This past Sunday, as I was praying in one of those sorts of prayers that is essentially "thinking in His presence", I was expressing my desires to serve the Lord more and my present state of less than abundant resources. But are we not, I thought, always in a state of lack? Will a day without the urgent ever come? Will a discipleship relationship with a young woman ever just "fall into place"? Will a commitment to pour myself out as an offering ever exist that doesn't call for some kind of sacrifice? Does God only take pleasure in numbers? Is He only impressed when I give Him big things? Surely God calls us to give in our lack, to serve out of our feebleness and last ounce of flour. Negative space will follow us for the rest of our lives. The question is: what will we do with what we have already been given? Of course, sometimes I believe there is a time when we are not to give in some way, to wait in good time and trust in the Lord. But when He tells us to begin pouring from the basin of our lives, our part is to give every last drop for Jesus. Don't spend time calculating your smallness, spend time giving yourself anyway. Do not hoard your pennies, if that is all that you have. May Jesus grant us the grace to give extravagantly out of our barren state.

 And He sat down opposite the treasury, and began observing how the people were putting money into the treasury; and many rich people were putting in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which amount to a cent. Calling His disciples to Him, He said to them, “Truly I say to you, this poor widow put in more than all the contributors to the treasury; for they all put in out of their surplus, but she, out of her poverty, put in all she owned, all she had to live on.”

-Mark 12:41-44

O come, O come, Emmanuel

                                                          And ransom captive Israel

                                                     That mourns in lonely exile here

                                                       Until the Son of God appear

                                                       Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

                                                       Shall come to thee, O Israel.

We are all perpetual Messiah seekers. For some of us, it is the seeking of His presence in the final climax, to share in that bread and wine with Him and see Him as He is. For others, it is that first glance, that first brush of His robe, that skin-to-skin contact that awakens them to Love and Life. For still some others, which belong to the first party, the groaning extends beyond our own existence. It stretches over families, it stretches over cities, it stretches over continents and cultures. Some of our carry-on belongings are borrowed bags with loved ones' names on them. Messiah, come! We pray. Emmanuel, come! Not just for us. For them. 

2 Peter 3:9 has become one of my favorite verses to praise God with in this mourning for others. "The Lord is not slow about His promise, as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing for any to perish but for all to come to repentance." What does this mean? Every day is a gift of mercy. Every day is the Lord giving room and time and grace for more sinners to repent and come to life, for Heaven's Hallelujah to sing a little louder. 

Are you, like Israel, looking for a Messiah full of grace and truth? Call upon the man named Jesus, and sit at His feet and listen. Are you, a child of God, not only longing for the pervading presence of the Messiah in your own life, but for Him to enter the lives of others? Cling to the hope that each day passing is an opportunity for hope, an opportunity to love them more deeply and truly and to stand in the gap in prayer for them. The Messiah is God with us. The Messiah is God for us.

We all live in constant states of limitation. I've been twenty-three years old for 6 months, and I keep forgetting that I'm older than twenty-two. It's a little disturbing to forget how old you are and to realize that you've forgotten. Sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one--these were landmarks, but after twenty-one, who's counting? Of course there are our "coming of age" dreams--perhaps twenty-four is a "stable" job, twenty-five is marriage, twenty-six is children. We scribble out our roadmaps and smile with squinty eyes at the only square-inch of road we can make out in front of us under the blazing sun. Man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps. For those who belong to Him, this is good news.

In May I wore one of those funny square hats and long boxy gowns. I shook the hands of others who wore even puffy-er dresses and plumpy-er hats--those whom I loved, loved even to the point where it hurt. Months later, I received the sheet of paper with my name on it, lying in the company of curly signatures and cursive fonts. It looked pretty, pompous and important. Chapter 22 came to a close, and Part II had begun.

I stand in the middle of 23, and my eyes are all squinty. They say that if I hold them half-closed for too long they'll stay that way, but I keep hoping I will be able to make some shapes out of these landscapes if I stare hard enough.

