Taping My Ears to My Face: the most recent testimony to my neurosis.

Warning: this is kind of gross.

It started about a month ago, when my brother-in-law leaned forward across my parent’s kitchen island with a furrowed eyebrow concentrating his stare toward the left side of my face and said, “What the…?” He thereby sent me into a three second eternity in which I imagined all the things that could be wrong with my face, including a newly formed giant birthmark in the shape of California that would eventually start growing hair. The hair I could of course exterminate, not without a certain amount of nausea, but the mark would grow darker and darker every time I set foot in the sun, and I would be forced to either start a scarf-around-the-face trend or have skin grafted from my thigh and plastered to my face.

Just as I was starting to get dizzy, he finished his sentence, disconcertedly noting that it looked like my earring was about to tear through my ear. I suppressed my indignation at the seeming disproportion of the disgusted look on his face and a lobe pulled down by a heavy earring, covered my ear, turned on one heel, and in a most dignified manner scurried to the bathroom, where I removed my earring. There, in my mother’s bathroom, facing a mirror that transforms pores into caves and eyebrow hairs into thorns, I noted that sure enough, this was more than a temporary lobe pulled down by a heavy earring. Rather than a tiny pierced hole, my ear appeared to have been pierced by an envelope opener, and I was forced to admit… a problem.

The first sacrifice I made in effort to coax the skin back to unity was to quit wearing dangly earrings, (a sure sacrifice to anyone who knows me, and undoubtedly the source of my new… malformation). I thought surely this would curb the degeneration of my earlobe.

So now I check my lobe every day in the mirror, to see if it has getting better, and while it doesn’t seem to be getting worse, healing is certainly not taking place either. Much to my regret, I confessed my problems to a friend with an imagination, who noted that if my ear did tear all the way through, my earlobe would look like a tiny hoof. I shrank back in horror, visions of my new freak hoof ear dancing through my brain.

And most unfortunately, my brain seems to have chosen the hoof image to shove to the front of my consciousness each night as I lay down to sleep. Recently it has gotten so bad that I cannot sleep. I tried counting sheep, but of course, sheep have hoofs. Soon in my counting, thousands of pairs of sheep with their hoofs were standing in the middle of a field like a drill team, high kicking their little split toes to the tune of “Isn’t she lovely.” I tossed and turned all night long, but got no rest. So the next night, I took a large band aid and plastered my earlobe to my face. That way I could be sure my earlobe would not move while I was sleeping. Peeling it off the next morning was rough, but the peaceful rest was worth it. So now this is my plan.

Please understand. My ear doesn’t hurt at all, but as soon as I think of it, I swear I can feel it. For those of you wondering, yes, I am fully aware that the angst leading to insomnia is “all in my head,” (while the earlobe hanging on by a thread on the left side, is actually quite out of my head), and don’t care to be reminded. I’ve got plenty of problems in my head, and being reminded of their locale provides little comfort.

I am open to advice, recommended earlobe surgeons, ideas for gracious responses to being called hoof-ear in the new future, and to being unconditionally loved by my faithful friends, whose love for me is in no way contingent upon my earlobe remaining in tact.

Until I figure out a better plan, my ear will remain earring free in the day and taped to my face at night.

To be continued…

Starting Small

Ann Lammott advises writers to start small when they feel overwhelmed by the white page before them. Specifically, she suggests writing about childhood school lunches. I want to write about SO MANY THINGS, big and small and scary and hairy (actually just one thing hairy, my apartment floor, because we can’t afford a flipping vacuum cleaner), and bursting with passion, but I’m too overwhelmed.

So I’ll just write, for now, about the fact that I am HUNGRY. I have been running around since 5:30 this morning, and I PREPARED for the day. I packed myself a nutritious breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but FORGOT flatware. So my dinner is sitting under my chair in class (yes, I'm blogging from class) because I can’t figure out a graceful way to slurp or scoop garbanzo beans using nothing but… myself. Ugh.

I imagine having a dear friend or parent or spouse in prison, behind the glass wall thing would feel something like this. We’ve all seen the movies, where separated lovers, one unjustly condemned, place their hands against the screen, the comfort of seeing their beloved almost voided by the torture of not being able to touch.

Or perhaps the man who lost his leg in war, but still wakes to feel it itch. He reaches, only to touch the bedsheets where his leg would have formerly rested, unable to experience the satisfaction of a good, scratch.

