gather up your jackets, move into the exits

Closing time
Open all the doors and
Let you out into the world

I was thinking about this song last night, while I was closing up the library.  It's such a sweet feeling at the end of the night-- switching off all the lights, closing and locking all the doors, making sure the computers are shut down or monitors are turned off, tidying what needs to be tidied, gently shooing out those whose dark-circled eyes testify that they should have been asleep hours earlier, listening to the quiet hum of the library-- its lights, patrons, computers-- subside into stillness.  It's a release, of types, to shut off the last light, make my way across the dark lobby, and lock the last door behind me.

Closing time
You don't have to go home
But you can't stay here

Closing the library is a comforting feeling, but now it's come time to close something else.  On May 15, along with a few hundred others, I'll climb a few stairs, walk across a platform, shake hands with the president of the university, receive a bound case, and descend another few stairs.  But in those few moments, I'll have done more than walk a few yards.  I'll have walked from one stage of my life into the next.

Closing time
Time for you to go out
To the places you will be from

I suspect closing the university stage of my life will not be as comforting, nor as sweet, as closing up the library.  Instead of having the peaceful knowledge that I can come back and things will be just the same, just as I left them, I will be leaving and knowing that in my absence, everything will change.  I won't be back next semester, or next year.  In fact, it's highly unlikely that (except for brief weekend visits), I'll ever return.  That scares me, yet (just like closing the last door of the library) it's a release.  Instead of a gentle release, though, this is an adrenaline-raising, head-spinning, heart-thumping, spine-tingling uncertain release-- like the breaking of a dam.  And I'm not sure how I feel about it entirely.

For now, I'll treasure my last few weeks of school.  It's the little moments-- a random meal conversation, an unexpected visit at the library desk, a spontaneous walk, an unplanned discussion after class, a surprise note in my mailbox-- that have made my life here so fulfilling and precious.  I don't want to miss any others that might come my way.  I feel time starved, like I'm greedily snatching and storing away each minute that comes my way, and to an extent, I suppose that's true.  In these last few weeks, I want to slow everything down and savor the whirl of life around here.

So I think, tonight, when I switch off the last light in the library, I won't hurry to the door.  Tonight, I think I'll take my time.

Closing time
Every new beginning
Comes from some other beginning's end

Here's to the beginning of whatever God brings next.

weary one

            Leah— she must have been a strong woman, a stubborn woman, a determined woman.  Maybe more than Rachel, she was Jacob’s match— clever, devious, quick.  She deceived the deceiver.  Perhaps that is why he didn’t love her; he saw, in her, a mirror of himself . . . and he was repulsed.
            And yet she, more than Rachel, was the mother of the nation of Israel.  She bore, from her own body, six sons and at least one daughter.  Rachel gave Jacob two sons— considering the sons of her maid, four— but Leah’s maid as well bore two sons, which means that Leah still gave Jacob far more children than Rachel did.
            It was Leah’s son who stepped up to replace her disgraced eldest son.  It was Leah’s son who became a man, going against the grain of his family and his culture.  It was Leah’s son who convinced Jacob to allow them to return to Egypt to buy grain to save the family.  It was Leah’s son who stood up to the most powerful man in Egypt in order to save a brother who had made his life miserable— doing this for the sake of his father, not himself.  It was Leah’s son who became the king-tribe.  It was Leah’s son whose line was promised to bring Messiah— the ultimate anointed one.
            Leah began badly.  Maybe she finished her life badly, too.  But no matter what she as a person did . . . she was the mother of Judah . . . the mother of David . . . the mother of Messiah . . . and she was used and chosen by God Himself.
            Maybe that is the beauty of Leah’s story, that God does not always choose the righteous ones, the ones who have everything right.  Maybe, through Leah’s story, God shows us that He chooses dysfunctional, unlovely, hated people; that He moves in strange ways; and that, He redeems our brokenness and mistakes . . . grave though they may be . . .

twue wuv

Valentine's Day.  Singles Awareness Day.  Forced Affection Day.

