Kicking at the Darkness

Every year it seems I forget just how dark it can be in the morning. Each day, I expect a hint of light to greet me from the skies while I drive to work, but find only repetitive darkness as I succumb to the fact that we are quickly being buried deep into the belly of autumn. Still a month away from the solstice, the weather seems it has already subjected itself to winter with hints of snowflakes coming and going as they please.

This season, I feel uncomfortably thrusted into the holidays with little graceful guidance or warning for preparation. Then again, this season of life has been one where discomfort has seemed an indissoluble companion. Even the city where I presently reside, though exciting, still feels unnatural. As Louisa May Alcott so aptly put it when she moved to New York, “this new place is strange and I feel strange in it.” After six months you would think the strangeness would melt off, uncovering some sense of great purpose and higher calling. But, I’ve found it doesn’t always work that way. To claim that this life should be filled with comfort and naturalness would be foolish. In the midst of serving and following an extraordinary God, I can’t assume to lead an ordinary life.

One thing I can bank on is God’s faithfulness. And in recognizing His unmatched faithfulness, I recall that every moment of my life that was obviously marked by blessing was not a time of cozy comfort, but a time of uncertainty and, often, accompanied fear.

There have been times I was so afraid that my body has responded in an uncontrollable state of trembling. At 20, I remember sitting alone on the plane to India, aware of the fact it was too late to go home. Body shaking, I was uncomfortably sandwiched between an obese man and the cold glass of the circular plane window against my forehead as I intentionally pressed myself into it, attempting to avoid the body odor and physical contact of the unfamiliar man next to me. I just started to weep, the humming of the plane’s engine preventing anyone to hear. I tried pulling out the table in front of me to write, but the fat man’s right leg was impeding all of my personal space. I was trapped. I felt lonely, like I was a child again—entering into complete unfamiliarity with the knowledge that re-entering into the comfort of my mom’s arms was months away. I cried out to Jesus. I asked Him to be close to me. I remembered what He asked of Joshua, “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.” It invoked hope, but the fear refused to dissipate. It was hours before my body finally stopped shaking, and retired from exhaustion I fell asleep.

Fears didn’t flee in India; they piled high. Not only was the culture unfamiliar and communication near impossible, the workings of the spiritual world were blatant—much more obvious (and frightening) than anything I had ever encountered at home. The first two weeks, there were many nights I didn’t sleep because I was so filled with fear. Not only was fear stealing my rest, it was making time move slowly and home began to seem a place untouchable and so far from reach. But God had told me he would be with me wherever I go, and He loved me too much for my life and service to Him to be eaten away by something as irrational and paralyzing as fear.

At the beginning of my third week in India, a family from Houston, Texas, came to visit Rameswaram (where I was staying) for one day. They turned out to be the only westerners I saw over my entire visit. The Texan woman had come to speak at a women’s gathering in the Indian church that day. I sat on the ground somewhere nestled in the back of the room, my white face out of place amidst rows of clean, brown skin. The Texan woman began to preach about prayer—she was fiery about what she was saying, an Indian pastor translating every word into Tamil, the Indian women’s heads bobbing from side to side with agreement. As she was bobbing along the stage in her white sari, her excitement abruptly halted as she began staring at me straight through the crowd. Her eye contact was piercing. She opened her mouth after a long pause. “Honey”, she said in a compassionate way with her endearing southern drawl, “you have fear written all over your forehead.” I felt like I had been shot straight between the eyes. She was right on and I knew it. She proceeded, with the guidance of the Holy Spirit, to tell me all of the reasons I was afraid—things rooted deep in my past that I hadn’t shared to a soul in India, much alone with anyone back in the U.S. She paused for a minute, “I’m not embarrassing you am I?” she said. “No, no” I said back, a bit befuddled that she even asked (since no one around me spoke English and the translator had long since stopped speaking). I am sure the women around me were confused with her tenacity. Hundreds of eyes were on me, but I didn’t even care. I was singled out and it was just what I needed. I was overwhelmed with the thought that God loved me enough to speak to me directly through a woman who didn’t even know my name. “God wants you to rid your life of fear,” she said. “He wants you to walk out of this room today and not let fear follow.” I was surprised at how much of what she said emphasized the choice I had to make. I knew that my fear was not subtle; it had been a life-long companion since childhood that had followed me around like a pesky wanderer, paralyzing me for as long as I could remember. I was ready to be free. I knew I needed to choose God’s truth over my fear. That day, the entire church full of Indian women prayed for me. I remember going up to thank the Texan woman after the service, but finding it perplexing that she seemed a stranger when I chatted with her. I realized something was different when she was speaking to me in the crowd from the stage. The Holy Spirit had given her discernment beyond human knowledge or ability and that it was Jesus speaking to me in that moment, not her. That night as I went to bed I didn’t feel alone, I felt known. I had never before felt so known by God. It was humbling and my only response was to surrender. I surrendered my history of fear to Him and I was filled with a peace I still don’t understand. After that experience, fear continued to creep up but it never assailed me. Choosing trust over fear time and time again ended in blessing and my courage and faith began to build as a result.

This morning, nearly three years after India, I found myself driving to work in the stillness of almost-winter darkness. I think the greatest discomfort of darkness is not knowing just what’s in front of you. Fears, like liquid, began to run through my mind. Fears about relationships, the future, unanswered questions. Feeling defeated, I just started to cry. I thought of a beautiful picture Bruce Cockburn painted through the lyrics of one of his well-known songs:

“Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight
You gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight.”

That’s just it. This dark morning, just as that day in India, I wanted God’s peace to reign in place of fear. But through the struggle and discomfort of fear, we have to choose God’s peace and truth for Him to give it to us. And it often takes a spiritual battle of the mind for that to happen. But as we stand there, kicking the darkness of fear in the face, our feet bloodied by each blow, daylight does begin to enter. It seeps in small breaks at first, then suddenly it begins to pour forth like an uninhibited flood, covering every inch of our being—even areas we didn’t know existed.

The Sweetest Victory

Monday night in preparing for our weekly Young Life club, Brian (the Area Director) shared a familiar Bible story to encourage the group of listening leaders covering the couches and sitting in huddles on the floor…

Mark 4: 35-41
As evening came, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let’s cross to the other side of the lake.” So they took Jesus in the boat and started out, leaving the crowds behind (although other boats followed). But soon a fierce storm came up. High waves were breaking into the boat, and it began to fill with water.

Jesus was sleeping at the back of the boat with his head on a cushion. The disciples woke him up, shouting, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re going to drown?”

When Jesus woke up, he rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Silence! Be still!” Suddenly the wind stopped, and there was a great calm. Then he asked them, “Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

The disciples were absolutely terrified. “Who is this man?” they asked each other. “Even the wind and waves obey him!”

That evening, with wet clothes plastered to their body, the disciples experienced Jesus’ victory in one blatant, chilling second of transformation. I can just imagine the men in their moment of shame, whip-lashed by waves and brutally aware of their own fear—or intense lack of trust. Those words from Jesus must have been embarrassing to hear, “Do you still have no faith?” Still—after all their time following Jesus, learning at his side day after day, and he asks them, “Why...why are you afraid?” It was clearer than ever—they should have trusted Him—but instead they backed away in a trembling cower.

The waves were too big—the storm too incredibly mighty and ravaging to see any glimpse of victory in that moment of trial…

“No, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us.” Romans 8:37

Despite all these things. Despite the ugly giant of trial that stands in our way, its eyes glowing with fiery intimidation, despite the intense fear that captures our minds in its sweaty-palmed grip and continually squeezes harder, despite the absence of a bright and glimmering finish in sight, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ who loved us.

Victory does not come to us by means of clever escape or by volunteering another to “fix” the difficult situation. Victory comes by surrendering to the storm, the flame, the trial. The journey of becoming victorious in our mind, heart, flesh and soul can not begin until we give in. For anything to begin happening we must throw ourselves into the thick of the battle. We must jump right into the epicenter of danger and start fighting against the enemy that is trying desperately to overtake us. I find it interesting that in white water rafting when you come up against an obstacle you are told to jump downstream, towards the rock or obstacle in order to prevent a wrap or a flip. How counterintuitive. But there is a choice—to jump with courage into the obstacle itself or be swallowed by waves.

