Wonder

I’m not sure how to live in a world where kindness is a real possibility. Where gentle things can be protected, nurtured and grown. Where hardness can soften. I’m not sure how to live in a world where winds pick up flags and curly hair, where little girls walk into coffee shops in leotards, and old ladies wear overalls. Where bread rises with yeast and warmth, where people extend friendship and genuine smiles.

I’m not sure how to live in a world where Christ walked. The immovable point… in a stable. The Prince of Peace with a crown of thorns.

Where two trees with separate root systems can grow together, so close that the bark changes and becomes one tree. I saw this once. I felt the bark and it was not just interlaced; the trees had given into one another.

I put my head down on my book a few moments ago after reading about Russian princes ousting the Mongols. It is a history book but I’m too overwhelmed by the romance of it all. And I prayed, because I have to teach tomorrow and that means I cannot just sit here and imagine khans and princes fighting for Russia. And I cannot say every “Ferdinand” and “Isabella” out loud and be shocked by language and by my own tongue.

I love this world, this world of goose bumps (the hairs on my arms react to a touching story… what is THAT about?!) and pinstripes and white wicker porch furniture. Of delightful friends who teach me things. Of the Still Point (Triune, Steady, Good) that makes this dance possible. I know I love this world, but I’m not sure I know how to live.

Cemeteries and Somber Thanks

Tonight I watched the sun bow for the day. "I've finished a day," she said. "I rose this morning and bid the moon good day and goodbye. I stayed high at noon and came back for a brief magic hour after hiding underneath a cloud blanket."  I watched her bow from a cemetery where I felt small and insignificant and modestly grateful. She played her part. Have I played mine?

Learning

My boss, who will not like it one bit that I called him my boss, encouraged me to blog about things I am learning at school. I think this is a very good idea, but I am learning so much that the challenge overwhelms me. Should I tell you about Edward II or Alexander Hamilton? Shall we talk about commas, early American poetry, Transcendentalism? Or the pope! And really what he meant was pedagogy. Do I tell you how humbling it was to learn that I was scaring the students in writing? How exciting it was when my eighth graders identified trochaic octameter in a poem? And LIKED it?! No...

You get the idea. I sit still, the world leaps and flies around me. Again I woke struck with the urge to stop it all. To find the world's pause button (I'll bet it's somewhere so sneaky no one would guess it. I'll bet it's under the bleachers of a tiny high school in Kearney, Nebraska or maybe under  your chair. Everyone check right now just to be sure). I would press pause and then walk around for a year or so. Mostly I would put my hand to the cheeks of people frozen in their tracks. I would push their hair behind their ears, make the sign of the cross on their foreheads and bless them. They are sacred. I would flip through my student's writing journals (which I am allowed to read) and try to understand what they think about their writing. I would pick up trash from empty streets and put all the grocery carts back into their lines so that when I hit the play button again the boys who collect them (they do seem to always be boys) would wake surprised. Other than that I wouldn't move too many things. I would touch everything though, and I would turn all the radio stations to the same channel, and figure out how to play Allegri's Miserere when everyone woke back up. And we would have a holy moment, and I would die for joy.

I think I might leave someone else un-paused too, so that we could look and cry and pray together. This is what I learned this week. I need people so much. This is not co-dependence; it is human. God said, "It is not good for man to be alone." I work with people who give me room to breathe and grow and teach and love my students. This week I scheduled something wrong and my boss, without a moments hesitation or condemnation, picked up what I dropped. And a mentor teacher gave up his lunch to patiently walk me through something I should understand. Tonight I sit alone in a coffee shop, so happy to be here reflecting, but even more happy that next week I'll be able to see all of them.

I also moved this week. My roommate, who I mentioned in an earlier post, left a bit suddenly and I could not find a roommate. So I broke my lease, put my stuff in storage (again), and I moved in with people so precious I am scared to write about them. Last night we smoked Cuban cigars and talked about pilgrimage. Every morning one housemate and I hug before we speak. I can't believe I get to live there.