I've heard the legends. I've laughed at the angry rhetoric hurled at Hallmark.  I've observed the anxiety of young couples.  I've witnessed the sweet simple affection shown by devoted, experienced couples.  I've watched singles enter a spiral of despair, depression, self-pity and "righteous anger" at a day that doesn't fit them.

People, we have holidays to celebrate mothers, fathers, children, grandparents, presidents, veterans, and administrative assistants.  I don't see people freaking out when they don't fit into one of those groups.  But I do sympathize.  It's hard feeling alone when it seems that everyone else has someone special to love.  (And I do know-- try living four years totally single at Bible college.) 

But Valentine's Day was not originally a celebration of love and romance.  Does anyone even know what St. Valentine did?

(And if you said he performed marriages against the emperor's will, you're only possibly half right.)

Firstly, no one is exactly sure which Valentine the day is named for.  There were three of them who were martyred before the Pope announced February 14 as "St. Valentine's Day."  Just like Christmas, Valentine's Day was originally a replacement of a pagan celebration-- the Feast of Lupercalia, which was a day when boys and girls were, for once in the year, allowed to spend time together.  (But that's another story-- follow the link and read up on it if you want.)  In any event, even the Pope seemed unsure of what exactly the Saints Valentine had done to deserve their own day.  He simply wrote that it was to be a day to celebrate those "... whose names are justly reverenced among men, but whose acts are known only to God."  However, there was a rather legendary account about what the death of one of the Valentines.  The medieval book Legenda Aurea recounts Valentine's story something like this.

. . . St Valentine was persecuted as a Christian and interrogated by Roman Emperor Claudius II in person. Claudius was impressed by Valentine and had a discussion with him, attempting to get him to convert to Roman paganism in order to save his life. Valentine refused and tried to convert Claudius to Christianity instead. Because of this, he was executed. Before his execution, he is reported to have performed a miracle by healing the blind daughter of his jailer. (See this link for more information.)
It wasn't until much later that the legend about the secret marriage ceremonies arose.

Faith.  Courage in the face of death.  Love.  Concern for others' eternal destinies.  Forgiveness.  Sacrifice.
That was the legacy of the first Valentine.  Will it be ours?

Today, instead of being miserable because I'm single, I will celebrate Valentine's Day by sharing my faith with my governors.  (I'd encourage you to do so as well.  It's fairly simple to find e-mail addresses for our president, vice president, representatives, etc.)  I will celebrate by sacrificing my time and energy to show the love of God to the people around me.  I will forgive those I'm angry with.  I will show love.

And if, after all that, you still find yourself wanting nothing to do with Valentine's Day, celebrate the Chinese New Year instead.  It begins today-- The Year of the Yang Metal White Tiger.

Promised Land

I live in the land promised to my fathers, but I have not seen the promises fulfilled.

            Lifting my eyes, I lunge off the dusty road to dodge the galloping horses.  As I stand in the field, the sunlight flashes off the armor and swords of the soldiers.  One, two, three of them— they rush by and they are gone.  But they are not gone quickly enough for me to miss the wild dark terrified eyes of the man tied behind one of the soldiers.  Swallowing the bile that rises in my throat, I clamber onto the road and trudge on.
            I have been a slave in my own land since I was born.

Instead of joy, I know fear.

            I have heard the stories from my father, who learned them from his father, who learned them from his father, and so on— stories of our land before it was taken captive, and our people imprisioned with it.  The land was a good land, they say, a land so fertile and rich it spilt milk and honey.  No man knew what it was to starve; no child wandered the streets crying for bread.
            Things were not like they are now.

Instead of fruitfulness, I know desperate need.

            I squint out over my land, shielding my eyes from the blazing midday sun, breathless against the hot wind sweeping against my body.  This land is mine, yes, but it is not mine.  I have never known the luxury of having enough to provide over and above what my family needs.  I have never known the joy of willingly giving what I know the LORD required of me.  Taxes weigh heavily on us; we scrape out a living, praying that we will have bread each day for our children to eat.
            I know we brought this punishment upon ourselves.

Instead of blessing, I know cursing.