When we choose to go to battle in the midst of trial, we are not the victorious ones, Christ is victorious in us. He conquers that others might see the display of his powerful victory in our lives.

“To all who mourn in Israel,

he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,

a joyous blessing instead of mourning,

festive praise instead of despair.

In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks

that the Lord has planted for his own glory.

They will rebuild the ancient ruins,

repairing cities destroyed long ago.

They will revive them,

though they have been deserted for many generations…

Instead of shame and dishonor,

you will enjoy a double share of honor.

You will possess a double portion of prosperity in your land,

and everlasting joy will be yours.

For I, the Lord, love justice…

I will faithfully reward my people for their suffering

and make an everlasting covenant with them.

Their descendants will be recognized

and honored among the nations.

Everyone will realize that they are a people

the Lord has blessed.” (Isaiah 61)

The greatest example of victory I have ever encountered was, and continues to be, the magnificent change that has occurred in my dad’s life. My dad has battled bipolar disease for the entirety of his life. Now, after years and years of pain and the deep-seeded frustration that comes with leading a “double life”; the Lord has rewarded him for his suffering. In my last few blog posts I shared elements of who my dad used to be. Now, I can clearly see that God has exchanged “beauty for ashes and has brought a joyous blessing instead of mourning.” My dad is a very different man than he was just two or three years ago. Much of his change came about from the installation of different medications, but the true change in his heart and life did not take place until the day he decided to surrender to his trail. Even after surrender, victory certainly didn’t arrive overnight. I can clearly recall the extended period of waiting for change while watching my dad suffer mentally and physically in the process. There are still days of trial and frustration, angst and tears. But with gladness I can now say that, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is his through Christ, who loved him. My dad is a different man! Nothing in this world is more powerful to me than observing that transformation and record of change. Thanks be to Jesus for the power of victory!

And as He stands in victory,

Sin's curse has lost its grip on me;

For I am His and He is mine—

Bought with the precious blood of Christ.

-“In Christ Alone” lyrics

Battle Begins: Observing a Loved One with Bipolarity

He curls in on himself like a dead bird’s fist
Knees barred to chest with languid weeps of little boy
Wails of hollowed soul pair with cries
of grown man slipping through finger pulled hair
Contracted angst meets short breath

(Pause) before falling again

He’s warped metal in furied flame
Twist of mood turns to brief madness
The raging dip like hot fish dripping in batter and oil
Turning, frying, flipped against will

Dull eyes ignite

before turning to glass
Just waiting for glaze to become boiling rage
He curves like putty, malleable madman
Sweet gentle man turned listless again

Peeling Back the Foil

My sisters and I were like three worn out puppies as we sat in a huddled pile on the backseat bench of our family van with crusted dirt tagging our cheeks and foreheads. Lindsay, my older sister, started to fall asleep—head on my shoulder, her body wiggling a bit as her conscious began to slip and give way to lucid dreams that would pass the fourteen hours we had remaining to drive home from our vacation to Yellowstone National Park. Heidi, the youngest of the three, drummed her fingers against the surface of the car window, milky with fog. On the middle seat of the van, my four year old brother slept in his car seat, drool stringing from his thumb to his mouth. I listened intently as my mom and dad talked in the front. With sweet demeanor, my mom was pointing out the highlights of the trip—the glassy pools of iced-over water, the tiered layers of bubbling hot springs, innumerable buffalo—she listed them and chuckled a bit in memory of the buffalo. I joined with her in laughter from the backseat. Before long my dad abruptly interjected, “How are we going to afford this?” My father was a worried man and I had heard him ask that same question constantly. He always directed it in anger towards my mother as if she was responsible for wasting his wealth. She never did anything. None of us did. Yet he always had something to scream about, to rattle our fears, to make us question whether or not his insults and comments were valid. That car trip home from Yellowstone was a time that I never questioned, just believed. I believed every word he spoke, every hideous name he gave me or my mother. I had a way of detecting the waves of an approaching argument. The air changed and my parents’ conversation began taking on a certain rhythmic pattern. I waited for the breakout, as timely and predictable as the relentless geysers we watched emerging from crusted soil earlier in the week. My heart would pulsate with greater fervency leading right up to that moment of heat. Then, the moment it broke, my heart would stop, then slowly retard into a detained state of numbness that leveled and remained until the argument passed. I imagined my heart on ice—that living pinkish organ resting inside a white frozen box, impairing it just enough so that it lost its wild vibrancy, yet keeping it contained enough to survive in chilled stillness. During these times, I often found a way to preoccupy my eight-year-old conscience.

That day, I rested my forehead against the cool comforting stiffness of the glass van window. Then, I just stared. I watched the grooves of the window frame rattling slightly with motion, examined the road below us, it’s yellow markings resembling a line of flying darts—one shot right after the next. I closed one eye, then the other, creating a new picture that widened or shrank and jostled back and forth with each blink. I watched the trees passing; let them melt together slightly as I squinted my eyes, my lashes hovering and reminding me of little spider legs. These mindless games made a hush of the noise of my parents, and soon enough their voices were nothing but a tonal sliding and buzzing.

Before long, my father pulled over at a rest stop, to “cool off”. He slammed the door of the caravan and shuffled right and left before he committed to a direction and walked quickly away in frustration. I watched the heat of his mouth turn into puffs of smoke in the chilled air. Without fail, one of the four of us always asked my mom whether or not he would return—we had little reason to believe he would want to. She always lulled and pacified us with her words of stillness. She reached for each of our hands and squeezed them for an alleviating moment. She prayed for us, then for my dad. I could never understand how she would pray with such intensity and deep seeded care for him, her voice wavering with unrest, but consistent with some supernatural hope. “Amen” we all said together, my brother Christian and sister Heidi red in the face with tears, and Lindsay and I back to back, holding up each other’s weight carefully.

After an hour we were still waiting, Christian had fallen back asleep and we had all left our spots and were climbing over and underneath the bench seats like they were caves. I laid still on the floor, settled my back against the curved edge of the trunk and combed the carpet with my fingers. My mom suggested we all get ourselves a surprise from the vending machine. She passed us each a few shiny dimes and quarters and we walked hand in hand, Lindsay leading, to the vending machine. Lindsay bought a plastic purple ring with a Carebear on the surface of the boxy gem. Heidi and Christian both chose gummy bears, and I stood there, always the careful one, wanting to make the perfect decision. A pack of mixed fruit mentos caught my eye and I quickly made the purchase.

When we returned to the car, I nested in the backseat amongst some overstuffed sleeping bags. I held the candy package in my palm, thinking about how much was inside and how long I could make each mento last—maybe even all the way home to Seattle. I thought about how much I adored the pink strawberry mentos and how I really didn’t care for the orange or the yellow. Buying an entire package was worth it, even if only two or three pink mentos were found inside. In the moment, all I desired was the tangy sweetness of the pink flavor. For some peculiar reason, my mind remembered a moment sitting with my mother just before bed, her reading the Bible to me with my head cradled in her lap. “If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish and it will be given to you” she read out of John 17. She explained this verse to me in simple terms—that if we follow Jesus wholeheartedly, he will give us what we ask for if it’s a part of His will. My child-like faith captured this verse, storing it deep in my mind, only to rise quickly when all I desired in the world was for pink mentos to emerge from below the foil wrapping in my hand. I squinted my eyes tightly and prayed, “Jesus, if it’s your will, I would like all pink mentos this time.” I really believed this could happen. I wanted to see if God could really do it. I started unwrapping by pulling a string of foil from the top. I felt like Charlie Bucket waiting for the golden ticket. I wondered if Charlie prayed before he peered into that chocolate bar. I kept opening, almost too afraid to look what was underneath. The first ring of foil came undone and there was one glorious pink mento, its waxy gleam coruscating with brilliance. My eyes widened and I reached to pluck the first treasure from the top of the roll. As I wrapped my tottering fingers gently around the candy, I pulled back slightly to reveal yet another pink pearl. Once more, I repeated and a third then fourth fell from the packaging. I began collecting them in my lap—placing them carefully just between my thighs, guarding them with the greatest immediacy. Suddenly, a zealous wave came over me and I ripped the side off the rest of the package. One by one they fell into my lap—each piece of candy pink—not a single orange or yellow. My jaw fell and my lips remained unattached for several minutes. I was speechless. What a wonder. Interestingly, I was more excited about God hearing my prayer than I was about the stack of brilliant pink gems in my lap just waiting for consumption. How did He do that? I thought to myself.