I learned many other things this week, but mostly I learned I need people. And I'm so blessed to have them.

Sabbath

I work six days a week. From sunrise to sunset six days a week I teach, I grade, I plan and I assess. I pray each morning that God will help me to see the material clearly and to steward well the frighteningly precious students he has given me to teach. And I work as hard as I know how while still trying to be present for my neighbors.

But to my amazement God doesn't want us to work seven days. The God of the Bible commands rest. Our Jewish parents rested on the seventh day after a week of hard labor. One of the privileges of following Yahweh in this age is that we rest at the beginning of the week. We start our work Monday morning from a place of rest.

So on Sundays I Sabbath. I begin the day with Holy Communion at the parish I am attending in Oklahoma City. And then I let the wind carry me, praying thanksgiving along the way. Today I ate lunch after Sunday school with the Parker family and we talked about Ireland and the Book of Kells and theology and music and pedagogy and love. Then a friend asked me to go to Lake Hefner. So we got pumpkin spice lattes and went and sat on stone stairs by our sadly shrunken lake watching rainbow sail boats and reading short stories out loud. A couple sat near us and talked quite loudly. I scowled at them, and then the man pulled out a violin. My jaw dropped and I apologized to God and the angels and everyone in all of history for scowling, and we sat and watched the lake and listened to him play.

And now, Shiner Bock and a movie with a neighbor. A heart full of praise and gratitude. If it were only the Eucharist, that would be enough. Just God's love is enough. But he gives me a family to eat with, a neighbor who loves me and is crazy, and a shimmering Fall sun. Tomorrow I will rise early and put all of my strength into the work God has given me. And I will not get it all done. But today in a leap of faith and gratitude I Sabbath.

Hope

I woke today with hope. And it is not because I have done a good job, or because my apartment is clean, or because things are right. Even as I type a determined and possibly caffeinated fly is having a conniption fit around my head.  And furthermore, I've been praying through a difficult transition I'll have to make soon. And I have a hole in my sweater. Things are not perfect.

I woke today with a glimmer, a memory of fresh bread in France, my Dad saying goodbye in an airport, photos of flamingos in Nairobi. I stood to the sunrise, to one more day, to fresh coffee and a faithful, beat up car who has traveled so far with me.  I woke imperfect to an imperfect world, with the knowledge of a perfect King, and I have hope.

Some Unsolicited Advice

What Not to do When Teaching.

1) Do NOT write an acrostic to help students memorize the thirteen colonies if you do not have in your hand the list of the actual thirteen colonies.

I thought, "I'm the teacher. I know this." I wrote, "Vicious Mice Navigate Mazes..." You get the idea. I then wrote, "Virginia, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine..." After I had finished writing them all, and still had Maryland left. I realized quickly that one of two things had happened. Either we had been counting wrong all these years, and would have to get Miss Betsy Ross to add another white stripe to the flag, and I would be a hero, or I had screwed up. Again, remember the fourteen eyes boring into the back of my head. I stepped back, I sighed, and asked for help. Where to put Maryland? It took five minutes for me to remember that Maine was not a colony. I cursed the book for mentioning it at all (silently, in my head), told myself I had made a career mistake but had to at least finish the period, and erased Maine. I will never, ever forget, and I will unfortunately probably not like Maine as much for awhile.. oh sneaky Maine.

2) Do NOT say things out loud for the very first time in front of students.

I constantly "make up" proper nouns in my head without knowing the actual pronunciation, and today I changed Guinevere's father, Leodogran to LeoDRAGON. Yes, I added a dragon to our Arthurian legend discussion. Ugh.

What to do when you do all of the above (or customize your own version of seemingly "epic" failure).

1) Tell your students you made a mistake. If nothing else, they deserve to know the truth about Maine.

