"What new mystery is this?"

Early this morning, I was thinking. In the midst of my familiar morning movements, my mind turned to uncertainty, to mystery, to faith. And this is crazy, because last night, I got home around 12.50. Which means I slept little. But I was imagining how I would explain - or defend - one of the bands I saw last night. Not that I need to defend them to myself; it's simply that some of their lyrics are... odd. And I can easily imagine someone asking "what do they believe, anyway?"

Now, I don't think that a band's personal beliefs are necessarily indicative of their value or creativity as musicians. However, if I'm going to say I "love" a band, I want there to be good reason. And one of my reasons for "loving" mewithoutYou is their incredible, poetic, story-telling lyrics. I ask myself, sometimes, what they are telling with their words - what they are teaching about the world, and us in it. And therefore, what they believe.

I thought of a few things that come up, over and over again, in their songs: connectedness, forgiveness, nature, and not-knowing. Life in the midst of uncertainty. This beautiful life in the midst of mystery. And this, more than almost anything else, is what draws me to them. (And their music. Of course. But that needs no explanation. Just give them a listen.)

This concept we call mystery appears constantly. I wonder, sometimes, if, as someone who likes to know things now, uncertainty dogs my steps to keep me paying attention. It's fundamentally a paradox, you see, this life we live. We both know and don't know. We are both certain and uncertain. And yet we must keep moving forward. 

I think about this most often in the realm of faith. I belong to a wonderful church community that talks a lot about how we can know God. And it's great - don't get me wrong - because one of the mysteries is that we can know Him. But. We also can't. We also will always see a infinite unknowable Being Who is beyond us. And I wish - oh, how I wish! - that this great mystery were talked about more, even celebrated more!

And why is it, I wonder, that we so rarely seem to talk about and embrace the mystery, the unknowableness, the hiddenness, of God? 

On Tuesday, I joined a group gathered in a small living room. We read John 9 - the story of the "sassy blind man" as our leader called him. And ended up talking about not-knowing. And how this man, having been given sight, defended one he had never seen before the leaders who thought they knew all. The blind man did not know who healed him, whether he was from God, or not. And he freely admitted his ignorance: "whether he is a sinner or not I do not know." Yet in the midst of his uncertainty, he held on, very tightly, to what he did know: "I was blind but now I see." And this certainty was enough for him to stand up to the leaders. It was enough for him go about his new life with joy and confidence. And a bit of sass.

And mewithoutYou? I think they know this. They know that ignorance and knowing can go together. A person can be both known and unknown. A world can be known and unknown, too. And sometimes that one little thing we do know - that we can see, that the spider matches the leaf, that forgiveness heals, that love transforms us, that a rainstorm can both break plants and refresh them - is enough for us to keep going. The mystery of faith is that, even though we don't know, we believe. The mystery fills life with potential. With questions, too, but don't those questions keep us paying attention?

"What new mystery is this? 

What blessed backwardness?

The Immeasurable one is held and does not resist!

Struck by wicked words and foolish fists of senseless men

the Almighty One does not defend!

What new mystery is this?

In overflowing emptiness

the invisible is seen among the shadows and the mist.

Before my doubting eyes

the Infinite appears this time.

The Unquestionable is questioned

but makes no reply!"

Oh, the mystery of it all! That we see, that we don't see. That He replies, that He is silent. That we're able to ask in the first place! If there were no mystery, there would be no faith. If there were no times of silence, no depths of not-knowing, we could not be like the sassy blind man, saying: tell me so that I may believe. After the silence, one answer is enough; in the darkness, the smallest point of light changes everything.

Faith's Patience

Today, these are words from someone else. I read them last night, and wanted to share them. By Tomas Halik, in the introduction of 'Patience With God'. (Italics were found in the original; bold-ing is my addition.)

"... I'm convinced that maturing in one's faith also entails accepting and enduring moments - and sometimes even lengthy periods - when God seems remote or remains concealed. What is obvious and demonstrable doesn't require faith. We don't need faith when confronted with unshakeable certainties accessible to our powers of reason, imagination, or sensory experience. We need faith precisely at those twilight moments when our lives and the world are full of uncertainty, during the cold night of God's silence. And its function is not to allay our thirst for certainty and safety, but to teach us to live with mystery. Faith and hope are expressions of our patience at just such moments - and so is love. Love without patience is not real love... Faith - like love - is inseparably linked to trust and fidelity. And trust and fidelity are proven by patience."