My garbanzo beans are the condemned lover, the amputated limb. And I. Am. Hungry.

Back to school.

twenty-four oceans

Today was the death day of my twenty fifth year. It dies officially tonight at twelve. Tomorrow, when people ask me, I'll answer, twenty-five. I celebrated this death by waking up slowly and having four cups of coffee with my mother, and then by meeting my beloved sister Ali for antique shopping, walking, talking, and of course, crying in an old historic downtown square. My father and brother-in-law came and met us for lunch, and we just... enjoyed each other.

The funniest quote of the day (and there were many) was a toss up. I mortified myself by exclaiming "MOM, DID YOU KNOW THAT ERIKA IS TOTALLY IN LOVE WITH A MEXICAN?" just as our lovely latina waitress set the tortilla chips on the table. I love Mexico, and meant it in complete eager excitement for my friend, but the timing was... poor. (By the way, congratulations my friend). Earlier at an antique store my mom picked up a doll and moaned, "I have this in my ceder chest! I'm antique!!!" Later my mother (who NEVER shops) bought some jeans called "Not Your Daughter's Jeans" at a store around the corner. When she came out of the dressing room to show them off, my dad whispered in her ear. I'm not sure what it was, but the smile on her face made me sure that the self-doubt caused by the antique store was now quite invalidated.

I loved twenty-four, and heartily recommend it to anyone. It has been a difficult year, full of lessons hard learned (though well learned. I personally would have chosen to read a book about, and fixed myself completely beforehand rather than walk the road, but God in His wisdom had other plans). It has been a year of the Lord's steadfast faithfulness, a year of His power and glory, and a year of His strength in my weakness.

It has also been a year of listening to the switchfoot song "twenty-four" about 365 times, knowing that as of tomorrow, it just won't mean as much.

And now tomorrow I welcome twenty-five with open arms, knowing that whatever may come, He wills it so. I am frightened, of course, of many valid things (or at least, I think they're valid), and then some completely irrational things as well, but at least acknowledging it. That's a start.

God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Celebration

Today was a day of celebrations. I celebrated with some of my very good girlfriends. We celebrated knowing each other, and being alive, and fall and pumpkins and good books and truth.

We celebrated by walking at the lake, and then by a picnic at the arboretum. We got cold, so we left after a few hours and went to sit by the fire in my apartment, where we celebrated by talking and laughing and praying.

My roommate and I left around five, and we went to meet some friends of a friend whose parents welcomed us into their home. We ate dinner with them, and heard stories of redemption and hope. We talked for hours with Arturo, originally from Monterrey, who had raised his family in the states, and Hannah, my beloved Mennonite friend who I met in Ecuador studying abroad. We listened and laughed and reveled and ate dessert.

And now I'm in another home, lit only by lamps, celebrating just... being... with two very safe people who know me very well and love me anyway. When peace like a river attendeth my way... oh, it is well with my soul.

i spy

I wrap myself up in a café chair
And hide behind my coffee cup and hair.

Then stand up gracefully inside my mind.
(Of course you’ll think I’m sitting all the time).

I read over his shoulder, word for word.
I laugh at whispers she thinks no one heard.

I stare across and drink in love from eyes
Not meant for me-- I find this most unwise.

I listen to your heart and to your feet.
I see her drum her hands to match your beat.

I climb inside my body once again
And take a sip, and shed a tear and grin.

balloons drifting out of my head.

Have I thought about all the things i need to think about today? I thought about plane tickets, and about hippies with low pony tails, and about cuticle cream, and how I'd like to meet the inventor of cuticle cream. Not because I need some (though I do). Just because I bet he has an interesting story. A story about a wife with bad cuticles. And he told her they were bad and she did not appreciate it one bit. So he invented this cream, and frankly, she didn't appreciate that either. But he made a lot of money and bought her a ridiculous wrinkly dog, and when she saw the dog with a bow on it's head, she forgot about the source of their riches, and when her husband made insensitive comments, she found comfort in her pup, who never commented on her cuticles.

And I've thought about China and about washing my hair, and I've thought about being lonely and scared, and I thought about the mountains and resting in them. And I thought about swimming in my mind.

And I thought about how I wish I had someone to walk with at the lake, and how God satisfies desires of all things. And about writing this versus not writing this, and about how long past the due date you can eat turkey (I might should have thought more about that).

