"Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me-- watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn how to live freely and lightly."
-- Matthew 11

Now that is has nearly been a year since I started this book, I am a mere 30 pages to the end of Annie Dillard's wonderful "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek." At times, I've put off reading this book out of a desire not to ever finish it. Other times, it becomes too thick and heady for me, my thoughts too distant to wade through the wonderful prose and imagery laden with rotting leaves and microbial description. Yet, there are many times I sit down with this book and find its words penetrating, entering right into my present moments. Here is a collection of passages that I found particularly relevant today:

" 'In nature,' writes Huston Smith, 'the emphasis is in what is rather than what ought to be.' I learn this lesson in a new way every day. It must be, I think tonight, that in a certain sense only the newborn in this world are whole, that as adults we are expected to be, and necessarily, somewhat nibbled. It's par for the course. Physical wholeness is not something we have barring accident; it is itself accidental, an accident of infancy, like a baby's fonanel or the egg-tooth on a hatchling."

"Is our birthright and heritage to be, like Jacob's cattle on which the life of a nation was founded, 'ring-streaked, speckled and spotted' not with the spangling marks of grace like beauty rained down from eternity, but with the blotched assaults and wuarryings of time? 'We are all of us clocks,' says Eddington,'whose faces tell the passing years.' The young man proudly names his scars for his lover; the old man alone before a mirror erases his scars with his eyes and sees himself whole."

"We can look around as those who are nibbled by unbroken, from the shimmering vantage of the living. Here may not be the cleanest, newest place, but that clean timeless place that vaults on either side of this one is no place at all."

"That the world is old and frayed is no surprise; that the world could ever become new and whole beyond uncertainty was, and is, such a surprise that I find myself referring all subsequent kinds of knowledge to it... But knowledge does not vanquish mystery, or obscure its distant lights... Now it would be too facile to pull everything out of the hat and say that mystery vanquishes knowlege."

"Can I say then that corruption is one of beauty's deep-blue speckles, that the frayed and nibbled fringe of the world is a tallith, a prayer shawl, the intricate garment of beauty? It is very tempting, but I honestly cannot. But I can, however, affirm that corruption is not beauty's very heart. And I can I think call the vision of the cedar and the knowledge of these wormy quarryings twin fiords cutting into the granite cliffs of mystery, and say that the new is always present simultaneously with the old, however hidden.

... I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I've come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections, but overwhelmingly in spite of them, under the wind-rent clouds, upstream and down."

-- Dillard, pp 241- 245

I've been struck recently by my tendency to grasp onto my own pat answers. I want to nail everything down, telling myself I am seeking truth rather than emotion to sink my teeth into. Truth really is, I want everything to be neat, I want it all to be clean-- I don't want to have to sit in the dark and I refuse to live with the questions. I'd like to be able to rest in me, take comfort in my own claim to be right-- what I really want is control. I want what I want and I want it now. That's how life works, right?

Thank the Lord for his stubborn refusal to give me what I demand. Thank the Lord that his great pleasure in me affords an unquestionable call to wait. "Your staff and your rod, they comfort me."

A month or so ago, my brother called on a rainy night to tell me this one phrase: The waiting is not meaningless.

"Does that mean anything to you?" he asked.
"Not now," I said, "But I imagine it will later."

It is later now, and day by day, these words come to mean more and more. I want to rush my life. I see in myself the temptation to hold it all in my hand now. I am tired of the process. I want to take action, make things move, control everything. But I am learning an important lesson about mystery, about resting, about living in the seventh day and remembering that the work of the Creator is already done-- my rushing about, my work-- they do no good.

Sometime ago, I had this strong sense about the gentle ways in which the Lord works. He promises to lay nothing heavy or ill-fitting on us. He knows that we are frail and small, full of complexity and mystery, and therefore, in his great wisdom and mystery reveals himself little by little. He knows that our short legs can only carry us so far at a time. We grow cell by cell, healing and regenerating slowly, thoroughly. And although he has more dreams for me that I even have for myself, he knows that I cannot handle them all at once. He is an artist, a Creator full of wisdom and beauty, and he is full of the awareness of the process. Little by little it all builds up, layer by layer. And I must learn to be patient with these layers. I must come again to terms with the reality that life takes time.