Housesitting Journals, Part the Second

The driveway is speckled, and the long grasses drip when wind shakes by. Those tall flower bushes, that from a distance look like wild roses but actually aren't, wave gently. The dog lies quiet.


Yesterday morning, passing the bunny room, I saw the white one sitting up on her haunches, washing her face with her paws. Lick, wipe, wipe. Post-meal cleanup. And utterly adorable. 


Wednesday, after I returned from work, I attached the dog to her yard cable. The night's showers had dried, so I settled on the back porch with a glass of water and a book. Sunlight occasionally reached me through the trees. A line of wash hung in the yard behind this one. The dog acted more joyous and young than I've ever seen before - rolling in the grass, digging crazily, running circles, smiling up at the trees. These are the moments I love about summer.


My brother arrived last night. For a few days, I have him near. (And for two of the top three men in my life to meet each other.) At the moment, it's like high school again, him playing a video game, me watching and not watching, simultaneously not understanding the appeal and wanting to join because it looks fun. Somehow, he looks older than he did last December. I know this makes sense, as he is older, but all through college, I didn't notice him changing. Now, I see it.


When I stop to think, I've seen this same thing in other people. It's the post-college maturity that shows especially in the face. You can tell who's a freshman, and you can tell who's been out a couple years. Once, we had a mother and daughter in the tea shop, and the mother asked us to guess her daughter's age. She looked young, but something in her face suggested to me she was out of college. And I guessed her age correctly, much to her mother's surprise. And I'm seeing that maturity in my brother's face now.


Hrm. Now, I think, is time to bother my brother. Just like old times.

Housesitting Journals, Part the First

I burnt my waffle. Terribly.


There's no toaster here, so I turned the oven to 'broil,' put my waffle in my cast-iron skillet, and put that in the oven. Then forgot about it. When I finally opened the door, it smoked, and the top of my waffle was black. The underside, however, looked fine, so I scraped off the darkness, poured maple syrup on, and ate the light.


The second waffle I did not burn.




This week, I'm pet-sitting for a friend. The lonely-brained dog currently lies on the floor. Quiet, for a surprise. Poor thing wants me to pay more attention to her. What does it feel like to be her? 


Three rabbits dwell in a room upstairs. Their smell, mixed with hay, brings back childhood memories. I shall call it the Nostalgia Room. They are soft, smooth, and whiffly. And beautiful.


This is a wonderful little house. My friend's artwork hangs on the walls. Odds and ends she found decorate the rooms. It's cozy, homey, antique-y, and charming. My especial favourite thing is the bathroom sink. 


It is quiet here. There are lots of books. And the paintings and knick-knacks whisper stories.


I wonder if any of them will ask for ink?

Sierra Nevada Weather

The air smells like the Sierra Nevadas: of pollen, leaves, and dirt all baking under the sun. If I close my eyes and breathe deeply, momentarily I feel eleven again, awkward and sweaty, sitting at a picnic table watching some boys play hacky-sack, wondering how on earth they can stand the heat.

I was ten when we first went to Wolf Mountain Camp, in the foothills of the mountains, near Grass Valley, California. It was our end of the year class trip. It promised to be fun. We'd meet new friends, play great games - what child doesn't like summer camp? What they didn't tell us was how hot it would be. What I didn't know was how difficult the heat would be for me to stand. Especially with such long hair.

We went two years in a row - 5th and 6th grade - and, all things considered, I enjoyed the trips. I discovered things about myself I hadn't known, and my friends learned things they hadn't suspected. And even though I was introverted, and reserved, and uncomfortable with new people, I was able to make friends during those short weeks. I also twisted, rolled, and pulled at least one ankle, each year. And learned to keep going, limping, even though my ankle hurt. (For some reason, after 6th grade, my perpetual ankle-twisting problem disappeared. Maybe I learned to walk better. Hrm.)

That first year introduced me to the wonders of zip-lines. They had both a land zip-line and a pond zip-line. At first, I only went on the land one. It was the first night there, and they drove us up windy roads into a small clearing. Above our heads, the thin line stretched from a tree into... darkness. We were promised nothing was in the way of that start tree and the end. But could we see? Nope. I almost didn't go. It looked freaky. But I figured I might as well, and I didn't want to seem chicken on the first night. So I went, and slid through the darkness, leaves whipping past, more felt than seen. It was exhilarating. 

