miles to go before I sleep

"Speech is conveniently located midway between thought and action, where it often substitutes for both."
  ~John Andrew Holmes

This is especially poignant to me at the close of the semester.  While I'm at school, I learn new things, exciting things, and I think, "Wow, I want to take some time, really ponder this, and implement it into my life! . . . but right now I'm too busy, so I'll do it later-- during the summer, maybe."  And now here is summer, demanding that I review my list of things to ponder, demanding that I act on what I've said.

The question is if I will.

For the past semester, I've been doing a "lifestyle project" assigned by my environmental science professor. It seemed straightforward and simple at first. But it has changed my thinking and my habits in many, many ways.

I have trouble remembering what meat tastes like.
My first thought with everything now is, "Can I recycle this?"
I have come to enjoy the dimness of my apartment at night, with only one light on.
My feet are calloused and nearly always dirty from walking barefoot or in flip-flops and my shoulders are browning for the summer.
I cannot bear a day without being outside, whether in the sunshine or the rain or the wind.

I want to be a radical.  Even though I've changed my life a lot in some ways, I am still dissatisfied with these changes.  There are things I can and should still change.  I want to live in a house with solar panels and geothermal temperature control, where my children run in and out so much that the outdoors is basically an extension of the house, where the first steps out the back door lead into a garden where we grow our food, where the clucking of free-range chickens wafts indoors when the windows are open, where the pine trees whisper against our eaves, where there's open water nearby, where I can go outside and breathe and love the air.  I've never done something like that; I've never been able to and the desire has never been strong enough to make me want to overcome the obstacles.  And maybe I never will; maybe that radical lifestyle is not the way God wants me to live.  Whatever I do, wherever I live, whoever I live next to, though, I want to be a good neighbor.  I want to love those around me with everything I have, and I believe one of the ways I can love them is by living the simplest, cleanest life possible.

I'm not an environmentalist nutcase, but I do believe in caring for the gifts God gave us. I think, after all God has done for me, taking care of His creation is one of the least things I could do in gratefulness . . .

The Whole World in His Hands

You shall love the LORD your God.

You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

There is no other commandment greater than these.

(Mark 12:30-31)

            Radical—it is a fiery word of intriguing background. The first and second definitions listed on Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary are "of, relating to, or proceeding from a root; of or relating to an origin: fundamental." The third—and more popularly recognized—definition is, "marked by a considerable departure from the usual or traditional: extreme." Somehow, these definitions seem unrelated to each other. How can a word be defined as meaning both "fundamental" and "extreme"? Perhaps this seeming oxymoron makes perfect sense in the arena of Christian environmental stewardship. Though I am not here to argue etymology or word origins, or to misapply definitions, I do intend to show that the idea of Christian environmental stewardship is radical in both ways; it is fundamental and extreme. Though this seems confusing on the surface, I hope it will be come clearer as I continue.

            In order to understand how Christian environmental stewardship can be fundamental, I must first be able to outline the fundamental beliefs of Christianity. These beliefs are that God created man perfect, in His own image; that man sinned and became corrupt, and that he now lives a disjointed version of the life God intended for him; that God wanted to bring man back into relationship with Him; that in order to accomplish this, God sent His Son Jesus to die in the place of man; that Jesus rose again after being dead for three days; that man may be saved by faith in Jesus' death and resurrection; and that those who claim to have faith in God must live in a worthy manner. What is a worthy manner of life for a Christian? According to Jesus, the commandments that contain all the rest are these—to "love the LORD your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength" and to "love your neighbor as yourself" (Mark 12:30a, 31a; NASB).

            "Love the LORD your God," I am told, but often I am unsure how exactly to obey this command. According to the Bible, however, love for God is not difficult to understand. In fact, love for God is bound up with obedience to His commands. Loving God and obeying Him are mentioned together at least eight times explicitly in the book of Deuteronomy (cf. Deut. 11:1). This was not just an instruction for the nation of Israel, however. It is repeated for Christians—for me. "For this is the love of God," John writes to the young church. "that we keep His commandments [. . .]" (I John 5:3, NASB; italics added). None of this may seem to connect to environmental stewardship at first glance. However, the very first responsibility given to mankind was none other than envinronmental stewardship. In the beginning, after the creation of mankind, God instructed them to "rule over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the sky and over every living thing that moves on the earth" (Genesis 1:28, NASB). He then placed them "into the garden of Eden to cultivate it and keep it" (Genesis 2:15, NASB). Ruling over the creation of God is the first responsibility given to mankind, and by obeying this command of God and ruling wisely and kindly, man is able to show his love for God. My dilemma, however, is what constitutes wise rule and, therefore, obedience to and love for God. This is also addressed in the Bible.

            "If someone says, 'I love God,' and hates his brother, he is a liar; for the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from Him, that the one who loves God should love his brother also" (I John 4:20-21). In order to love God as I should, I see that I must love my neighbor as myself (cf. Mark 12:31). Love in this case is not simply an emotion; it is an action. Paul summarizes this in Romans 13:10—"Love does no wrong to a neighbor" (NASB). These principles of love for my neighbor can be applied to my understanding of Christian environmental stewardship. Any decision that does wrong to a neighbor is unloving to mankind, and displays disobedience to God. Decisions that show love to a neighbor are obedience to God.