I am entering a new discipline this week-- listening. I am tired of speaking, tired of putting answers down on paper, and am ready to rest. I am ready to sit down with the lights off, listening to the voice that says, "Here is the way-- walk in it." Perhaps one day the lights will come on, little by little, and the meaning of the waiting will become clear. But until then, I am going to continue learning how to trust over and again.

Learning to Ask for Peace

I am coming to terms with something: Things aren't how I want them to be. Actually, let's make that two things I'm coming to terms with, the second of which being: Things shouldn't be how I think they should be. Or maybe three: I don't really want the things that I want.

My ways are not your ways, your thoughts are not my thoughts. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways, acknowledge Him, and he will direct your paths. My paths certainly need directing these days.

I started out this year reading about desire. I started out this year thinking about hurt, about fear, about doubt, about money, about insecurity, about rest, about the past and about the future. I started out this year hearing about new life, about restoration, about love, about renewal, about relationship, about trust, about surrender.

And now, here is it four and half days left in April. I repotted a plant today. I bought the plant for $6 at the West End Gardener one day when my Mom came to visit because I loved everything about it-- the color, the shape of the leaves, the way it spilled over the edges of its plastic red-orange pot. But the plant looks much different today than the day I bought it. It is growing tall, not out, like it was growing when I first discovered it. The plant sits by the side of my bed and one day, reaching for the alarm clock, I accidentally knocked off the top of the new shoot.

Now, it seems as though its been trying to start over, only as a different plant. This plant is a mystery to me. I don't even know its name. But the bottom leaves seem to keep turning from green to gray and proceeding to fall off, even though new life is springing springing springing to the top. It is as though the old, original plant is slowly falling away, day by day, even as the top of the plant is still quite full of life, even as new growth continues to sprout and spring. It as though this new child of a plant that is growing out of the top is reaching for something, can't quite seem to find it enough to take root and spread wide like it should. Or maybe this really is the life of the plant-- to continue to grow upward as the old life falls away day by day. I do not know.

I wish there is something I could do-- there is much about this plant that I do not understand. Truth be told, I do not even know what kind of plant it is. I do not know why it has changed as it has, I do not understand why it looks so different now than I thought it was going to look. It isn't coming out the way I thought it was going to. And although it is surprising and a bit disappointing that it isn't turning out to be the plant I thought it was when I first brought it home, that doesn't make it any less wonderful or beautiful-- just different. Taller.

Lately, I'm afraid, I've been more impatient than ever. Most days, I forget that I am in an in-between place. It is taking me time and space to realize that I have just finished something very large, extremely significant and that, in many ways, everything is starting over. It feels very much like things are simply starting. The slate, for maybe the first time in my life, is clean. It is quite an exhilarating feeling to find yourself on the threshold of one dream completed, and all sorts of new ones sprouting out of the fertile ground-- how exciting to imagine what could be ahead, how refreshing to turn my face towards a new wind.

Yet, I have forgotten that life still takes time. As much as I try to ignore it, as much as I like to pretend, as much as I like to make things happen, the truth is that life is very far outside of my control and sometimes all there is to do is wait. And it is only right and best to do so patiently.

In the midst of a season quite full of hope and anticiaption as well as mired with a great many things I do not understand, cannot control, and cannot predict, I have had many a word with myself regarding the neccessity of contentment, of acceptance, of surrender, and of continued faithfulness. Yet, as I've sought the Lord to help me in sorting out my heart and leading me in the steps I take with my very body, I realize that all of these things I am trying to bring myself to embrace are still matters of control. I must be content with what I can see, accepting what I understand to be, surrendering what I hold, and walking towards faithfulness in one particular direction or another. And I realize that I am still full of thirst amid all of these endeavors, no matter how noble my intentions be because they still fail to truly give up everything-- striving towards these postures are still attempts to grab the side of the cliff rather than simply freefalling. I realize that what I need is a gift that comes fully from outside of myself.