But I refused the pond zip-line. It dropped from a hill down into the water, and I didn't know how to swim, and we went during broad daylight. Girls screamed as they zoomed down. I didn't want to take off my glasses, and didn't want to get wet, and looked for critters at pond's edge instead. The next year my friends talked me into it. Mind you, they spent days on the persuasion. I agreed not because I really wanted to go, but to silence their nagging. The ride down was wonderful. It turns out I love positive acceleration. But the climb up the hill? Miserable. I had to leave my glasses at the bottom, and my depth perception was so bad I practically had to climb on hands and knees to avoid falling off the edge. I declined a second trip to avoid the climb. But I held the memory of the zip-line thrill closely the rest of that summer.

Wolf Mountain was where I first discovered how strong my affinity for snakes is. They had a reptile & amphibian house, and one afternoon they pulled out the toad, turtle, and giant boa, then sat us in a circle and passed around two smaller snakes. Some of the kids hated it. Some were afraid. Some were cruel. I remember boys squeezing the snakes, yelling at them, trying to scare them and succeeding. When the first snake came to me, freaking out because of its treatment, I held it quietly, twisting my body away from the boy next to me, trying to calm it down. Whatever I did worked, because that snake rested quietly until I was told to pass it along. When the second snake got to me, I was last in line, so I didn't have to give it up. I held it as the camp instructor talked, and when it was time to go, we discovered the snake had fallen asleep. I kid you not. They let me stay to help put it away, and I got to carry it into the back room (no one else was allowed in the back room!) and peel it off my hands into its glass home. And that incident made me happier than almost anything else. It trusted me so much that it fell asleep. Perhaps, I figured, I'm not doomed to make everything uncomfortable; perhaps some things (and people?) don't think I'm weird and can be themselves around me. Epiphany! To this day, I love snakes. They make me feel good about myself.

My other favorite activity was the night walk. They showed us how to walk quietly, and we followed trails through the woods, sans flashlight, supposedly to look for wildlife. A dozen pre-teens walk far from quietly, no matter how much care they give to their feet. And they would not stop whispering. But my night-vision was good (I already knew this), and I was unafraid of the dark, and it turned out I walked nearly noiselessly. So I dawdled to the end of the line, and imagined no one else was there, and trod silently, listening, looking, breathing deeply in the cooling pine-spiced mountain air. It was sanctuary. That silent, empty, tree-lined darkness held me, refreshed me, helped me be still, be myself, be glad.

When the very air around you touches you gently, and the darkness shushes your doubts, and the trees whisper, what else can one be but at peace? Just you, wandering through the resting world, with nothing to interrupt. There is the sacred space, there the sacred time. There, I felt alive. 

I Drank Too Much Tea

Today is my first real day off since... May 4th. And that day wasn't actually free. Today is. Up until 7pm, I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. Lovely.


So the first thing I did was sleep. Both my flatmates are in France, so in the silence I slept. Then I woke up and made oatmeal French toast. Which I ate with a small cup of tea. Lover's Leap, one of my favorite blacks.


Then I put sorted dirty clothes, and started a load of laundry. Finally. Laundry's been waiting for a long, long time. And then I needed to write a letter. So, in true form, I made a pot of tea. Letter-writing goes with tea. I filled my little clay pot with bancha, a green tea, and sat down with my pen, stationery, and gaiwan. And drank that whole little pot of tea. And wrote a nice long letter to my friend.


Then got up and realized... whoops. I may have drunk too much tea. I'm a little jittery! I opened my computer to check my email, and discovered that I could barely type my password correctly. And I am typo-ing far more than usual. Sigh.


But I did put in a second load of laundry, and now both are drying. I washed a bunch more dishes. I should probably eat lunch. And I still need to wash my hair. I does feel good to do things that have been waiting to be done. It feels good to check items off my mental to-do list. It feels good to be in a quiet house. Jackhammers across the street don't undo the goodness. It feels good to know that this day is not only the day the Lord has made, but also a day for me to rest.


Isn't it strange that laundry counts as rest? Maybe this is part of growing up. Maybe having the time to sort laundry (I actually sorted warm and cold water wash! What?!), and then to write a leisurely letter, is a sign that I have time to rest. I think of Brother Lawrence, and how his work in the kitchen was prayer, was a sort of rest. Even work, when done like that, is refreshing. Even things that must be done can be rest-filled. How much is an attitude of the heart? How much is circumstance? How much is simply the refreshment of something different?