            This is where issues and real-life gray areas creep into the discussion. Being born and raised in America, I have the privilege of living in one of the wealthiest countries on the planet. However, it is also one of the most wasteful countries on the Earth. Every day we pump greenhouse gases into the atmosphere as we drive our cars to and from work, on errands, and for pleasure. Every day we bury tons of solid waste, taking up land that could be used for farms or homes. Every day we throw away more food than many people in the world will see in a week. Every day we use up more water showering than some families in the world will be able to access for bathing, cleaning, cooking and drinking combined. Every day we live in extravagance that much of the world only dreams about. The resources of the world are inequitably allotted, that is certain, but I wonder how this knowledge should affect me. I cannot help where I was born; I did not choose it or have a say in the matter. It is not my fault that other continents or countries do not have the resources to live as well as I can. Often my attitude is one of apathy. I did not create it; I cannot change it on a worldwide level. I have been given these privileges and it is right that I should take full advantage of them. When I begin to think like this, I fight to remind myself of another very important verse—"For you were called to freedom, brethren; only do not turn your freedom into an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another" (Galatians 5:13, NASB). I was given this privilege and opportunity, and through faith in Jesus I am given freedom to enjoy these things. However, by choosing to follow and obey Jesus, I take on the responsibility to love my neighbor as I love myself. I am not allowed to ignore the hurt and desperation of others; I am not allowed to live a fat, lazy, apathetic life. I am called to love—but how do I live this out?

            I believe correct Christian environmental stewardship demands sacrifice. By looking at the concept of the commons I can see that my everyday decisions do affect worldwide health. My decision to drive instead of walk five minutes down the road adds unnecessary pollution into the atmosphere, causing it to be dirty not only for me but for all others sharing the planet with me. My choice to take a much-longer-than-necessary shower depletes just a little bit more clean water from the general world supply. I have the freedom to do these things, of course, but by doing them, I wonder whether I am using my God-given freedom as I should be using it—to love my neighbor. If I am honest, the answer is no. Using an exorbitant amount of resources does not show love to my neighbor nor obedience nor love to God. This is the fundamental basis of Christian environmental stewardship.

            Am I advocating that Christians sell their cars, give up electricity and running water and heat, and live in caves and under trees? Not necessarily. However, I believe that Christians can and should live their lives in such a way as to love their neighbors, and in so doing, to obey and love God Himself. This is where Christian environmental stewardship becomes extreme.

            Love demands sacrifice. This is perfectly exemplified by Jesus' death on the cross. Love for my neighbor in the context of Christian environmental stewardship demands I make sacrifices as well—though none could ever reach the level of Jesus' sacrifice for me.

            What if I were to choose to live without electricity or running water in my house? What if I were to choose instead to haul my water and plan my life around the sun's rising and setting, as much of the world does?

            What if I were to give up the American dream of a six-bedroom, three-bathroom house on rolling acres of land? What if I were to find a house just large enough for my family, and property only spacious enough for a garden and a small lawn, still more than many people can have?

            What if I were to sacrifice the easy life of fast food and prepared foods and frequent trips to the grocery store? What if I were to work to sustain my family by growing a garden and raising our own animals, as do most women in the world?

            What if I were to live as cleanly as possible, so as to reduce my effect on global pollution?

            What if I were to take the money I might spend on things like property taxes and electricity and water bills and fuel and processed foods and were to send it to the needy in other countries, through mission agencies like World Vision which aids the poor both physically and spiritually?

            What if I were to actually do all this?

            Maybe I will actually do it. Even though, through this class, I have changed my ideas of Christian environmental stewardship, I am still dissatisfied with the way I live.

            I want to be a radical.

            I want to love my neighbors—local, national, and global—by living as simply, cleanly and cheaply as possible. I want to raise my children to know that having a little can be difficult, but it is not a disaster. I want to go to bed at night, tired from a long day of working, but satisfied that with the little actions I took, I was able to fulfill the great commandments. I think I have to do this, or someday die full of regrets.

            Christian environmental stewardship is radical. It fulfills the fundamental commands of Jesus—love the LORD, and love your neighbor. It demands extreme sacrifice and labor and personal change. Perhaps not all Christians feel called to live the way I described. However, I think all Christians would agree that we have the responsibility to obey the great commandments. This is one of the ways I see to do this. Yes, it is radical. Jesus was radical, too. Those who follow Him cannot expect to be called to anything easier or quieter. As a wise professor remarked, "It is not as if you live your Christian life in your heart."

by His wounds

We were discussing the sea yesterday in class.  The sea is an odd thing in the Bible.  It is not inherently evil, but because of the corruption of Creation, it is defiant toward God's authority.  It is one of the most powerful and unpredictable forces in Creation, and because of this, the sea was always a place of mystique and fear for the ancient peoples, as it often is for us today.

And then something new happened.

A Man came, and He had the power with one word to calm a raging sea.  When He did this, His followers asked, "Who is this?"

Just look at the Bible.  Who is the One Who has power over the defiant sea?  Who is the One at Whose words it flees?  Who caused even the unwilling sea and its creatures to give up His servant Jonah?  It's the same One Who came as a man, calming angry seas, healing broken bodies, redeeming chained souls-- Jesus.  He knew the power He had; He Himself compared His death and resurrection to Jonah's time in the great fish.

"Listen to the Old Testament," my professor told us.  "The sea never takes God down.  Wait three days and you'll see that the sea, the grave, death, sin, never takes God down.  The resurrection of Christ is the greatest demonstration of God's creation plan."