2) Get around people who can guide you away from a ledge jump to the pit of self-loathing, and into laughter. If these people happen to invite you over for dinner and to spend the night, and then happen to give you a build-a-bear, and a plastic crown, you're all the better for it. (Thank you, thank you, thank you Dunham family).

3) Eat cake, but just a little.

4) Go to bed. I'm going now. It's 9:21.

Goodnight, blog world. Tomorrow is a new day.

Marina

My neighbor, with peach fuzz hair (growing back slowly after chemotherapy), and framed pictures of Obama all over her house. She loves President Obama, and sent him a birthday card from our apartment complex. I signed it gladly. Right now the floor of my apartment is shaking because she is playing hip hop with a ridiculous base. She is about seventy, and frequently she turns on base heavy rap at apartment-shaking volume, and then goes outside to go swimming. Then I go outside and get her out of the pool to turn down her music which no one can hear but me.  This is one of those moments, and I'm too tired to go get her.

For my first day of school she brought me Kleenex and soap and told me that students are germy. I wrote her a thank you card and she wrote me a thank you card back for my thank you card. When she came over for dinner last week she asked if I were seeing anyone and if I believed in God, and she told me she was Jewish and Catholic and "okay with gays."

"Love your neighbors," He said. Don't mind if I do. :)

Is This My Life?

My life is small now. I am no longer swallowing oceans and climbing up trees and in and out of planes. I walk through the cemetery. I put a pot of coffee on. I read.

I look into the eyes of students and talk to them about the Transatlantic Slave Trade. I talk to them about basketball and I talk to them about grammar. They look at me and write down things that I say. All of the sudden I can't spell to save my life. Spelling with fourteen pairs of eyes waiting for you to step aside so they can say, "What is THAT?!," is a whole new world.

One class at a time. One story at a time. One gerund, one French lord, one American gothic short story at a time. Can I help them to see? I know I can't make them see, but can I help? Them to see their place, their lives, their world? Could I help them to see the man outside asking for a dollar? Could I help them believe that it might be better sometimes just to give him a dollar or two rather than offering him advice, even if they money will just go to booze? I can't say it directly. I have to say it through SAT prep and vocabulary checks. I'll say it through loving them, by God's grace.

My life is small now... eyes and neighbors and bookshelves and homework to be graded. And students. Precious and young students, who might give themselves to something great.

My Saint Bernard Sweater

By divine providence, I came into possession of an over-sized cashmere sweater with a giant Saint Bernard head on the front. It came to me during a fairly reflective, transitional time of life and I wore it for about a week continuously when I first inherited it. I wore it with jeans, shorts, tights, dresses. I would usually start the day in something relatively put together, make it to about 10am and then on would come the sweater.

I took a loonnnng road trip to Dallas when I left Massachusetts this spring and every time I felt nervous about coming back I would bend over, shake out my hair until it was twice the size of my head and dig out the Saint Bernard sweater. It was May, but somehow I managed to be on a mountain or in the middle of a cold front when I really needed that sweater. It's like a cashmere hug. It goes down to my thighs and presents a fierce Saint Bernard to anyone who might try to mess with me. I actually feel protected.

Tomorrow I start teaching. I am going to assign projects on American Historical Figures and the like. I am going to grade things. Don't get me wrong: this is absolutely where I am supposed to be and I don't think I could be happier. But it is a Saint Bernard sweater kind of day... nerves and needing hugs and also kind of ready to fight. Oh Lord, help.

A Leap of Faith

I have wanted to write for so long. I have had stories, lessons, exultations building up in me for months and months, but have sat with them. Today I told my roommate about it. About having experiences that are so precious they shake me, and being torn between wanting to share them and fearing exploiting them. I want to write it all, to tap my fingers and say "THIS, This is what I see." But isn't that selfish? Don't people have better things to think of? And Kate said, "Abby, how much better would the world be if everyone gave each other what they had to give?" She is right, and well, it might not be great, but this is what I have to give. I am taking a leap of faith and returning to my blog to share a bit of my life with whoever might want to read it.

