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New Life

I can't seem to get this writing thing going. Pray for me. I know I need to do it -- I delight to it, and yet I find so many other things - and reasons to hold back the words. Of late I've been amiss over the need to redo this blog and to make it what I'd really like it to be, but with the fleeting time and my technological deficiencies, I've been held back. Soon!

For now, I have a few short thoughts which I will be spewing out without filter.

Last weekend I took to reading Revelation. I'd not been there for quite a while, but seeing that I am in Butler for a spell, as was I last year -- and the pastor in Pittsburgh is still covering this book, I decided to return there. I was incalculably blessed by what I found, and my heart was nearly ripped in two with joy and sorrow. Revelation depicts such an extreme contrast of the righteous saints who persevere in their love for the Lamb, and the wicked men who refuse -- despite much opportunity and provocation -- to repent and turn to God. I was chilled by the callousness and enlivened by the Kingdom to come; a real place which will one day be my reality. "And the city has no need of the sun or of the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God has illumined it, and its lamp is the Lamb." Rev. 21:23. "For the Lamb in the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and will guide them to springs of the water of life; and God will wipe every tear from their eyes.” Rev. 7:17

The next morning the sermon came from Revelation 22, but we spent the majority of our time in Genesis 3. He spoke of the Garden, and the connection and fulfillment seen in these two scenes. We saw that from Adam hence it has been and is a time of testing for those on the earth. Our obedience and allegiances are continually sought and tested here, and thankfully we - unlike Adam, are counted righteous through grace and not our works. Revelation 22 ushers in an entirely new period - the Genesis of the righteousness of the people of God - no longer imputed, yearned for, sought after, but eternally purchased and attained by the blood of the Lamb. The time of testing breaks into an eternity of rest, and the people of God, with their hearts, souls, minds, and bodies forever cleansed and renewed, enter into the rest of God in perfect peace and awe. This is such terrific news!

I've been rejoicing in this and continually marveling in how great is the task of wrangling a soul. Try though I may, it is only the Spirit of God that can produce any good thing in me, and it is that Spirit which can ever and only sustain that thing. I come, of course to the burgeoning treetops and swaying valleys and ask myself, did I doubt the life before I saw it here, though it was hidden and appeared dead? No, I believed and hoped that spring would follow winter and as it has I desire to replant the spiritual seeds in my soul trusting the harvest will come as He wills it. I stay near the Son, not lamenting my weakness, but leaning in as the flower to the light - doing only what it instinctively knows to do - finding its strength - its life, in another. So must I do this, and you.

There are also fruits for us all which are withheld for our good. Our understanding of the reasons may not be clear, but so it is. If we think on the thing, our hearts begin to melt and we wonder how to do without it. Our sight becomes blurred and our resolves weaken as everything steady begins to totter. Friend, look with me to Him. I can offer no solution for why things are as they are, but I know this to be true: turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in His wonderful face, and the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace. Desire only weakens as it is found satisfied in Him. I say this with leaking heart - not to go to the fountain once and be filled, but to find the Fountain and daily - moment by moment, go back and draw the water with springs which bubble up to life everlasting.

Here are some photos of late. The cows followed me as I went past them. All of creation displayed obedience and I thought of Romans 8:21 "that the creation itself also will be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God. 22 For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now. 23 And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body."

Large Rocks

Joining with Amber (therunamuck.com) on Mondays for concretewords, where we practice writing by communicating the abstract through concrete things – a chair, a tree, shoes – and today The Rock.

I first awoke to a great drawing breath of several drunk, Irish farmer's. I'd reached my post alone and after nearly two days of travel, I slid quickly into sleep. I was introduced to morning through a great cacophony of snores.

I had sea legs from the planes and any previous composure had been left in America. I booked a ride south and hastily made passage to the interior of the island, though I did not know where I was going.

When I arrived there, I realized that my anxieties had not been left behind. Those old familiar taunts had not even changed tone and were now shouting their accusations, to which I had no response. I succumbed, as always, and cried to a stranger in the general store that sounded like my aunt. I stopped and stared at a beautiful lady on a blanket and couldn't move. She seemed like she needed me as much as I her, and so we ate beets in their broth, and after sleep she drove me down the road in her car without a floor. She left me by the roadside and informed me that hitch-hiking was plenty safe.