This morning, I was struck by these words from the book of Hebrews:

"For as long, then, as that promise of resting in Him pulls us on to God's goal for us, we need to be careful that we're not disqualified. We received the same promises as those people in the wilderness, but the promises didn't do them a bit of good because they didn't recieve the promised through faith. If we believe though, we'll experience that state of resting." (Heb 4 The Message)

"For anyone who enters God's rest also rests from his own work, just as God did from his. Let us make every effort to enter that rest, so that no one will fall by following thier example of disobedience. For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow. It judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare bfore the eyes of him to whom we must give account." (Heb 4 NIV)

Rest. Taking a rest automatically requires that we stop our work. Taking a rest, laying our head in the lap of the Father, is laden with the implication that we trust that he has also finished his work-- there is nothing else for me to do. Rest.

I realize that my prayer needs to be much less about what I want, how the Lord can enable me to get it, and it ought not even be neccessarily a request for the ability to accept anything. The only prayer I need to pray these days is one of peace in the midst of and surrender to the ten thousand things I simply cannot see or understand right now. I have been humbled by all of the striving I've been doing. All of the grasping-- I am ashamed. The only way, I think, to truly enter the beautiful mystery of this life is to make peace with it-- to ask for this peace that certainly does pass all understanding.

Isaiah 45 & 46 say this:

"This is what the Lord says--
The Holy One of Isreal and its Maker:
Concerning things to come,
'Do you question me about my children?
Or give me orders about the work of my hands?
It is I who made the earth and created mandkind upon it
My own hands stretched out the heavens
I marhsalled their starry hosts.' "

"I am God and there is no other,
I am God and there is none like me
I made known the end from the beginning,
From ancient times,
what is still come come.
I say: my purpose will stand
And I will do what I please.
What I have said, that I will bring about;
What I have planned, that will I do."

It is easy to feel like this season is never-ending. I must be truthful in admitting that I often give in to the temptation to try to take hold of things, to try to control and manipulate. Time isn't a part of life I'm particularly fond of. Yet, I find a great deal of comfort in knowing that the Lord is continually at work, that I can simply rest in him and trust that he has been from the beginning all the way to the end and back again. I am remembering that he truly knows what is best for me and that often means that best includes the wait. I want everything to be instant, but I must remember his promise to deal gently with our tender hearts. And so I ask for peace and patience. I ask for rest. And I believe that he will be faithful to do this.

underground life

"The ordinary purification and healing, whether of the body or of the mind, takes place only little by little, by passing form one degree to another with labor and patience... the soul that rises from sin to devotion may be compared to the dawning of the day, which at its approach does not expel the darkness instantaneously but only little by little"
-- Francis de Sales

"Jesus said, 'My father is always at his work to this very day, and I, too, am working... I tell you the truth, the Son can do nothing by himself; he can do only what he sees the Father doing, because whatever the Farther does the Son also does. For the Father loves the son and shows him all he does. Yes, to your amazement, he will show him even greater things than these. For just as the Father raises the dead and gives them life, even so the Son gives life to whom he is pleased to give it.." John 5

"But now,
This is what the Lord says--
he who created you,
O Jacob,
he who formed you,
O Isreal:
Fear not, for I have redeemed you,
I have summoned you by name,
You are mine.

When you pass through the waters
they will not sweep over you
When you walk through the fire
You will not be burned.
The flames will not set you ablaze.

For I am the Lord, your God
The Holy one of Isreal, Your Savior,
I give Egypt for your ransom
Cush and Seba in your stead
Since you are precious and hnored in my sight
And because I love you

I will give men in exchange for you,
and people in exchange for your life.

Do not be afraid, for I am with you
I will bring your children from the east
and gether you from the west
I will say to the north, 'Give them up!'
And to the south 'Do not hold them back!'

Bring my sons from afar
and my daughters from the ends of the earth
Everyone who is called by my name,
whom I created for my glory,
whom I formed and made

Before me, not god was formed
nor will there be one after me
I, even I, am the Lord
And apart from me there is no Savior.

I have revelealed
and Saved
and Proclaimed
I and not some foreign god amoung you

'You are my witnesses,'
declares the Lord,
'That I am God.'

Yes, and from ancient days I am he
No one can deliver out of my hand.
When I act, who can reverse it?"
- Isaiah 43

"Forget the former things;
Do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up!
Do you perceive it?