We are powerless against the sea, against death, sin, the grave, but Jesus is not powerless.  His conquering, glorious resurrection proves His power.

And He reaches out in His power and mercy and love to free us.


He
is
risen.

know your name

I hate how people throw around the word "intimacy."  It's like throwing around the topic of sex, or the name of God-- like playing frisbee with fine china.

How on earth is one supposed to be known by another human if one has no idea who one is?
Even supposing that is possible and happens . . . how is one supposed to know that one is known?

Beyond

My professor for my Isaiah class is Dr. T.  In the time I've had him (one class my first semester, and now half of this semester) I've somehow come to expect, well, to be surprised by him.  He seems staid and proper, but at the most unexpected times, right in the middle of class, he will suddenly have these random bursts of humor or sarcasm or excitement or drama.  It used to startle me, hearing these things from such a scholarly man, but I've become accustomed to it.  Somehow, it's these random bursts that are the most memorable and help me connect the most to the topic at hand.
    Anyway, today in class, Dr. T. was talking about the time frame of the second half of Isaiah. "At this point," he said,  drawing a chalk line over chapters forty-eight through sixty-six.  "We're left knowing that there must be something after Babylon to resolve the problem of Israel's rebellion. To Babylon and beyond, right?" he exclaimed, turning toward us excitedly, a half-smile on his face.  It was one of those startling moments when he broke out of his accustomed speech and yanked us into his head.  But something in his tone was more than humor, and it caught my attention.
    Yes-- Babylon and beyond.

    Beyond, beyond, we are always looking beyond.  We feel, we think, we hope that there must be something else, something more.  And we are right.  Qohelet' said that God has set eternity in our hearts, and I believe that we have never been able to quench this burning within us.  So we continue to squint forward into the blinding sun and the whipping wind, dreaming of and waiting for the day when that something from beyond will come.  We know it is there.  We taste it on our tongues, sometimes, catch its scent on the wind, glimpse its shadows on the inside of our eyelids, hear its echoes and whisperings in our stories.

    Ah, story.  It touches us all in the deep crevices of our souls.  After all, what better way to speak of the Something that is still Beyond than the way He chose to speak of Himself . . .

Smell the color 9

I love Chris Rice.  He always, somehow, puts into lyrics exactly what I've been feeling and thinking and crying in my heart.

I would take no for an answer
Just to know I heard You speak
And I'm wondering why I've never
Seen the signs they claim to see
Lot of special revelations
Meant for everybody but me
Maybe I don't truly know You
Or maybe I just simply believe
~Smell the Color 9

For years, every time I have a rather vital decision to make, I've told God, "I don't care what You say.  Just say something; just let me know You're answering."  Usually He doesn't; usually I end up having to use my judgment and common sense and the circumstances and my biblical knowledge and others' godly counsel to decide.  I don't hear a voice.  I have to guess.

I hate that.  But it seems to be the way God "speaks" to me.

And maybe it's all wrong, maybe I should wait until I definitely-absolutely-clearly hear Him speak. Maybe He has been speaking and I just haven't been listening.  That has been true sometimes; I shrink from listening because I'm so afraid to wait and hear nothing.  It's easier to go on as I know how to-- asking for a voice, but never "hearing the calling" and never expecting to.

Even if I'm wrong, it's good to know that someone else shares the burden of my aching heart.

all I really want to do

When I was very young-- two years and ten months, to be exact-- I made my first and only emergency room visit.  We were having a party for Kelsey's first birthday, and my best friend and his family were coming over.  I was naturally excited.  While we were waiting for them to come (I think Mom was either napping or just doing some things upstairs), I was playing in the living room.  I picked up an empty Easter candy tin (one that I had received at Grandma Rice's) and held it in my hands and spun around and around and around.  I was dizzy and giddy and all I could see was the tin in my hands.

The next thing I remember, I was in the kitchen, staring at the ceiling, with Daddy standing over me pressing a bunch of paper towels against my cheekbone.  The next scene I remember is the bright light they shone on my face, the feeling of being bound like a mummy (so I wouldn't fight or get my hands in the way), the doctors and nurses staring down at me, the hand descending toward my face.

The hand must have had a needle.  But I don't remember it.

It's funny how trauma and drama obliterate themselves like that.  I remember perfectly what happened before I fell; I remember perfectly what happened directly after I fell.

I don't remember the fall.
I don't remember the pain or the blood.
I don't remember the car trip or the ER waiting room.

It's like the scariest parts of the story are gone, and I'm left with a vivid mini-film I can replay whenever I want, review from the safety eighteen years provides, and file away whenever it gets too intense or uncomfortable.

I wonder if that phenomena-- of pain and fright blotting themselves out-- continues past the age of three.  I hope so.

With a Blow

    I lay on my bed, my eyes closed, fighting to breathe, listening to the whispers around me.
    "The healer says she will last only until the sun sets."
    "Her husband should be with her right now."
    "That man!  It is his fault this is happening!"
    I knew they did not believe I could hear them, but their words still burnt.  Tears welled in my eyes and slid down my cheeks as I remembered the months that had led up to this day.

. . .

