high point of creation—the only part said to be shaped in the image of the Creator himself—is humankind. It’s people like the ones you pass in traffic and the one who runs your office. Why, then, does my idea of encountering God in creation generally involve getting away from people, save for maybe a few that I really like? And what am I missing out on because of that narrow definition?

In the week or so since I began to ponder those questions, I have often found myself looking intently at others, especially at my clients at the homeless ministry, wondering what it means to experience God in the part of creation that is people. In some ways, it has simply shown me how much I need to allow my eyesight to be adjusted by the Creator, since I know that he is especially present in encounters with the poor. On the other hand, it has affirmed what has already been a big part of my focus lately: the importance of the Body of Christ really, truly living life together as a body. Here’s why:

I imagine that one of the reasons we find it so easy to encounter God in places like the Colorado Wilderness is that there we find a part of creation that seems at rest. It is an area that seems untainted, and gives us the sense that it might actually be close to how God intended it to be in the first place. No matter how much one might love a place like New York, it definitely doesn’t afford the feeling that the plot of land known as Manhattan in any way resembles the landscape in its purest form. We’ve made a bit of a mess out of many such places.

Likewise, humanity has become a polluted and chaotic form of what once reflected in the image of God himself. It is sometimes difficult to glance the divine within the face of an utterly broken life (though we need to look intently for God there, too, so that we can embrace all as his created ones). Here, then, is the importance of the Body of Christ. We are not the pristine mountains of humankind, but as Christ-followers, we have chosen to begin a journey toward being restored to the image of God. We have chosen to be a vessel for the display of his Spirit and likeness, no matter how imperfectly we fulfill that role at times. To seek to know God in his creation, then, means for the Body of Christ to look for him in each other. To truly do this means sharing life on an intimate and vulnerable level, offering one another access into the places of our lives where God’s great strength and redemption are being revealed in our weakness and trials. It means proclaiming his creativity by actively expressing the ways he’s gifted us, and doing so in community with others. It means helping one another to grow in the kind of compassion that will better allow us to see God in even the most broken parts of creation.

Knowing God in community with people is much messier than finding him in the woods and canyons. It’s more complicated and unpredictable, to be sure. But if we believe that God is revealed through his creation, then he is there in the midst of human ties, waiting to make himself known intimately through those “who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.” May we know him in the mountain peaks and crystal streams, yes. But may we also allow him to teach us even more what it means to know him through the part of creation which he shaped in his very image.

a different kind of messy

A few posts ago, I wrote about the messiness of loving people who are often bent on self-destruction, and who will only sometimes overcome. It the messiness of loving broken people. This week, I have come face to face with another side of that untidy process called love: it is the messiness of loving when the messy one is me.

For the most part, I thoroughly enjoy our clients. Most are kind and grateful, quck to share a story or a laugh. Some are a little obnoxious when drunk, but well...that's alcohol for you. Recently, however, we have been joined by a woman whom I find it almost impossible to enjoy. In the large group room, and then even more once in the women's room, she is often just plain hateful. She speaks in such a rude, attacking, and accusing way that I sometimes stand there just feeling like someone is spewing poison on me. And she goes for the jugular, attacking the legitimacy of my faith, my competence as a staff member, or simply my intelligence or general worth. It causes great wrestling in me, because my inner reaction is not what I would hope for it to be. Sometimes I feel like I hate her. I don't want her to come in, hoping that she can find somewhere else--anywhere else--to keep warm. Part of this is because she not only insults me, but often attacks others and almost always ruins the atmosphere of the room for the night. It doesn't help that she snores like a chainsaw from the moment she falls asleep to the time she wakes up. Shallow as that may seem, it just makes it so I am angry with her even when she's sleeping. I pray continually that Jesus would create compassion in me, eyes that see the hurt behind her bitter hatred. It is far easier said than done.

Jesus told us pretty clearly that sometimes the world will hate us just as it hated him. This should be no surprise. But how to respond is a difficult question for me because of the position I am in: I am called to be humble and meek--to disarm her with kindness--yet as a staff member I am also called to maintain authority and order in our shelter. The latter side of things seems to cancel out the option of silently turning a cheek and letting her rage unchecked. Yet the call to the former makes it difficult to embrace the decision to demand respect and possibly kick her out for the night. Of course, mixed into all this questioning is my own ugly reaction. I'll be honest: there are times when all I really want is to get rid of her. Oh, to be like Christ in this situation. What does it look like? I do not know, and so I continue to wrestle with the question daily.

In the midst of it all, at least one thing has begun to echo clearly. Jesus did not just warn us that we might be hated. He told us that to be persecuted is actually a blessing, a cause for rejoicing. To recieve insults and to encounter suffering--we are blessed to share in these things. I pray that I might be able to internalize this more and more. Perhaps someday I will find myself doing that ludicrous thing the gospel calls us to: standing before one who spews bitter poison and somehow rejoicing.

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.