I am making a way in the desert
And streams in the wasteland."
-- Isaiah 43

"By the word of the Lord were the heaven made,
their starry host by the breath of his mouth.
He gathers the waters of the sea into jars,
he puts the deep into storehouses.
Let all the earth fear the Lord,
let all the people of the world revere him.
For he spoke and it came to be;
he commanded , and it stood firm.
The Lord foils the plans of the nations;
he thwarts the purposes of the peoples.
But the plans of the Lord stand firm forever
the purposes of his heart through all generations.

...No king is saved by the size of his army;
no warrior escapes by his great strength.
A horse is a vain hope for deliverance;
despite all its great strenght it cannot save.
But the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him,
on those whose hope is in his unfailing love,
to feliver them from death
and keep them alive in famine.

We wait in hope for the Lord,
he is our help and our sheild.
In him our hearts rejoice,
for we trust in his holy name.
May your unfailing love rest upon us, O Lord,
even as we put our hope in you."
-- Psalm 33

There is a very small bridge on one of the trails near my house. I remember walking across this bridge in early February and observing that no water was running in the ditch beneath the the wooden planks and wondering if there ever was any water here. On friday, I crossed this bridge again and was delighted to find a fresh flow of clear watter rushing over the rocks that had been dry before. I instantly thought of these words from the prophet: "I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland."

Spring is popping up all over the place these days-- the blur of my eyes and itch in my throat is certainly enough to prove it. The weather is warm enough for skirts and more walking than driving and everyone is talking about gardens and barbeques and summer vacations. And I've been doing a lot of dreaming.

I've also been doing a lot of worrying, wondering if my dreams will ever become realities or if the overwhelming task of pursuing these dreams will simply overtake me in the current of life. Here I am, mid-to-late-April, wondering about the possibililities of the coming seasons, wondering if life will yet begin or if it will continue to be this series of not-quite-yet's. I am wondering if anything is growing, if any seeds are germinating, or if I've gotten stuck in the mud somewhere along the way.

But I am encouraged when I remember that there is a great deal more happening under the surface, in the tiny steps, the tiny drops of rain than I realize. The Lord is always at work-- in me, in my dreams, and in all of the relationships, circumstances, and tomorrows that I cannot see or understand. So much feels dark these days-- I am reaching out my arms, groping in the fog. Will I enter this life I dream of?

Some days, it feels as though none of these little investments will ever pay off. I want instant gratification, quick fixes-- I want to know that everything is going to be okay in six months, in a year, in ten years. Will I be living the creative life that I am dreaming of? Will I ever be able to afford a second room, will there ever be enough shelves and space to hold everything in one place? Will I ever have the time or energy to really invest in living the life of the artist I know is lurking inside? Will the dream and passion die as I wait for things like income, rent, and stability?

I have to remind myself almost daily that life itself takes time, that there are no quick fixes, that the Lord works gently and intentionally-- even as badly as I long, it would not be right or good to have all of these things at once. We are enlarged by our expectation. I've been coming to grips recently with the reality that I've only just started over eight months or so ago-- it feels like I've been here much longer, been through much more, invested more than this. I am impatient-- I want the things that take time to take less time. I want everything to hurry up because I just can't see much. It is very tempting to ask for a "fast-forward" button so that I can see the payoff of all of this waiting, this longing, this hard work.

Yet, I think it is easy to want this fast-forward because I forget to believe that the Lord is a God of power, of goodness, of grace, and of infinite wisdom. I forget about how he said, "I will lead her out into the wilderness and speak tenderly to her."

Yet, even in my impatience, I cannot escape his tender words. More than ever, I am coming to know a God who loves me more than I can imagine. I am coming to know a God who relentlessly chases after me. A God who promises that he will give anything to be with me, a Father who takes so much delight in me that he is continually working in my heart, in my life, to bring restoration, to bring wholeness, to bring goodness, even as I find myself able to do nothing but wait.

The other day, a friend said, "We are just waiting for the dust to settle," and I felt like this was just the line ringing through my heart. I feel like I've been waiting for the dust to settle all my life. We are wandering around, looking for the promised land. I've begun to wonder if there is a promised land-- I wonder if it is even worth dreaming of a place that lasts, wondering if it is possible to journey without having to be physically moving all the time. I wonder what sort of life this suffering, this movement, this instability is a preparation for. Will I ever sit down? Is the Lord truly a God full of goodness and mercy?