And only now at 9:57 pm am I getting to the tiny light flecks that some people have in their eyes, to the word "berry"-- a nice little word that sounds quite like what it is. And to hospitals with people saying hello and goodbye, for a long time. And about how my dad hugs me so tight sometimes, and doesn't let go till after I do. (If you are a dad with a daughter who is grown, which you probably are not, because no dads read this blog that I know of, please continue to hug your daughter very tightly. I promise you, to her breathing is less important. Hug her tight enough, and then tighten a bit more. Good.)

And I'm thinking about truth that sets me free, that allows me to live on a plane just an inch or so above the earth. Only an inch, but it makes such an incredible difference. The difference between anxiety and joy, between pressure and peace, between selfishness and love.

I was asked today if I think too much. As long as there keeps being so much to think about, I've at least got to try to keep up.

Today I...

…woke up at 4:56, four minutes before I was supposed to leave to take my roommate to the airport. I jumped off my bed into some clothes, splashed something that I hope was soap onto my face, grabbed everything I could think of for my day, and ran out the door with her at 5:03.

…decided to put on loose powder in a traffic jam. I’ve had some pretty bad ideas, and this one just saddled right up to the others. Less than two seconds after opening the powder the jar jumped from my hands, bounced from the passenger seat to the floor, and I found myself trying to see through a thin film of Beige 1 dust. (I know- I'm really Ivory 2, but I pretend) Twenty minutes later, I was locked in the Starbucks bathroom doing laundry- trying to shake, wash, and then scrub the powder out of my clothes, and off of my teeth.

…had breakfast with a beautiful friend who is leaving to do mission work in Nicaragua. I wanted to jump in her car and go with her. I bet they don’t care at all if you have powdered pants, whereas I’ll probably be gently reprimanded at work.

And it’s only 8:44 in the morning.

slivers

Today…

I read about Jesus and the masses. He was tired and frustrated, yet filled with compassion for the people who sought him. I am tired today, and mildly frustrated, and thankful that Christ in me can fill me with compassion for those who come across my path.

I drove one exit too far to go to work so that I could turn around and drive into the sunrise for a bit, and the rings of my eyes turned gold for a moment.

Javier, a ten year old boy, came in to take his medicine. I asked him how his birthday was- he turned ten on Monday. He told me they didn’t do anything for his birthday. I asked him if he got any gifts, and he said no, that his mom said they don’t have enough money this year. I nodded and hugged him. Inside I wished I could buy him anything he ever wanted. Instead, I told him I had met some children his age this summer who lived in orphanages, and who didn’t know when their birthdays were. We talked about how good it is to share with those who don’t have, and he perked up and ran to class.

On a lighter note… The headmaster of my school brought in a premature, tiny baby possum, with no fur or eyes.

I’ve had China stuck in my head all day long. Yes, the country. I don’t pretend I can contain it all, but I’ll be answering the phone, or handing out a tardy slip, and all the sudden I’m sitting on the roof eating sushi, or laughing at the Chinese air conditioning system (which for our city, meant men pulling up their shirts to let their bellies hang out), or near-fainting at the magnitude of the city apartments.

Slivers... so far.

The. Fall.

I think I've figured it out. The new winds that I'm breathing have come from far away, in the Rocky Mountains and perhaps even the Himalaya's, and they smell like newness and depth and I can't help but feel I should follow them. Every fall I feel that if I knelt down and then jumped high enough I'd simply fly away. Every fall I cry for beauty and changing leaves, and I live in DALLAS. It's probably God's grace that I have never made it to New England in the fall (though I check flight prices daily). I think I might faint for beauty. And it's God's grace that fall dies into Christmas, because I love twinkling lights and warm drinks and red cheeked children and soft sweaters. So I don't think to mourn the fall until the Spring, but then people are always falling in love all around me, and that drama keeps me too busy to think about weather until the time change, and I love the time change. Pretty soon school lets out and then everyone can take a deep breath and rest in the water, and travel to see family and go on mission trips, which makes summer quite... a delight.

The only reason I'm gushing like this about the seasons is because it is the fall. If you cut me, I think I'd bleed apple cider.