The sun was nice that day and it seemed not too high in the sky. I'd assumed that rides would soon arrive, and that the centimeters on the old map would translate to a time of tea. I waited and I began to pray -- though I did not yet know to whom I was speaking.

Rides came and so did dusk. I arrived at that glowing hour. It was Passover and I celebrated it for the first time with two Israelis on holiday. I hardly slept and went to shoe horses in the morning.

The days thereafter broke and crumbled into a cinder-like path upon which I faltered; the contents extended to weeks, and within them I arrived at the Milford Sound, Fjordland National Park, New Zealand.

Our tour guide was a fabulous Jamaican named Scott. Within moments we were dunking our kayaks into the sea and bobbing into the sound which heralds "the most violent weather changes in the world."

We poked about and the winds picked up. Before long we were at the shore of the most monstrous and craggy rocks I'd seen -- coming out of the ocean. These beasts are at 8,000 feet and are singular rocks. They massed there like pebbles in a puddle and I wept.

My friend had taken his life three weeks earlier and I just didn't get it all. Where he was, who I was, and most terrifyingly, Who created such mysterious monstrosities whose dust could blot my life? I reeled. Seals had been following our school and I reached out to one. It let me touch it and it twirled beneath my fingers. It followed us most of the way back and tutored me some more. The clouds gathered thickly and cussed out their rain, and beyond them -- all amidst them were those ranges of rocks, those foreboding mountains that spoke to my lostness, and the knowledge of Him who seemed to have etched them with His finger.

I bowed that day in terror - not to the mountains, but to their Maker I did not yet know. He led me to Himself fully some days later, but that day implanted a yearning and a delight for Himself and mountains that will be with me all my days.

From the runamuck.com:

As I consider a writer’s voice, I wonder how it is for you. If we all have one, I wonder about other things, other things that most of us have. Like your scale, for example. If voice is cadence and music and space, how you write out the matter in your life and the meaning it gives, what about your scale? It’s certainly different than mine. So how is it for you? — On Mondays I write out spirit by practicing a little with the concrete things in my life and maybe in a fictional life. If you want to join this small community with these prompts, send your readers this way, and link up below at any point this week. Practice writing, the craft; share it with us. Next week’s topic is Rock. Make sure to use #concretewords on twitter. Thank you always for coming here and walking with me.

Scales

I see scales, sometimes hung as a necklace -- heavy and binding, hemming and secure. Their weight is of consequence but despite their own function, their substance is incalculable. These weights, with their cups and their arms hang right above me, and pronounce either a sagging grace or an embattled truth.

We are told: "Do not let kindness and truth leave you; bind them around your neck,
write them on the tablet of your heart." (Proverbs 3:3) And thus the scales are weighed. I imagine this life as a series of tracks upon which I walk, bridling my steps in moving aright; the reins of my soul being tugged, tightened or lost by the fingers of grace within. The grasp is kept beyond me, while the principle is ingested within. The life of the Spirit in me totters and tilts as I struggle to apply and maintain in equal parts these two seemingly paradoxical themes.

In the pictured scales rests a small blaze and a green leaf. I see life and death and the power of my tongue. I see a forest I can catch with one flash of hard-struck truth, an injustice I pass over as I am on holiday with grace -- or the weeping wound that might be cured with one collective cordial of equal parts both.

I see equilibrium in these scales, and the kindness of a God who grants stability. I see a remedy to the ailments I inflict, and a constant gauge about and within that strikes down, builds up or restrains all that restricts clear passage on this narrow way. These scales contain inexhaustible reserve of grace; one scale tips and the healing tonic of the other drips and fills until they hang there side by side.

Your Love Oh Lord - Third Day

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Time for Three: Hallelujah

Treasures in Darkness

Treasures in Darkness

I've had a question lodged; its presence has been subtle and strong. I've found, as water quickly rots a once sturdy standard floor -- so too this doubt has kept on creeping and separated what's like my floorboards from my tile. And so finally I spoke this out, and have arrived now to construct a sturdier than standard foundation upon which I'm hoping now to stand.