    When I entered the room, my husband was staring at the wall, his lips set in a thin line.  The older priest had a grave expression on his face.
    "Your husband claims to have seen a vision from the LORD," he informed me.  "However, he has been robbed of . . . normal speech."  He stared at me.  "Be wary, my daughter," he said, his voice stern.  "Many experiences . . . will not be from the LORD."  I bowed my head as he rose and left our house.  Then I sank down next to my husband.
    "My lord?" I ventured.  "What . . . what happened?"  His eyes sad, he just stared at me, and I remembered what the other priest had said.  "You cannot speak at all?" I whispered.  He shook his head, and my heart leapt.  "Speak to me, then, please!" I cried.  "I would hear the story from your own lips!"  Slowly, he shook his head again, and my heart sank.  I took his hands in mine, laying my head against his chest.  He wrapped his arms about me and I felt him sigh.

. . .

    I only stepped out of the house for a moment, but it was long enough.
    "My lord!" I shouted, beating my fists against the door.  "My lord, please open the door!"  From inside the house, I could hear strange mutters, which made me more frantic.  "Please, my lord!" I shrieked.
    Seven days my husband had spent seated in the marketplace.  Then, without warning, he had disappeared.  Five days later, he had appeared in our courtyard, dusty and looking hungry.  When I went to the garden for vegetables, he had slammed and bolted the door behind me.
    Something was wrong with the man I loved.
    Leaning my head against the door, I closed my eyes.
    "Oh, LORD," I prayed.  "Protect Your servant from the insanity that would take him.  Give Your maidservant wisdom!"
    Then I waited.

. . .

    The men had bound him, but I had soon untied him, unable to bear the grief in his eyes, and he had been free for weeks.  I even dared leave him alone when I went to the marketplace.  One day, when I returned home, he was sitting in the dust in our courtyard.  He had a jumble of things placed in front of him, and a group of small boys was gathered around him.  As I watched, the  children scattered across the yard, shouting war cries and laughing.  I stepped into the courtyard and my husband met my eyes, his gaze solemn.  As I watched, he twisted a few twigs together, then wrapped a scrap of cloth around them, forming a tiny model of a tent.  Crouching, I saw that there were many tents, forming miniature camps, all grouped about a brick.  Against the brick were piles of dirt, larger twigs, and stones lying as if they had been tossed against the brick.  I stared at my husband.
    "My lord?"  He did not answer me, but rose and went into the house.  I stared at the things in front of me.  My husband returned carrying an iron plate which he set upright near the brick.  Looking satisfied, he lay down on his left side and closed his eyes.  I was sure he had fallen asleep, but when I moved, he opened his eyes.  I shook my head and walked into the house.
    "Come back inside when you're hungry," I called over my shoulder.
    The silence I could endure.  But war games?  Child's play?  His sanity was more fragile than I had believed.

. . .

    It had been a fairly quiet day until my neighbor woman burst through the door.
    "Do you know where your husband is?" she cried, her face pale.
    "He's in the courtyard-" I glanced out the window, then froze.  My husband was gone.  I whirled to the woman, grabbing her shoulders.  "Where is he?" I demanded.
    "The- the marketplace . . ."
    I dashed out the door, my heart pounding, and raced to the marketplace.  A crowd was gathered, and I fought my way through it, crying my husband's name.  Suddenly, I halted.  There stood my husband, gripping a sword.  His eyes calm, he turned to look at me.  Someone cried, "Stay back, sister!"  Instead, I stretched my hands out and stepped forward.
    "My lord, put the sword down, please."  I could see his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip.  I took another step toward him.  He backed away, bringing the sword close to his throat, and my breath came faster.  "Please, my lord, just put it down . . ."  Even as I spoke, he slashed close to his neck.  I screamed, falling to my knees and squeezing my eyes shut.  For a long moment, the marketplace was silent except for my sobs and my husband's ragged breathing.  Opening my eyes, I dared to glance at him.  He stood, clutching the sword in one hand and his severed beard in the other.  I scrambled to my feet.  As I watched, he carefully laid the hair in a bowl, then set about shaving the rest of his hair.  When he was done, he laid the sword aside and sat on the ground, holding the bowl of hair in his lap.  Tears filled my eyes at the sight of him, so bare in public.  I crouched next to him, stroking his bald head.
    "I don't understand," I whispered, burying my face on his shoulder.  "I- I just don't understand . . ."
    For a long moment, he let me rest there.  Then he rose and went to a stall, finding a pair of scales, and weighed out his hair.  I stayed in the dust, silent and grief-stricken.

. . .

    My husband had finally spoken after his months of silence, in a terrible Voice not his own, and the news he bore was not good.
    We had forsaken the LORD, and the LORD would now forsake our people and His chosen city to heartache, famine, siege, pestilence, capture, and death.
    My husband was a madman; he had proven so over the past months.
    The city of Jerusalem- God's chosen dwelling place- would not fall so terribly.
    His words could not be true.

. . .