Cheerios and Sunsets

The recent gray skies and fall breeze have been sending nostalgic whispers to tease me. I say tease because I can’t catch them. One will jump up out of nowhere, kiss me, and I’ll sit, frozen, trying to hold on to the memory, the feeling, the scent or longing from the past.

It’s been happening all the time, and without warning. Today my banana tasted like the ones I used to eat in my cheerios. I chewed slowly and closed my eyes, back at the kitchen table with my sisters, in our pajamas on a slower day.

And I remembered being whisked away from school by my mom, for orthodontist appointments, optometrist appointments, what have you. I loved those days, not just because I got out of school, but because it would be me and mom, for a while. I’d want to freeze time driving in her car, sitting with her in the lounge, too young and too in the moment to be aware of the magic she held over me.

Every year autumn's breath wakes me up, alerting me to the beauty my friends, the grace of women who let their hair gray, the speed at which I’ve been running, the joy of holding coffee in my mouth a little bit longer before swallowing.

Yesterday I biked around the lake, and then sat to watch the sunset. I prayed and listened, and while we talked God wove a sunset so glorious I wanted to shift from a sitting position to a kneeling position. But if people noticed then I wouldn’t be invisible anymore, and I desperately wanted to be invisible. I was talking to God about all sorts of things, but soon He hushed me with a slow reaching of sun rays to water, and all I could say was, “Beautiful.”

How are you?

This morning a slightly chubby boy walked in twenty minutes late to school. I handed him a tardy and asked how he was. He answered, “I found two locusts at my dad’s house. They’re dead.” We looked at each other in mutual pensive respect for the dead locusts, and he went on his way.

I wonder what would happen if adults started answering the question, “How are you?” with a little more spunk?

The frame and a snapshot

When I haven’t written for a long time, it’s difficult to know where to start. Do I start in theory land, in what God is teaching me, rolling out, revealing about his world and himself? Or do I start in practical land and tell you stories? Even now as I write, I haven’t decided.

I’ll start with the frame, and then paint the picture. I came back from Ethiopia and ran, into a new apartment, a new job, a bit of a new life. I have eleven hours left in my degree, and am taking six right now. Lord willing, I’ll take five in the spring, and then graduate in May. I work as a receptionist at West Dallas Community School, a private Christian school in a historically underprivileged area of Dallas. The mission of the School is:

“to provide students with a challenging educational experience designed to help them know, love, and practice that which is true, good, and excellent and to prepare them to live purposefully and intelligently in the service of God and man.”

The school is a calm and peaceful place in the midst of a dangerous neighborhood. It is part of a West Dallas Initiative to bring redemption and hope to families in the area. Less than two percent of adults in this zip code have gone to college, and for many of the children, college seems like an impossible goal. The school is funded by generous donors who are committed to giving their money to eternal things.

Within the year, they want to hire someone from the community to serve as a receptionist, but haven’t found the right person yet. I needed a job like this for a year to help me pay for school and life until I graduate, so on both ends it works very well. I love the mission of the school and the people I get to be around. On very hard days at my job (and there have already been plenty) I am reminded of how God blazed a path ahead of me to put me here, and how He will sustain me to do what He’s asked me to do.

I take classes at DTS at night. Not shockingly, I love them, and find myself energized by being able to learn about the reality of God and the way the world works. But I also can barely keep my eyes open once I get home at night.

This is the frame of my life, if you will. But the picture changes every day as I walk around within the borders God seems to have set for me. Today, into my frame, walked a woman whose nieces go to West Dallas School. They live with her because their mother does not want them. After a year and a half in foster care, this woman took them in even though she can barely afford to take care of her own children. She sat at the front desk and told me their story. Her niece is in Pre-K and has been sent home most days because of acting up, but this little girl has had more trauma in her life than most of us will ever experience. She is handicapped due to her mother allowing a fever to persist for two weeks before going to the doctor, and doesn’t trust a single adult in her young life. My keyboard was soon wet with tears, and I promised to pray for her.

I hate some of the things I saw in Ethiopia and some of the things I see here. But that makes sense, according to the Bible, doesn't it? This world is broken, and we who wish to give our lives away as He gave His know that there is nothing better than to Love Him and to Love others. To give ourselves away, and to be a part of making things right. More thoughts to come. Be blessed.