            I have read from the prophets, understood the words they spoke against our stubborn hearts and our prideful actions.  Our fathers sinned against the LORD, and we have followed in their footsteps.  Gladly they went to the temples of the land gods, those demons they thought would restore the fertility and joy of their home.  Willingly now we turn to the power of our own hands, our swords and scythes and bows.  As our fathers, we have neglected repentance.  We prefer to find our own way of salvation.

Instead of peace, I know strife.

            Suddenly, I glimpse my little child running toward me.  She laughs as she reaches me, and I sweep her up into my arms, tousling her curls.  I hold her close against my heart and shut my eyes.  Perhaps, though I myself have only known captivity and oppression, things will be different for my daughter.  Perhaps, though the LORD has punished us, He will yet be merciful and rescue us, as He has promised.

Our land is not a home; it is a prison, a wilderness.
Will You return, O LORD?
Deliver us!

dancing in the dark

. . . . . breathtakingly clear winter nights.

. . . . . . . . . . hugs that make me feel like I get a little bit lost.

. . . playing with hair.

. . . . . . Greek "support group," nine AM, Monday-Wednesday-Friday.

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . family of all types-- genetic, spiritual, and unspoken.

 . . . letters and those who write them.

 . . . . . . . .old family photos.

 . . . Peanuts.

 . . . . . . . . . . unbridled unashamed laughter.

 . . . . . .righteous anger.

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the internet allowing me such quick access to people hundreds or thousands of miles away.

. . . people who challenge me.

 . . . . . . . . . puppy kisses.

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the comforting limp weight of a sleeping child against my chest.

 . . . . . pick-up trucks.

 . . . . . . . . . crunchy autumn leaves.

 . . . . . . . .  . . . . . . . . . . . snuggly cats.

 . . . running water.

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a body that doesn't place severe limitations on my life.

 . . . . . . . . . . . soft warm enveloping blankets.

 . . . . . the comfortable smell of a loved one's skin or soap or laundry detergent.

 . . . . . . . . . school breaks.

. . .the almost-burning feel of gorgeous summer sun kissing my skin.

 . . . . . . . bare feet.

 . . . . . . . . . . babies.

 . . . beautiful white- or grey-haired people.

 . . . . . . . . . penguins.

. . . . . . . . . . . beards, goatees, mustaches.

. . . . . brave people.

. . . . . . the reckless colors of spring.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . blood, literally and spiritually.

. . . . . . . . . . . trees.

. . . . . the voluminous amounts of beautiful contrasts in the world.

. . . . . . . tears.

. . . mercy.

. . . . . love.

. . . . . . . tenderness.

. . . . . . . . . . firmness.

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . my God and His protection, His rescue, His comfort, His constancy, no matter how much I fail . . .