Just Missing my Blog and Wanting to Share

I wrote this on a plane December 11, 2010, on my way to visit my beautiful friends Jess and Stew. It is old, but I wanted to share it.

A Blanket of Blue

When I was little my favorite thing was the sky. I don’t know any other way of saying it. I could elaborate but that wouldn’t do justice to my thoughts about it at the time. I didn’t know that the sky reflected some majesty of God’s, I couldn’t really remember the proper types of clouds, and I didn’t mean by the thought that my favorite thing to look at was the sky or that my favorite part of nature was the sky. Just that my favorite thing was the sky. That was what I meant and while I can’t say it so simply any longer, I still know what I meant. I walked home from elementary and middle school often in awe. I drew pictures of sunsets. I cried when we flew through a cloud on my first airplane trip (I had imagined them a bit more solid). For a while, I cried every time I went in an airplane because I couldn’t believe that I was part of the blessed sliver of the world’s population to get to see above the clouds. Ninety billion people have walked this earth, and I have stood on mountain tops and flown above the clouds, seen them from the top, and almost seen angels hosting elegant balls there, waltzing on celestial carpet.Why should I be so blessed?

My favorite thing was the sky. My favorite Psalm was Psalm 19, dedicated to the sky, and I wished on many birthday candles that I might be able to fly. Even as I review my current bucket list, I find myself amazed by how many of my earthly dreams have to do somehow with the sky. I hope to someday be in attendance of the world’s largest hot air balloon festival in New Mexico, and for about fifteen years now (again thanks to Jess), I have longed to go to Glacier National Park in Montana... to Big Sky Country.

These past few weeks I have been in Dallas, Texas, after spending the fall in New England. My friends there love the natural world and enjoyed my constant state of rapture as the trees lit up and the landscape, burst into flames, and then donned more dignified, elderly gold and purple, and finally brown as they let their leaves swish to the ground. As I prepared to go back to Dallas for the holidays, they wondered aloud how I would do in a city so void of beauty. I tensed a little, ever defensive of my homeland, but didn’t protest aloud. I wondered as well how it would be. I have actually often been thankful that I was from Dallas, because I assumed that my wonder at natural beauty in the world was owed in part to a relatively low standard set early on in the Metroplex. I have now come to see this as a completely unfair assessment.

When I am in Dallas, about 95% of what I see anytime I am outside is the sky. I am covered at all times by immensity, by a dome of blue, and the flat landscape is what gives this to me. We have no mountains soaring toward the sky. We have hardly any reaching trees. I love green, and I do miss it. But most of North Texas in humility bows to the sky, sinking and laying low in deference to that opens space. And I realized that while I loved the gifts of New England, I felt the absence of expansive blue, of rolling storms, and of sunsets bedecked in irrational color combinations. I love both the reaching trees and rocking, arching land, as well as the flat. But this is my home and so perhaps the beauty that first called to me, first beckoned me to my roof as a little girl, and to climb over fences and stand in fields, and to pause daily for sunsets in seminary, perhaps this beauty will always hold a special place in my heart.

I drove every day to work for the past two weeks into sun rises that made me want to get out of my car in the gridlock traffic and kiss the person next to me. To invite them to get down on their knees with me, and just look until they could see. Golden rays pouring though buildings, reflecting on faces, purple clouds and moon behind us. Unfortunately, the sunrises did not help my courtesy as an interstate traveler. I got honked at a few times for not going fast enough and for not keeping my eyes on the road.

And so I have wanted to write about that. To write praise for the Texas skies, and thankfulness for the sprawling flatness that makes that vision possible. This should be the last even semi-comparison I will ever make, for what is the point? Why hold the Rockies to the Boston Harbor or the Grand Canyon to Arches in Utah? But I do wish there were another word for flat (expanse? field? sprawl?) to describe Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas, for the flat gives way to mountains of clouds and stars and storms in the sky and while I cannot climb them, when I have laid still and waited long enough, the sky has condescended to me, sweeping me and washing me and calling me into itself.