I believe that the Lord is good and he is faithful. He knows my heart, feels the ache of this wandering life-- and I believe that he is preparing a place for me, whatever that looks like. It is easy for me to wake up after a restless sleep and forget that the Lord is continually at work in me, in my life, in my relationships, even as I cannot see it. It is all too easy to wake up and ask, "Lord, where are you? Have you abandoned me to my own frail devices? Or have you got it all taken care of." oh, how I long to simply long to rest in him. To fall into his arms and trust that he has all of these things that are beyond me under his perfect and loving control. All I must do is become still in his palm that holds all things. And that is good.

Full-fledged. I have had a few words on the tips of my tongue, the edges of my mind, the center of my heart these days. Intention. Full. Surrender. Choice. Pursuit. Dream. Dream. Dream. I have been thinking about what it really means to dream, to desire, to trust, to wait, to surrender it all to One who loves me more than I can even begin to imagine, let alone understand. One who gives all good things out of an immense pleasure he happens to take in me as the one he has so wonderfully made.

This week has been a good one, full of new dreams, new possibilities, hard work, dedication, discipline, as well as some emotional frustration. I started getting up early to walk again and not only does my body feel full of a new sort of energy and new life, so much of my mind has been cleared-- I've reached a few moments of epiphany in the last couple of days that I'm not sure could have been reached without the fresh air and the steady incline of Mt. Sanitas. I was reading the sign at the start of the trailhead these last couple of days and have been intrigued by the fact that the mountain is named "Sanitas," after the sanitorium at its summit-- the trailhead is named for the word that means "health" and that seemed to be right for me this week too.

I have to walk through the neighborhood to get to the trailhead-- and sometimes, well, probably most of the time, all of the wonderful little (and not so litte houses) that make up the life of this city are just as inspiring and exciting to me as the wildlife in the foothills. I walk through the hilly streets, looking at house after house, each one unique, each one colorful, each one full of the personal character of its inhabitants. Front yard gardens, wicker rockers, windchimes, and purple shutters. I dream, endlessly.

Enoughness. I was walking along the valley on Thursday and I realized that so much of what I want is simply to have enough. I often think about this idea of "God is enough," and I've really been asking a lot of questions about this lately-- what does that really mean? Does it mean I should be content to deny my desires? Does it mean I ought to deny my physical existence because I can't see or feel or touch or hear God, who I see as only being spirit? How do I reconcile this "God is enough"-ness with a physical existence that includes the joy of other people, that includes the beauty of creation, that includes hunger and thirst? Is it simply a matter of believing Jesus when he says, "Do not worry, for your heavenly father knows that you need all of these things."

Jesus also said, "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst." This season has been full of lessons in learning what it means to risk hope on things that are beyond me. I have felt this pull on my heart to risk everything just to imagine what the fullness of life might be like. Even as there are a thousand things outside my own control, I feel this push to risk everything on hope, to find the courage just to say the name of my dreams outloud. And do say them without following up with a "but I'm not counting on anything" for the good measure of pride and disappointment. I am learning that putting my full weight in an abundant Father who has lavished his love upon us by making us his children means answering truthfully the question "What do you want me to do for you?"

I wonder if God really wants to give us wonderful things. I wonder if God has both the power and the desire to end suffereing, if it is in his character to give good gifts and that his desire for us is truly a life that goes further than simply enduring blindness, that he truly asks us just to touch the edge of his robe. I feel his voice in my Spirit saying, "Just tell me what it is that you want. I dare you."

I often think that holding my desires, my dreams, my life with an open hand means having the "humility" to expect God to take things from me and say, "Sorry, you were misguided in thinking that you might deserve that." But I am learning something else-- a few other things, actually-- First-- to hold my life in an open hand means first and foremost to hold it. I need to claim it, I need to feel the weight of it against my skin. To say boldly-- This is what I want. Second-- to hold my life with an open hand isn't a matter of fearing that I might be stupid in assuming my right to even hold it. It is a matter of reaching out my arm and allowing the Lord to show me how much further his dreams go than mine. It is a matter of him not coming to me in condemnation, but rather the Father taking my dreams and saying, "That's all?! I want to do so much more than that. Just watch what I can do." I sort of imagine God as one who enjoys showing off a little. Or a lot. I mean, have you seen the universe?