I find myself in a constant state of joy and sorrow. I don't find myself in the generalities, I find myself in the multifaceted world of real life. If someone asks me how I am doing, my answer will never be wholly true, and I may just say "good" because giving a true-r answer would just be too much to unload. I expect that this is the way it is for us all.
Right now, in the midst of a thousand complexities, I find the old dream of marriage stirring these slowly yellowing pages. The equal presence of joy and sorrow is so evident in this. There is such a sweetness in relishing the gift given to you, taking it up to your lips and inhaling this sweet truth: "The woman who is unmarried, and the virgin, is concerned about the things of the Lord, that she may be holy both in body and spirit; but the one who is married is concerned about the things of the world, how she may please her husband. This I say...to secure undistracted devotion to the Lord." How sweet is it to use the freedom of singleness to serve? How precious is it to use our abundant resources not for the selfish desires of our flesh, but for the pouring out unto others? Few have this gift and opportunity. Few are able to serve Jesus so recklessly in such a boundless sphere. I have been learning to frolic in this meadow, to wave my arms more and more freely in a dance of worship within these boundaries He's placed me in.

The sorrow, however, teaches me I am not Home yet. I have sin. I live in a world broken by sin. Loneliness is real. I believe that loneliness can be present in marriage, but I also wonder if there isn't a loneliness that you forget after you've been married for awhile. Every season holds its own difficulties and celebrations, and we forget those of the last season so that it's hard to compare.

Recently, in those half-sober moments of sleep, I decided I should write a list of pros and cons about marriage and singleness. Somehow it sounded very rational and reasonable to make a list, and I later ended up scribbling some thoughts down. I thought that it might give me some insight, perhaps helping me discern what God's best looks like for me. What did I find? Both marriage and singleness are good. Both are sanctifying. Both are difficult and painful. Both can be gospel-proclaiming and pleasing to God. Both are tainted by sin, both are teeming with temptations and potential lies. Both are circumstances, and neither will give my heart full satisfaction. Neither will give me what I need:

 "Not that I speak from want, for I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am. I know how to get along with humble means, and I also know how to live in prosperity; in any and every circumstance I have learned the secret of being filled and going hungry, both of having abundance and suffering need. I can do all things through Him who strengthens me."


Every choice has its freedoms and limitations. Every circumstance has its boundary lines. Laughter and sobs will mingle until the day He wipes every tear from our eyes. But the joy of knowing Him is expressed in the context of every stepping stone of my life. He knows what kind of life circumstances will most glorify Himself in this moment, and this sets me free from hopelessly aching for marriage in singleness and singleness in marriage.

I can be content, whatever the circumstances, for the Lord Himself is my portion.

The Lord is my shepherd.
I shall not want.

My worries come in costco-sized packages, in over 32 flavors, in every shape and size imaginable. They run even deeper than I know. In order to lay them at Your feet I have to lay prostrate before You so that they can all fall at Your feet. It's not like I'm only holding one in my hand. I don't know if it's really even accurate to "let them fall". Perhaps some will fall, being set on their own destruction, trembling at the sound of your voice and shattering at Your resonance. But I think You take others off my back. Some have taken up residence upon me, attaching themselves with the pursing of Judas' lips. You lift them up, and put them on You own back, and I feel the relief not only that I am not carrying them, but that You are the one carrying them.

Straighten my back, let me stand tall in the freedom You've bought for me to stand.

...They have bowed down and fallen, but we have risen and stood upright.-Ps. 20

He will not fear evil tidings; his heart is steadfast, trusting in the Lord.-Ps. 112:7

I am having a bit of a writer's identity crisis. Let me begin with the preface that for all of the emotional glitter and romance attached to the notion of the "writer", and for all of the ways I have secretly (or not-so-secretly) delighted in the idea of the "suffering artist" who is cursed with a kind of numinous sensitivity to beauty, I remain skeptical of these artistic personas and the ways that they elevate and isolate the artist. I enjoy reading books about writing, for an example, but I nearly always begin to detect a kind of ethereal or emotionally indulgent tone that I find myself drawn to in some respects, but it also sets my mind thinking as to discerning where the lines went from a lovely arrangement into a tangled derangement. I know that some would grab their pitchforks and blazing torches in an effort to feed it to the flame, but my time in college has taught me the habit of slowing down before I start a witch hunt. It doesn't mean that she will survive the trial, only that the evidence must be picked apart by a lot of sharp objects under a steady eye before the gravel falls. So I read those books on the soul of the artist with a colorful palate, mixing the innocence of the dove and the wisdom of the snake.