I Heard a Song that Sounds like Snow

I heard a song that sounds like snow
Notes drifted lightly to and fro.
Filling holes and making clean
At once opaque and glistening.

My toes are cold beside the fire.
I sent them out in weather dire.
They grabbed the cold and brought it in
And will not let it go again.

White Winter Days and Inevitable Clichés

The storm came, and for some reason I feel as though I never believed in snow flakes. I blinked, startled when one found her home on the window where I stood and watched. I’ve been to Colorado many times... The first five years of my life we had snow every year... I must have known that it didn’t always descend in tiny sleet-ish pelts... So I don’t know why I feel so surprised now, that for the history of the world there have been countless, all different, and mine were the only eyes to see this one before she melted. I tried to memorize her lines and cuts but failed, and that is okay. “Have you seen entered the storehouses of the snow, or have you seen the storehouses of the hail...” God asked Job. Why should snow be so beautiful? I know there is a scientific explanation for these winter jewels, but why should it be so? How extravagant.

The first day of the blizzard I asked for every outside job I could get, and when we had a break I ran outside and for thirty minutes jumped and hurled myself face first into the knee deep blanket that covers the L’Abri acres. I laughed so hard I thought I would choke to death on snow. We screamed and ran across the frozen pond, and I ate snow piles off of the leaves of small trees. They looked like little platters of icing.

This only represents a few hours of a week full of pain, prayer, laughter, anger, repentance and worship. I suppose this will be what most weeks are made up of for the rest of my life. And I can’t avoid cliches. What is there to say about winter, but that it is blueish white and new each year? There are two trees outside of our house that are about four stories high each, and naked they look like gate posts to a world of giants. I imagine myself scrambling around in snow that would only come up to their shoelaces.

There are about 18 faces at each meal now, mostly from Europe and the United States with different questions and prayers, each with their own histories and according to the Bible, each bearing God’s image uniquely. (Genesis 1) I am humbled to be here to serve them. Thankfully, most are staying the whole term, and we can get to know each other slowly, one meal at a time as we laugh and argue and seek Truth.

May you be surprised by your world today. I believe it is a work of art (as are you), made by the Great Artist, that you might draw your eyes upward. And to my beloved friend Julie, who has been ever faithful, ever generous, may you know you are cared for from Boston. I think of you all the time.

Are the Birds With You?

Sitting still at a familiar desk, I stare out the window where I watched the lilies blossom in the summer, the tree above flame gold and red in the fall, and where now the river has iced, locking into place her lumps and ripples. I have yet to see my heron. The lilies have shuddered away and the tree has taken on a solemn height, no longer rustling in the wind, but quiet as winter howls through its limbs.

I returned to L’Abri last Wednesday, and so perhaps have returned to my blog. In coming back to this shelter, I have left behind another. The one of familiar faces, of my sisters and friends who know me well, of a Christmas filled with the quirky intimacies of long-standing relationships; laughter, forgiveness and tears, and much, much more laughter. One shelter for another, but this is the one in which I am placed now, to welcome and face each person that comes through our doors. We number sixteen now, a patched together group, praying, waiting, watching and learning from one another.

In the summer I was bursting with pain and relief and freedom, in the fall on fire with lessons newly learned, and so far, these few days, the winter has brought a stillness to me, even to the moments I have laughed the hardest. Though, even as I write this, I have to smile and wonder, for my emotions at times seem to push me from behind and it is early in the winter to know if it will be a still one. There is much to be learned, and much to be prayed.

A blizzard creeps up the coast to meet us tonight, so we are busy about the work of sealing windows and stocking up on hot chocolate and soup. The birds seem to have alerted as well, for they are nowhere to be seen. I look forward to seeing this aspect of God’s creation, as it is one with which I am less familiar.