I am noticing a tendency I have to really only dream in a half-assed sort of way. I allow the desire to enter, but I am tempted to bury it quickly-- don't take a risk on disappointment. Yet, in Isaiah, the Lord reminds us that "Those who put their hope in me will not be disappointed." And I don't think that means just saying, "Well, Lord, I'll take whatever crumbs you are willing to give me." I think that the Lord calls us to hope and dream in a ruthless, reckless, sort of way. Just imagine. I am learning the discipline of saying my dreams outloud, being endlessly and relentlessly honest about what I really want because I have found that denying the reality of what is really going on deep in my heart only serves to suffocate me-- its like letting things swim around, taking up space without really acknowledging thier existence. Letting things take up space without taking an active hold of them is what causes us to lead small lives.

This week, I read in Dallas Willard's book "The Spirit of the Disciplines," this insightful line: "A thoughtless theology guides our lives with just as much force as a thoughtful and informed one." I spend a lot of time skirting around things because I fear my own unworthiness. I spend energy justifying the things that are in me rather than simply claiming them. I try to prepare my own case rather than giving God the tangled up mess and simply saying, "This is really what it looks like." I am constantly trying to maintain my fig leaves when God already knows what I look like naked.

And maybe that is really what it all comes down to-- nakedness. To say outloud, "Lord, I am longing for a space of my own where I have space to paint and create and water the lawn. Even with shutters that I could make purple if I wanted--" is to leave myself open and vulnerable to disappointment. To be specific, to really take a long, hard look at my own heart is to be open to the possibility that I might not be loved enough to recieve it. And this is really why it is an act of trust-- I have to actively believe that I have a Father who loves me more than enough. That there is no cohersing involoved in his gift-giving. The reason we only recieve enough to squeeze by is because this is all the faith we have to ask for. Am I bold enough in my faith, in my trust of the Father's love to say "I want the biggest, best, life you can give."

I think it is a very important step of faith to not only say, "Lord, I trust that you are full of goodness and mercy and out of your love, you will give me good things," but to also say aloud what we think that goodness might look like. It might perhaps be the greatest step of faith-- like Peter on the water-- to believe that the Lord has placed infinite goodness in me. To believe that the Lord has enough faith in me, whom he has made out of his wonderful, artistic soul, that I do not need to fear any darkness in my own desires. Delight yourself in the Lord, the psamlist writes, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Do I delight in the artistry the Lord has placed in me enough to think that he might actually allow me the freedom to voice my own dreams? In freedom and power, I say yes.

And so, I am finding great power and joy in simply saying aloud to the Lord what it is that I want. Not in a way that demands or manipulates, or even grasps. But simply as a way of entering the communal heart of the Father who invites me to dream alongside him, who only loves, never condemns, shames, or blames. A father who fills our hearts with joy overflowing, a father who is a showoff in the immesity of his power, of his love, of his goodness and his grace.

I've started writing this three times now. Run out of words, run out of energy, run out of cohesive thoughts. Run out of something. But maybe today things will come together. Maybe not. We'll see if you get through this post feeling any less lost than myself.

Last weekend was Good Friday, an amazing art experience, Easter, friends, food, the onset of the headcold I now battle, nice weather, and many many thoughts. The thoughts have been rushing for weeks now, but this weekend, after completing the marathon of a seven-day spring break camp with the Y, complete with a fluke snow day, a few more thoughts seem to have culminated-- life has landed a bit. Maybe. I can't quite decide.

It is strange how even without school and without a full-time job, these months have still been full of whirlwinds. Funny how opening your heart to the voice of a powerful God seems to turn everything upside down. I have often found myself coming to the end of the day feeling exhausted not from activity, but from the weight of all of my thoughts, all of the movement that went on in my heart during the day. Taking risks simply on entering ideas, feelings, relationships, myself. Oh, the dark, tangled cave of myself that lies beneath.

