God loves me best.

My soul felt a little mopey today. Then I got a text from my friend Mariel asking me to spend dinner with her! She came over and -sheepishly I must admit that she basically cooked dinner for ME, even though her feet hurt from working 10 hours today.- It was sweetness to be with her.

-Sweetness to be with Mariel, to hear about her life (oh SO refreshing to hear about someone else)
-a hawk earlier in the day and a bright sky and raking leaves and the perfect crisp fall day.

the sweetness of Jesus and how He loves me the best. I ask for silly things and he gives them. Not all the silly things, but the things that will be a blessing to me. And I ask for big things, and it is through the silly things that I know He loves me enough to choose which big things will be good for me.

Most of all, He loves me best.

God knows.

I’m standing outside, looking around at the beauty that is today. I’m thinking about leaving. I’m thinking about how, the longer I stay here, the harder it becomes to think about leaving. It took a long time to form a community here, and now that I have it, it’s daunting to think about starting from scratch, alone, and in a new language that I do not yet speak.

I’m thinking about how the more I read and think and talk to people, the more questions I have. About myself, and my usefulness. Like, is there room for me in this kind of work in Rome? Or am I just selfishly wanting to help? Can you even want to help selfishly? Can the desire to leave comfort and delve into hard (but beautiful) be selfish? Beuchner says that where the world’s deep hunger and our deep gladness meet, is where we’re called. I like that. Still, there is this creeping accusatory feeling that I cannot be useful there because I do not know enough, I have not experienced enough, I am not educated enough. I know who owns this accusatory voice though, and it helps to put my finger on what it is. 

Anyway, so I’m walking around the yard admiring the leaves and the sunlight and I see a cardinal- my mama’s favorite bird, always a reminder to her that God is near. I am with you always, that strong and comforting idea flashes across my mind. Yes, yes You are.

And then a few minutes later as I stand on the deck ready to head back inside, a large bird circles. At first I think it is a seagull- sometimes they find their way down here accidentally. But then she reveals herself: a hawk. A beautiful, free, so close I can see her belly feathers, hawk.

The last or almost last night of training, we sat in a circle outside at the Millers’ house. The evening was stunning. We each had two post-it notes, to write on one what we were leaving, and on one what we were taking with us. I don’t even remember what I left. Probably fear. But I know I wrote “the sky” on the other. “You won’t understand,” I had said, “But I understand.”

The sky. Because during listening prayer, Jesus reminded me of a poem I’d written months before, about an eagle and the sky. I’m the eagle. He’s the sky. 

Sometimes beauty answers the questions. Not with words, not even with ideas. But just a deep knowing. She is known. I am known. He knows me.

There are nights when I sleep with my bible next to my head like a safety blanket, because I want the tangible presence of the Lord. I want the Spirit's nearness.

how can I show You that You are what I want?

I want Your nearness, Baba.

I know in the bottom of my bones that You're my goal. You're my Love.

So Baba, make me soft. Make me grace-full.

I'll move across the ocean for You, with You. But never without You. Never without You.

unfinished

I hold hope in my hands
like a spear,
like the world is a jungle
and the only tool I have to stave off hunger
is this hope.

Reality, he is the bright morning star,
finds me at dawn, huddled close
to my small fire.
He takes my hand

and whispers,
my love, you may not hold this hope so close.
put down your weapon;
come feast with me.

You may hope for an Italian nonna
to teach you how to cook traditional pasta recipes,
you may hope for an Eritrean sisterfriend and
for an abundance of Afghan brothers.
You may hope for a close team,
for another teammate next year.
You may hope for stunning sunrises and laughter.
These are the things you may hope for.

Put down your spear my love,
it will not serve you here.
All you need is a fork.

Hope this way,
come feast with me
in the bright morning.