From Adam hence has man been found with sin. It was known that through indulgence he was to imbibe and pass to us all the odious flavor of a soul soaked with this. No man thereafter was birthed to contain a soul without need of restoration. So it has been; God has beautifully made a way for man to reach Him -- a well-pleasing fact to my soul, but this precursor has now been laid upon me, and I have since writhed in an unrest that has found no relief.

Be it in sin that man is conceived, it is strange that God would create all within this knowledge. His plan, while glorious in redemption, has baffled as I've thought, why this creation at all -- if it be known that man will despise, turn from, and fail all marks defining greatness -- if a humming perfection of fellowship existed, light was undiminished, holiness undisturbed, why was man thus ever created? -- why was wrath amassed, judgment enacted, standards established, when all before was swirled up in delight in the perfect sustaining of His word? So, I spoke this -- and in fear, with a tremulous mind and forgetting my dignity, I questioned His kind; He arrived with words I could know, and changed my perspective of my wandering here below.

I realized that Beauty is to be shared. Mere possessors may pet and guard a beautiful thing, but when one properly beholds beauty, he is compelled far out of himself and must share what he has seen or created. Here is the crux: God did not create man for some pleasure He found in seeing his insufficiency, his dire need of Himself, or any other contrived analysis -- HE created US because of the immensity of His glory, and the unremitting effulgence of His radiance -- He created us broken, battered, sin-loving critics because there was so much beauty and glory swallowed up in the Godhead that it simply had to be shared. Adam's sin was neither a surprise, a deterrent or forfeiture of the otherwise preserved splendor that radiated before sin was hatched -- His beauty has only ever been consummately welded fast with Sovereign wisdom, not only in continually procuring His glory in Himself, but that He might also order events and acts to receive more adoration through the intricate weaving's and workings in the hearts and lives of sinful man. Regardless of the how and the why, our God contains such a burgeoning store of superabundant goodness and splendor that He simply had to breach time to enter humanity and birth Himself out of eternity as a dust-made man like myself. This has He done -- this entrance of Light, transforming darkness, restoring our sight. For as the old hymn says: No more will sin and sorrow grow, Nor thorns infest the ground; He'll come and make the blessings flow far as the curse was found. And this, my friends -- He -- was birthed thus, in a cradle, all laden with straw, the Light of the world penetrating darkness, for as it is written "4 In Him was life, and the life was the Light of men. 5 The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overwhelm (comprehend) it."

More need of endurance

And so I found that the inhabitants of the far reaches were generally there by choice. Their decision to bear up under the varied conditions was propelled by a love which seemed evident always, as if never denoting a choice was made at all. This doggedness magnified a greater zeal, their zeal prompted purpose, and their purpose splayed a magnified joy and dignity in the simplest of tasks. I remember feeling crazily alive when I first carved out a path to my wooden shack in a six-foot snow drift, where I lived on a blustery hilltop with a few other committed folks -- the immense task of living finally seemed to take on meaning, and the tenacity required in my days burgeoned into conclusions I am only realizing now.

Comparatively, I've been struck by the pilgrimage the believer is to make in this life, and how much is needed in this similar strand of endurance. I've chosen to run in a race that finds victory or failure at the end, and while secured in a covenant which He will keep, I must stay with Him and continue in this trial as my love for Him is tested, purified, and won. Truly, the content of my days are stacking and building to make one compound existence known as a life; I am protected by the power of God as much as I am confounded daily by the choices I face, the seemingly inconsequential moments I waste, and the reality that all that is present is soon to be passed.

I speak here in simplicity for the profundity of past days leaves me always a promise of recollection, and diminishes as I step back to view it. I recognize today, as in all others that I have "need of endurance so that when you have done the will of God you may receive what was promised." Heb. 10:36. On this humdrum day of rain, disappointment, and failure -- I have need of endurance; to press in to receive forgiveness, and to grab a hold of the grace I need to move forward. I think of the journey of Christian in Pilgrim's Progress as he makes his way to Celestial City. All along his path he is met with obstacles; he flees the City of Destruction only to slide into the Slough of Despond, helping him out is Worldly Wiseman, Mr. Legality and his son Civility; he meets many others along the way as he encounters Giant Despair, Vanity Fair, and Doubting Castle. I am encouraged just to think that so many others have both encountered and termed these skulking foes that plague my walk. I am strengthened as was Christian by Faithful, and ask you also to pick up your pallet this day and walk.