Welcome to my brain caffeinated. I end up a strange combination of jitters, let's-just-DO-things!, distraction, and ponderment. Part of me really wants to read. Part of me wants to do jumping jacks. Part of me wants to eat. Part of me... wants to DO something! Part of me wants to philosophize. And all of me is glad the day is mine.


What shall I do next?

May Rains Down

This is the weather for walking, solitary, through the dripping woods.

This is the weather for standing where the waves stop, searching grey mists for an elusive watery horizon.

This is the weather for pausing, imprinting the image of that bright robin amidst the brighter green in the memory.

This is the weather for waiting, eyes closed, on the porch, til the symphony of rain and dripping fills your ears, your head, your heart.

This is the weather for living.

This is the weather for sitting, curled, with hot tea and a book, reading a page, then staring out, then reading more.

This is the weather for humming, ballads and old hymns, quietly as soap and hot water clean dishes of the day's mess.

This is the weather for lying down, covered by pattering water-sounds, and praying those hopes and dreams that get buried by busyness.

This is the weather for pulling up a chair to the desk, paper lit by one lamp and one hazy window, to flow words from your heart to your mind to your pen. 

This is the weather for being.

 

glory sweet music!

It had been just one of those days.


The tension at work has been building for the past few months, and escalating recently. There's nobody to blame. It's nearing the end of the semester. The seniors are freaking out. Since we provide services, there are always complaints, or frustration, or annoyances. The stupidity of people slaps us daily. But since people are stressed, things get emotional. 


And today... well, yesterday it all smashed up, so today was... unpleasant.


I did my work, same as usual. Plugged away getting jobs done, answering the phone. But being around that level of tension gets to me. Always does. I can't not notice it. I can't not feel people's frustrations. And I can't not understand why everyone feels the way they do, and wish so much I can ease away the misunderstanding and hurt. Of course, there wasn't much of anything I could do. So I did my work.


And eventually, right near the end of my shift, the let's-deal-with-it conversation happened. Could have gone much worse. Could have, theoretically, gone better. They all spoke their pieces. Apologies were made. Issues were set aside. Ways were parted.


Take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It's over now.


But I was still tense. The air hadn't settled. Better, but not done. Argh.


Then...


I heard something.


A sound ecstatically familiar, sweet.


And thought, no, it can't be. That, here?


But the notes continued. And pulled me out of my chair, through the door, nearly shaking with the question.


And it was. Oh, it was just what it sounded like!


On the stage, a man played his steel pans. They were sweet. They shone. The tones shimmered and tugged, and for once I didn't care that this someone was a stranger. I had to speak to him.


So I walked over, expectant.


'Excuse me. Excuse me, sir? Are those double seconds or double tenors?'


And we started talking. And he handed me the sticks. And showed me a couple chords, showed me a C scale. Left me, playing, while he kept setting up.


A complete stranger let me play his glorious double tenor pans.


My insides burst forth in glorious joy. Giddy, unexpected joy. I played, memorizing the scale. Arpeggiating. Remembering the feel of the sticks in my hand, bounding gently and sweetly against the pan. Oblivious to anything and everything else.


He said I had nice tone. (He said this multiple times, pleased.) He approved of my playing! Gave me his card. Smiled at me. Told me a little about Andy Narell's training.


And when I stepped down from the stage, my smile exploding through my face, all there was  was joy. Sweet joy.


Oh, thank you, my Father in heaven! For knowing the best gift to give. It surprises me, every time, how much I love those instruments. And how much it transports me to play them.


It has been six years. But I still am in love with the pans. And my day is transformed.

This Finger-Painted Life

A day for finger-painting. My life is finger-painting. Messy, imprecise, a mix of colors, textures, splatters, lines. Nothing is exact - paint runs. Nothing is quite 'realistic' - fingers are tools more for ideas than details. And this paper isn't meant for the kind of image I want to create. You see, I like detail and realism - I like Durer's work, for example. That's what I want me to be like. But I'm not, and my art isn't, and my life certainly is not.

It feels, instead, that I am an awkward child, standing before an easel, only a few colours available. I imagined something beautiful, precise, detailed, but my fingers can't create that. All I can make is a mess, a simple, basic image full of mistakes and drips that doesn't look anything like my dreams.