Over the last several weeks, the word that seems to be on my tongue over and again has been this idea of tension. I've fallen into this place of coming to understand what it means to hold the tension of the mystery of life, to sit through all I do not understand, waiting patiently as I learn to trust that the Creator is at work beneath the surface, beyond my own vision or understanding. Learning that life is a great deal larger than I could have ever imagined, let alone grasp or control.

I am coming face to face with this desire for things to be simple. I think I want the stuff of life to be easy, straightforward, cleaned up in a matter of moments. But, as I come in contact with the truly volatile reality of this life and as I plunge deeper into who God is, I realize that the thing I really want is all the stuff that comes out of the mess, the complexity of truth that we find in the things we can't quite nail down is where true life is found. My impluse is to avoid the pain, to keep things organized, to think myself out of feeling all of the pain of loss and disappointment, but I am coming to realize that all of the fear, all of the pain, all of the hurt, all of the confusion, must be accepted and followed all the way down in order to really teach. And so, against my better judgement and false desire for simplcity, I am following it down. I've fallen down the rabbit hole.

There are a lot of "practical" areas of my life these days that somehow seem to be getting left to collect dust. I know there are things to do like laundry and applications and important reading and professional development, but for this season, another adgenda seems to have taken over. I feel my heart being called to take risks on things that seem to accomplish nothing in the short term. I find myself entering places that I've only avoided in the past-- dangerous places far from the areas of doing and accomplishment that I've used for long to avoid the being that lurks underneath. I wake up in the morning, burning to write down all the manifestations of my thoughts that have emerged in my sleep.

I am getting to know a self that seems to have been dormant for a long time, and I am almost now taken over by it. It is as though all of the emotions, all of the hurts and questions that I've pushed down to make room for papers and paintings and deadlines have come bursting to the surface, suddenly unencombered. I feel the peirce of growth, the energy of so much that has been germinating under the surface for a length of time I can only begin to imagine. I keep thinking about something my counselor said to me during my time in Idaho. As I sat across the table at the Library, crying and confused over my purpose there, he often said, "Think of this time as 'beach cleaning.' The tide has gone out and now you have time to clean up all the things that have been hidden."

And so, here I am, the same season, a few years past, and the tide has again gone out. I walk along the beach and can't seem to take more than a few steps without accumulating a foot full of shards. It is a mess under there. I keep trying to walk away, telling myself to stop taking a seaside vacation and get back to the "real work." Yet, the shrapnel in my feet keeps drawing me back, a deeper voice telling me that this is the real work.

Most days, I feel vulnerable and raw. I am being taken apart and for the first time, I am seeing areas of my heart that I've been ignoring. As the flesh is being opened and I feel the exposure of my nerves, I am facing again the pain of hurts I have taken out before, but then replaced in the back of drawers without fully exploring or claiming them. I am seeing in myself a continual tendency to renounce my true desires, I sense a habitual building of walls, a "resilience" that is really a habit of talking myself out of my feelings for the sake of not being too obsessive or burdensom to those who don't have the time or energy to take on the full outpouring of all that is going on inside my complex heart.

People keep telling me "you are in a really good place," and to "savor this time because you may never have it again." Truthfully, it is difficult for me to see what "this place" is. For me, it often feels like it is just my life-- it doesn't feel all that special, it just is. This is my life-- today is today and tomorrow will be tomorrow. All I can do is hope for the next paycheck. But as I sit back tonight and take a long, hard look at things, I realize this is a different kind of time for me-- a very good time, a time that does feel heavy with significance. A liminal experience (As some friends of mine like to say ;). I am in a new place, surrounded by new people, entering a new season of life. And much of me feels as though it is being totally made new. I am not who I was. Many of my illusions about life are being shattered as I learn to see myself, people, money, life, purpose, intension, pursuit, desire in all sorts of new ways. The "important" things are changing a great deal.

When this year began, I remember a series of really important and powerful conversations with the Lord about what lies ahead. I could not escape this sense that the road ahead was a new journey of love, of walk to learn a new kind of love, of enterning the heart of the Father in a wholly different way. "We love because he first loved us," I often return to this line that seemed to start so many things in my heart. How can I fulfill my purpose in a kingdom defined by love if I do not get this love from the source? How can I begin to understand love if I am unwilling to submit to it, to enter it, to risk everything on it? And how can I begin to understand love without stepping out and risking all of my heart on the broken shards of people all around me?