Traitor

I hummed to myself, smiling at the little boys racing around my legs, and wove my way through the chattering laughing crowd. A bright fruit stand caught my eye, and I paused, swinging the basket on my arm. I glanced up, trying to decide how much I wanted to spend, and something up near the top of the street caught my glance. It was just one figure, trudging along, but I froze as I recognized him.
            It was Mark.
            I started running, skirting old women and talkative merchants, dodging young mothers balancing babies and baskets on their hips, avoiding unsteady carts and skittish pack mules.
            “Mark!” I screamed, waving my arms. His head snapped up, and he scanned the crowd. “Mark!” I screamed again, snatching off my headscarf and waving it over my head. He saw me then, and he stopped where he was. Not thinking, not pausing, just shocked and overjoyed to see him, I burst out of the crowd, still running, and flung myself at him. Just like old times, he caught me around the waist, but as soon as he touched me, I knew my mistake. He was taller, stronger, bigger than when I’d last seen him. While he’d been gone, he’d become a man, and I, a woman. We were no longer children, and there was no propriety in my actions.
            He spun me around, like he’d always done, then set me down. I stepped back, flushed and embarrassed, and draped my scarf back over my hair.
            “It’s good to see you,” I managed. His eyes flicked to my face for a second, then back down the ground, and I realized he’d not smiled once. Nor was he looking at me; instead, his eyes roved over the buildings, the sky, the market, the ground—anywhere but me. I flushed more deeply. I’ve shamed him, I realized, and I dropped my eyes as well. “I’m sorry if I offended you, sir,” I said, my voice low. Mark made a sound, deep in his throat—either a sob or a gasp, I couldn’t tell—and I glanced up at him.
            “Don’t call me that, Sarah,” he muttered. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he stared out toward the horizon. I felt my temper rise and my patience failed.
            “Why not?” I burst out, my anger flashing through my heart. “You’ve grown up while you’ve been gone! We’re no longer children! I owe you respect, as any woman owes a man respect!”
            I stopped, shocked at my lack of restraint, and covered my mouth with one hand. Shouting at him was something I would have done far in the past. But Mark just laughed, sounding bitter.
            “That’s what you think? Well, let me tell you what I’ve really become. I left them, Sarah—abandoned them when they began to need me most. I did exactly what I did with Jesus, only this time—” He lifted anguished eyes to meet mine. “This time,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t go back.” Again, he stared at the ground, kicking at the dust. “I was more of a man then, as a child, than I am now.” His voice was sad, and I stared at him, silent and devastated. He looked up and smiled at me, his eyes sharp, his lips tight. “Well?” he asked. Slowly, I shook my head.
            “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice quiet. “I’m so sorry, Mark.” Surprise crossed his face, and his shoulders jerked. Then he frowned.
            “Sorry for what, Sarah? Sorry for a traitor?” he snapped. I shook my head again, feeling helpless.
            “No, not that at all.”
            “Then what?” I’d never seen him that impatient, and I wasn’t sure what to do except tell him the truth.
            “I’m sorry you failed like that.” My words were blunt, and I expected him to be furious. Instead, I watched in horror as his face crumpled. He turned away quickly, but I had already glimpsed the tears on his face. “Mark,” I murmured, reaching toward him, but he jerked his arm away.
            “I don’t need your pity.” His strangled voice belied his words, and I bit my tongue. He wiped his eyes, then faced me. “Goodbye, Sarah,” he said, his eyes hard and cold. As he began to walk away, I dropped my basket and grabbed his arm. He stopped, refusing to look at me, but I shook him slightly.
            “Where are you going?”
            “Home.”
            “And you’re staying there?”
            “No.”
            “Mark, your mother will be—”
            “Don’t tell me what she will or won’t be!” His voice was sharp and bitter, and I released his arm. “She’ll be glad, Sarah, when she finds out what I did. She’ll be glad I’m leaving.”
            “You’re leaving the city?” I gasped.
            “Did you think I could stay here after what I’ve done?”
            “Mark—”
            “No.” He faced me again, putting his hands on my shoulders and shaking me. “Don’t say anything else.” For a moment, we stared at each other—I , trying not to cry; he, just staring at me with empty eyes. Then he took his hands off my shoulders and jogged away. I stood still, as if rooted to the ground, trying to gather myself.
            “Mark!” I cried. He didn’t stop. I tried again, louder—“Mark!” Soon he was out of sight in the winding streets, and I was left alone. My mind reeled with what he’d told me, and I tried to decide what to do. Tears blinded me, but I wiped my eyes hard, stooped to pick up my basket, and began running. He’d said he was going home. My only chance was to beat him there and make him stay. He was fast, but I knew strange little alleys and back ways that I knew he’d not think of. My urgency pushed me faster than I’d ever run before, and it was only a few minutes before I burst into Mary’s house.
            “Sarah!” Mary leapt up from the loom, her eyes concerned. “What is it, child?”
            “Mark,” I panted. “Where is Mark?” Mary’s eyes widened, and she took my hand.
            “Mark’s not been home for months, child,” she said in a low voice. “Surely you remember that.”
            “Yes, yes, I know. But I saw him in the market, and—and—”
            “You saw him?” Mary gasped. Before I could open my mouth to answer, there was a knock at the door. I grabbed Mary by the shoulders.
            “Don’t let him leave,” I whispered, my voice fierce. “No matter what he says, make him stay.” Mary stared at me, looking like she thought I was crazy, then went to answer the door. I heard her scream Mark’s name, then burst into tears. I dropped my things in a corner of the room and sat down to wait for them to come in. In a few moments, Mary led Mark into the room, laughing and crying and trying to talk. I met Mark’s eyes and nodded to him.