Perseverance

I am currently combing through a great braid of nostalgia. I've been peering at mountains and reciting analogies all day in my little mind. A dear saint celebrates his 69th birthday, and little, connected themes have beaded and linked all throughout my mind's eye this evening. Glistening lights blur out my right, the mandolin is howling in my heart, my first Christmas tree stands at attention (not yet lit), and my mind is marching through some themes recently cemented and now celebrated.

Some weeks ago I verbally delivered my conclusions on the people I've encountered in the far northern mountains; they've smoothed my own ripples, and intimated to me the perseverance of the saints. I've thought of the whipping winds, far off gully's, and all that those northern regions boast. I've attempted to sort out my love for the mountains, and have concluded 1.) that it's true love 2.) that they are very instructive to me.

I relish effort. I like wildness, intensity, beauty, rawness, and the bleak mid-winter which presents itself always in the far north. These features innately appeal to me, and drew me long before I could understand the why. I have always preferred first the ore, and find delight then in the shavings from it presenting that purposeful product. Weather is secondary to living, but in it we find so many analogies and so very much truth.

The mountains grant the sweetest of repose, for the gift comes with toil. Clouds part and the sun shines to truly grant life and peace after much ado about many things. You find there a respite which lasts but a shake -- its presentation bringing spring, summer, and fall at once and pounds the earth with a plenty no storehouse can contain. The amenities offer now a shield, but sustain no man from the rapping torment of the tumult and wind.

To be continued... Soon...

Thirty

I was awakened to slits of sun slipping through my shades -- heavy frost had climbed to the tops of the trees, and all that glistened was smiling. Joy's fount gurgled and spurted some as I sat to sip my coffee and read.

Endless thoughts have been spreading themselves and covering me with concepts I cannot forget - thus I've taken to my post in sorting, in hopes that somewhere here I might deduce enough to compel a complete change of mind.

As 30 landed upon me last week, I've been attempting to surmise what embodied my twenties. I see a feisty fireball at the onset with just enough sparking splayed to enter more subtly into thirty. I see intense joys coupled with crippling confusion -- great faith, and rock bottom doubt and despair. I recall the voracity with which I devoured truth and the accompanying disillusionment that followed great billowing swells and faith, hope, and disappointment.

Perhaps this is the common score for the twenties, but I tell you, I want the thirties to strike deeper and last longer. I am no longer yearning quite so intensely to find the most incredible way to spend all of my days, but rather I'd not mind spending them all in another's shadow, be I always tucked neath His wings. I'd like my ups taken slower, and my downs with perspective, and words administered in truth and love, consistently to all those around me. I desire only to do that which is right, and to be strengthened in this resolve that teeters and lessens the further I step from it remembrance. I have many thoughts on perseverance I wish to explore, but I cannot yet squeeze them out.

Psalm 19

1 The heavens are telling of the glory of God;
And their expanse is declaring the work of His hands.
2 Day to day pours forth speech,
And night to night reveals knowledge.
3 There is no speech, nor are there words;
Their voice is not heard.
4 Their line has gone out through all the earth,
And their utterances to the end of the world.
In them He has placed a tent for the sun,
5 Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber;
It rejoices as a strong man to run his course.
6 Its rising is from one end of the heavens,
And its circuit to the other end of them;
And there is nothing hidden from its heat.
7 The law of the Lord is perfect, restoring the soul;
The testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.
8 The precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart;
The commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes.
9 The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever;
The judgments of the Lord are true; they are righteous altogether.
10 They are more desirable than gold, yes, than much fine gold;
Sweeter also than honey and the drippings of the honeycomb.
11 Moreover, by them Your servant is warned;
In keeping them there is great reward.
12 Who can discern his errors? Acquit me of hidden faults.
13 Also keep back Your servant from presumptuous sins;
Let them not rule over me;
Then I will be blameless,
And I shall be acquitted of great transgression.
14 Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart
Be acceptable in Your sight,
O Lord, my rock and my Redeemer.

