This morning, I was reading in an old - too often overlooked book - Zechariah. I love Zechariah - or what little I know of it. Before my first (and subsequent) triathlons, I'd write a verse inside the collar of my shirt or the band of my hat, "Do not despise these small beginnings, because the Lord is pleased to see the work begin." That comes from Zechariah 4:10.
I didn't get that far in the book this morning. I read only to the third verse in the first chapter before I had to stop, get quiet, and think.
"Therefore, say to the people, 'This is what the Lord of Heaven's Armies says: Return to me, and I will return to you..."
Return.
I didn't get very far praying about it either so I hopped onto Google, typed in "return", and hit "images." Up came the photo above...HelloooViggoMortenson! I've seen the Lord of the Rings franchise films and I think I enjoyed the "view" and the Hobbit's shire more than the story. But I do remember crying when the King (Viggo) refused to step into his responsibility to lead the land into the oncoming battle.
What does all of this have to do with Zechariah 1:3? Gosh, I don't know. A few unrelated thoughts keep tango-ing through my mind. Maybe you can help me uncover this persistent thought today (Please?)
Before I left Manhattan (Manhappiness), Kansas, a missionary from Hungary spoke to our church. He was brutally honest and spoke with heart and conviction. He deflected any applause our laudation. It wasn't about him. He was "just a Hobbit carrying a ring." He bore something infinitely precious that he could not fully understand. And the way was wretched. And hope was lost. And then it wasn't.
The cornerstone verse of my life is Isaiah 30:15, "For thus said the Lord GOD, the Holy One of Israel, “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” I'm not a big "rester" and if you've ever run or driven with me...returning is an issue. I don't like to retrace my steps or backtrack. It just burns my biscuits.
Often "return" is not met with the fanfare we think we deserve. The crowds float by. Family and friends are interested in your tales of adventure for a polite amount of time. Only a few know the life you lived before you returned. Returning-this thing we so hoped for and fantasized about can be so very lonely. (Welcoming parties-we need to remember this).
Sometimes space is all that's wanted in a return. Space and a cold frothy beverage in good company
We can never go so far that the return is impossible
I love the way that Zechariah says, "Return to me, and I will return to you." We are not on our own. We just start the turn and the Lord of Angels Armies, Big Daddy, begins the race to us. I am so thank ful for this truth.
The verse doesn't say, "get spiffed up, perfecty, clean, and really holy before entering my presence." We get to approach the King in our mucked up, vertigoed, kink-tailed, blind, one-eyed, mangy state...only to have the King of the Universe meet us in the returning.
An image of people carting a wounded and bedraggling buddy in a wonky wheel-barrow-helping their friend to return, comes to mind. Keep praying folks. The King is pleased to see the work begin.
One final thought: Whatever you believe about the conflicts in places hard to pronounce, the soldiers who go to serve deserve our respect. Whether they understand the issue or not (and who does? money? oil? power?), they go. And in the process of stepping up to their duty, bear witness to unspeakable things. Most go and return with honor. Fear and adrenaline and "not knowing" are too familiar camp mates. If you feel the nudge, will you thank them? If someone starts clapping for a uniformed soldier in the airport, will you join in? Most likely, these are your brothers and sister; sons and daughters; neighbors, the kid who bagged your groceries, or the woman who helped change your tire on the busy freeway. Thank them as the go or return. You may encourage them in a way that brings them safely home.
Josh Garrel's, Farther Along, from Love, War, and the Sea in Between
Lately, I've met each morning with a spinney head and wibbleywobbley walk to the loo. Today, I felt wickedly nauseous, too. It could have been last night's dreams or a sinus infection...or too much Southern sweet tea.
Whatever the culprit, it had me miss my first Wednesday walk-date with my friend, Sarah; a lunch walk-fest with Sondra, and a meeting with the guys later tonight. For a girl who seeks community, missing these people is worse than the spinning tilt-o-whirl that is my equilibrium.
So I've been sitting up in bed or in the main room (no laying down or - OY!), reading a bit, and now trying to write without toppling off the red chaise and to my right.
And because the spins fling faster when I'm wearing my glasses, I've flung them afield and now am squinty and wibbley and wobbley.
It is no fun being disoriented.
What was really a belt on the floor, looked like a black snake in my boudoir (aaiiiieeeee!)