Before long, my dad returned to the car and without a word, we were back on the highway. He stayed silent the whole way home, despite my mom’s efforts to debrief and reconcile. Everyone became quiet again. We all just sat there for hours. My brother and sisters eventually fell asleep. Then my mom set her feet on the dashboard and laid down her exhausted head. Once in awhile, my dad’s eyes would catch mine in the rear view mirror, but I would look away quickly before he had a chance to speak something with them. I pressed my forehead against the glass for a second time, my dad heavy on my conscious, and I just stared. Instead of playing games with the scenery outside my window, I tried something new. I opened my lips slightly and in a quiet undertone I began to pray.

Ephesians 1:7
“In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace”

Last night I sat huddled with three of my Young Life girls between piles of pillows on the floor for “cozy night” at our Bible study. We nestled ourselves in blankets and down comforters, drank peppermint hot chocolate, ate warm cookies, and talked about bitterness. Yep, bitterness. A great topic for “cozy night”. Talk about a dichotomy. The true topic of the night was forgiveness, but what stemmed from it was the theme of bitterness that so often rules in our hearts in place of forgiveness.

I showed the girls two video clips—music videos from songs that, in my mind, accurately portray the binary of forgiveness in the mind of our culture and forgiveness as Jesus Christ describes it (“Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others” Col. 3:13).

Lately, many unfortunate memories from my past have been resurfaced—a reawakening of the wounds that I was sure were sealed by this point, and along with them, a resurgence of bitterness. The ugly thing about bitterness is that it does nothing to “fix” the person you are bitter towards—it only eats away at your own heart while the other person smoothly carries on with their life, unaware. In dealing with my own bitterness and struggle to forgive, I have been acutely aware of the way our culture encourages us to harbor bitterness, bottle pain, and stay angry forever. It certainly seems the natural thing to do. The first music video I showed the girls, “Apologize” by One Republic (featuring Timbaland) honestly portrays the destructive affects of bitterness with the repeated message written in the lyrics “It’s too late to apologize”. The video has incredible imagery. Objects symbolic of things eternal keep flashing on the screen—doves, a bride and groom, a wedding band—and all throughout the video they are continually spinning on a circular wheel. By the end of the video, all of these objects are destroyed—the bride and groom catch fire, a vase of water that was “preserving” a bouquet of flowers turns black and the flowers wither. The entire scene is laced with the repetitive phrase, “It’s too late to apologize.” Too late. The dark ink of bitterness has already spilt and ruined all that it has encountered.

The second music video, “I’m Not Who I Was” by Brandon Heath, has a drastically different tone and message from the beginning. Where “Apologize” is filled with a pounding musical angst, the melody of “I’m Not Who I Was” overwhelms the listener/viewer with a sense of lighthearted relief. It is gentle, smooth, and soothing. And of course, it is filled with the message of God’s forgiveness contrary to the bitterness of this world. The lines at the closing of the song say it all, “Well the thing I find most amazing/In Amazing Grace/ Is the chance to give it out/ Maybe that’s what love is all about.” There is this overarching theme of our lives being touched by the wonderful bliss of Christ’s love and forgiveness—the only natural response is to spill over with that same love and forgive others who have wronged us. The result? We can look back in laughter saying, “Wow, I’m not who I was!” Those who have been forgiven much, love much (Luke 7:36-8:3).

One video ending in combustion, fire and destruction; the other ending with release and a smile. Beautiful art that gives sign to the power of living the countercultural way—Christ’s way.

I posted the links of the two videos for you to watch yourself. Be blessed!

Ephesians 4:32
“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

http://youtube.com/watch?v=ePyRrb2-fzs ("Apologize")

http://youtube.com/watch?v=ZpOLyR8MwiA ("I'm Not Who I Was")

I wrote a letter to tell you....

Do you ever meet a person and wonder just what they are like beyond your brief moment of interaction? I find myself slipping in imagined truths between the cracks of the unknown--especially with strangers I repeatedly encounter. When I was a barista at Starbucks, I would often analyze the motives behind our "usual" customers. There was one slick-suited gentleman in particular that spoke only a handful of words to me each day who I found endlessly intriguing. Perhaps it was his uninterrupted routine that befuddled me--or maybe what that routine implied. I decided to write him a letter...to ask him the questions I may never find answers to.

January 27, 2007

To: Rick
From: Abbie

Today I drank peppermint tea with my neighbor while sitting at a cardboard box, the temporary remedy for a kitchen table until he can afford furniture. We sat there enjoying one another, legs criss-crossed on the calico carpet, bringing oversized white mugs close to our faces just to let the steam wander into our nostrils and across our cheeks. I watched my neighbor’s hands—defectless and tanned, curled gently around his mug like Akebia twining vines. His hands, almost too delicate for a man, spread extensively over the smooth porcelain, his pinky trailing and wrapping itself around the handle of the mug topped by the bud of his smallest fingernail. Ten perfected cuticles run into nails like little crescent moons, all the same width, length, and whiteness. It is the fastidiousness of his groomed hands that reminded me of you, Rick.

If it is possible, your hands are even more flawless. I know, because I have touched them myself. Even though just briefly, the graze of your skin against mine as you hand me money behind the counter at Starbucks each morning tells me so much about who you are, Rick—or who I think you might be. It is not just your hands that I have been reading for some time now, it is your face—particularly that smile. It is a smile that never seems to remove itself. A smile that is just as much a part of your attire as the slick suit, black as obsidian, that you wear each day with your tawdry ties set perfectly in the center of your chest--dissecting you into two indistinguishable symmetrical halves. A fulsome smile that rests somewhere between uncomfortably forced and sincere, as if you yourself haven’t decided which of the two you are. It is the predictability of this memorized grin that concerns me. That and the expedient tone of your voice every morning as you spout off your unchanging order, “five shots of espresso over ice with one Splenda packet, please,” a few moments of silence, then, “and a peppered bacon breakfast sandwich. Please.” Next, I call out that memorable total—$6.66—memorable ironically because it is the number of the devil, but more than that, because of its value. I have done the math. That’s nearly three thousand dollars a year devoted to high cholesterol, five shots of caffeinated liquid and aspartame that will keep that garish, wide smile wearable just long enough to make your next sale, win the favor of your next client, or slide into some irresistible promotion.

There is so much I want to ask you, Rick, as I reach into the register to give you your change—$3.34, everyday. You wear a ring; you must be married. You have children because I heard you mention their names. I wonder if they see you with the same frequency I do. I wonder if those five shots last long enough to supply you with ample energy to pick your children up, throw them playfully on your back, carry them to bed for a story or two after pushing them up the stairs by their feet, pretending they are wheelbarrows.

I need to apologize to you, Rick. I have tried to imagine you with your children, but it is harder than I perceived. There is something about the way your teeth gleam at the start of a new work day, coffee in hand, running off to your first love that more likely resides in a sturdy city building than at a kitchen table or on a living room floor. There is something so convincing about your collection of ties and the waxy gleam of your fresh hair cut that make it nearly impossible for me to imagine a child in your arms, capable of spoiling your beauty with the mustard on their hands or mud on their sneakers.

