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.

I returned from work this evening after a long conversation with a co-worker. Hoping to ease some burdens by dialoguing with her, my heart sunk lower as I turned for home. I walked tiredly down the walks and slid hard on the mud. I entered my house to hear smoke alarms and the incessant pounding of my upstairs neighbor's feet. My phone sounded: "are you ready to go to the party?!" No. I would love perfect silence for the next three weeks. Seriously. I'm sometimes scared at how much I don't feel like interacting with anyone. I love my friends and family dearly, but sometimes it's just all too much. It's seemed recently that the juxtaposition between a truly righteous viewpoint and the carnal is simply astounding. I've struggled all my life trying to decide where and how I fit, and now, more than ever I find this activity to be ridiculous. I've observed that even on the narrow, life-granting pathway, the "few" still follow that which is most liked by the masses therein, praise is hoarded by the receiver, and the truth is applied in "cute" "cliche" ways that elicit little change, and little to no offense. In my other circles (mainly at work), I'm straight blunted by the interactions of my days. I'm exhausted by the pride of man. I come back to

dear Ecclesiastes 4:4: "I have seen that every labor and every skill which is done is the result of rivalry between a man and his neighbor. This too is vanity and striving after wind." I see the lies that flow from envious lips, the glares, and the stares, the deception as we sinful creatures work so feverishly to convince ourselves that we're upright and good, and somehow, always better than the rest. I'm tired of this. I have no desire to spend more time thinking of what I lack, and what others seem to possess, and surely, I'm rather done with others holding out these expectations for me. I am a mediocre gal with limited capacities, and all that I have was given -- however great or small it may seem. My life is not my own. I have been bought with a price. I am to glorify God in my body; with my entire life. Friends, I have been warned several times by His Spirit in my soul to avoid comparison. Pride alone is interested in the happenings of others; it puffs up or casts down and is never satisfied with either; this spirit of the world and the flesh is boastful, envious -- thankless...

But His Spirit, when allowed to flourish, cradles those cares, and casts them up and away. It cuts through that dull fat of self-regard, and releases the Creature into its greatest created capacity: worship. I am a lowly one among the groundlings, and I see much more of my limits than my strengths, but my heart, be it not cauterized by the searing word of His truth bulks up with all types of defense and desire, along with the greatest of men. Pride is insensible, and damns a good many to hell. It ought not be this way. The pathway up is down, and greatness in meekness. Please friends, join with me this day in plodding the narrow way -- be it alone, be it treacherous -- but only by it, will our lives be gained, and won by this faith.

I concluded, last night, in a flurry of penned words, that perhaps all of man's faltering come from this inherent and profound longing to know and be known. Never before has this impression seemed to stamp itself so starkly on my person. Materialism, atheism, lust, idolatry, etc., all pack with them the creature's incessant demand for significance, and perceived understanding of another. Whether we're deflecting attention or attracting it, our eyes are ever looking out to gather in, that which we think will stack, or support us whole.

I loathe how base these thoughts are, and yet, their simplicity seems to be a factor in our overlooking the sins that result from this. There is an inward tending that is vital to a man, wherein he takes his assorted expectations and disappointments, and correspondingly filters and aligns them with truth. Again, this is commonly known to man, but is adequate effort given to ensure that affecting truth is reaching the regions most often touched by the interactions that define us?

The truth about God's feelings to His children and this earth, while meant to be filtered through His word, are much more often filtered through our experiences. Each man concludes an unknowable amount of rubbish about His God corresponding to his own physical attributes, upbringing, and experiential databases, which, in turn affect all that was created to be refracted through the unique prism of his life.

I beckon to you, in an especially simple post this Valentine's Day, to align the love you've received, and the love you've given -- regardless of the quantity, and look up to the Giver for continuing to reach out in love to us. It is He that planted eternity in our hearts to know Him, and He alone that can seam up all our sorrowing souls. This is so spare a post; may the Lord add grace in your hearing.

My words are stopped up, thick, and lodged somewhere out of reach. I have been fetching for them as I walk, and when I wait, but as time flees and days end, I still cannot find them. From some time ago:

A thick band: a chord is fixed; lithe and supple, and the support of a man. Around this is enveloped a pod which opens to cloisters and crevices unseen, of unparalleled proportions and elastic capacities. Collapsed within are the by gone hopes of parted days, and withered words; unspoken, unused. Long forgetting their praise, we are as wood winds never taking a breath; strings, brittle and cracked with muted song, blunted loves and trapped beckonings, extracted only in thought.

So, for what do I play, as I tend and tarry in my inward man? I lean in to be laced, and reach out for a hook, salient and secure, where on I might latch for the support of grace to be broken and remade. For as I step out, frenetic pulses surge and multiply, and I am sprayed onto the canvas of colliding interplay, and I am seared, as a coal to my soul - my chamber is sullied. All souls experience flight, and love visiting to lift, smash, and transport up into cloud shadows and dayscapes of lifted joy onto green-drenched hands of upturned leaves, arched out from the trunks of steadfastness.

So then, all men begin their words with history; his own retelling and perceptions, however disconnected he thinks he may be. He navigates, through his own back alleys, longing to know, and thus to be known. I feel at times, that I was pulled through this life portal as at once, and abruptly. Memories before seem of wood carvings with nostalgic goodness, possessing some sort of removed remembrance, wherein the temporal took on eternal, plastic was replaced by leather, the tarnished to silver, and a full love of cherry, oak, maple and pine was spun open. I began navigating thus in an earthen vessel of carved wood, with the love of the raw bursting upon every memory as the Lenten Rose pokes up through snow. So too, the cloak of draped matter, which covers and contains all that is needed to secure and succor the bodies, and thus, the souls of men. How strange, that an orb might spin, rotate, and hang as Your earth; planets all in orbit around Your Son. Stranger still, that He is mindful of us, dust gathering dust and trying to make sense of it all --

I long for largeness of soul, to glance into grace -- to retain that which can change me, and to know the only One who truly sees me, truly knows me. I am derailed by many things, and while I see that every earthly love must sometime die, I yearn so deeply for timeless love, eternal, unbroken, untainted love, and thus I know I yearn for my eternal One. His grace is as the waters, whose upper gloss could enrich enough to quell all care, and align all regions. The glass shelf that covers two-thirds of this earth -- while able to whelm in a sweep, is shown to sustain as unsearchably deep, drawing as the tide, the heart of man back to his God.

I am not sure anything written here makes sense, but I hope that some nuggets might rise to the surface...

He Shall Direct Your Paths

He Shall Direct Your Paths