Let The Words Of My Mouth

Unbelief

I've been meaning to compose a followup post since I wrote Isolation. I was thinking then, and haven't yet stopped. When my faith eye seems most dim, I am reminded of Hebrews, and I go there to refocus on the Light.

I am staring now at fall's radiance: soft green blades, fluttering aspens, and a waving sumac heralding the azure sky. The starlings descend and spread, ascend and scatter, and all about is the burgeoning earth, pressing out its bounty, listless clouds above -- and I sit here to ponder this world I cannot love.

I am amazed at times, to think of the enormity of folly that comprises man's days. From the debauch lives of celebrities, the treasuries we fill, or the ridiculous things we value and esteem -- I am astounded by our absurdity. The lack of foresight, discretion, and hope is blinding. I see these things in my culture and in my heart, and I conclude that they and I are riddled with the pandemic of unbelief.

I see in Hebrews that the wilderness wanderers were not permitted to enter the promised land because of this, by it our hearts are hardened, our assessments skewed, and when mastered by it, our perception of truth is wholly distorted and always maligned.

In response to the Isolation post, I was challenged by these verses: 12 Take care, brethren, that there not be in any one of you an evil, unbelieving heart that falls away from the living God. 13 But encourage one another day after day, as long as it is still called “Today,” so that none of you will be hardened by the deceitfulness of sin. 14 For we have become partakers of Christ, if we hold fast the beginning of our assurance firm until the end. (Heb. 3:12-14)

My heart is rather burdened by this reality, and the trends I see in culture, the church, and in every facet of life. There is a realm which is more real than those singing starlings, fuller and more vibrant than the most glorious temporal day -- a world that is set up in eternity; an unshakable, unending reality where hope and glory do not waiver or fade, but whose brightness is fueled by the reigning Savior's sway, and by which the believing heart is saved.

The writer of the Hebrews goes on to say, 10:35 Therefore, do not throw away your confidence, which has a great reward. 36 For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God, you may receive what was promised.

Our lives are determined by the fruit of our days, and in them we decide whether our experience will trump what the Bible says is true, or if we will stack up our sorrows and let them imbue the faith we have realized and all the glories sure to come.

C.S. Lewis wrote: “He who has God and everything else has no more than he who has God only.”

He is real, and surely is worthy of all our affection, and every cloistered corridor which has lead away from Him -- join with me friends, in walking back to that fount Everlasting.

It's been too long since I've been here. My life has been a spring bubbling up and settling down before time is there to catch a cup. I've been scrambling and settled, sorrowful and rejoicing, and impassioned as ever. Analogies land and lift as a new day dawns, and with each entrance of the sun, I wonder how I might channel and spread this current which presses and pulses within.

At just the right time relief finds me. A good word is ingested, a kindly smile received, a ray of beauty penetrates -- and the restless confusion that rises, is stilled. And so it happened in an unlikely way: I received word that my dear pastor was riddled with cancer. My mind took to the reality of his circumstances, and the faith he has possessed for the majority of his life.

My focus on the reality of my current world with my emblazoned attempts to love frightened people, my frustration and sin -- all this collided with the realization of this dear man's ebbing life... and Jesus stilled me in a way that only He can.

We met as a family at our beloved Knoebels amusement park on Saturday, and I determined while crashing into others, that bumper cars are good medicine! My entire soul smiled to see young and old collide and crash with what seemed their entire person. I saw the worn marks of men lifted upwards, the sorrowed-out crows feet smiling at me, and I saw my dad with laughter plastered on a face so familiar. I loved my family deeply, and over funnel cake, lemonade, and roller-coasters, I felt life ebb away, and with it, those fears I have as I embrace the prickly.