    The elders had come again to seek counsel.  I remained in the kitchen, trying to busy myself and ignore their voices.  Suddenly, the murmurs burst into excited chatter, and I dashed to the door to see what was happening.  My husband stood stiff, his eyes latched on the ceiling, his arms and legs locked.  I stifled a shriek, for I knew the expression on his face.  I squeezed my eyes shut as the minutes dragged by until I heard my husband take a deep breath.  I opened my eyes.  There was fire in his gaze as he opened his mouth, and I dropped to the floor, covering my ears.
    The Voice was speaking again.  Using my husband's mouth, it boomed out accusation on accusation and horror of horrors.  I could not move, could not even breathe while it spoke.  Suddenly, I heard my husband's voice cry out, and I jerked up from the floor.  There were tears on his face and he was shaking his head, as if he himself did not want to believe the words he was saying.  I scrambled to my feet, shaking so hard I could barely breathe.
    "Pelatiah!" a man screamed, leaping to his feet and shaking the man next to him.  As I watched, Pelatiah clutched his breast, then slumped to the floor.  Chaos erupted.
    "It's the madman!"
    "He has brought this upon us!"  My husband did not even glance at the men, but crumpled facedown on the floor, lapsing into his garbled speech.  I wanted to run to him, to pull him off the floor, to protect him from the rage of the elders.
    Instead, I crept to the darkest corner of the kitchen and sank to the floor.  Folding my legs to my chest, I buried my face against my knees.
    "How long, LORD?" I whispered.
    Only silence answered me.

. . .

    All day my husband had carried his possessions into our courtyard.  Word had spread that the madman was performing again, and by evening a crowd had gathered.  My heart was in my throat as, one last time, my husband stepped out of our house.  The crowd stirred as he bundled his things and began walking. We all trailed after him, out of the courtyard, down the street, through the city, until he reached the wall.  There we watched as he began forcing stones out of the wall and digging through the mortar with his bare hands.
    "What are you doing, madman?" a youth called out, his friends laughing.  My husband turned.  I felt my spine tingle as I glimpsed his blazing eyes.
    "Thus says the LORD God," boomed the Voice I dreaded so much.  "'This burden concerns the prince in Jerusalem . . .'" I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the words he spoke.
    O LORD! I prayed.  Why must it be my husband?
    As he finished speaking, I opened my eyes.  Most of the crowd had drifted away.  They had come for a performance, but had received an unwanted sermon.  With a sigh, my husband hefted his burden on his shoulder.  The hole in the wall was just large enough for him to crawl through.  He paused and glanced over his shoulder at me.
    In a moment, he had disappeared.
    I trudged back to the house.  The beauty of the night sky mocked my pain until I stepped into the house, where the ceiling blocked out the stars.  I crawled into bed, missing my husband's presence.
    Later that night, I jerked awake.  Something had changed since I went to sleep.  Turning, I bumped into something warm.  I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.  Then an arm wrapped around me and I recognized my husband.
    He had not abandoned me.
    Closing my eyes, I curled against his chest and drifted back to sleep.

. . .

    Day by day, my husband kept crying out against everything he should have been loyal to. Day by day, public sentiment turned against him.  Day by day, I watched him continue to spiral from a respected priest to a laughingstock.
    I burned to step in, to stop it, to change things.
    But I could not.
    I was only a woman, the wife of the madman.
    And I had come to know that what he said was true.
    My husband was not mad.
    He spoke for the LORD, and akin to righteous men of the past, he was scorned and mocked by the unrighteous.
    I feared the day I would see Jerusalem crumble- the city of the temple, the city of my God.
    Yet I knew, by my husband's words, the time was close.
    Dread in my heart, I watched, and waited, and prayed.

. . .

    My husband had spoken to the people.
    Jerusalem was under siege.
    It was too early for anyone to confirm his message, but I needed nothing else to believe the words of the LORD.  My heart pounding, I stood in the crowded marketplace, listening as my husband described what would happen to our holy city.  Many wept, but my eyes were dry.
    We forsook the LORD, and now He has forsaken us.  The day I dreaded has come.
    My husband caught my eye, and hesitated in his speech.  I glimpsed something I did not understand in his eyes.  Then he looked away and I was sure I had imagined it.  Yet, suddenly, hope stirred in my heart.
    Are you ready, dearest? a gentle voice whispered deep inside my soul.
    My head was beginning to ache.  As my husband finished speaking, the crowd dispersed, muttering.  I fixed my eyes on the ground, feeling unsteady and nauseated.  Then an arm slipped around me, and I leaned against my husband.  For a moment, he held me close against his chest as I wrapped my arms around him.  His chin rested on the top of my head, and I closed my eyes, listening to the soothing thud of his heart.
    My husband helped me home and into bed.  He brought the healer woman, who checked my forehead, my throat, my feet and hands, then went away, shaking her head.  With grief-filled eyes, my husband sat next to me, holding my hand.  I could barely keep my eyes open.
    My husband stayed with me until a group of women drove him away while they bathed me.  Once they laid me back in bed, they huddled about me.
    "The healer says she will last only until the sun sets."
    "Her husband should be with her right now."
    "That man!  It is his fault this is happening!"
    I wept, praying for my husband's return.  In a moment, the gossiping voices faded, and footsteps pattered away.  Forcing my eyes open, I saw my husband standing in the doorway.  I raised my hand toward him, and he came to me, clasping my hand.
    There was much I wished to say- how I was sorry I had thought him mad, how I regretted allowing others to use force against him, how I wished I had been loyal to him no matter what.  I wanted to confess that I had mocked him in my heart, that I had refused to believe his words, that I had turned from the way of the LORD.  I longed to tell him that I now knew that all he had said and done had been from the LORD our God.  My throat closed up, and I found myself unable to speak.  I shut my eyes.  My husband was trembling.
    Not for me, dearest.  Grieve for the city of God.  Mourn for the people of God.
    I opened my eyes, staring straight above me.  Instead of the ceiling, I glimpsed a dark cloud, filled with fire and lightning and smoke and terrible darting figures.  I gasped in fear, and felt my husband touch my face.  I looked at him, and saw desperation and understanding in his eyes.  He nodded at me.
    He saw this, too . . .
    It made sense- the fire in his eyes, the stiffening of his joints, the Voice.
    Yes- the Voice.  It's here.
Like a cloud, the Voice rolled over me, blocking out all else.
    I hear it, dearest.  I understand now.
    Somehow, after all the months of hating and cowering away from the Voice, I was not afraid anymore.  I closed my eyes once more.
    I am ready.  Let me hear what You would say . . .