            “Sarah.” He returned my nod as his mother hugged him again.
            “I can’t believe you’re back, safe and sound!” she sobbed, burying her face against his neck. “Oh, my son, how I’ve worried about you!”
            “You needn’t have worried, Mother.” His voice was still as cold as it had been, and I shivered. Mark pulled back from his mother, and she stepped back, confusion in her eyes, as he continued. “At the first sign of trouble, your son showed himself for what he is—a coward concerned with only the safety of his own hide.” Mary’s eyes widened, and she flashed a glance at me. “Oh, so Sarah told you already,” Mark snapped, glaring at me. “I see.”
            “No,” Mary gasped. “She did not. She—she only said to keep you here and not let you leave. I—I didn’t know why . . .”
            “But now you do?” Mark cut in. “Well, Mother, I knew what you’d say—I knew what everyone would say—before I even came back. I only stopped to get my money, a few extra changes of clothing, some odds and ends, and then I’ll—”
            “John ben-Mark.” Mary’s voice was quiet, but both Mark and I froze at her tone. I saw Mark pale at his full name, and he dipped his head.
            “Yes, Mother?” His voice was meek as his mother glared up at him.
            “If you think I’d even think of letting you leave—” she seethed, her eyes furious. “John ben-Mark, don’t you know me? Don’t you know the Lord you serve at all?” Mark paled even more, and dropped back a step.
            “What does that have to do with this?” he muttered, licking his lips. Mary planted her fists on her hips.
            “Everything!” she cried. “John ben-Mark, did you not learn anything during your time with Jesus?”
            “Mary—” I tried to interrupt, but she whirled on me and I shut my mouth.
            “Will you excuse me and my son, please?” she asked, her voice furious, and I understood she wasn’t angry at me. “We have some talking to do.” Reluctantly, I stood up and made my way to the door, stopping only to pick up my headscarf. Once I was outside, I walked a few steps away and sat down on a neighbor’s step, resting my chin on my hands and my elbows on my knees.
            It seemed like hours before the door opened and Mark stepped out. I scrambled to my feet and began to speak, but was stopped by the sight of the traveling bag that swung at his hip.
            “So you’re really leaving,” I whispered, tears choking me, and he nodded. I stepped forward, stretching out my hands. “But why didn’t Mary—”
            “Oh, it’s not for lack of her trying,” he told me. “She tried, all right—talked up one wall and down the other, but after all that . . . she agreed to let me go.”
            “Mark . . .”
            “Don’t talk to me about it, Sarah.” He lifted one hand in warning, then jerked his head. “Walk with me?” The question was so plaintive, so much like other questions he’d asked when we were children, that I simply nodded. We fell into step together and walked in silence for a few paces. My mind whirled with arguments to give him, questions to pose to him, clever persuasions I could present. But no—I could see from the stubborn tilt of his chin that his mind was set. As we drew closer to the city gates, the streets became more and more crowded, until finally, our walk had become a slow trudging gait. Just as we reached the gate, I stepped in front of Mark and laid one hand on his arm, forcing him to stop.
            “Won’t you stay?” I kept my tone gentle, so gentle he had to lean down to hear what I said, and I saw him waver for a moment. Then he set his jaw and shook his head.
            “Don’t try to convince me,” he said, his voice sharp. “I know what I did; I know what I am. I can’t stay here, I can’t watch the eyes shifting away from me, hear the tongues wagging behind hands, know what people say and think. I can’t do it, Sarah. I can’t bear it.”
            “Do you forget what I was?” My voice was quiet, but Mark recoiled as if I’d slapped him.
            “Sarah, this isn’t about you.”
            “You’re right, it’s not. But things I’ve done—” I couldn’t go on, and Mark touched my hand.
            “Don’t talk about it. It’s over. You know you’re forgiven.”
            “How can you say that to me?” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. “How can you say that to me, when you won’t believe it for yourself?”
            For a long moment, Mark stared at me. Then he bent forward and kissed my forehead, as if I was his blood sister.
            “I have to go, Sarah,” he whispered, resting his head against mine. “I just . . . I just need to leave for now.”
            “Go in peace, then.” I was weeping now, and not even trying to hide it. “Go in peace and return safely to us.” For a moment, Mark was silent. Then he stepped back and looked me in the eyes.
            “Goodbye, Sarah.” His words were simple and held no promise, but neither did he refuse my plea. As he turned and walked away, I stood and watched him and cried. My tears were not for myself and his mother; my tears were for my friend who believed there was no forgiveness for what he’d done.
            I trudged back to Mary’s house and slipped inside. As soon as Mary saw me, she opened her arms and I fell into her embrace. We needed no words, but simply stood and cried together. As my tears slowed, I wiped my eyes.
            “Why, Mary?” I whispered. “Why does he have to leave?”
            “Oh, Sarah,” she murmured, stroking my hair back from my face. “I told him he didn’t have to. I tried to remind him of the love and forgiveness Jesus offers. But for now, he can’t see it. And so I agreed that he could leave. It won’t be forever, child—” She hugged me tightly again. “But for now, this is what he needs to do. So I let him go.”
            “You’ll miss him so,” I sobbed into her shoulder, my tears bursting forth again. “I’ll miss him,” I choked out. She nodded, her own tears dripping down her face.
            “Yes,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “Yes, I will. But I know sometime, when he realizes what forgiveness really is, when he remembers what love has done for him, he’ll be back.” She pulled back, smiling into my face, and nodded, wiping my tears away. “Yes,” she whispered in my ear. “He’ll be back.” And she hugged me once more.