Oh, and as you may have guessed, the stoves in the house are lit. The excitement for the blizzard comes from a girl about four feet from a 300 degree wood burning stove. I have not toughened up, or at least, not that I have noticed. I look forward to spending this third season here, and with you all. Once again, if you write me, know I will write you back. I will even send you some snow, if you like! Though if it morphs with the strain of the journey, it is no fault of mine. Grace and Peace.

Abby Lorenc

L’Abri Fellowship Foundation

49 Lynbrook Road

Southborough, MA

01772.

A Scientific Hypothesis

I wrote this while daydreaming a couple of years ago, and thought now would be as good as time as any to throw out a theory. I have in mind a future book on the subject.

...

What on earth makes hair curly? How strange that hair grows out of the scalp and rather than follow gravity’s course, pulling straight to the ground, it spirals irrationally. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m very thankful, but what causes it? My best guess is that there are angels whose sole purpose is to make curly hair. At night, they choose a few young children, (quite a few, but not the majority), creep up to them while they are sleeping, and wrap locks of hair around their long glassy fingers. They patiently wait all night long before letting go. I suppose it probably takes a couple of years of nightly wrapping to turn locks into tendrils, but eventually the work is done, and the hair learns to grow from the root and curl, as if still around very long angel fingers. I would like to take this opportunity to thank these angels, because I am one of the lucky ones who received their finger wrapping care, and now I do not have to wash my hair very often. I’d also like to thank the founders of Pantene Pro-V, whose products make hair washing even less of a necessity.

Indian Summer

This past week I was visited by my first Indian Summer, which, thank you wikipedia, is “a meteorological phenomenon that occurs in autumn, in the Northern Hemisphere. It is characterized by a period of sunny, warm weather, after the leaves have turned following an onset of frost, but before the first snowfall.”

After weeks of chill, a few summer days came up to visit us, and we soaked up the sun in quiet happiness. I took my day off with a couple of friends and visited Rhode Island. I found the state enchanting, and bigger too, than the map says. Perhaps deeper and taller, but bigger all the same. On a trek through some Rhode Island woods I learned the names of trees. I hope I remember them- I only know five so far. One of my favorites was this beech tree, and she gave me the following gifts. Hers was the show. Mine were the camera and pen.




The Indian Summer is for me
Gleefully whispered the young beech tree.

The young tree bold, her leaves grown old,
But gaily swaying, red and gold.

Gently gliding on the winds,
They reach sunlight, beech lithely bends.

Cold the leaves had started dying
Sinking down, beech humbly sighing

Bowing to the season’s call.
She’d had her spring, and knew the Fall.

But Indian Summer came to glaze
A summer glow before winter’s haze.

And now the lady leaves can leave
In half a week when winter breathes

In peace, for she twice she’d seen the sun
In peace, for winter has to come.

On Mourning the Non-Existence of my Nursing Career and Riding Roller Coasters Like White People

This summer I met a lovely African-American woman in the home of a mutual friend. We shared a bit of our backgrounds. She made a fortune gambling. I made a B+ in Angelology (I am not kidding, I actually took that class). She grew up surrounded by gangs, I grew up surrounded by Starbucks. We both loved Jesus. We had a delightful conversation, alternating speaking and listening, having almost nothing but the biggest things in common. At one point, I started sharing my plans and ideas for my future. She must have noted me being on edge or something, because she held her hand up and gave me the following sermonette: (And any of my friends, please feel free to correct my Eubonics. I have done my best.) “Listen girl. You know Six Flags?” I nodded. “Well, I love Six Flags, but e’ry time I go, I notice sumpin. When black people ride the roller coasters, We be all coverin’ our heads, closin’ our eyes, scrunched up in the seat, holdin’ on to the roller coaster liken we’s about to fall out. But when dem white people ride roller coasters, dey be wavin’ their hands in the hair, liftin up outa dey seats, laughin’ and screamin’. You know girl, don’t try to figure it all out now. When you’re goin through life, don’t be like them black people on the roller coaster. Wave your hands up in the air, and have yo’self a good time.”