This is what my living feels like, sometimes. Often. What my relating feels like. I'm not quite sure what I want, what my materials are capable of, how to translate what's in my head and heart onto the page.

So when I pause, wiping the paint on my pants because I've no spare rags, I am not satisfied with what I see. I want it to be better - more organized, more lovely, more balanced, more easily identified. This isn't what I wish I could do. Could be. And so I stop, critical, and questions pile in. A chunk of paint drops to the floor.

But then I look at my pots of paint - at what I do with my time, at who I'm investing myself in, at all the pieces of me - and I like those colours. I've specifically chosen them all. Looking at them, my fingers remember - I remember - what the paint feels like, and into the paint I dip my hands, and back onto the page.

Because I like this finger-painted life. It may not look pretty to anyone, I may get frustrated by my inability to make it look the way I imagined (or the way others say it should look), but I'm enjoying it, by golly!

I'd rather paint my own messy life now, you see, that give up, throw out my paints, and start over. So I'll keep going. (Say it again, me, I will keep going.) I don't know what it will look like in the end. My fingers may become stained with paint - and the floor, too. But I like these paints. I like using them. I like all these parts of my life - how they look individually, and how they mix in surprising ways. And so I remember this, and choose the remembering of the joys, and frustration fades again, and on I go - on I will go - painting my messy life.

And, somehow, it is beautiful to me.

leap day

yesterday
was the rarest day,
holding expectation and shaking
glory flakes
down
down

and i watched them as if for the first time, wonder-filled as they tipped branches and slowly transformed dead brown grass to white
white
white.

from inside i watched.
this day happens only once
every four years:
wonder.

the evening was mine.
i moved slowly.
i thought simple thoughts while stirring the pots.
my soul doth magnify.
blessed be He.
for You are with me.

dish soap bubbles collected in the sink.
my hands were clean.
hot peppermint brew warmed me.
it was my evening.

just me,
alone,
in my kitchen.

Life: Unmasked - Wonderment

It's Wednesday again, and I'm joining again with Life:Unmasked to write into the open the things inside.


There has been much silence in me lately. Or perhaps I mean quietness.

I have no adequate words for the events, for the new doing, new feelings, no words at all. And so I am quiet. I can't write down the slow, deep smile that grows on my lips whenever I remember. I can't explain the fluttering in my belly, the longing I find growing in my heart, the wonderment of hearing these words: "You are incredible."

I've been laughing so very much. It bubbles up, uncalled, unexpected, at odd times. The strangest things come to mind; why do I think of Fox in Socks? (Nose hose goes some. Crow's rose grows some.) And I've been tearing up, too. Stopping in the middle of movement to breathe slowly, rolling a memory through my mind and wondering how is it that I have been given this delight?

And I feel myself expanding. Sometimes the expansion hurts as something is torn down, broken, to make way for the new. Suddenly I'm learning quickly, changing quickly, accepting quickly what I've been struggling with for years: I am worthy. I am lovely. I am loved.

Am I beautiful? Someone says I am. Then, when I turn upwards, and ask, God, do you think I'm beautiful? He responds, ever so much, my daughter. And I can hear it now. And listen to it. And begin, more than ever before, to accept it.

Slow, fearful, cautious, rational me is wondering what is happening. Is wondering if most of life is a matter of timing; if most of good or not good is in the timing. Why would I claim dragging one's feet is the best pace through life? Especially when I could take life one full step at a time. Why would I be fearful when I've seen the steadfast love of God that graciously gives more than I can imagine? Why would I be cautious - as if I can protect myself by my own carefulness - when I could be trusting and confident in the Spirit's ability to guide my steps? Why would I be restricted by the rational when I could let my heart speak?

I feel I'm walking half-dizzy, stumbling through an unfamiliar dance. It's exhilarating, confusing, at times very frustrating, and I feel foolish one moment and incredibly happy the next. But I'm dancing! And it is good.

Life: Unmasked - Enjoy

A day late's better than never, right? Joining again with Life:Unmasked to write into the open the things inside.

Today, I'm thinking about enjoyment.

Mostly I'm thinking about how hard it is for me to accept. By which I mean I tend to feel guilty for enjoying things. Then, because I know this is ridiculous, I feel guilty for being unable to accept the enjoyment.