And what was a clean tee shirt became the receptacle for the coffee that circumvented my mouth (gasp!)
What was a day of planned excitement and conversation has become a day of rest on the lilting tilting plane that is the TinyB&B, or my home.
Even the most basic movements this morning became acts of faith and dependence.
Now, I know this is my annual sinus doo-dah, but it still makes the world seem a little scarier...like I'm a guppy swimming in a shark tank...with venomous snakes dropping from the ceiling and the water a swirl of surf.
A day to grow the trust muscle. That thing hasn't so much as atrophied, but was never developed. I've got strong curmudgeon muscles, independent and ornery muscles; even an if-I-work-harder-God-will-be-pleased muscle. Oh-and my new favorite...my "failure-muscle." Or maybe it's just the "fear-of-failure-&-get-over-it" muscle.
Today, in a very real and visceral sense, I've had to depend on God for my physical and caffeinated well-being.
I have a feeling that this sick day is really a Laboratory of the Divine.
A love gift from someone who is wooing my greatest capacity to love with an offer to raise me a million x infinity in love.
I cannot love Him nor receive this gift nor do good or make a difference without Him. And he deserves more than my sloppy seconds.
So I'll just keep asking him to do what I can't and sit up in bed as this spinning wears off and my to do list is replaced with a "depend & do" list.
Lately, I've been thinking about Dorian Gray, the main character in Oscar Wilde's only published novel, A Picture of Dorian Gray.
He was beautiful.
And self-obsessed.
Dorian was so afraid of losing his beauty that he sold his soul to the devil to keep it and his youth.*
The caveat? A portrait of Dorian aged while he remained youthful, handsome, and innocent in appearance. Not only did the picture age, but it began to reflect the damage Dorian did to his own soul through his increasingly selfish and callous lifestyle.
Dorian's brand of decadent was the "we're-going-to-hell-for-that" rather than too-many-Dove-dark-chocolates variety. A bit of murder, raucous romps among revelers, a cold-hearted blaming of others, and a recusal from all responsibility were Dorian's fare.
My thoughts about Dorian Gray and his portrait have been thoughts of faith and transparency and redemption.
What would my portrait reveal if I had one that guaged my spiritual condition hanging over the mantel?
And how long would that dog be allowed for public viewing? I'm guessing a minute...minute and a half depending on how fast I could rip it from the wall.
The secret thoughts? Unnoticed sins? Bitter attitudes...
Just thinking of this has my heart beating faster than the rain pelting the windowsill.
And I love this Jesus and want to honor him.
How deformed would my eyes become in such a painting? How smirky and wretched would my mouth be? Would it drip the blood and poison that is so often overflowing from my heart? Would my painted hands clench and my body stoop under the weight of bad beginnings and worry and decay?
Yes. Yes. And yes.
Despite the not-so-subtle reminders from an unseen enemy about my spiritually funk-dog state, I have the promise of forgiveness and a soul that is - despite my best efforts - "white as snow."
I have been redeemed.
This unseen God is in constant state of redeeming me.
Because he loves me.
Despite myself.
I don't get it. Nor can I earn it.
Which is why I am transparent to the point of absurdity these days. If my failures and foolishness and God's consistent grace can encourage another traveler, than good enough. My life isn't a complete waste of breath.
If a peek into the room where I hide the portrait of Allie Lousch creates a space for life and light to break into a weary world, than I can live with the embarrassment and potential humiliation,
And the accountability. Because it is when we shirk accountability, that we think we are invincible and above reproach. So call me on the carpet if needed. Be gentle if you can. Be direct. I'd rather be wrong for a moment than living in a body of death.
Psalm 26:2 (ESV)
Prove me, O LORD, and try me; test my heart and my mind. (some versions speak of testing motives).
* * * Thoughts on The Picture of Dorian Gray
despite popular editing, the title is "The Picture..." rather than "The Portrait...."
much of Dorian Gray's descent into self-destruction came via the influence of one man
at the story's end, Dorian reacts, but does not RESPOND
I've not read the whole book at once, but it is one that will make a lot of folks squeamish or indignant. I'll avoid the movie as I'd rather not have the more salacious images in my memory. I blush too easily and don't need more of that sort of influence in my consciousness and heart.