I entered the hospital the next day, and the blue of my pastor's eyes poured forth like the sky on the snowy day's reprieve. Eternal love poured forth from that man, and for those first moments, I forgot that his abdomen was held together by string. Love touched me so tangibly, and I felt at home there -- a midst the tubes and turmoil, the object of my affection was so manifest between us that the sterility of that room served only to lift and liven, and fix that chord which binds us so deeply. He asked me to pray, and as the words gushed, my chords locked, and I was transported to what will be.

My computer is now going to die.

Isolation

And so I take now to my post; this old familiar shadow in silence.

I fear at these times that my words have forever passed, and with them, the deafening cry of winnowed and separated souls. I chase after them both with a fluttering pulse, and recount, somewhat needlessly how they ever both became. My pandora station seems to always play the same songs, and I pound away on a keypad I don't command, and wrangle with answers that seem elusive to the wisest of masses.

I seem to stumble into the most precarious sorts of conversation. In some, I am the excavator, desiring to uncover the hidden substance deposited beneath, while in others I am running to seek the cover with which I'd desire to blanket the exposed. I find it most difficult to strike a proper balance...

I've messed up in so many ways these past weeks (and months and years for that matter). I fell onto my own heap yesterday, and in my attempt to pass below all radars, I was questioned quite squarely. It was as if all of my substance separated, and with some exacting words, I spilled out my ache for the overlooked masses. Excuses were given, attempts were made, but in the end I couldn't count a one to stack up, for the church of Christ has simply failed to see the people directly within her midst.

The man who'd begun with his questioning of me was halted when I'd mentioned that not a single soul in his congregation had yet asked me how I was doing. I said this without bitterness, but frankly, and to make my point. I make do wherever I seem to go, but I happen to know this isn't so with others in my life, and I just wonder what on earth it is that keeps us so to ourselves, and so afraid of entering into the worlds and hearts of others. Any thoughts???

When Sin Looks More Enjoyable Than God

Beneath a Canopy of Care

It seems it's been a very big day. A launch back into the structured realm of ordinariness; shot henceforth from my vagabond travels of late. The tenor of suspended fears drifted into the office, as a tenuous day unfolded in realized loss and terminal layoff. I seemed to accomplish little, and at the close, I set for home and rest.

I pulled off to retrieve my mail and was greeted by much more than the common pile of bills and my resident spider. Three beautiful packets awaited me, and their contents have inspired me so: I've been blessed with incredible people in my short life, and tonight I am considerably galvanized by you all.

I was recently in Northern California for a wedding of a dear old soul. The events never unfold as one could imagine, and as I wheeled away from that place, I found it neither fruitful nor interesting to recall or arrange the recent past. My wheels turned the direction I love most, and as the northern hills rolled into mountains, so my soul was spread and pressed as the great agrarian landscapes draped before me.

Every burden fell to me, and in a desperate attempt to catalogue them all, I whispered my fears; cuddling them close enough to hear, and far enough that they might be heard. I dreaded a loss of my sanctity, a wretched departure from all that I've held close, and begged there that I might not be forgotten by this great God who had once called me to Himself.

By this time I've made a great many mistakes, and have weathered a fair enough share of disappointment and betrayal (whether perceived or real) to create a leathery sort of soul-skin. I've seen my greatest intentions whither in the light of my weaknesses, crippling failures bind up my words, and perceived disapproval lame my strongest allegiances. I haven't seen it all, and I certainly hope not to -- but I've seen enough, and enough to recognize the great grace that came my way this day.

A deep, thick, thread was laced in the words of my dear sisters, and as I sat pouring over their collective beauty, I couldn't shut out the whispers that had become shouts of my God's eternal covenant, and His sustaining force that draws and propels the hearts that have become His. Their words were as straws through which I was able to drink deeply of the diffused truths which had been distilled in the furnace of their souls through much trial and temptation.

I have doubted, despaired, and troubled myself countless times with this stubborn heart that lies tucked beneath the thick flesh of my person. Many times of late I've become convinced that He, like others will grow weary, faint, and irritated with my double-mindedness, my slips backwards, my hard heart... But today, afresh, and anew, I was profoundly reminded of the courageous love of my God, and the dear souls He has given me to love.



