2016 Halfway Favorites

- iced caramel macchiato with mocha added

-The Legend of Tarzan

-Alice Walker's poetry

-three quarter length shirts

-painting with Mariel

-the dam at Sharon Woods

On Trust And Pain

My people are tiring of my pain. But it’s just the beginning. Maybe it’s because I hold it together really well around other people. I’m trying to be positive, I really am. But when I get home and it’s just me, I am flooded. It is so many things, and I’m not asking anyone to fix it. You can’t. I’m not even asking you to be with me in this place, if it’s too uncomfortable for you. I’m just asking that you don’t offer placating words to try and fix it in your own mind. (I understand this, tiring of someone’s pain. I have been here too, and so I acknowledge that you will tire of mine, and I apologize to so many, for brushing your pain off. I should have just acknowledged to you that I couldn’t handle it for a little while, and listened to what you actually needed, instead of trying to fix it.)

At church one Sunday, someone said to me, “you’re young. You’ll find something else.” Ouch. I don’t want to find something else. And perhaps I am young, but it still hurts. I compared it to breaking off an engagement. I’m sure anyone who has had that happen to them would not appreciate my comparison, but that’s the closest thing I can come up with. When I told the woman this at church she looked at me strange; she did not understand. How could I expect her to? I know it seems far-fetched. But it’s not. For two years, everything I did had Rome- and refugees, in mind. Every piece of clothing I bought, every experience, book, measured against that place. I was committed to Rome and to the refugees there. I had no plan B. I had no alternative. I said two years out loud, but in my heart I was preparing for more. So that’s gone, and beyond that, I have no work. I am discouraged, Friend, but I do not expect you to encourage me. I try to keep it to myself, the pain, because no one wants to hear it after a while, but I can’t hold it in all the time. I live with other people, after all, and they are tired of it too.

I am told to just trust God.

I do trust God. I know, down to my bones, that I would gladly follow Him to the edge of the earth. I know, with every inch of my being, that I will do whatever He asks of me. I know that He has good for me, but also that He is the King and He is not required to do good for me. I want to be with Him. I want to work where He is; I want to breathe where He is. Walking in these woods, the only thing I want is for Jesus to be walking next to me. Not the knowledge that He is near, not the faith that I am not alone. I want Jesus, physically, next to me. That is all I want in all the world. I want to be the woman who shoves her way through the crowd to touch his garment. I want his voice, “daughter, your faith has made you well.” His physical voice. His physical garment.

Once, I had a friend tell me to be careful how much I wanted to be with Jesus, because maybe God would fulfill that desire and I would die. I don’t want to die. I like this life. But I do want to be with Jesus. So. Dearly. Jesus is my heart’s desire. And I do trust God. But trust isn’t pretending everything is hunky dory; trust is keeping walking even though everything is not okay. And I’m going with Jesus. I’m staying with God. Don’t you worry about that. So I don’t need you to make it better. You can’t, you won’t. I just need you to not assume that my struggle means I’m not trusting God. I’m not falling off the ledge. I’m shouting at God in my car and using ugly words and maybe I’m not a lot of fun to be with sometimes right now, but I’m steady. I’m safe, because the world couldn’t pry me out of the arms of Jesus if it tried (and it has tried). I’m in this for Jesus. Being with Jesus is the reward I am waiting for. I’m not going to step off the road that takes me to Him. I’m asking the hard questions and I’m struggling and maybe I’m having some sort of faith crisis, but it’s not the sort of crisis that’s going to take me away from Jesus. I don’t really know how, but I’m clinging to Jesus with all I’m worth.

So you don’t have to make it better. But if you do want to offer words, offer words of affirmation. If you want to offer words, offer words of, “yes, you’re still walking.” Words of, “I see you doing this hard thing.” Tell me how God is encouraging you, share me verses that are encouraging you today. Just don’t assume that this struggle means I’ve jumped the ledge. No, these feet are firmly on the ground. Maybe stomping a bit, maybe I’ve crawled into fetal position, but on the ground. And God can handle the stomping—you don’t have to. And I might tell you about it anyway, because it’s hard to keep it sucked up inside, but just know that I do not ever expect you to fix it.

okay, I’m done. Thanks for reading all that.

Wings

processing poem, helped by James Wright

I am shattered

and yet more whole than I have ever noticed.

My heart is heavy

and yet light.

I am the eagle rejoicing in the oak trees of heaven

and I want to share this space

because it is whole and raw and beautiful.

because I have become.

desire runs deep,

to jump trains and sip chai

with desert sisters,

I want the mountains

and the pines.

I want our eyes to meet,

for you to hold my hand.

I want to see you on the road and jump

into your strongest arms-

and know that spring is coming.

though I was willing,

my transformation into wings

did not happen

across the water,

but you have made me see

that I am soaring, already.

This is what I wanted.

(Read James Wright's "Today I was happy, so I made this poem")

Knowing

Sunday night I feel the fire returning to my bones.

It is catalyzed by painting and tea and friends who hold

beauty for sharing and for joy.

Somewhere between coffee and pizza and her

wonderful advice and the encouragement

of her very being.

Somewhere next to purple nail polish and red pants

and winter sunlight

and in between the Ted talks

about our greatest insecurities—

in the reminder that I have something to offer

the world,

that the essence of me is useful.

Even if not how I thought I would be.

Even if it’s hard (it is) right now,

I still know who and whose I am.

Some Favorites of 2015

Strengths Finder by Tom Rath

PA State Eagle Live Camera

            -and the Alaska Bears

The Jesus Storybook Bible

Extending the Table

Ballet class

Getting to know Jenna S. better!

ITeams Training- Amazing.

Idaho

Arizona

Germany

Olafur Arnalds’ music.

Starbucks

            -meeting with Steph and Ash, my sisters who let me lean on them

            -our baristo friends

            -dancing in the parking lot

Lucy/Penny/Emily/Jared visit in the summer

hiking with Jesus at the CNC and Red Bird Hollow

Jesus Feminist by Sarah Bessey

Charis, Preston Sprinkle

Prayer, Richard Foster

Amanda Cook’s music

United Pursuit band- Never Going Back/Let it Happen

Kelly Delp’s blog

Edgar Meyer’s violin concerto

into your eyes- spiritual.

this land of mine,

we were one letter away from freedom

but we landed at fear.

we couldn’t breathe there,

though my lungs strained against their sky

everyone pretended they were fine.

----

The sky is simple love.

Take me away into the sunrise and into your eyes.

Give me the strength to be weak.

He says he wants mountains. The kind that separates the sky from the clouds,

that separate lung from body.

Me, I want pine trees so deep you cannot see the sky.

I’ve been lovesick for so long.

Bring me the colors of fall,

inject the bright hues into my blood

and tattoo this wonder to my bones.

set me free to breathe slow and feel every whiff of breeze.

I want more warmth.

I want more ice cubes in the summer time.

I want more softness in my aching spine,

in my aching mind,

in your reach,

in my sleep.

you settle over my dreams like fog in early morning.

you slip in and out of me softly,

My dreams are mountains

and the stars above me sound like my cerulean soul

breaking into smithereens.

you have my heart, inside out

and backwards

tonight is just a taste.

take me away,

into the sunrise and

into your eyes.

a poem for the end, but moreso the beginning.

You have held my head up,

You have held my hand.

I will learn to stand steadier

and I will be a breather of books

and I will dance in the streets.

I will claim my space,

I will laugh without fear of tomorrow’s trials.

I will practice fearlessness.

readiness does not shimmer.

to be ready is

a decision. I have made it.

and all of this is for you

all of these fingers,
all of this heart.