I laughed. I laughed hard, and have remembered this advice often when I get stuck or flustered or sure that I have cancer or am missing out on some central drumbeat that everyone else is hearing. Sometimes in this mode I think about how I should have been a nurse, or I should still try to be one. This is not a good idea. I do not like blood or needles, I hate science and I am not very detail oriented. Charts stress me out. But I did a project on Florence Nightingale when I was in elementary school, and my mom was a nurse, and nurses seem to always be contributing to society in a way that I can’t ever attain. I don’t want to actually do any of the work a nurse does. I just want the satisfaction of knowing that I am one. Does this make sense? Though I have long ago left behind the bad habit of following through on these whims with hours of googling nursing schools, I still sigh every once in awhile when my imagination takes me from whatever meaningless thing I am doing to a white hat with a red cross, nursing some soldiers back to health (note the Florence influence).

But I am learning that your twenties (or at least, mine) have and will continue to be a time of listening. Of trying things and seeing if they work, of learning discipline and theology and figuring out who I am, and who God is. And of making real, real decisions. The end goal is not to get to a career, though that might happen. The goal is to walk each day with Jesus. It is also to become more like Jesus, and understand more how I am built to worship Him. Well, this fall has been a beautiful one of gold leaves and pumpkins that actually fit the landscape (they grow on a farm about 100 meters away, and some in our garden), and of burning dinner and not burning some dinners and laughing at myself and crying. A lot. And I have also made some pretty big decisions. So here I go! I am daringly poking my head out from the roller coaster car, waving my hands in the air and whooping like the white girl I am. No nursing schools in the future, but lots and lots of trials and errors, I am sure.

Words

I need the world to stop, to pause so that my heart can catch up. I find myself today left in the dust. I am standing still and this heart warming, breath stealing world is swirling around me. All I can do is watch things pass in wonder, close my eyes when it is to much to take in, and laugh and cry in exuberance. Christ said, “Peace be with you,” and this helps.

Hanneke Cassel, a folk fiddle player came to L’Abri with her fiddle and her heavy metal guitar playing accompanist, and I sat three feet from them for over an hour as they played. From the first note she called from her fiddle, it seemed as though a ribbon flowed from the guitar and pierced me, sweeping me (a willing captive) into its power. If the fiddle wept, so did I, if it danced, I laughed, and when I closed my eyes, I flew through green misty Scottish moors, into my own lungs, and memories of times I have failed or won. I wished I could die right then. I thought, “We talk too much. This is beauty, and I talk too much.” Enclosed by music on all sides, losing myself in its call, I felt pulled back to earth by a tinge of jealousy, and I opened my tear filled eyes to look at Hanneke. She was commanding, or maybe serving, a language I could not use. I could receive it, be spoken to by it, but not speak through it. I am a writer, and am bound to and by words, but she said something deeper with her fiddle than I can say now.

Still, I want to play my part and add something beautiful to the world, even if just to the blog world. Yesterday I read Window Poems by Wendell Berry and he wrote about the winter. He said of the trees letting go of their leaves, “The country opens to the sky...” I have been dreading the bare limbs of the trees that have been so royally decked in fire and gold, but Mr. Berry gave me something to hope for- the sky. And as I walked yesterday and today by the reservoir, I have found it to be true. I can see birds nests, and I can see twenty feet into the woods where I could only see five before. How joyful to have something to look forward to, the beauty of the winter. I am not at home with my Big Texas Sky and this growing winter cover consoles me.

That is all of my part I can play now. Grace to you, and Peace.