    And so she was gone.
    By the terror and sheer delight in her face, I knew she had seen the LORD.
    As the LORD had commanded me, I did not mourn and I did not weep and my tears did not come.  I groaned silently; I made no mourning for the dead.  I bound on my turban and put my shoes on my feet, and did not cover my mustache and did not eat the bread of men.2
    In my heart of hearts, though, I wailed and mourned more than any man ever had for the woman he loved.


    May the name of the LORD GOD be praised.

they say that breaking up is hard to do

He stood in my kitchen, where we'd had so many talks, shared so many secrets, laughed together so many times,

             and told me we were over.

                        I didn't believe him.

He stood in my kitchen, tall, relaxed, confident,

            everything I wanted, everything I'd thought I'd had.

                        I couldn't yank my eyes away from him.

He stood in my kitchen, recounted all his reasons, paused, his silence asking for my approval, my response.

            I was silent, for

                        all I could see were his dark eyes, dark but not mysterious to me.

                        Until now.

He stood in my kitchen, saying he was leaving now.

            I stood up, put my hands out.

                        "I don't understand," I said.

He stood in my kitchen, still tall, but his shoulders tense, his hands jammed in his pockets.

            I waited.

                        "It just has to be," he mumbled.

He stood in my kitchen, eyes on the floor, not moving, as

            I sobbed, my tears gushing like a flood, my shoulders shaking.

                        All I wanted was his arm around my shoulders, his hand in the middle of my back.

He stood in my kitchen, and

            I knew, by the way he rubbed his eyes,

                        he was crying, too.

He stood in my kitchen, finally raising wet eyes to me.

            "Can’t you see why?" he asked, his gaze begging me to give the answer he wanted.

                        I shook my head.

           

                                    "No,

                                                I don't see,

                                                            I never will,

                                                                        don't leave me."

He stood in my kitchen, one last time, his eyes sweeping over

            the curtains,

                        the plants on the windowsill,

                                    the spoon collection hanging on the wall,

                                                the photos on the fridge,

                                                            the cheery sunny yard outside.

                                                                                    He looked at everything

                                                                                                                        but

                                                                                                                            me.

            "Let me go," he pleaded.  "Just please let me go."

                        I couldn't fight it anymore.  I squeezed my eyes shut.

                                    "Yes," I whispered.  "But please . . ."

                                                                        "Anything."

                                                                                    "Hold me one more time."

He stood in my kitchen, his arms open toward me, but hesitated.

            "No," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.  "No.  No, I can't."

                        I closed my eyes, and remembered . . .

                                    His strong arms wrapped close around me, his head curved over mine, his hand pressing my ear against his heart, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to curl himself around me.

                        I tattooed the memory into my heart, my brain, my soul, any part of me that would remember.

                                   

He still stood in my kitchen, hunched miserably, when I opened my eyes.

        "You can go," I told him, wiping tears from my eyes (a losing battle).  "Just go."

                        He finally looked into my eyes, but I closed my soul against him.

He stood in my kitchen, and his eyes were sad.

            "I didn't want this," he said.

                        I turned away, staring at the wall.

                                    I couldn't believe him.

at any occasion, be ready for the funeral

            You know what is the deepest tragedy of all? The lost time. The time I could have had with her. The time I could have spent talking with her, sitting next to her, memorizing her habits, touching her, comforting her, holding her close to my heart.

            It hurts more, thinking about all that empty time, than thinking about losing her.

            What about the moments when I saw her, sitting alone, and thought, "I should talk to her," or "I should sit down with her for awhile," or "I should ask her what she's reading"? What stopped me?

            There was this huge lump of fear in my throat. I don't know why.

            If I'd known this feeling, I would never let that fear stop me.

            What about later, after I did talk to her, when I'd look up and she'd be smiling that soft smile and I'd just look away, wondering what I should do? What about that time she fell in the snow and I pulled her up and she didn't pull her hand away until I let go on purpose?

            I didn't want to look stupid, didn't want to make her think I was crazy.

            I was, though—crazy for her.

            Why did what I looked like really matter?

            What about those times when I would walk into the room, see her eyes light up, meet her smile, see the empty seat next to her, and walk across the room to a different chair? Why did I do that to her . . . to me?

            It was too hard to sit next to her, watch her shoulders rise and fall with her breath, feel her joy radiating from her body, see her smiles sweep across her face, study the way she chewed her pen caps, catch the scent of her skin and the soap she used.

            It broke my heart . . . but nothing like this.

            No.

            Nothing ever prepared me for this.

            He stared down at her still pale face, wondering why he felt he never knew the girl that lay in front of him. The features and hands and hair were right, but without her spirit, the body made no sense, left no feeling in his heavy heart. Stooping, he brushed one hand over her cheek, shuddering at the cold stiffness that greeted his fingertips. He stood straight and glanced around the room. People were staring at him with gazes full of pity, sadness, confusion . . . he didn't know what all. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think at all.