I want to wish you are an encouraging husband and a hero of a father, but my imagination doesn’t stem or stretch that wide. When I imagine you at home, I see a fabulously elegant residence with ornamental trimmings and a lawn so immaculate it makes the neighbors green with envy. I see your dignified home, one side removed so I can peer in like a dollhouse. There is so much space—a vast arrangement of rooms tiered in three stories. Inside the rooms I see you, your wife, your son and daughter. You are scattered like pins on a map, almost methodically, with three or four rooms separating one of you from the next. There is no converging in the middle, no use of the family room that lies directly in the center. No, the family room is far to distinguished, too opulent, too finely decorated for the messiness that comes with family— a game of Scrabble or a meaningful conversation. Each member of your family is instead occupying themselves alone, boxed away from the others. I see your wife downstairs in the home gym, reflective steel illuminating the room as she stands sideways in front of the mirror, red in the face from running on the treadmill, grabbing her sides with a repulsive expression. A floor above her and to the left is your son, diligently forming popsicle sticks into a box-like structure-- a science project for school. His eyebrows are pointed and arched with driven thought as he stacks one wooden stick on top of the next, terrified of failure (though he doesn’t recognize it). Alone in the far corner of the house is your daughter, purple flowers festooned on her head like a crown, jumping carelessly on her bed higher and higher until she nearly takes flight. She is the sole sign of unanxious security, too young to have yet faced any significant fears of her own. There is a spot on her bed just large enough for you to jump beside her, but you are miles away--on the far side of the house, deep in the den watching the Monday night game, tucked in a brownish leather chair like a hibernating papa bear hidden in the warmth of his dark cave.

As the vision of your house slips from my mind, a poem arises:

A sad story told by sad artifacts
We never thought might spell out our
own
A house divided as if split by
an axe
Two people sitting to their meals
alone

-- Artifacts, from The New Canon: An Anthology of Canadian Poetry, Carmine
Starino, Ed.

As I reach to place three dollars and thirty-four cents into the palm of your too-smooth hand, I think one last time of your household divided into sections that may never intertwine, separated by a family room that is too holy, too foreign to meet in together. I glance quickly at the line of customers stacking behind you, many of them with ties and smiles like yours. I wonder where they will end up this evening. Finally my fingers slip off the top of your skin and I watch your hand dip into the crevasse of your black wallet. I find myself wishing those hands looked more like the skin of your wallet—leathery and worn from too many nights spent juggling your kids on your shoulders. Or from washing dishes in scalding water beside your wife as you share a close moment. Or from placing slivered kindling into the mouth of the fireplace, directly in the center of the family room, while your children surround you just to watch as embers spark and fly into clouds of billowing warm smoke.

Your final move each day before you leave the coffee shop is to drop a clean dollar bill into the tip jar by my side. Thank you, Rick, for this gesture of quiet kindness. But today, I ask you to keep your change. Take it home with you, tucked safely in your pocket, and bring it out only if it is needed to purchase ice cream to eat banana splits and sundaes around the table with your family.

Sincerely,
Your Barista

“Poetry often enters through the windows of irrelevance”

- M.C. Richards

Sometimes observing the smallest details helps me comprehend the greatest truths. That feeling of looking into microscope only to realize I am looking in a telescope all at the same time—understanding the greater picture through noticing the minute, the peculiar, and occasionally the surprising.

A few weeks ago I ruminated over what seemed to be a spiritual truth found in a brief observation on the routine drive to work along Barbur Boulevard.

As my car stalled at a stoplight, I couldn’t help but notice the green Taurus pulled over just to the right of me—the mass of car mostly covering a mother hunched over her son who was red in the face from repetitive vomiting. A moment of repulse was quickly intercepted by compassion. He couldn’t have been more than six years old. He was having one of those “crying so hard you can’t catch your breath” moments that seem so overwhelming when you are young. He had drool all over his face and was fully relying on the comfort of his mom’s hand gently rubbing his back in little circles without regard to the line of cars filled with staring onlookers. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I imagine she was consoling him with gentle words—stopping her life for a few minutes on the highway to stay close to her son. At the same time, she was probably cheering him on—coaching him until his painful little trial had passed.

After the light changed to green, I kept driving—hurting for that little boy, thinking about what a painful, exhausting experience vomiting can be. I can think of few worse feelings than the incessant stirring of something within that must come out. The more I thought about it, I myself began to feel nauseated and suddenly had one of those spiritual epiphanies that “enter through the windows of irrelevance”. God started speaking to me about my sin and its paralleled nauseating nature. God wasn’t blasting a profound word through a megaphone within inches of my ear, either. It more like he was that mother on the side of the road, rubbing circles on my back, coaching me to get rid of all that was stirring inside of me—convincing me that even though I didn’t feel like “throwing up” my sin, that I would feel much better, far more relieved, if I did. There is such a liberation that comes with the upheaval of sin that is otherwise holding us back from pursuing abundant life in Christ. I so often “let the moment pass”...waiting to see if my spiritual sickness will just go away…rather than confronting it. Who wants to commit to something that they know will be physically exerting? Yet, to leave it there means even greater discomfort.

Ephesians 5:8-14
“For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light (for the fruit of the light consists in all goodness, righteousness and truth) and find out what pleases the Lord. Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret. But everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for it is light that makes everything visible. This is why it is said:

‘Wake up, O sleeper,

rise from the dead,

and Christ will shine on you’.”

Wildhorse Canyon!

Three years ago my mom received an urgent phone call from Wildhorse Canyon, a Young Life camp in Antelope, Oregon. It went something like this...

Mom: Hello?
Property Staff: Hi, is this Kristi Harkson?
Mom: Yes it is.
Property Staff: Hello, Kristi. This is the Property Staff from Wildhorse Canyon. We just wanted to call you regarding your son...
Mom: Oh no, what did he do?
Property Staff: Well, he and some other boys from his cabin decided to sneak out late last night.
Mom: (nervously) Uh huh...
Property Staff: They snuck out in the middle of the night, took the motorized go carts and decided to chase deer around the property while they were completely...well, naked.
Mom: (in such a "mom" way) Oh my.

What else do you expect from an 8th grade boy having the time of his life at summer camp? Nothing, I guess. Though youthful freedom may have been taken to the extreme by my brother, it was just a reflection of the essence of camp--to retreat for a week into a world of adventure and recreation, relaxation and...chasing deer in the buff.

This week I am headed to that very same camp, Wildhorse Canyon, where my brother was busted for his mindless tomfoolery and general disruption of the peace of local fauna. Except I won't be joining a band of incautious boys. I will be taking a group of lovely 8th grade ladies from Waluga Junior High. And I am thoroughly excited!

We leave this Thursday morning--myself, my co-cabin leader, Britta, our eleven girls, and the rest of the Lake Oswego Young Life gang--herding into over sized buses to venture south for a life-changing week of excitement, thrills and an expectancy to encounter God.

Here's where you come in. Would you please pray for us? I have only met four of the eleven girls in my cabin and I have yet to know their individual stories. It will be a week of introductions and a week of breaking-the-ice big time spiritually during our allotted "cabin time" where we will discuss the evening talks of the camp speaker.

The past month I have felt overwhelmed on just what to pray for regarding these girls. They come from all walks of life and most of them are complete strangers to me. Today the Lord was reminding me not to enter the week with fear or worry, but to go forth with gratitude in my heart. Gratitude and expectancy for what He is going to do. Praise and thankfulness for what He has already done. I have been so reassured by Romans 8--continually reminding me that when I don't know just what to pray for, the Holy Spirit takes care of it by praying for me. I know that if we lift these girls up by name in prayer, God will give us an abundance of reasons to have even greater gratitude and praise.

So here are their names...

Sam
Madeline
Dani
Gwen
Emily
Katie
Jenna
Chandler
Shelby
Mikaela
Paige

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

(Ephesians 3:20-21)

It's the little things, really.

Last night I stayed up far too late making blackberry pies and laughing with friends on the kitchen floor. Worth every minute, but the lack of sleep certainly took its toll on my body and spirits as I walked into work this morning feeling less-than-effective and obviously drowsy.

Anne (of Green Gables, of course) always said that "Each new day is fresh with no mistakes in it". I thought about the red-headed orphan's words this morning as I struggled to emerge from my cocoon of a down comforter. Instead of swallowing her words of optimism, I just wanted to punch Anne Shirley in the face. And maybe Gilbert Blythe, too... just for kicks. It was nearly impossible to get to work--even with both front windows of my car rolled down and the "Rent" soundtrack blaring.

I was talking to the Lord out loud on the way to work, "Lord, help me to serve you today. Take my mind off of me and give me a heart to work hard and serve you today. And if you could really just shake me and wake me up, too...that would be wonderful. Be my caffeine, Jesus." There is something so special about talking to the Lord--laying our lives before Him at the beginning of each new day. Opening up the lines of conversation and breathing Him in as our first breath instead of waiting till we're out of breath.