On my Twenty Sixth Birthday

I drink my third cup of coffee, brought to me by Joe and Sue who love me, with the golden October sky lighting the trees and the grass in front of me, and streaming in through the window to dance a bit on the red tiled floor. A calm and cold morning, with granola for breakfast and books strewn about me like paper blankets. I think of how I grow older. How I march steadily toward death and decay, and I listen to traditional Celtic music and feel quite human, quite alive. I breathe in twenty-six for all I can, and dare it to wash over me with all of it’s disappointments and hopes. I stretch to feel myself growing confidence, growing sense of self, to acknowledge timid fear of growing old, the fringed ache of loneliness. I wonder if this will go away if I marry some day, but I think of how much worse to be lonely in a marriage, and I remember to wait until it is right. I stretch to feel it all because today, I am fully human.

The Bible’s view of man, of humanity gives such dignity to human beings, such depth- “Made in the image of God.” God, has “Crowned him with glory and honor, given him dominion over the work of your hands.” And we are “his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works.”

So God gives me value, by creating me to bear His image. Oh, but I am not Him. I am human, and more, a fallen human, not in the garden with him like our parents. I am separated from him and from my fellow humans, wanting so much to understand and to be understood, to celebrate and to be celebrated, to love and to be loved. But my relationships are broken. I am separated too from myself, unable to live out my ideals perfectly, or even very well. This separation haunted me, long before I could put words to it. What I needed was to be put back together.

For this, I hope in Christ, for though his death and resurrection, “God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them.” The cross, and the death and resurrection of Christ is where the world finds it’s primary paradox. God becomes human. God dies, and then rises again to life in order to reconcile the world to himself. I hope in Christ. I know and believe Him, though I pray with C.S. Lewis that I would pray to Him “Not as I think You are, but for who You know Yourself to be.” I approach the throne with confidence, but confident in His grace and love, not confident in my understanding of Him.

This is how I feel fully human today. How wonderful to be human according to God, weak but with hope. And why shouldn’t I be lonely and afraid sometimes in this broken world, when even Christ wept. And why shouldn’t I learn to bake bread (which I am actually getting better at) and highland dance (which I am horrible at… I look like a grasshopper hyped up on caffeine) and watch baseball games and knit and talk to my sister and take care of people who are hurting, and try hard to understand them where they are. And apologize when I am wrong (which is much of the time), and try hard not to apologize when I believe I am right.

This is what I am thinking on my twenty sixth birthday. Wish me a deep birthday, a true blue one, and one where I can make other people feel special, and okay. This will be a happy birthday.

Frigid

I was planning on posting something thoughtful, but I just looked up from my computer to see Joe, one of the workers here at L’Abri, entering the room with his son. They stood there staring at me, and Nate said, “See Dad, I told you so. ”

I stared up at them from the corner of the couch where I had buried myself in two pairs of pants, wool socks, slippers, a sweater and a vest, a scarf and a hat, and a fleece blanket. I had to take my gloves off to type, but was holding a cup of scalding water. Joe rolled his eyes disapprovingly. “You’re over-dramatizing, ” he scolded, his voice dripping with patronizing annoyance. I promptly flew off the handle, reminding him that I had not ONCE asked anyone to turn on the heat, and hadn’t complained or whined, and while yes I may drink hot water all day and wear my hat inside at all times, and sure I’ve been found folding myself over the oven with the broiler on to thaw out, and yes I may have nearly caught my hair on fire leaning over candles at dinner, none of this was meant to be taken as passive aggression… this was me trying to bear it gracefully. So unless he has an electric blanket as a birthday present would he mind letting me WRITE. He said he was sorry he asked (I’m pretty sure he meant it), and turned and left.

I feel all dragony, but without the warming benefit of actually being able to breathe fire.

a post script note- please avoid all comments reminding me chidingly that it’s only October, and how am I going to survive the winter, and hadn’t I better buck up. I’ve been bucking up, and I have big plans to start again as soon as this post is posted.