surviving the martyrs

It’s just another Jew.

    Oh God, oh God, oh God—why, why, why?

Better to let them have this one than to lose control of the nation.

    Why him, why . . .
            . . . my lover. . .
        . . . my father . . .
                    . . . my brother . . .
    . . . my hero . . .
            . . . my son . . .
    . . . why, God?

Let them think they’ve regained some control.

    Speak for me!

It was just a Jew.

    Defend my cause!

No one even knows his family name.

    Protectors of Israel—a lie!  Carry out the vengeance due to me!

It was quick.

I heard his screams.
            I heard his bones crunching, snapping, shattering.
        I heard the stones thunk against his flesh.
I saw the blood spurt up from his wounds.
        I saw the wild agony flashing in his eyes as he fell.
            I saw the glee on the faces of his murderers.
I felt the raw scream rise in my own throat.
        I felt the slap of a Pharisee, shoving me back from rushing in to save him.
    I felt the dust coating my tongue and throat as I sobbed my horror to the skies.
                I was there.
    I saw him, meek.
        I heard him, forgiving.
            I felt his spirit, shuddering, rise from his body
                        though they would not let me cradle him.
                    I watched him die
                                    slowly
                            agonizingly
                                     alone.

 No one cares.

   My life is empty.
            Who will care for me, protect me?
        Who will teach me?
    I want nothing else but to die, as he did—die and be with him.
                I am alone.
            I am angry.
        I am hurt.
            Who will hear me when I cry?

Stepping in will only stir up the embers of revolt.

    Why did no one stop it?  I saw them, lounging at the gates.  I heard them, shouting and mocking and goading and heckling and laughing.  I ran, begging, to them, needing help, but they shoved me back and shouted words I didn't know.
    I know they saw.  I know they heard.  I know they knew.  Why did they not stop it?

It was just another Jew.

    Is there a protector left for me, now that he is gone?
        I have been failed by all that was supposed to protect me—
                my priests
                    my teachers
            my government.
                    They all ignored my pleas.
            Does anyone hear me?
                Does anyone cry with me?
                    Does anyone care?

I do.

I am the LORD your God.

I hear your cries.  I know your pain.  I share your tears.

And I am here.

I am

the Helper of the orphan

a Father of the fatherless
a Judge for widows.

I support the fatherless and the widow.

I execute justice for the orphan and the widow.

I am here,

cradling you in My everlasting arms.

I will never leave you.
I will never forsake you.

I will never fail you.

I love you with an everlasting love.

I am here.

Trust Me.