Yes, Oscar Wilde, the author, was reportedly gay. And he was a human being who seemed to wrestle with his heart and the divine. He was loved by a God he couldn't see, just like the rest of us lusty liars and scamps. And Oscar seemed to understand the heart of man. I think I'd have loved his company.
A final thought from a tiny book in a mobile library (my pink Message bible):
1 John 5:18, "We know that none of the God-begotten makes a practice of sin - fatal sin."
One more thought about Dorian Gray (who's shadow dwells in all of us)
In a weary world, we cannot deny that our attitudes, selfishness, poor word-choice and foolishness affects others - wounds many. It is the intentional practice of this that wedges separation between us and a God who loves us. The PRACTICE and PURSUIT of sin is what furthered Dorian Gray's descent into madness and a beautiful and youthful despair. I'd rather be wrinkly and at peace - imperfect - than gorgeous and gangrenous in my soul.
*The United States spends $160 Billion on beauty products, nips, and tucks each year (2009 statistic). That is more than the Gross National Product and Domestic Debt in many countries.
Last fall, I stumbled across many things...
including a photo of an Occupy Lawrence, Kansas, protestor who got it right:
"I Can Make History."
At Adventures in Missions, I bump up against so many people living out their history these days - "living a better story."
And it begs the questions:
What story are we writing?
What history are we creating?
Are we - instead - allowing ourselves...these breaths of opportunities to slip slide away?
Is it enough to pray and pack and kiss kith and kin and move across the universe to serve - however directly or indirectly - the needs of the go-ers and the gone?
I don't know.
For several days, I've felt burdened - really carrying - this question.
It is a long-familiar wondering, an echo, a hope that the sum of this life will amount to more than its beginnings, failures, and high hopes. That in the living of this thing, we will swim through an endless grace of what matters and offer it's sweetness to quench other thirsty souls.
It is not a concrete exercise this question and answer; this living.
We do our best.
We step aside for others to shine.
We trust and press on; blood-stained, sweat soaked, thistled and tired.
We press on in hopes that our endurance mingles with the divine and our wealth of shortcomings are forgiven.
That these days are not wasted.
That God, himself, delights in our feeble efforts to reflect him; sun reflecting from a grain of sand.
And that the world is somehow warmed.
------
Chris Rice wrote & performed "The Power of a Moment"a few years back.
It's worth a read & a listen:
What am I gonna be when I grow up? How am I gonna make my mark in history? And what are they gonna write about me when I'm gone? These are the questions that shape the way I think about what matters Well I have no guarantee of my next heartbeat My world's too big to make a name for myself And what if no one wants to read about me when I'm gone? It seems to me that Right now's the only moment that matters
You know the number of my days So come paint Your pictures on the canvas of my head and Come write Your wisdom on my heart Teach me the power of a moment The power of a moment The power of a moment
In Your kingdom where the least is greatest The weak are given strength and fools confound the wise And forever brushed up against a moment's time leaving impressions and drawing me into what really matters
You know the number of my days So come paint Your pictures on the canvas of my head and Come write Your wisdom on my heart Teach me the power of a moment The power of a moment The power of a moment
I get so distracted by my bigger schemes Show me the importance of the simple things Like a word, a seed, a thorn, a nail and a cup of cold water
You know the number of my days So come paint Your pictures on the canvas of my head and Come write Your wisdom on my heart Teach me the power of a moment The power of a moment The power of a moment
photo used with permission by chelsea donoho photography
It began sometime after birth when I realized that those pink things that I kept seeing were actually attached to me...though it took me a while to learn they were toes and feet.
History class found me wondering about Roman mosaics and why I had to learn all the dates of history instead of just the order?
I wondered when my kids were born. Who will they become and am I the kind of person who can love them into a whole life of their own wonder and adventure?
And during church looking at the sparkly windows or the widows with their wrinkled hands...
This season has been a "harsh grace"; a peeling of the old singed dead skin to make way for the fresh and new.
I have taken pride in so much of the burnt flesh; the cracklins of a life that testifies to a person in process (and a God who is not sleeping.)
So when I sensed a mysterious God whispering, "I desire humility over talent," I began to wonder.
And ask more questions.
"I can use humility."
"Too much talent (or perceived talent) paves the way for arrogance...which I cannot use."
So this is what I am wondering about.