Addis

I am sitting in my living room on a blessed afternoon off, enjoying my teammates, Matt and Charissa. We are working on our updates, and struggling together to describe what we have been doing here. To describe a vision trip in which I for one, have felt like the world has been swirling around me for most of the past month. By God’s grace, our feet have remained firmly planted in His word, and in His truth, have kept us from getting caught up in the tornado of Addis Ababa.

My trip has looked (on the surface), as follows:

Our team: Matt and Charissa Fry (fellow DTS’ers and dear friends from Norman), Brian Bain and Crystal Reeves (both DTS), Emily and Ellen (nursing students from Austin), Jonathan, Kimmy, and their 15 month old daughter Jocelyn (a family from Tyler- Jocelyn has been the darling of our team), and Vic Anderson (DTS professor and our leader), and Julie, his daughter. We all came with different desires, and with willing malleable hearts, and have enjoyed each other immensely. All of our time has looked different, and rarely have we all worked on the same project at the same time. Nevertheless, God has given us a heart for each other and a tone of laughter. I have been amazed at the servant-heartedness of our team.

IEC- Sundays, our team helped with the International Evangelical Church. 1500 people from all over the world attend IEC, and our team leader, Vic, used to pastor there, We led worship (I played the djembe!), taught Sunday School classes, and Crystal, Charissa and I led a class on Godly Beauty for women. Our class was four Sunday’s long, and went better than we ever could have hoped. We chatted with women about beauty in different culture, looked at God’s word to see what He saw as beautiful, and celebrated visible and invisible beauty in ourselves and in the world.

Class- For the first three weeks I was here, we took a class on Contextualized Education at a seminary. We talked with future pastors and leaders of the Ethiopian churches about how to be better teachers and stewards of the knowledge God has given us, and how to bring Truth into any context.

ESL- In the evenings, starting that first week, some of our team helped out with an English class at a Christian College connected with IEC. Students who did not pass the first English exam must pass this class in order to enroll in the fall in college. The classroom is very fun, and we love helping the teacher, but it is also sad and difficult. Some students are progressing so well, others will not pass. They are humble and dedicated, and are giving up their lives to serve Christ, and I hurt for their frustration with English. I wish the stinking Christian College could just be in Amharic.

VBS- After the Contextualized Education course ended, a ministry called People In Need began a program for children of impoverished, mostly HIV positive, mothers. The program runs on Tuesday and Thursday mornings for ten weeks. We showed up the first day thinking we were assisting. The PIN people, however, thought we were running the whole show. This type of surprise has been fairly typical in Addis, so we rolled with it. That night, were able to write the bible curriculum. As a theme, we decided to focus on God’s desire for a relationship with humans, and went chronologically through the Bible telling stories of God’s pursuit of Adam and Eve, Abraham, Moses, etc. The program is run in Amharic, so we used translators. I never thought I would enjoy this ministry as much as I did, but today was our last day, and I was sad to leave. I played Isaac in the drama, and thankfully, God (Jonathan) jumped in to save me before Abraham (Matt), stuck me with some very sharp rolled up paper. The kids laughed and loved it. We pray for their salvation, and are grateful for how easy they are to work with.

Outside of these regular ministries, we have been visiting and serving at orphanages, girls homes, and most recently I was able to go to a ministry called Women at Risk, the only ministry I’ve found here that works exclusively with prostitution. This experience deserves an entire update, so I plan on blogging about it later.

We have also been able to get outside of the city twice now, for which I praise God. Everything you’ve read about so far has been exclusively Addis. You’ve read nothing about the rolling mountains and lush valleys of Ethiopia, about the three thousand year old tree with a trunk bigger than my apartment and branches to cradle our whole team. I simply can’t write it all!

Sunday, Matt and Charissa and I leave to visit Beletch Mesfine, the child I sponsor through World Vision. I get chills when I think about being able to greet her. Would you pray for our safe travel? The trip will take four days, and we will be going to a very remote part of Southwest Ethiopia. Pray for safe travel, and that I will not overwhelm Beletch or her family with enthusiasm.

the Lord's provision

Pauline married John last night, on a lovely Georgia plantation. We sat outside in white wooden chairs and they held hands under the gazebo. The ceremony was small and perfect, though a bit difficult to hear because of the rolling thunder. Nervous guests would jerk their heads up every few moments just to check to see if the rain had started yet. Sure enough, in between the rings and the kiss, the sky broke and water poured down. Amazingly, a tent had been set up for a wedding the next day, so we all dashed under it and surrounded the damp bride and groom. The laughter and love filled that billowing tent, and we whistled "Praise to the Lord" as they walked back down our human made aisle.