One of the packets of goodness that arrived came with a beautiful broken piece of painted clay. It was wrapped in a paper cloth with the words: "this represents that God makes beauty out of ashes; God takes our brokenness and glorifies Himself." This, my friends, is good news. 2 Corinthians 4:7 says, "But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, so that the surpassing greatness of the power will be of God and not from ourselves." The glory was never to be possessed by the pot, but by that which fills it.

I've attempted to cloister myself much these past months, attempting always to hide until I'm back together again, and to shield others from my potential failings. I've been shaky and sullen, sore and afraid, and at once, in this foolish burst, I reenter your realm with an invitation for all. I hope not to endear souls to my own, but rather to commend any who will hear to the voice of their Maker. The invitation of the Eternal One is not to the righteous, polished one, but to the broken, tarnished vessel, who in his profound realism, acknowledges that his deepest need was, and is always to be filled with a substance wholly unlike anything he possesses, and therefore everything outside of himself. He needs the eternal Light of the world to fill him, and shine through all of his ingrained and straggling fissures; to take the broken heap back to the only grantor and Restorer of life to find that purpose for which he was made.

Yesterday was the anniversary of my Grandmother's death. I tried to think of anything I might have to say, and no words seemed to come. I have many thoughts of her, but moreover, my thoughts seem to drift more to the subject of women and femininity. Both of my grandmothers were, and one still is, very industrious. They were both strong and quite capable. They each possessed a sternness that rattled me as a child, but a tenderness that has mellowed and drawn me as an adult. They embody much of what I associate with being a woman, and for this, I am thankful.

Grammie King was a simple woman with plain tastes. She was passionate about chocolate, smelled always like dove, baked great pies, and always had silky hands. Her skin was beautiful, and her smile -- consistent. She seemed to despise me some as a teen, but as her dementia grew, so too her love. She was a Pennsylvania woman through and through; I know not how else to describe her. She had no taste for culture or things foreign, but was American bred and possessed a uniquely consistent order that seemed to be fueled by her lovely simplicity. There is little more I love than this simple beauty. I prefer raw skin and linen any day to the excess and pomp of our world. I like to see God's unadulterated beauty as displayed on our broken vessels (except for my own). I wonder what's it's like now, to be a grandma -- to be her. Nevertheless, I am thankful that both grammies loved flowers and all things outside, for my parents too imbued this love which has furthered my own. I often think too on my own life, and the sort of legacy I might hope to leave. I possess no children, and really have no idea what might be left now in the event of my death. There are some things though for which I hope. When I started to follow Jesus, I envisioned that every woman I met would possess the eternal wisdom and beauty that I read in my Bible. I believed their hearts might sprout grace, and every sort of quirky idiosyncrasy that God might bury therein for the joy of all to see. I imagined laughter, depth, mercy, and kindness. I always picture things outside, with mountains, flowers and trees, or inside with a rumbling fire, and collected chaos; with time enough to always smile into the eyes of those around them. I pictured smiling eyes -- and I also envisioned pain. I imagined a treasure chest of simple goodness packed in an imperfect profile with eternity busting through every unhemmed seam.

I can't say that I'm disappointed, because that wouldn't be fair, but I will say that perhaps I'm inspired. I'd rather not die with this as some childlike reverie which I unpack for myself with my Emmylous Harris tunes and dry red wine. I want my bones buried with the smell of my sweat lingering on the shoulder I'd held; my foibles recalled in the wake of my death; life breathed for another in my parting. And now, being nearly 30, my likes are ironed, and my vision is somewhat set. I don't have time to rattle around in the nursery of contentious women, and I've too little time fussing over what isn't; I must be the "what is." My travels have lead me to and fro, and for years I've hid in the back trying to ascertain when the more seasoned women will become such, and the church will no longer be "always learning and never coming to the knowledge of the truth..." And so, as I pen this I smile knowing that the four people whose eyes might land here are such as what I'm describing... So I say, in my broken, unpracticed words, we must be the fabric that sways and holds this light of the world, and who makes it our ambition to patch up the sieve-like hearts around us without casting condemnation for the ever-gaping souls that are our own. We must be the change we wish to see; the women we'd like others to be.