And when I dove into a quiet time of listening last night, this is what I found:
1 Peter 5 :5,6,7 (MSG)
5 God has had it with the proud,
But takes delight in just plain people.
6-7So be content with who you are, and don't put on airs. God's strong hand is on you; he'll promote you at the right time. Live carefree before God; he is most careful with you.
Have you ever seen the Cherry Blossoms in Washington D.C?.
Beautiful.
I caught a glimpse of them while visiting my brother in D.C. during spring break as a college freshman. It was too early for most of the blossoms to bloom, but a few hardy buds made their way out into the early spring breezes. That was the year that Pat died - later - of a cancer that moved in quickly and aggressively. For years, those spring breezes and blossoms were unwelcome reminders of his illness, grief, and "tissue-typing" at Walter Reed Hospital.
These days, I hope to visit the Cherry Blossom Festival and take my time immersed in the swirl of color, smell, history, and adventure. Pollen is a small price to pay to experience the seasonal burst of life and the chance to remember his good life.
Up until a few years ago, fall would always be a tough season for me. This wasn't because of school starting (because I love school!), but because of memories too painful to acknowledge and too aggressive to stay squished in the tight lock box of my soul.
When my kids began to grow, their excitement for life began to make fall an adventure of school supplies, new library cards, NEW CRAYONS & PAINTS; new paths to school, friends to make, and for a season - a School Dog to get to know.
What really untethered the seasonal funk was the excitement and fear of training for my first half marathon. It was set in October and promised a tour of Kansas City as the leaves changed. Training runs with pals leading up into that first KCMO 1/2 were most often rich and fun - at least when they were over. After the initial queueing up at the race start in Crown Center (and wanting to bolt and barf), the run through the neighborhoods and Westport and around lakes and through the volunteers and past the musicians changed my heart.
Fall was free again.
Now, I'm facing a new season and bracing for the changes that seem to be lining up. I don't know what it all means, but I sense a shift is coming. Another shift.
Adventures in Missions has been such a transformative place - a grace - and I am wondering what is ahead. And though I know that this God we seek and who loves us is not sleeping, the idea of more change - another season like July - December 31, 2011 - has me shaking in my bunny slippers. That was a season of harsh grace - of coming to terms with my own hubris - towards freedom.
Who knows?
It could just be that the rain is beating a staccato on my patio; a vaguely familiar song of spring.
Have you ever encountered someone who talks so much that you only get a few ums and errrrs into a conversation?
That the most substantiative thing they bring to the conversation is the occasional silence?
Yep. Me too.
In fact, I've been that person (I am so sorry, folks).
A torrent of words becomes a wall that is impossible to scale and even less interesting to try.
All those words. All that wasted air. (sigh)
It seems that this barrage of words seeps from a place of fear, sorrow, and distress - social, professional, internal, or otherwise. It's like trying to dig faster when a big wave shadows the sun instead of getting out of the pit to safety...misguided desperation. That if only the talker could continue to commandeer the conversation then folks would be left in shock and awe and want more face time. Not so fast, JabberJaw.
I have friends who are so peaceful and gentle and aware. They listen. They yield the floor without abandoning the conversation. I love these people. Love them and want to spend more time with them.
These people are safe harbor in the wailing winds of a busy disconnected life.
They are the sort of friends who you can't wait to sit side-by-side before a campfire and watch the stars come out because you know the conversation will be restful. Joyful. Energizing.
And I wonder if God ever feels like he's been cornered by JabberJaw when I check in...yap yap yap...blather...blather...blather...me...me...me... How could he not?
A friend spoke at chapel yesterday. He continued on a thought that he and another friend and I had considered a few nights before over steaks and good company.
Bill said that God never calls us to missions or a job or some thing. He calls us to relationship with himself and out of that intimacy, life and direction are born.
I hope to learn to listen; to be safe harbor...a person who sits around many campfires bringing something substantiative to the conversation: a little bit of thought, a measure of laughter, and a lot of listening...silence.
James 1:19
Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: You must all be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry.
It's Sunday morning at 9:12 am and I am sitting on the patio with the blind one-eyed cat.
We are listening to the birds.
PeeWee is stalking them.
I am enjoying their call and response worship.
The last bits of my breakfast, Extreme Moose Tracks, melts beside me and some of today's work sits before me. I get to plant.