            She was gone. And he had no more time left.

            So many empty years where I never knew her . . .

                        and all that stretches ahead of me . . . is even more empty . . .

            With a sigh, he took one last look at the body. His eyes caught on the slim gold ring on her left hand, and he felt tears squeezing his throat closed. Turning, quickly, he strode away from the box that held the body. It wasn't his beloved lying there; it was just a body. The body was dead, and because of that, her spirit had left.

            And that—that was more than he could bear.

tea time II

            I am going to die. The thought pounded in her head as she slumped over her knees. The wicked north wind bit at her neck, sweeping her hair over her face, but she didn't move.

            It is simply not worth it anymore. As if in reply, the wind howled around the apartment complex, swirling the dry leaves into a hissing, dizzying cyclone. She lifted her eyes to watch, but barely saw what was right in front of her.

            Does it really matter, anyway? she wondered, biting her lip. She was entirely alone—no parents, no siblings, no husband, no children, not even a pet.

            No one would really miss you, another voice suggested. Gasping, she squeezed her eyes shut again.

            No, no, she whimpered in her mind. Go away! I won't listen to you!

            You must.

            I won't!

            You're only lying to yourself!

            Leave me alone!

            Suddenly, another voice interrupted, a voice that was louder and brighter and harsher and truer than the one that whispered her doom.

            "Hello, there!" Her eyes popped open and she stared at the speaker. There before her stood a woman with greying hair and bright eyes. Her hair was short and permed; her feet were shoved carelessly into bright purple-and-pink dotted galoshes. A peacoat was thrown over her shoulders, but not buttoned, and her hands were shoved deep into the pockets. Despite her unkempt appearance, her skin was clean, and she smelt pleasantly of face powder. The woman nodded, then glanced at the overcast sky. "Storm's moving in, honey; it'll be a doozy."

            "Yes," the girl murmured, feeling dazed. Is this really happening? she wondered. In a moment, though, she had no choice but to believe in reality.

            "Would you like to come in for some tea?" the old woman asked. Startled, the girl stared at her, wondering if she was as crazy as she sounded.

            "Tea?" she repeated, feeling stupid. The old woman nodded.

            "It'd be good to have some company," she remarked, pulling a hand out of her pocket and inspecting her fingernails. She turned a warm smile on the girl. "It'd be nice if it was you." Slowly, the girl unhooked her arms from around her knees and unfolded her legs.

            "I . . . I suppose I could do that," she muttered, feeling shy. The woman's eyes lit up and she threw her head back and laughed.

            "Come right in, then!" she crowed, marching up the steps and unlocking the front door. She held it open for the girl and stepped into the hallway after her. "I'm on the top floor, dearie," she directed as the girl hesitated. At the door of the apartment, the woman stopped and unlocked three locks on the door, then threw it open as well. In a moment, she was bustling about the small kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove, pulling out a box of store-brand cookies and piling them on a plate, rummaging for and discovering six variety boxes of tea, and choosing two cups and saucers from a high cupboard with glass doors. "Milk, lemon, honey, sugar?" she called to the girl, who was standing, dazed, in the middle of the living room.

            "Uhm . . . honey, please."

            "Is that all, sweetie?" the old woman asked, popping her head around the door. The girl nodded, her eyes roving around the living room. The old woman stopped what she was doing and came into the living room. She smiled as she followed the girl's eyes over the oil paintings, charcoal drawings, watercolors, pencil sketches, and pen and ink drawings. "Marvelous, aren't they?" she said, her voice soft. As if she was suddenly awakened, the girl jumped and turned wondering eyes to the old woman.

            "They're—they're fantastic," she blurted, her breath coming quickly. "So—so good they—they hurt." She pressed both hands to her heart, and the old woman nodded.

            "That's what I always told him." Her voice caressed the word him, and she brushed aside her bangs and stared at the floor. "But no—always better, always better! He said they were never quite good enough." She laughed under her breath and shook her head, glancing up at the girl. "My son," she explained. "This was the last one he did for me." She motioned toward a bright oil painting hanging by a window. The girl stepped forward, her eyes devouring the reds and yellows and blues, her lips parted as she fought for breath.

            "The . . . last?" she managed, chewing on her bottom lip. The old woman nodded.

            "He . . . he killed himself a month later." Sadness tinged her voice, and she wiped her eyes. "Ahhhh . . . nothing was ever good enough for him, poor dear. He knew Jesus, had so many reasons to live, but the darkness—it was just too much for him." The girl stood still in the middle of the floor, her eyes downcast. Then, suddenly, she whirled to the old woman and threw both arms around her. The old woman's arms went around her, and they stood there—two sorrowing hearts, clinging to each other for comfort—until the tea kettle screamed its disgust. Letting the girl go, the old woman laughed shakily and handed the girl a tissue. "My lands, honey; you're crying, too." The girl shook her head, accepting the tissue and blowing her nose.

            "I . . . I'm so sorry," she managed. "I—I can't imagine . . ."

            "Oh, sweetie, don't try to, please. It's not something I'd wish on anyone." The old woman searched the girl's face, her eyes concerned. "You understand him, don't you?" she remarked, her voice soft. The girl froze. Then, slowly, she nodded her head.

            "I –I'm completely alone," she admitted, hanging her head. "Sometimes it doesn't seem worth it to stay around." The kettle shrieked again and the old woman turned toward the kitchen.