The thing is, if you ask me, I will say that enjoyment is good. I will tell you that's what I believe. That I believe takes pleasure in our enjoyment of His gifts. That food is good, beauty is good, relationships are good, furry animals are good, crunchy leaves are good, hugging is good, laughing is good, reading is good, and so many other things are good, too.

But I read recently that what we truly believe is more accurately revealed in our actions than in our pat statements. And hard as this is to hear, it's true. If I say I believe that enjoyment is good, but I act otherwise, do I really believe that?

Let me differentiate a little between enjoyment and rejoicing. Rejoicing I really truly deeply do believe is good. I am learning to rejoice in all circumstances, in everything and at all times. I'm learning to love the act of giving thanks, of choosing to be glad. And it's changing the colour of my life. But rejoicing is a chosen response to that which is, or appears to be. Enjoyment is not quite the same. It is much less of a choice (although the choice element remains, on some level), and more of a reaction. I enjoy a good poem not because I evaluate its words and rhythms and sounds, but on a more more instinctive, reactive level. It's a more physical response.

And I can barely let myself think, much less type this: enjoyment is very often physical. And it can be good. Physical enjoyment can be a very good thing. There. I wrote it. I wrote it.

But can I believe it?

Can I believe that this body is a thing to be enjoyed and an instrument of enjoyment? Can I believe that this body - and all that goes with it - is truly good?

This is a consistent struggle - to see the goodness and glory of the body, and not to simply see and acknowledge it, but also to live and enjoy it.

I don't know why it is so difficult for me to accept this. I do know that so many mixed messages abound in our culture that it is easy to become confused. I do know that teaching in churches often glosses over our physical beings, or somehow makes them seem bad. I do know that somehow, in all of this, comes the fact of incarnation. If God became one of us, and lived among us, in the flesh, then the flesh is holy. This mortal flesh is holy.

My thinking about this becomes all entangled with my feeling. I cannot organize rational, clear thoughts or arguments about all this, but I do get frustrated. (Feelings, again!) I get frustrated with the difficulty of vocabulary, with the finitude of reason, with the strength of emotions, with the irrationality of it all. But my frustration clarifies nothing, and I'm left looking at my words with a sense of deja vu. I already said this! And am just as far away from understanding it! Gah!

But this mortal flesh is holy. Somehow, for some reason, the body is good. I need to keep reminding myself of this. I need to force myself to allow my behaviour to follow. I need to let myself enjoy things. To let myself feel. To let myself go into the realm of the irrational. And perhaps to acknowledge that unless I let myself into this irrational realm, I will be incomplete. I need to trust that, as my friend Hilary puts it, the mystery of us is "souls that meet bodies and dwell together in such a way that I don't know how to know one without the other." Yes. The soul goes with the body. The mind goes with the body. And I've been trying to tell myself this, trying to accept the Truth of it surrounding me, even while I keep fighting against it.

Can you hear my struggle? Can you tell how embattled I am? And can you tell me something, even some small thing, that will help me really believe the goodness in this physical bodily work of God's art?

Killing the Trees of Isengard

Today, as I stood binding "The History and Appreciation of Wine" at work, they were taking down the trees on the bluff outside. It hurt. But I couldn't tear my eyes away.

Friday night, I watched The Fellowship of the Ring, extended edition, for the first time in years. My friends have a big screen, and good sound, and the detail blew me away. But out of all the difficult moments in the film, out of all the heart-wrenching events, one of the ones that hurt me the most was the destruction of the trees of Isengard. Each time a tree fell, the blow slammed through my belly. As they pulled the trees over, as the roots stretched and snapped out of the ground, my entire body tensed and ached. Each broken root tore at part of me. I arced my back, as if my muscles could hold the trees' life. But they fell, one by one, crashing, breaking branches as they landed. And if I hadn't had a friend to hold me, I probably would have cried out in deep pain, over and over. Oh, it hurt!

Then today, I saw real trees killed. They tied the tops to a crane, so nothing fell, nothing crashed - just the crescendo of the chainsaw, and another tree piece floated away. But it hurt nonetheless.

But there wasn't anger this time, just sorrow. They were cutting down the trees to make room for construction - a sign of the college's growth. Saruman cut down his trees to fuel furnaces to make weapons and creatures of evil and destruction. And that made me angry. How could he? How dare he?!? Even knowing the story, anger welled up. How dare he destroy life in order to bring about more destruction?