Yesterday, I found several flower flats marked at half-off at a discount store. They had bloomed once and, I'm told, the store won't sell them at full price because they are "spent."
Uh...no.
One of the petunias has a bloom on it today and several will bloom in the next few days.
They weren't spent; they were dry and abandoned. A wee bit of water and real sun, and the stems are standing tall and adding color - with the promise of even MORE beauty soon - to the TinyB&B.
Those folks didn't know what they had.
If I had more space (& pots), I'd have filled the Vibe with weary discount plants just needing a little fresh water, attention, and a place to grow. With a bit of time and attention, they could have filled my patio with color and invitation.
And that's how I found PeeWee the Pirate: a bit worse for wear and being freshly fostered by some amazing folks who "leave no cat or pup behind." Meribeth (her real name) is blind in the eye she has, has an unusually small head, had been hit by a car (hence the multi-kinked tail), was born with cat herpes, had a foul mouth of teeth needing extraction (and the godawful breath to go with it), and was missing most of her fuzzy coat at our first encounter.
I had clicked into the shop in my high heels at lunch - needing a momentary "vacation." From the back of Ad Astra came a crash bang and then an optimistic mewing. Soon, this drippy funky thing had sniffed its way to where I stood. Though I'm allergic and not noted as a fan of cats, it took one Manhattan minute to reluctantly realize that I'd struck pet-gold. Despite the funk-catness, she was smart, happy, and affectionate. She seemed so optimistic...
Eventually, Madi, Kenan, and I adopted her and now she divvies her time between shedding, waking me up, stalking birds that she never catches, keeping me company when I'm sick, and doing other cat things. She also looks like a miniature one-eyed snow leopard (with a small head).
I'm still not a cat-person, but I do appreciate the redemptive work that real love - even begrudgingly first offered or received - can affect on our funk-cat-ness.
During my Moose Tracks breakfast on the patio with my Bible and a thoughtful book, it hit me that this is what I hope for and what I'd like to do. I hope to see that promise in parched funky souls. To reflect the beauty that is so often unseen by the bearer. To offer fresh water where parched ground has dominated and left us brittle.
To love well.
And hopefully - folks will see past my world-weariness - and see welcome and life and love and a few unexpected blooms.
We are no longer abandoned.
We are adopted - rescued even - from the drought of our souls.
We would do well to share the fresh water we've been given.
A few thoughts from folks smarter than I about this thing of redemption & wholeness:
I do love people, but I feel so awkward around most folks that I have been known to run out of an excellent dinner party just to catch some "air."
And at the same time, I've been told I could talk the bark off of a tree...awkward.
This week, I had the privilege of opening up the "Tiny B&B" to a new friend and fellow writer Sara Choe (http://sarachoe.com/author/sarachoe/). It was so nice to have another human in the apartment who was self-directed and engaged in the Adventures community. And now she's off on her next adventure and the "Tiny B&B" is again quiet.
My shy & introverted self appreciates this rhythm. The rest of me wonders if I'm going to start talking to the cat.
The quiet is uncomfortable.
I felt it when both Madi and Kenan left this new nest after a week or so of a visit and when Katie Mayes flew back to purpleville and when I pulled in New Years Eve from a quick trip to Kansas.
That was a deafening quiet.
After my friend, Jules, left - the quiet was there, too, but as in Sara's absence - I know that their adventure continues and that it has been a grace to get to know them for a bit.
This quiet feels like the moment after you offer to pray for someone or hold their hand and they look at you...awkwardly. Ooooh, that look.
This quiet also feels like Presence and Expectation and Hope; the feeling after the prayer and the holding of hands. The "what next" quiet. Wondering.
Slightly impatient.
Today, a curious, hopeful, expectant, awkward, wondering, nervous quiet has invaded my soul.
ALMOST DONE with an intense and challenging project of finding pins in virtual haystacks.
Hoping to work from home until this thing gets done.
Pondering the upcoming weekend and week.
A little lonely, a little hopeful, a little uncomfortable in this quiet.
Presence and Expectation.
Awkward.
Giddy.
And in my soul I hear as clear as morning, "Be still & know."
where I stood. Though I'm allergic and not noted as a fan of cats, it took one Manhattan minute to reluctantly realize that I'd struck pet-gold. Despite the 