All of that being said, I'm at a strange place in life as it relates to writing. As I grew from my childhood into a young adult, I spent many many hours a day simply writing about anything and everything. It was full of all of the drama of the 12-year-old's heart, with plenty of scenarios involving lingering crushes that rose and fell with the seats chosen from Sunday to Sunday and youth group to youth group, and a thousand other dilemmas of more and less weight filled those hundreds of pages. They were full of prayers and dreams, fantasy tales and entries from my best friends. They were full of many things only God would care about now, and God has (and had) way more grace for me than I have for myself now when I look back on them. But through it all, God grew a love for writing in me. So I dreamed, and I wrote, and I grew older. Few of the strong dreams from my childhood have died. They've only been refined and matured through the years. But that doesn't mean they have become any clearer through time. The bone structure is clearer, but I couldn't describe the face. It's still only a rough draft. 

There were some classes in college that nourished my dreams--they were not spoiled, but given a trellis and commanded to climb. We were taught how to dig and find the richest of foods to feed to our guests. I've come to flee from the prosaic and the utilitarian--I shy away from the route of offering a message in multi-vitamin form. I believe in the swathing of harmony and rhyme, of salting to-taste with a squirt of lime. As a college graduate, I still want us both--myself and the reader--to taste, see, feel--for the words to go down in such a way that the reader is satisfied with the fragrant Denouement, a dish cooked well done and golden on the edges.

 I want the reader to be filled.

You are the scorned fancy

The forgotten dream

Your gentle whispers hide between yellowed paper leaves

Your silent thunder in the glistening eve

the silent revelation left

to the crawling things

Shadows draped, stretched transparent out to dry

Behind trunk, stem and stone

Stars wavering, waltzing 

on the iris's balcony arches 

glittering through austral, wincing glee

Light landing, aging

x-ray of veins, leafy marrow and pore

Heat caressing, muffling

warm as the womb where the heavens were born. 

On Truth and Freedom

Surely the world is one that confuses honesty with truth. One can be “true to one’s self” and untrue to the Truth. The world views the idea of “Truth” as a snare, as something that constrains and limits us:

 “We need universes that constantly expand! Moral boundaries create categories that are not real! Truth divides! Truth narrows our minds to one reality! Truth prevents us from defining who we are! It gives us a pre-made identity! It tells us to sit still, be quiet and keep our mouths shut. It tells us to throw away our toys, our joys, our name tags and customized profiles. Rebellion is noble. The shocking is glorious. Shame is a needless fetter, nourished by the spoonful with tradition. Take pride, dance in your nakedness. Let the world see your blood, your bile, your mucus, your grime. Let others see the work of your hands, your twisting, contorting, your melding and molding. Stand tall, and let your veins pop. Let your fingerprinted body take on this new skin. Finish your art with a varnish of sweat. Stand tall. This is your world.” 

And yet, the words of Jesus stand: “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.” Truth cannot be escaped from. If we close our eyes, it does not mean that the world disappears. If we cannot see truth, it does not mean it cannot see us. Truth is a threat...To some it is a threat of judgement, to others a threat of grace--a violence to the flesh and their sin. So they are afraid, and they build their own sandcastles. They play dress-up, they put paint on their skin and play their parts. They give new names to themselves. Their imaginations run wild, and possessed by them they run off the cliff. The rules of this game aren't written in ink.

But this isn’t just “them”. I know it’s me, too. I see these temptations in myself. The idea of creating my own reality, when I do not feel comfortable with Truth. Self-deception is alluring and inviting. Deception pretends to care, pretends to offer you...What?

 “That thing”. 

Deception is a very good salesman. 

“Woe to you who call good evil, and evil good.”

“Behold, You desire truth in the innermost being, and in the hidden part You will make me know wisdom.”

You shall know the Truth and the Truth shall set you free. 

Just a brush

Just a fleeting touch

He need not fix His gaze

Stop His eyes like fire

Upon my crumbling flesh

If I just—

If I can press—

My hand upon that One

In whom we

Live

Move

Have our Being

If I cannot kiss His feet

Grasp His arm

Hold His hand

One stroke will

Still an ocean

One touch will

Reverse death

One touch will 

Rock a stone cold heart

…As Jesus went, the people pressed around him. And there was a woman who had had a discharge of blood for twelve years, and though she had spent all her living on physicians, she could not be healed by anyone. She came up behind him and touched the fringe of his garment, and immediately her discharge of blood ceased. And Jesus said, “Who was it that touched me?” When all denied it, Peter said, “Master, the crowds surround you and are pressing in on you!” But Jesus said, “Someone touched me, for I perceive that power has gone out from me.” And when the woman saw that she was not hidden, she came trembling, and falling down before him declared in the presence of all the people why she had touched him, and how she had been immediately healed. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.”

-Luke 8:42-48