I was never this angry before. When I first saw the movies - even when I first saw The Two Towers, with Treebeard's horrified response to Saruman's behaviour - I was not this angry. I was sorrowful, to be sure. I couldn't understand how Saruman could make the decisions he made. But I was not angry.

Now, I am. Very very angry. I felt it building a pressure inside of me, and an ache and an anger, that, if given the power, would make him stop. How dare someone destroy something beautiful and good to bring about destruction? How dare they? I feel like the only proper response to this is anger. Can anger, indeed, be righteous? I often wonder this, I with the violent yet quickly cooled temper. Is it possible for anger to be good?

This brings to mind the story of Jesus in the temple, the one I've heard so many times, how Jesus overturned the tables, and drove people out of the temple with a whip. See, I'm used to hearing that Jesus was angry here. And that this justifies a "righteous" anger. But I just looked it up, and it doesn't say that Jesus was angry. Perhaps he was - perhaps he wasn't.

Do the Gospels ever specifically say that Jesus was angry?

Once. Only once. And the context surprises me.

Mark 3:3-5

"Jesus said to the man with the shriveled hand, 'Stand up in front of everyone.' Then Jesus asked them, 'Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?' But they remained silent.

He looked around at them in anger and, deeply distressed at their stubborn hearts, said to the man, 'Stretch out your hand.' He stretched it out, and his hand was completely restored."

Jesus was angry because they were silent in the face of his question. They gave no answer. Which is lawful, to do good or to do evil? Which is lawful, to save life or kill? And they were silent.

This almost knocks me over.

This is huge. This is much bigger than my anger with Saruman for destroying the trees of Isengard. Jesus' anger is stirred by the silence and indifference of those who should know better. They should have known that good is better than evil. They should have known the saving life is better than killing. And yet. They wouldn't answer.

Why was Treebeard's anger stirred against Saruman? Not simply because someone had destroyed the trees, but because "A wizard should know better!"

Why was Jesus' anger stirred against the Pharisees? Because they should have known better!

I have every reason to be angry with Saruman, and to be hurt, deeply, with every effort to further evil and death.

This makes me wonder: am I angry enough?

Looking at the world today, at people today, at the ambivalence lurking and spreading everywhere - we live in a place where anything is acceptable. When people pursue evil, and destruction, and killing, we - I - sit back and merely say we wish they wouldn't do such things. WHAT?! "Oh, I wish that person weren't killing so many." Seriously? Is that all the response I have? Is that all the response we have? Where's the anger?

Because, honestly, I should be angry.

Yup. I just said it. And I think I mean it. Sometimes, I should be angry.

Maybe not when I'm watching a fictional movie. Maybe not when they're cutting down trees for construction. But maybe, sometimes it's good to be angry.

May God grant me the discernment to see when I should be angry, and the wisdom to know what then I should do.

Life: Unmasked: I Choose to Trust.

I'm doing something new today. My friend Hilary has been joining with Joy's Life:Unmasked on Wednesdays to share the deep, hard things of life. Because life can be hard. And I'm trying to stop hiding. So here goes.


I want to go home.

Last night, curled on my chair, tears slowly tracing down my cheeks, this coiled over and over and over and over in me: I want to go home. I just want to go home. Oh, God, I want to go home!

My gut knotted and tightened, my fingers clutched my pen and tissue, and I pressed my knuckles against my mouth as if to hold in the wordless cry trying to wrench its way out of my heart. The guitars and voices held me up, held me tight, pulled my facades away, peeling the layers back til my heart touched the air - but it's the wrong air! - and it hurts so much!

I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger, traveling through this world... but never home. Or home for so little time it slides away with the retreating waves.

What I'm missing, I realized as I inked words on a blue page, is the sense of freedom in belonging I felt with my family. And the sense of freedom in smallness I felt in the redwoods, and the joy at the Pacific's foam.

When I am silent, my friends, do you think it is because I have little to say? Do you notice the longing behind my eyes? Or have I done well enough at hiding it that you don't know what I think, or what I want to say, or what I want to be? It isn't true that I don't want to be touched. It isn't true that I'm fine, I'm fine, of course I'm fine. It is true that my trip home was incredible. It is true that I love my family very, very much. It is true that I... that I get lonely. I'm not self-sufficient. I'm not sufficient. I want you to talk to me, to listen to me, to hug me.