The lesson of this semester has been one of great pain and difficulty-- when I look back on the path I've walked, I see myself walking through thorns and nails, peirced and bleeding-- risking my heart in ways that I never imagined I would ever dream of risking-- yet I would not choose any other road. I've often wondered at the nature of the community that I've found here in Boulder. Over the last several years of my small lifetime, this issue of community, of family, of friendship, of the Body, has been one frought with difficulty, pain, confusion, and a great deal of searching, disappointment, disillusionment, as well as joy. I have found it strange being here for only eight months that I've found myself midstream in community in a way unusually easy. I've only been able to count it as a mark the work of God in my Spirit, a stone on the Jordan as a remembrance of all that I've been carried through, a way of learning to simply accept and to sit with the mystery that is relationship, friendship, community. I find myself investing and expending energy in ways that I never thought possible for my broken, frail heart. I see in myself a relational strength I never knew I had.

And in the midst of this realization, I am being introduced to a relational self that I did not know in its fullness before. Perhaps it is the absence of any other source of distraction, maybe it is the abundance of sleep, maybe it is a new work of the spirit in me-- I do not know. A few years ago, in Idaho, a dear friend said to me, "Heidi-- you have a lot of love to give." This was the first time that I'd ever heard that word spoken about or to me. I had thought that part of me had died with the rejection of my childhood-- no one wanted the love I had to give, so I quit.

But here I am. And in the midst of this awakening, I am beginning to see how volatile, how dangerous, and how beautiful we are in our relational existences. I am coming to see the radioactive power, the electrical forces at work when we risk intimacy with one another. When we really begin to enter the lives and hearts of those around us, large, uncontrollable things begin to happen. And it is quite frightening. Yet, in having the space and the strange courage to walk into the spaces of relationship, I am understanding the beauty of life that comes out of the deep, painful, peircing mystery of this Spirit, this soul, these hearts the Lord has built into us. I am learning anew what grace means was I walk deeper into the mess of relationships-- taking a risk on hopes, finding the words to confess in ways I've only feared before, asking people to enter and speak into my life in ways that I have only feared in the past. It is quite an exhilarating feeling.

And in the midst of all of this, under it all, this thread of a new and deeper trust in the Lord has been running, thick and wild. Before much even began, the first word seemed to be simply, "trust My love--" somehow the Lord knew that as I walked forward, I would need to always know that his love was trustworthy, that any weight I put into him must be motivated by an understanding of his deep and endless love for me, his wholehearted goodness. He has been drawing me into this space in which I dream, imagine, and hope for goodnesses that I've only toyed with before. Areas of my heart that have only been toes creating rings in puddles have become oceans in which I've become immersed. Ask me, he seems to be prompting, and see what I can do. Just ask. Take the risk just to ask.

I was listening to Pandora earlier tonight and I was caught by the song I started this post with. It caught my attention because it reminded me of an illustration I heard ealier this week about the lengths to which God will go simply to let us know that we are not alone. As I've sorted through a lot of my hurts, my disappointments, my longings, my hopes, and my doubts, I've had to battle a great deal of adversity telling me that I ought to simply move on, ignore the hurt rather than entering it, a sense of condemnation for my risks and hopes and feelings. It has been of great comfort to know the lengths to which the Lord will go to make us feel his love.

As I worked through the creation of my contribution to the Good Friday experience (I may explain more in another post if I get around to it... haha), I spent a lot of time contemplating the willingness and bravery of Jesus to enter into the fullness of our pain. I've been thinking a lot about allowing the tensions of all that remains unknown in my life, all of the things I don't understand about God, about the future, about myself, about the people in my life to simply be while the Lord works underneath it all to make me into something new. And more than anything, the theme of this season seems to be learning to trust the love of God to the point of risking everything to find him in those places beyond myself. I am coming to know this Kingdom life as one in which the closer we come to death, the sooner we will find life-- that it is in the peirce of pain we find the poinancy of love and goodness and truth. And I am learning how to enter the battle, to fight for the things that sometimes seem to be the hardest, ugliest, riskiest, and most difficult, because these are the places in which we find the sweetest kind of life.