We danced all night, and ate apple crisp for dessert. Aside from the fact that my feet hate me, I'm deliciously happy with the whole event.

Today I should have been at the Atlanta airport all day. The people I stayed with could only take me to the airport in the morning. Since I'll be in airports for the next two days straight, I was not particularly excited about this plan, but thought perhaps the Lord had something for me there I did not know about. BUT, at the wedding, a wonderful couple from out of town heard about my plan and invited me to spend the day with them. I excitedly accepted, and so today, when I should have been sprawled out with my bags at the airport, I found myself instead laughing and talking and praying with Carol and Don, and then wandering around the Atlanta Art Museum, looking at Monet's water lillies. I sat in front of one of the paintings for almost a half an hour, shaking my head in wonder at the beauty Monet found, and at God's goodness to me allowing me to spend the afternoon this way. They dropped me at the airport after our excursions, where I encountered another round of fiascos, and where I was actually called a cow by an airport worker. I looked for the positive light in this comment, but finding none, decided to express my displeasure with my offender. He invited me to get over it, and seeing no other option, I turned around and walked to my gate.

There are so many stories to tell! This is a story of the Lord's provision, of tents and lilies and gardens so that Monet could paint them, and kind couples who would disrupt their afternoon in order to help me. I'm so thankful...

A turbulent start to a trip…

I was scheduled to leave yesterday (Wednesday) for a wedding in Atlanta for three days and leave straight from there to Ethiopia. The flight was delayed three hours due to weather, so at 6:30pm, when I would have been checking in, I found myself instead huddled in a restaurant with my mom, my dad, and my little sister, with no power, watching the violent winds of a nearby tornado tear through our hometown. (In a divine twist, we had chosen to eat sushi that night, perhaps the only type of food that requires no heat whatsoever. The Japanese chef just continued chopping raw fish, and we dined to small candles and battery operated lights stolen from the mens bathroom.)

We left after the worst of the storm passed to find our small town significantly beat up, and drove to the airport. My flight was scheduled to leave at 10:40, and my parents dropped me at the gate at 8:15. However, when I came in, no one was there. I felt my stomach twist a little, and asked the man at the counter where to check in for my flight. He informed me kindly but somewhat nonchalantly, that I had missed my flight and asked if I would like to reschedule. My jaw hit the ground. After much discussion, it turned out that I had NOT in fact missed my flight. The baggage check people left their posts at 8 for the day, and so I could not pass through security.

In my mind, I boldy asserted myself, asked for the manager, and demanded to be let behind the counter. In reality, my lip quivered a bit, a lump of tears stopped up my throat, and I picked up my cell phone to call my father. He came to my rescue, asserted himself to the point of me having to apologize to the management, and we went home with a boarding pass for 5:30 the next morning.

I went to bed at 11:30, and woke to my father’s voice at 3:30. At the sound of his brisk knock and “Goodmorningwakeupflightcomingmadecoffee,” I spent five minutes moaning and resenting him before rolling off the bed, picking myself up off the floor, and spilling myself into the bathroom sink, hoping that something came out clean and refreshed.

We drove to the airport to the cracks of lightening, and rolling thunderstorms all around us. We said we were thankful for an early flight, and for a moment, enjoyed a mutual silent fantasy in which lightening flees from planes and the rain carves out a path for their passage through the sky.

We pulled into the airport, hugged goodbye, and I checked in without much ado. I sat down and waited to be called to board. Eight hours, one hot chocolate, two protein bars, a major stomach ache, four crying toddlers, two seat changes, and one pooping Chihuahua (DID YOU KNOW THAT CHIHUAHUA'S CAN BE TAKEN AS CARRY-ONS?!) later, I found myself three rows away from this same seat.

The sky had had all the planes it could take for the moment, and fed up with the arrogance of flight plans, decided to show those metal birds who was boss. They quivered and stayed still in silent submission.