You ask why I live here, then, if I miss my family, and the redwoods, so very much. And I want to laugh in your face for the absurdity of the question. In the face of my longing for home, do you really think I live here by chance? It would be easier to be there. But my life is here. Here is where I discovered life, living, rejoicing, moving, being. If it were up to me, if my life were only mine, I would probably be there. But I am supposed to be here. I have been placed here, and I feel that very strongly. Why am I here? Because such God requires of me. Because such God gives me.

I argue with God. I ask Him "why?" And complain about being here instead of there, and He asks one simple question: "Do you trust Me?" How do I respond to that? I ask Him why my heart keeps hurting so much, and what it all accomplishes, and He asks again, "Do you trust Me?" I've been avoiding the answer. Do I trust Him? Do I? How do I trust Him? What if I want to, but don't know how? But He persists, requiring an answer: "Do you trust Me?"

Yes.

Yes. I must. I have to. There's no other option. I can't not trust Him. I don't want to not trust Him. And I'm here, aren't I? If actions are evidence of belief, then apparently I trust Him. I trusted Him enough to stay here after graduation. And I've seen His faithfulness in the past few years. Oh, how I've seen it! He is worth trusting.

Even now. Even last night, tears drying lines to my chin. Even now. Even this morning, amidst the long, deep conversation with a dear, wise friend. Even now. Even tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day, with all the unknowns. Even now, here.

Maybe my homesickness runs deeper than a longing for Northern California. Maybe, just maybe, I'm actually homesick for more of God. And the only way to find it - to find Him - is to answer 'yes' to His ever so simple question:

"Do you trust Me?"

coming back to home from home

I just want to write. At this moment, snot pouring inconveniently, my head still a bit achy, the smell of paint boring into me, I want to write. (And for some reason, I keep typing 'right' instead.)

Maybe it's because I've been reading posts on writing, on its necessity, its struggle, its beauty (http://sittinthereoncapitolhil.blogspot.com/2012/01/dear-hilary-love-hilary-life-unmasked.html, and http://www.billycoffey.com/2010/01/writing-naked/). Maybe it's because I received two letters yesterday, both written in script, both well formed and encouraging. Maybe it's because that one short postcard I penned last night was a match, and the fuse fizzed all night, and now the wood is catching on fire. Maybe it's because words feed me, hold me, hurt me, help me, and right now I can use all the help I can get.

Because sickness is watching me. Standing too close, draping its unpleasant arm across my shoulder, using the top of my head as a chinrest. I am homesick. I am heartsick. I am bodysick. I am soulsick. (No. Not 'I am,' but 'I am fighting not to be.') It's only been a few days since I returned to the East Coast, and I miss my family something terrible. So much. So so much. It hurts. And I haven't seen many here, yet, haven't had many hugs, haven't done much except shiver in the bitter cold outside and cook to distract myself inside. (The cooking went well. That was a blessing. And it warmed the kitchen substantially.) And my body is at odds with me. I know I deserve this, the way I treated it, the toll the traveling and sleeplessness took. But I want it to heal faster. I want it to prove to me that it's happier than it was a year ago, by recovering more quickly now. (Patience, especially with myself, has never been a strong point. Parentheticals, apparently, are.)

Ah, me. This January, there are too many moving, unfocused parts. And my heart is sore within me. Last night, as I told the chiropractor that I would have to stop getting adjustments until I can save enough to afford it, I almost burst out crying. (I didn't. And he said they'll try to work something out with me that I can afford. Which almost made me cry again...) Driving home, I just wanted to keep going, find a dark cliff by the water, curl up, and weep. Instead, I made dinner, and wrote my sister a postcard. That helped.

The most difficult part of going home is always coming back.

I don't like this sadness. I don't like the fever. I don't like the homesickness. I want to rejoice, to give thanks, to be filled with joy. So I am thankful today isn't as cold as yesterday. And I am thankful that my experimental chicken noodle soup turned out spectacularly. I am thankful my bed is warm. I have food to eat, a place to live, and friends.

And this too shall pass. The chaos will subside. January's uncertainty will give way to direction and clarity. God will guide and provide. The homesickness will never quite go away, but I can live with it. My family is a phone call away. They have a mail box. And it is such a blessing to have them. Blessing... There are many blessings. Rejoice anyway, little one. And hope.

And all shall be well, and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.