I still felt a bit drowsy when I arrived at my desk. But as soon as I looked around the room, I knew I was not the only sleep-deprived soul in Suite 220. My boss, Sharon, had her lips glued to her coffee mug and I couldn't help but notice Kathlee's rapid eye-twitching. Everyone was dead silent. This is what happens in the office when no one has slept. Finally I said it. "I'm kinda tired, today". Talk about an invitation to spill all. First, Sharon told her story. She had only slept two hours, because she was babysitting her four-year-old grandson who had to finally be locked in his bedroom because he was continually bopping her on the head with a spoon while she was sleeping. Then Kathlee told the end-all tale. She had spoken to a social worker, Teresa, who had been up all night because her golden retriever gave birth to thirteen puppies last week and the puppies were suffering from "gastric distress" until the sun rose this morning. All thirteen of them. Things could always be worse...

So, I sighed deeply after a good laugh, counting my blessings and thanking Jesus that I didn't have spoon dent marks on my head or a slew of gaseous golden retrievers to take care of. All I have for proof of my long night are two delicious home-made blackberry pies waiting for me on the counter when I get home this afternoon.

I'm so thankful for my job. Even in the midst of work that can be emotionally draining, God always seems to give me a little something to laugh about...

Making Mountains out of Molehills: Adam, atoms, astrology and other ideas of an expansive nature

There is nothing quite like combining great friends, Americanos, and copious amounts of books into one space—an exquisite pairing, if you ask me! Last Sunday, that was just the case.

Cynthia and I drove to the infamous Powell’s Bookstore in downtown Portland to meet Joelle for a cup of coffee and conversation that was long overdue. Unfortunately, the Americanos were a little bitter and Powell’s coffee shop was brimming with a whole rabble of readers—so we ventured up three flights of stairs to the Art room where we found a solitary bench parked in the center of a less-than-inviting expansive marble floor. No over sized couch from an episode of “Friends”, but better than nothing. Benches aren’t exactly built or intended for socializing. So there we sat—three in a row—all staring straight ahead at a series of silk screens of birds and turtles displayed on the back wall by a local artist. Bad coffee in hand, we yammered about the bad art asking questions like, “OK, If you had to hang one of those pictures in your house which one would it be?”

Our expostulating was cut short by a brave soul who strolled by the silk screens and started spewing curse words left and right about how terrible they were. “What is this sh**?!” he kept screaming in an almost irate tone. Who knew a picture of a canary could invigorate such passion and hatred in one’s heart? “I am an ARTIST!” he kept saying with enough drama behind his voice to bring Shakespeare to his knees. “I paint, and I know what is good and what is not good…this is definitely not good. What a waste of space.” Trying to level his embarrassingly loud expressions I asked, “So, how long have you been painting?” “About a year” he said. Somebody knew a whole lot about art for such limited experience.

My one question about his experience spurred on a lengthy response about his opinionated beliefs on impressionism and a voluntary show-and-tell of his artwork via cell phone pictures. Meanwhile, Cynthia, Joelle, and I just stared straight ahead and nodded. The bench didn’t allow for much physical engagement in the conversation, and to be perfectly honest, I was embarrassed by this guy’s abruptness in the midst of the otherwise-silent reading area. It kind of felt like hanging out in a library with a barking dog. He didn’t give up quickly, either. He continued to spatter on—sharing that his artistry was somehow connected to his zodiac sign and size of the moon the year he was born…or something.

Finally, after about a half-hour of listening to the “artist” and feeling terrible for neglecting Joelle, the person we came to see, I asked him his name. “Adam” he said. “I’m Abbie” I replied. “Weeeeiiiiiirrrrrd” was all he said in response to the delivery of my name. Everything was “weird” to Adam. Or eerie. Or superstitious. It didn’t take long to figure out that this was a guy chasing after answers in life. Big answers. He was heavily into astrology, calculating his future, the day of his death, and attempting to predict the unpredictable. It was as if every moment for Adam hinged upon some greater meaning that he just couldn’t quite figure out—and it drove him mad. At one point when the conversation fizzled a bit, he attempted to make us laugh and jokingly asked, “So, what did you guys learn in church today?” (after all, it was Sunday). Cynthia and I started to explain the sermon from that morning, but we were cut off by Adam saying, “Wait, you actually go to church?” This led into complex questioning of Biblical topics that were hot on Adam’s list—mainly prophecy and the apocalypse. I was astounded at how much this kid wanted to know the end of his story. Or maybe more than that, how much he was just dying to be known-- known by something or someone. No wonder horoscopes were so exciting to him. If they could predict his lucky number for the day and it proved to be accurate—he would feel known. Accounted for in a world of countless people.

The Holy Spirit kept pressing it on my heart that Adam hadn’t received a lot of expressed love growing up. That his relationships were lacking in affirmation. So I told him how much the Lord cared for Him and his future, that He was indeed accounted for and loved. I also told him that he was making things very big and complex, when in fact God’s nearness to him was a bit more simple, more tangible, and certainly more certain than a rising moon on the third Friday after an October Harvest in the Year of the Rat. He seemed a bit shocked at my expressive “spirituality” that didn’t emerge until late in the conversation. Nonetheless, he listened with an open heart and even asked for the website of my church to download sermons. Who knows where Adam’s curiosity and hunger will take Him. He did claim he had had a few experiences where he cried out to God to “show himself if he was real” and had some serious encounters. He even said this with tears in his eyes.

While talking to Adam I found myself almost exhausted with how complex he was making everything. I felt overwhelmed with the idea that He might never see God if he keeps approaching Him in such an expansive fashion. He just needed to simplify—return to the basics. All of His stretching ideas were really shrinking and deflating the size of God. He wanted to make God into something He could understand and control instead of trusting in God in the midst of great mysteries.

The more I analyzed, the more I thought, “I can’t blame him; I do the same thing.” Sure, I don’t sweat over the exact day I will depart from earth or try to encapsulate complexities I just don’t get—but I do magnify that which needs to stay small. Every day. I am always toiling over trying to figure out God’s plan for my life instead of basking in the adventure of the present with Him.

“The only abiding reality is God Himself, and His order comes to me moment by moment.”
-Oswald Chambers

Lord, teach me not to worry over the things I can’t control. Help me not to make big what you want to keep small and simple. Help me not to forget I was created for nothing else but to know you moment by moment.

Gleanings in the midst of the daily grind.

Sometimes the Holy Spirit, our Counselor, speaks to us sweetly like a summer evening breeze blowing against a pair of white linen pants. Other times it feels more like he is pelting us with the same repeated truth again and again like some obnoxious, freckle-faced kid shooting spit wads through a straw in the elementary school cafeteria.


This continual zapping of correction and teaching makes me feel a bit like a dog wearing a collar for an invisible fence. It is kind of uncomfortable. Humbling. At the same time, it is so peaceful to know where the boundaries lie. How to live. How not to live. "Watch it, Abbie--you're living for the world, not for me--take a step back--there you go. That's better."



Here are some gleanings of truth from today that were perhaps not so much gleaned as they were shot at me through the Counselor's giant straw of wisdom and correction. Why was I the target? Because lately I am struggling with waiting on the Lord in the moment. I either live too much in comfort of the past (like I wrote about yesterday) or too much in the anticipation (or, more often, fear) of tomorrow.


First this, from Oswald Chambers--a beautiful (yet convicting) reminder to live with a spirit of passionate waiting:


"Wait on the Lord and He will work. But don’t wait sulking spiritually and feeling sorry for yourself, just because you can’t see one inch in front of you! Are we detached enough from our own spiritual fits of emotion to wait patiently for Him? Waiting is not sitting with folded hands doing nothing, but it is learning to do what we are told. These are some of the facets of His ways that we rarely recognize."


Then, a short note laced with wisdom from a dear friend (in response to yesterday's blog):



"I feel you in the roots department. It's a hard reality of living in the kingdom of the now but not yet. In truth, we have no promise for tomorrow even if we've lived in the same place for 40 years. But somehow our perceived uncertainty about the future can propel us into self-obsession and relational pessimism. But, girl, it's a Carpe Diem kingdom, making the most of every opportunity isn't just a mantra, it's a way of life. We have to invest because the investment isn't for us, it's for the one we serve."