            "Well," she said, her voice brisk again. "Let's talk about it over tea. Maybe we'll sort some things out."

            "It's way more complicated than that." The girl couldn't fight the bitterness in her voice, but the old lady just laughed her soft laugh again.

            "Of course not. Not in one day. You can always come back, though." With that, she busied herself about the tea things, setting the plate of cookies on the table, pouring hot water into the cups. The girl stepped toward the kitchen, but paused and stared back at the bright, frightening, cruel painting. It mesmerized her, called her to join it and its creator.

            "Coming, sweetie?" The bright voice interrupted her, once more, and she shook herself.

            "One minute," she called back. Her eyes drifted from the painting to the window next to it. Outside, the sun was breaking through the thick clouds. Its weak beams sifted into the room, playing against the walls.

            The girl smiled for the first time in months.

tea time I

    He had no idea how long they'd been there. Supper had ended and the dishes had been cleaned up long ago. Only a few cafeteria workers remained, straightening chairs and tables, cleaning counters, and prepping for the next day. Most of the other students had left, but the few that remained were all huddled together at one table. He reached forward, clasping his warm mug, and met the eyes of another young man across the table.
    "Doesn't it waste our time to argue about this?" he insisted. "No matter what we humans think, God is the only One Who will ever know what exactly predestination entails." The other young man shook his head and pushed his chair back with a loud screech.
    "You're wrong about this one," he argued. "I'll give you predestination—you made your point there. But this—evangelism goes along a completely different tack." Opening his mouth, he was about to reply, when he was cut off.
    "Does it really?" Her voice was soft and warm as the tea in his mug. He stopped and stared at her. Her eyes were earnest as she glanced back and forth between the two young men. "Just like predestination, only God really understands evangelism. I think . . ." She paused and stared down at her own mug. He leaned forward farther, eager to hear what she would say.
    "Yes?" he prodded. She swirled her tea a bit, then bit her lip.
    "I think it's something that should be argued about less and practiced much, much more." Her voice was firm, yet quiet, and he found himself admiring her self-assurance. Letting out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he took a drink of tea and nodded.
    "You're right." He extended his hand to the other young man. "Should we call it a truce?" he said, grinning. After a moment, the other young man smiled, his expression wry, and leaned forward to shake his hand.
    "All right; we'll leave it at that, then." He shook his head, pushing his hands deep into his suitcoat's pockets. "Good discussion, though—very good."
    "As always," his opponent added. The girl across the table from him brought her mug up and took a sip of tea. As she did, he caught her gaze over her tea. Her eyes were warm, deep, twinkling. He found himself captivated by them, and wondering at the soul behind such eyes. She put her mug down, smiled, and looked away.
    Nothing, though, could erase that glance. He knew it in his bones. And he knew, somehow, that it was only the the first glance of many . . .

spelt with an "e"

Even though I have never been to PEI, I am most excited about it.  I almost-- almost-- feel as if I am going home, as I will be visiting the haunts of someone who seems to be a very very dear friend.

This occurred to me while I was at work today, and I had to stop and question why I felt I knew Anne and her haunts so well.  I realized that it is because I have been absolutely devouring the Anne books in the last few weeks, and have been completely enveloped in them.

And I had to wonder-- is this how a believer is supposed to feel about Heaven . . . that she has read her Friend's story so much and so deeply that she cannot wait to see the places He has walked and spent so much time . . . that she cannot wait to see . . Him . . .?

Hold me

She barely knew me-- we had met just a half-hour earlier-- but I was the only adult present.  When she fell and bumped her knee, she cried for Daddy, but had to run to me.

"Hold me," she whimpered, clambering onto my lap, burrowing close against my chest, clinging to me with small arms.  So I held her tightly, stroking her silky little-girl hair, breathing in the scent of blueberry muffin and sweat and children's shampoo, crooning in her ear, and wishing for the days when I was small and could beg comfort from anyone . . . .


Hold me, I, too, want to cry at times, my voice echoing in the vast empty universe, feeling desperate for any arms that will reach out and tuck me close.

And a Voice does answer, but sometimes I don't hear Him as He whispers,

I have loved you with an everlasting love . . . and underneath are My everlasting arms . . .

the woods

My child-self would hate me right now.

Even as the thought came to me, I pushed it away. My practical adult-self listed reasons why I should mow the plants that had always provided a feeling of wilderness to my childhood haunts. But still, a feeling of guilt, almost betrayal, lingered in my mind. With every push of the mower, I could feel the stomach-gurgling nausea that arrived whenever something outdoors was changed, or destroyed, or molded by humans. Still, I knew that the weeds were breeding grounds for mosquitoes, an unsightly mess, and needed to be mowed. And I did feel satisfaction at the neatness I left behind me.

After I finished mowing, though, I took a rake and attempted to remark the paths I had run so many times in the past. Even as I did, I knew it didn't matter; there were no more pairs of small feet to scamper through what I used to call "woods" but now saw as a scraggly patch of trees.

And so I raked the paths one more time, smiling and waiting for the day when a smaller version of myself would stand with her hands on her hips, and demand that I leave "Grandma's woods" to their natural condition. I knew that I would acquiesce to her demands, and I knew that once again, the woods would grow wild, and the paths would be worn away by small feet. But, for the time being, the woods were tamed into just an extension of a lawn . . .