Twice our little bird invited us to attempt a breakaway. It tried to sneak off the runway without being noticed, humming and tiptoeing as only the sneakiest of planes can. We hushed and waited on the edge of our seats (that is an exaggeration. There is no room for hovering on the edge of seats in a tiny airplane unless you are a crying toddler, in which case you may hover anywhere you like as long as it keeps you happy and silent, as I learned from watching frazzled pleading mothers this morning) and waited for the plane to take off, but the sky caught us, slammed down some extra lightening and thunder as a warning, at which point our Boeing 747 turned and scurried down the runway to push us all back out into the airport. Passengers glared at the plane disgustedly from their seats in the waiting lounge. I was certain that one man, had he been forty years younger, would have literally kicked the plane in protest.

I frankly enjoyed the heck out of the whole scene. I switched seats somewhere in the mess to reunite two pre-teen sisters, and ended up sitting next to a couple who got engaged in an air balloon, who have the gift of story telling, and who happen to love the Lord. We talked about everything from missions to makeup and tried to outdo one another encouraging the pilots and flight attendants. They ended up giving us each those pin on wings for being such good passengers! We bore them with dignity, and offered to help steer if they should get tired. (Pictures to follow).

Eventually, we did make it out of the airport, and our little plane family cheered at take off and landing. I will not be back to DFW until July 25th, and am quite certain between now and then there will be at least one or two more stories to tell.

Reflections...

For about ten days straight, I turned page after page, typed paper after paper, turning one in after another, without stopping much to breath. Then, at noon on Friday, I clicked "send" on my last paper and stumbled out of the library, squinting at the foreign sun. The next few days I hoped to rest and slow down, but it was as though I had slammed on the brakes of my life but my body and mind kept going forward. Stopping felt unnatural. A few days ago I caught myself walking hunched over determinedly from my bathroom sink to the kitchen, making coffee with my toothbrush in my mouth, multitasking out of habit, only to stop and realize that I was no longer speeding down the finals freeway. So I stopped, toothbrush drooping, and wondered what I would do with all this time. Perhaps I'll take up flossing. Most likely not.

I know—I'll look forward. My world is hurtling forward and so much waits just beyond the horizon that I catch myself jumping just to see if I can get an early glance. Many of you know, Ethiopia, moving, watching God bring justice to people who don't have it—these are some of the present and coming treasures in my life.

But first, now, for a moment, I'll look back. God has held my hand through two years of Seminary. Each semester my professors handed me my syllabus, and yes, it looked daunting. But I had signed up for it—I expected the workload. But each semester God had things planned to teach me that I would have NEVER signed up for if I had known ahead of time. I think that's why He doesn't tell me anything beforehand.

Isn't life that way? We think we understand what we're getting ourselves into. We have the plan, the layout, the illusion of control. God has more in store for us. We would sell ourselves short with comfort. He would take us to depths and heights. I would accept the play by play of my life, so I could make sure I wouldn't mess up. He would draw out beauty in me by refinement, develop character in me by trail, draw me closer to Him by stripping me of my fierce independence.

This year God taught me a bit more how to love the desperately broken things in this world, and at the same time love the beauty of this world. What tension! I've never understood how I could soak in the beauty of White Rock Lake (yes, I think it's beautiful), and others could perish of famine. And how can I read good literature when people die without His word? Should I not cringe with guilt at the ease of my life? God teaches me. This world is filled with brokenness and beauty, and I as a Christian am called to be in this world, and not of it. If I'm going to love, if I'm going to embrace this world, I've got to accept pain along with beauty. I can listen to my God, praise Him for the Rocky Mountains (Psalm 104), and give to those I meet in need (2 Tim 6:17-19). God doesn't need me. He spoke the waters into being, he can call the world to Himself. He'll use me, and I want nothing more than to be a willing tool in the hands of my God. I respond to the life He's leading to me to live in thankful love.

My desire is to be a redemptive presence wherever I am. My friend Kelsey told me about a church that plants gardens in one of the roughest areas of town. Homeless people grow vegetables there, and tend the plots allotted to them. What redemption! Jesus came to make all things new. Tonight I look like a girl in sweats in a coffee shop. But I am a beauty hunter, hunting beauty in everyone and everything I come across. And I'm looking for chances to speak about the King, the Creator of all things, and the news of Grace.

Guilt Post

My newsletter invited you to come read my blog, and then I haven't written anything since February (or January?) So this is me, on three hours of sleep in the last couple of days, guilt blogging.