Lastly, a convicting prayer I overheard a man praying aloud with a friend at Starbucks of all places:

"Lord, I pray for the people who think it is all about them, and not about you."

Ouch! You got me, Lord! Bulls eye!

It's days like today where I feel just like that dog--zapped so many times by the invisible fence collar that all I want to do is keel over into a whimpering ball. But the repeated correction is followed by a gentle, protecting hand that comforts me in my humbled moments and reminds me of what really matters. His plan, not mine, of course. And so I wait...

"Wait passionately for God, don't leave the path."-Psalms 37:34

Today I missed Bellingham…

Today I missed Bellingham...so I dressed like this: I felt like a true Bellinghamer—ready to strap my guitar to my back and head down to Boulevard Park to sing songs and write environmental poetry while eating Mallards ice cream, kicking my Chacos off, and letting my hair fly freely in the wind.

I miss you Bellingham! Thanks for four wonderful years!

More importantly, I miss all of my wonderful friends, old roommates, professors, campus pastors, and even acquaintances in Bellingham—a unique city brimming with one-of-a-kind people.

I don’t think I quite realized just how high my Bellingham friends had “set the bar” upon moving down here. I will be entirely honest; it is difficult to full-heartedly embrace change when your mind still wants to live in another environment. Mentally living in Bellingham is an easy thing to do—even now. I love it that quirky and charming city and I care deeply for my friends there. But lately I have seen the great need to ask the Lord to transform my mind into the here-and-now of Lake Oswego. This is my new home. This is where the Lord has called me and placed me for the time being. And, undoubtedly, this city is also overflowing with fantastic individuals that I have yet to meet (and some that I already have). It is inevitable that digging my roots down deep must happen.

I, of course, have no projection of how long I could be in this still-new Lake Oswego. Maybe a year—maybe more or less. Often the idea of uprooting and leaving hinders me from wanting to put any roots down at all. But the Lord has been showing me I have no choice. Wherever He brings me—even if just for a week—planting roots deep into people and relationships and letting others mutually invest in me is what He desires. Would you please pray for me as continue to do this in my new environment? Although I’ve been here nearly three months, it still isn’t easy…

What is most important is that Jesus is with me. And anywhere I go, He promises to stay, send His Spirit, reside beside me, support me, speak to me, commission me and instruct me on how to serve others.

Matthew 28:18-20
“God authorized and commanded me to commission you: Go out and train everyone you meet, far and near, in this way of life, marking them by baptism in the threefold name: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Then instruct them in the practice of all I have commanded you. I'll be with you as you do this, day after day after day, right up to the end of the age."
-Jesus (The Message)

Sometimes we just need a hearty dose of laughter...

I was feeling overdue for a good laugh last week. It was a busier week than usual at work (with the boss out of town there was more to do), and I came home Wednesday night feeling exhausted, burn-out, and slightly irritated. They had power washed the building I work in that day. From 8 am until I left at 4:30 pm, it sounded like I was trapped in a saw mill as I listened to the rumbling blasts of the power hose spraying the building. Sometimes when I hear loud, reverberating and monotonous sounds –like vacuums, blow dryers, and in this case—power washers—I like to try to make my voice harmonize with the buzzing sounds. So, at the end of the day once everyone had left the office, I found myself singing scales around the hum of the power washer. It was great…until I got really into it and began fantasizing about being on some operatic stage, lost all inhibitions and really went for the high note…then in walked Edwin, the Fed-ex man.

Shoot.

Edwin laughed in the doorway, hands on his knees, for about 45 seconds (which feels a lot longer than it sounds when someone is actually blatantly laughing in your face). I think the reason Edwin was laughing so hard was because this wasn’t the first time he has walked in on me pretending I was a Broadway star. With the emergence of the recent Hairspray the Musical hype (it being in movie theaters now), I of course was pretending I was Tracy Turnblad in the middle of the opening song “Good Morning, Baltimore!” when Edwin delivered a parcel early last week. Shoot (again). Or, shoot me, rather.

Embarrassing as both incidents were (especially because I was caught in the act by the same person and he probably has some label for me now and mocks me at the dinner table with his wife and kids), it was good to have a laugh.

And after the American Idol power washing incident, the laughs continued Wednesday night…

I came home (burnt-out as I mentioned before) and started making dinner. Making dinner has never been a chore to me. It actually is one of the greatest stress-relievers, in my mind. I love all the chopping involved—who needs to squeeze a stress ball when you can whack at heads of lettuce with a chef’s knife? So there I was, fixing the perfect meal, putting the final touch on the salad—caramelized walnuts. I took a deep sigh as I scattered the last handful of walnuts on the top of the salad, grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir and put all the dishes on the table. I have to admit, after such a long day at work, I was feeling proud. Like Julia Child, only younger (and alive), and without a weird voice that sounds like a robotic frog (sorry Julia…rest in peace). I was happy to be home with Abuelo and Cynthia and excited to sit down, chat, and eat a peaceful meal.

Right when I told Abuelo, “Dinner’s ready!”, he of course got up and left the room. “Excuse me while I make a short visit”, he said. It wasn’t until a month after I moved in that I realized this was just a polite way of saying “I have to use the bathroom—be right back.” Before, it was always hard for me to understand why he wanted to go visit people right when dinner was piping hot on the table. Now I understand, but I still can’t figure out why he sees the need to wait to use the bathroom until the second I announce that dinner is ready.

After Abuelo returned from his “short visit”, the three of us sat down at the table, gave thanks, and started eating. Dinner conversation was interesting that night as Abuelo voluntarily shared that my father was conceived on the boat to Brazil on his honeymoon. “So…my dad was born only a year after you were married?” I asked. “No Abbie! Nine months…I counted”, he replied as he started laughing in that lovable, wheezy, old man way. The laughter quickly turned in to an awkward choke/laughter, then Abuelo’s eyes bulged out a bit and he made a face that looked like he had swallowed a hula hoop. “Ummm…are you ok, Abuelo?” Cynthia asked just before Abuelo started puckering his lips, eventually spitting a small object onto the dinner table. “Is that a walnut?” I asked. Abuelo murmured, “no…I think that’s a tooth.” Cynthia and I started laughing till our cheeks hurt. “I have a funny feeling it’s not my tooth, though”, Abuelo said. I don’t know how the man could make excuses like that when the tooth had obviously just been spit right out of his own mouth.

A half-an-hour or so passed and Cynthia and I were cleaning the kitchen when Abuelo came in with a cheesy grin on his face, missing the most obvious tooth in his mouth—front and center. “In case you were still wondering, I think I found out whose tooth that was” he said. We just all stood there laughing—a perfect ending to the day.

"A cheerful heart is good medicine". Proverbs 17:22

In Every Little Thing

I have had endless conversations this week about the Holy Spirit's presence in the minute details of our life. His dwelling in every moment and little circumstance. His interaction on every level of our lives--from big picture moments (like visiting with Pastor Moses Paulose from India on Monday) to specific "in-the-moment" moments (like the desperation of Friday evening--a night of not one, but two flat tires).

I am starting to see more and more that the purpose of my life is not so much about going, doing, discipling, and filling my time with ministry, ministry, ministry. No, the purpose of my life is simply to know God. To truly know Him, hear Him, speak with Him--to be made aware that in every little moment, decision, and thought, His Spirit is with me.

I found this word from Oswald Chambers quite provocative in that respect:

The Concept of Divine Control

". . . how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!"
Matthew 7:11

Jesus is laying down the rules of conduct in this passage for those people who have His Spirit. He urges us to keep our minds filled with the concept of God’s control over everything, which means that a disciple must maintain an attitude of perfect trust and an eagerness to ask and to seek.

Fill your mind with the thought that God is there. And once your mind is truly filled with that thought, when you experience difficulties it will be as easy as breathing for you to remember, "My heavenly Father knows all about this!" This will be no effort at all, but will be a natural thing for you when difficulties and uncertainties arise. Before you formed this concept of divine control so powerfully in your mind, you used to go from person to person seeking help, but now you go to God about it. Jesus is laying down the rules of conduct for those people who have His Spirit, and it works on the following principle: God is my Father, He loves me, and I will never think of anything that He will forget, so why should I worry?

