the thing with feathers that perches in the soul

Tonight, I started thinking back on the last few months . . .

I remembered that evening, sitting across from you, my hands spread wide on the tabletop, words tumbling from my lips like a waterfall I was helpless to stop. I didn't want to tell you everything I was spilling out; I didn't want you to know the depths of weakness and fear and hopelessness that dwelt within my heart. I was ashamed, and naked, and cut to the barest bones of my soul.

You circled my wrist with your thumb and finger, and the strength of your grip told me that you were real and solid. You didn't tell me to stop being childish (a valid point), and you didn't mock me (an understandable choice). Instead, you held my gaze and let me see into your heart. You told me that my feelings were okay . . . but they were just feelings.

And then you told me the truth.
You showed me the image of God.
You gave me hope.


It occurred to me, tonight, that hope is the one thing I most want to give to those around me. And I thought of you, and that night when you held out hope to me by presenting the truth that nestled within your heart. I knew, suddenly, that the one and only way I can ever offer hope is to offer truth, for it is truth that sets us free.

To speak truth, I have to know it, deep in the crevices of my soul. I have to be so intimately acquainted with Jesus that His words spill out when I open my lips. I have to be constant in holding myself up to the example of His life. I have to allow myself to be probed and torn and mended by the Hands of my Creator.

I think of the hope you offered me, the small spark you struck in my heart . . .
. . . and I think the agony of pursuing truth is worth the chance to do the same for someone I love.


So thank you, for your hand about my wrist, for your eyes locked with mine, for the truth in your words, . . . for being the image of Jesus to me.

who would have ever thought that I would write

I would like to write. I really would. I would like to write about the way the three year-old's blue eyes twinkle and spark when he laughs, about the warm soft white fur on the belly of my purring cat, about the distinct muscles in the legs of the mailman whose quickness and cheer make me want to match the laughter in his eyes, about the freckles sprinkling the five year-old's nose and cheekbones, about the pleasure of a well-worn sweatshirt, about the way scone-dough saunters out of the bowl into the baking dish, about the wild gap-toothed grins (just beginning to be filled out by grown-up teeth) of the girls as they tease me about my lack of getting-married, about the comfort of well-worn familiar music.

I would like to write. I really would. I would like to write about the drama of plane/train/car/bus trips, the angst and longing and tears that traveling awakens in my soul; about Mehane Yehuda shook, how it always smells of spicy loose-leaf teas and unrefrigerated fish and freshly-cooked food and dried herbs and ripening fruits all mashed together and swept into the dusty air of Jerusalem; about the constant dirt coating everything--my feet, my hands, my face--while I was in Africa, playing in a dusty courtyard with shining dark children who laughed and chanted and sang and danced in a language made joyful by hope I couldn't even begin to fathom; about the red dirt and green fields and familiar pines that made me fall in love with Prince Edward Island, even though my only "real" link to the place was a set of dearly beloved books; about the sweet comfortable bitter strangeness of coming back home after months away.

I would like to write. I really would.  I would like to write about the heartbreak and comfort of long-distance friendships, about the painful joy of knowing no one else really cares about how I look, about the loneliness of a church service filled with believers who are still strangers to me, about the depth and profundity of the theological thoughts of a five year-old, about the frustration of working an as-yet uncertain job, about the forced peace and the constant self-reminders that God hasn't stopped working just because I feel abandoned, about the contradictions that seem now to define my life.

I would like to write. I really would. I would like to write about the future; about my secret and not-so-secret dreams; about daily events that seem small, but touch a deep place in my heart; about my thoughts, wounds, feelings, musings, hopes.

I would like to write. I really would. But right now . . . it's just too hard. My power cord refuses to charge my laptop, I hate writing by hand, and writing on my family's computer--well, I feel like you should be able to figure out why a shared-amongst-five-people computer is a poor choice for any hardcore writing/editing. Plus, there is a really weird old word processor on this computer.

I would like to write. I really would. In the long spell of not-writing, my heart has become dull, as if without an ear to its words, it has stopped producing grace in language.

I would like to write. I really would. But it all seems somewhat pointless. And dreadfully hard--in fact, it is obviously much too difficult.

I would like to write. I really would.

But I'm too afraid.