I guilt blog from a lovely well lit house with wood floors and classical music playing over the surround sound. I just finished a paper on a beautiful book, and my eyes are so tired that I am literally closing them right now as I write this.

Okay, now they're open. Today there are going to be flash floods in Dallas, which I like very much, because it reminds me that God is massive and powerful, and I think of how small I am in comparison. But tonight I'm going to sleep through them, I hope. I'd just be tickled pink to sleep about 11 hours tonight.

I don't like the phrase tickled pink now that I write it. I think it is because I have control issues, and do not much enjoy being tickled. When I was younger I used to pretend to hyperventilate in an effort to make people stop tickling me. They would get scared and I'd make them feel guilty, and they would swear never to tickle me again.

Come to think of it, I was not a very pleasant child.

I have big plans for a coherent blog in the very near future. ;) Thanks for reading.

A couple of new poems

I've written more of late. Hope you enjoy.

Real Hope

Myself-- not good. (Believe me, dear, I would)
My words, not true (Yes true but not complete)
Wanting to live (I see only defeat).

Appalled at sin (No hope comes from within)
Crave purity (Corruption eats away)
Waking to shudder (Shiver in dismay).

I lift my eyes (They do not lightly rise)
To Hope above (not to abstract ideal)
But Jesus’ face (He- personal, He- real)

My beauty, an illusion (False delusion)
His beauty all-consuming (Mine, reflection)
Resting in His protection (Basking in His affection, Sure hope of resurrection).


Cut by Shards

I read a book and knew the world had broken-
Dead dogs piled on the roads and pain unspoken.

Her eyes held hopelessness that made me shiver,
Her son stepped onto ice and broke the river.

But still I had not been cut by the shards
Of glass scattered in all of earth’s junkyards.

I read the news and wept for others loss
But for myself had not counted the cost.

But I met Pain- she pierced and broke my heart
My lungs shriveled to have to live my part.

My heart’s pinched in a vice, pain mostly dull
But then so sharp I cannot bear my role.

I read a book and knew the world has broken
But Brokenness and I— Now we have spoken.

And I lie still, and wait- for it will ease
And fix my eyes upon the Prince of Peace.

insomnia

I cannot sleep. Sometime after closing my eyes last night someone reached down my mouth and into my heart and ever so slowly exchanged it for a pretzel. Eventually the pretzel, fully formed and beating, woke me up and now it is 4:44 a.m. and I cannot sleep.

The word anxious fails to pin it exactly. Anticipatory, maybe? Excited? The problem is, I don't know what about.

Many of you don't know, but I changed my degree program to Master of Arts in Biblical Studies. This means I will walk across the stage this May, and graduate in August. Before I had at least till December if not May 2010. I won't go into all the details of how God led this decision, but He did, and depending on the day my future lay out before me like a giant white dry erase board inviting me to fill it with possibilities, or a god-forsaken black hole waiting to suck me in to a directionless mess of confusion with no gravity.

The black hole relates to a fear I have that I've deemed my Flounder Fear. Not surprisingly, it is my fear of floundering. I don't know exactly what floundering means, but I imagine a slightly overweight fish flapping outside of the water without skill or direction. I have a fear of becoming that flounder. Does anyone know of a prescription drug for that? Currently I'm medicating with the ridiculously true truth that God is with me today, has been with me every day till now, and so it is illogical to think that after I receive a diploma He will kindly leave me outside the pool of purpose. I might be confused, but not left behind. He has a purpose for me.

So maybe Flounder Fear tied the pretzel in my stomach, but I don't think so. I woke up in a dry white erase board kind of mood, lay in bed and contrived my new plan of getting a Masters degree in literature, teaching high school, getting midwife training and taking art classes while doing inner city work where I can somehow use Spanish, lest I completely forget the language I paid way too much money to learn. I also think I'd like to take karate.

I've decided to treat the pretzel with a spin class at Baylor Fitness Center. This is severe punishment. If you've ever talked to me about spin classes, you know that I would only take one if I were desperate. I am. I've taken two classes ever and both times I lowered the resistance when the he-woman said to raise it and then peddled slower to make it look like I was doing something really difficult. Admittedly deceptive, but have you seen the women that take these classes?! They are not to be messed with. I hate spin classes, but I think the pretzel will be less likely to rear it's ugly salted twisted self if I squish it with a he-woman spin class.

Wish me luck! Oh, and I'm back to my blog.