Jesus said there are times when God cannot lift the darkness from you, but you should trust Him. At times God will appear like an unkind friend, but He is not; He will appear like an unnatural father, but He is not; He will appear like an unjust judge, but He is not. Keep the thought that the mind of God is behind all things strong and growing. Not even the smallest detail of life happens unless God’s will is behind it. Therefore, you can rest in perfect confidence in Him. Prayer is not only asking, but is an attitude of the mind which produces the atmosphere in which asking is perfectly natural. "Ask, and it will be given to you . . ." (Matthew 7:7 ).

Fear and Trembling

It is ten o-clock and the late evening sky is still dimly lit with hues of blue and grey. A rush of clouds is filtering through my backyard—twisting and splitting, moving too fast for a windless summer night. Every ten seconds or so the trembling rumble of thunder reverberates on every side, leaving a clangorous resonance that is almost eerie. Repeatedly, a spontaneous punch of lighting will illuminate the entire yard, coming and going like an irregular heartbeat. Each time the lightning revisits, it is like a spotlight, highlighting the immeasurable space beyond it—the overwhelming amount of stars that have no sign of ending.

I sit here, my back just barely against the fence, my body still wet from swimming in the lake hours ago.

I am cold.

Something about this abnormal thunder-and-lightning storm and the chilling feeling of my wet hair and goose bumps is making me feel so very small.

So small.

There it goes again. The bruising sound of thunder. I wrap a towel around my arms and upper body, but it is damp and bringing little comfort. Something out here is keeping me from going inside.

God is here.

This afternoon my friend, Christie, told me that a few nights ago she had an experience that helped her understand a bit more of what it means to fear the Lord with trembling. She was alone, just after night set in. As she walked to the edge of a wooden dock, she could see the two hills in the distance rising on either side of her. They cast a deep, dark reflection on the water in front of her. It was an almost frightening sight. All day she had been quoting scripture about the fear of the Lord, repeatedly asking God, “What is it to fear you? What does that look like? I want to know what it is to fear you.” There as she stood on the dock, she understood. She was drawn closer in to the mystery of the overwhelming sight—the beauty of the dark hills was what she described as “terrifying”. But as she reservedly scooted nearer to the water, overwhelmed with the presence of God in that place, her legs began to shake uncontrollably. All she could do was weep. Head cast down in a powerful moment of fright and humility, she knew she had to walk the other direction. She had tasted a bit of God’s mightiness and strength—too great to lay eyes upon…too far beyond her ability to comprehend.

Christie’s story is reverberating in my mind.

Psalm 18:7-19

He parted the heavens and came down;

dark clouds were under his feet.

He mounted the cherubim and flew;

he soared on the wings of the wind.

He made darkness his covering, his canopy around him—

the dark rain clouds of the sky.

Out of the brightness of his presence clouds advanced,

with hailstones and bolts of lightning.

The LORD thundered from heaven;

the voice of the Most High resounded.

He shot his arrows and scattered the enemies,

great bolts of lightning and routed them.

The valleys of the sea were exposed

and the foundations of the earth laid bare

at your rebuke, O LORD,

at the blast of breath from your nostrils.

He reached down from on high and took hold of me;

he drew me out of deep waters.

I want to know what it is to fear the Lord. I want fear the Lord with trembling. I want to be filled with reverence and awe. I want to tremble with fear at the thought of ever displeasing him. I want to know all that He is… and all that I am not in His presence.
In this moment He is so great and I am still so small. Each reverberating sound of a thunderous blow reminds me that in a moment He could crush me. Yet He spares me. He meets with me. The very God that could destroy me with one stroke of his mighty hand uses that hand to “reach down from on high and take hold of me” (vs.9).

All of a sudden it is raining. Five days of scorching weather and now a spontaneous rain. The drops are pelting all around me. Where moments ago I was wet, now everything around me is wet. Covered.

I think I have had a small glimpse…

I close my eyes...

….and see them standing. A blur of figures sweeping over perpendicular bridges that cross the river—Hawthorne, Morrison, Burnside, and Steel—each bridge is brimming with bodies. Lines and huddles, a jumbled mass of youthful faces. Nomads. Each of them waiting to enter the city. Crowding the scaffolding like pebbles stacked high on a bed of toothpicks or twigs—almost ready to snap. The bridges are bending with the weight of young wanderers. No reason, no calling—just a yearning within them to flock where other Nomads walk. They lead by intuition and follow by impulse. They follow each other— a formation of faces suspended high above the river, each with a story and tale of their travels. Travels that brought them to this Mecca of sorts, this final destination reached by portals of bridges. Guitars strapped to backs, and boots cracked by heat— they are hairy and half-shaven, an assemblage of adventure seekers—musicians and writers, athletes and artists. All shapes and sizes, they are a decorative bunch, a daring throng of traveling twenty-somethings. Like colorful marbles they bob and roll their way over the bridges and into the city that welcomes them with enticing night lights, aroma of change, and the sweet luring hush that promises a Nomad something better to come.


Portland was recently listed in a magazine as one of the “top hottest cities to move to in your twenties”. And many have followed the call. The city is bursting with a wave of youthful influence touching everything in sight—from Portland’s emergence of popular music, to its flooded bar scenes downtown. Something about this laid-back Northwest city has called the attention of countless young adults and they are everywhere.

A few days ago, Cynthia and I sat in the over-sized armchairs at Starbucks to pray before I left for work. We both had a heavy burden to pray for Portland--a city that was unknown territory just months ago, but now is the place we call "home". We chatted a bit at how perplexing it is that we both ended up here--obviously providential as neither of us would have predicted Portland as our post-college stomping grounds. But we are here. And we are not alone. As we began praying for Portland, a city that is sliced by the confluence of the Willamette and Columbia rivers and connected by a series of bridges, I kept seeing a vivid picture in my mind. In it, I had an aerial view of the city. I was watching as huddled crowds of young people were flocking into the heart of downtown Portland by way of bridges. Every major bridge was plastered with packs of people. The picture zoomed in closer and I began to see faces. All of the faces had a lost-look, a wandering look, the look of Nomads in search of an ending. Each individual was incredibly unique, but each looked unfinished. It was as if they were entering Portland to seek completeness.

Maybe the picture I saw was a vision. Maybe it was just an imaginative painting engraved deep in my mind so that I wouldn't forget to pray for this city. I know that Portland is filled with wanderers waiting to be found, to be known by something or someone.

A week after I moved here I attended a church populated by five or six hundred Jesus followers, all under the age of thirty. They had spent an entire week fasting and praying for the revival of Portland. On the seventh day of their fast, they gathered at the highest point in Multnomah county, a park that overlooks every inch of the city of Portland. There they stood, hope-filled and hungry for a shaking awakening, anxious for God's encounter with this place. They held hands and gathered around a plaque that was set in place more than a century ago. The plaque read the story of a group of ministers that had gathered at the same place in the late 1800's, praying for a similar awakening revival to come to Portland. People say history always repeats itself. I believe God will awaken this city once more--but not because of the inherent law of history. He will come as the cries of desperation arise--humble prayers accompanied by the turning away from sin. I find it interesting that Portland is the "City of Roses"--arguably the most fragrant of flowers. How fragrant and sweet-smelling this city would be to our Heavenly Father if it was filled with the prayers of the saints. What would a city brimming with a youthful population be like if it was touched by the fresh power of God Himself?

I don't know why Portland remains such an attraction to young people. I don't know why they continue to wander...their faces lit with the hope of meeting something in this place. I like to think they are traveling with intent--intent that will be met with the surprise encounter of Jesus Himself. Nomads and wanderers finally arriving home.

2 Chronicles 7:14

"If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land."

Epiphanize

Epiphanies aren’t for everyone.
Sometimes they come just for us.
Pay us a visit to open our eyes.

Sometimes, epiphanies are ours to share.
Given to us to be given again.
Others eyes, too, will be opened.

I’ll just attempt write my epiphanies;
scribble down my musings and tales.

Speak of His inspiration.
Tell of all His wonderful acts.
Sing sweetly of His mercy
and recall what He has told me.

You can read and pick through—
decide what is yours to keep.

Almost, but not yet: Waiting for Transformation

When I was in college, I used to write alot. Much more than I do now. :) Several times I used a form called a "braided" essay. It is where you take three, four, or more seperate "strands" of story and disjunctively place them one after the next in an incongruent order that is eventually braided together somehow in the end (through use of common theme, idea, phrases, etc.) I wrote the following braided essay a little over a year ago. It's about the idea of waiting and longing... it is a lengthy essay (you might get tired of waiting and longing for it to end :) ). Feel free to skim over or not read at all. I just thought it would be fun to post something a little different.

Almost, but not yet.

May 2, 2006 - The Painting Studio, Western Washington University, 10:05 p.m.

The painting studio is by far the frowziest space on campus. Splashes of paint litter the tiled floors and walls and I can’t really tell what color the room is. Students display uninhibited creativity by cluttering the walls and easels with charcoal drawings and bold expressions of their freedom of speech. Lost artwork posters are tacked throughout the room.

If anyone is familiar with the whereabouts of a large painting and paint brushes marked with the name Liliana Franz, I am interested in retrieving them. The values of these items extend beyond the monetary. Thank you.

What is it that makes art so valuable? I watch Christie to find out. Sometimes I come to the studio two or three nights a week to watch. I bring my journal or a poetry chapbook, melt into a paint-covered stool and stare. The tautness of Christie’s brush breaks and frays as she presses mustard colored paint into the canvas. She tilts her head and erratically splashes the board, forcefully rocking the easel with each move. I think she is painting trees, though they could be clouds. It doesn’t matter which. Her head tilt shows that she knows where it’s going and that’s all that matters. She longs for the finish, the final product that is far off but promised to come. I breathe the rancidly pleasant paint fumes and tilt my head also to stare in anticipation.

Morning thoughts on the porch, 6:51 a.m.

Yesterday I heard of new word, sehnsucht. Sehnsucht is a German word meaning something of a teary longing. “A special kind of longing . . . surrounded by a misty indefiniteness which seems essential to its very nature . . . At times one sees it clearly, at other times it seems to recede before one's eyes . . . Thus, the exploring of this mystery has turned out to be a quest in itself.” There is no English word quite like sehnsucht. The closest we can get is nostalgia, which in no way fully encompasses the same power of emotion. C.S. Lewis refers to sehnsucht as joy. A joy that is “an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction.” There is indeed some strange joy in the longing, in the waiting. Knowing what awaits exerts a sense of yearning and desire that cannot be extinguished and places you into the realm of constant transition. I like to think I’ve known this teary longing. At times, I know it everyday.

Reflections on Traveling

I have traveled to Rameswaram, India—the southernmost tip of the continent, an island set somewhere between Tamil Nadu and Sri Lanka. A jewel of land floating in the Indian Ocean and the home to no one with white skin. I was “foreigner”, a novelty to roadside vendors and a monster to children. I wanted to strip a layer of brown skin off a pedestrian and cover my paleness. I longed to blend.

Three months after living as “foreigner” I somehow transformed. Tying and folding saris around my body each morning became regular and ritualistic. The skin had peeled off all of my fingers from eating hot curries with my right hand. Even my movements adapted. I stopped looking men in the eyes, I bobbed and twisted my head side to side to say “yes”. I was a Tamil Nadu lady wrapped in a ghostish disguise. Sarojam, a highly respected plump woman in her late sixties, pulled me aside. “You not like other Americans” she said as we paced slowly through the market, stopping in front of a hanging bunch of bananas. “You are special American. You become like Indian.” Her words were reviving. I had become an Indian to her. I had transitioned and I belonged.

May 11, 2006 4:15pm, St. Joseph’s Hospital Emergency Room

I can see a strange stain on the ceiling tiles above me. Its shape looks like Mickey Mouse’s head, and it is preoccupying me while I lay flat on my hospital bed in a backless robe waiting for X-rays on account of an injured neck. My roommate, Kelli, and I were just rear ended three times by an elderly man with dementia. The police told us the man was ninety years old. At the scene of the accident, Bob the tow truck driver tapped the back of my roommates Dodge Neon with his fist and asked what happened. I told him, “A hit and run. They think it was an old man with dementia.”

“Semetra?”

“No…dementia.”

“Did you say Semetra?”

“D-i-m-e-n-t-i-a” I replied slowly in my irritated yet somewhat patient tone.

“Hmm, Semetra. Must be a Toyota.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed a little under my breath remembering the moment. There was some slight stitch of humor in the evening, despite the totaled car, sore neck, and the hot coffee that is cooling and drying on my legs after being flung across my jeans.

A male nurse makes a “knock-knock” noise then enters our enclosed personal space to open the yellow curtain separating Kelli and I. The room has fifteen or twenty segmented rooms, each closed but not soundproof. Two or three curtains away I hear a woman with hives letting out short desperate cries of pain in Spanish. Me duelen los brazos. Through the curtain to my right, there is snoring and gargling that sounds like a blocked garbage disposal. Minutes later I hear urine pelting against the tin of a bedpan. The air begins to smell potent and abrupt pains swell and shrink in my head and chest. I question just when we’ll be able to leave the discomfort of the emergency room and drive home.

An hour passes and I doze in and out of a sleepish dream until I hear a man weeping and sniffing in short perpetual breaths. He is wheeled flat on a gurney into the curtained room across from me. It is strange to hear a man crying so loudly and with such inhibition. Accompanying him is an elderly man with a deep grainy smoker’s voice. He sounds like he is overweight and probably seventy or eighty years old. There is no way of telling, but based on sound I’m sure my guess is near accurate. I can hear the motorish humming of his words, “Just breathe. Just breathe. Come on now, breathe.” I assume the man is dying by the sound of his cry. It is an eerie, untamable cry. A cry that is through with this world. A longer listen through the curtain and I find out he isn’t actually dying, but dying is what he is after. He is suicidal. As each minute passes I find out more. He is twenty nine years old. He is a homosexual and he and his boyfriend just had a nasty break up. He was evicted from his home this morning for overdue rent payments. The nurse keeps asking questions. How long have you been depressed? How have you attempted to end your life? I hate that I can hear every question and answer, but with the curtains there is no way to block the sound. I feel like I am overly invasive and at the same time obligated to help. All I can do is pray, so I whisper prayers for him quietly hoping they will transcend the curtains and bring him some sense of hope. “Sometimes I just feel like if I end it all there will be something better. At least then I could keep some of my dignity” I hear him say. His voice echoes longing. A longing for something far beyond this world. A longing to transition into something new, to escape from the here and now. He gropes for a doorless land of fulfillment and relief. Fulfillment cannot be found in premature death. Or can it? Could he, just like me, be longing for the promise of something greater? I find myself longing too.

More thoughts on the porch, 7:38 a.m.

William Wordsworth thought that sehnsucht was simply a present feeling and beyond explanation. That it was a type of "sweet melancholy" which seems to have no cause. I disagree. The sehnsucht I have experienced has obvious cause. It is a yearning that awakens my desire for something greater, something I don’t know yet. It reminds me that, even in my greatest moments of fulfillment and joy, I am still in transition.

More Reflections on Traveling

“If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” –C.S. Lewis

In nine weeks I will be in Nairobi, Kenya. Once again my white skin will stand bright against a palette of dark browns. Once again I will wish I could connect, wish I could belong. But for now, I am in Bellingham, Washington. Though not a cultural minority, sometimes I still feel a “foreigner”. I have been a foreigner ever since I flew home from India. There is something strange that happens when you leave your country for another country then return home. Your country is no longer home. There is an awakened, uneasy feeling—a suspension beyond citizenship to any one place. I am not an Indian, but I am no longer American. In nine weeks, I will not be Kenyan either. I wait for my true citizenship.

May 2, 2006 - The Painting Studio, Western Washington University, 10:58 p.m.

I ask Christie why she is painting a green colored man. “It’s just under painting” she says. “Eventually he’ll look normal.” I squint my eyes and try to imagine what’s to come, but now it’s impossible. All I can see are blobs of green and orange and the slight outline of a man’s backside. The paint itself seems overly eager to become something. It waits for its transformation.