I have so much to say. In this tiny, incompetent, naive, and yet still arrogant mind are churning so many ideas, songs, inspirations, friends with soft words and perfect sized coffee mugs, and I would like to tell you about all of them.
I must write, even if it will not be enough. Ann Lammott says start small, so that you can write at all, and hopefully write well. I will start by telling you that after one of the most hollow years of my young life, I have been filled. I have been kissed by sweet Massachusetts wind, and nurtured back to health by fresh baked bread and the dirt in the garden. I have remembered that there is no mold for me to try to fit in. I have tasted freedom and I wish on stars that some of that freedom washes over you as you read this.
I went to L'Abri for the summer. I went to rest intentionally. I wanted to think through some things, so I blank-slated my life. I sold or gave away everything I didn’t need, moved out of my apartment, and took a plane to Boston for a month. And slowly, the tension I had held in my arms, bracing myself against the world, against being wrong, against screwing up, began to release.
Seminary was hard for me, and I had a lot of questions and felt so scared of being wrong. This summer I studied the word. I studied the theology of beauty. I studied identity, and anger. I was very angry and desperately did not want anger to turn into bitterness. So I went and asked all the questions I had been afraid to ask. And I thought about the gospel of Christ.
I believe in Beauty intuitively. I believe in nobility, and in honor. I believe in modesty and I believe in mystery and miracles. So no matter how doubtful I get, the gospel message will always be appealing to me. This summer, as I studied the gospel, I realized that Christ’ death on the cross, the Great Rescue of the broken, violated, raped world and all it’s inhabitants, was enough for me. The Gospel not only paid for my sin and my selfishness, my constant neglect of the poor, my inability to be a consistently caring daughter, sister, granddaughter, but for so much more. It paid for the fact that I will not get everything right mentally, academically, theologically. Oh! How can I communicate the weight that fell off of my shoulders when I realized that God’s grace covered my ineptitude as well as my selfishness. I am thinking through a lot of things right now, all from the starting point of grace and rest and beauty. All from a place of safety and covering. All from a place of comfort in Christ.
L’Abri invited me to come back for the fall, to help cook and garden and clean. I thought, “Fall in Boston… at L’Abri, with beautiful books, people, and most of all the leaves on fire… done.”
So I’m going, and that’s where I’ll be. IF you would like to write me, please feel free to do so. You can find the address here.
Afterward, I have not decided what I’ll do. I know that I am interested in bringing beauty where there is none, in praising it when I see it, in training my mind to be honest with itself, in submitting to Christ and His message, in following Him, the source of all beauty. I will be alive for as long as He determines. I will be Home with Him someday. And that means that no matter how imperfect everything is now, One Day, all will be right.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Family Reunion Day Three
Lost in the Family Tree (also lost in Missouri)
While driving from Arkansas to Kansas Ali took Danny and I on a tour of the family tree so that we might be better acquainted with Donna’s ex husbands daughters aunts parakeet. Somewhere along the way, while trying to regurgitate names, we missed our exit and traveled an hour out of our way. This is what happens when you use the iphone to research family trees instead of as a GPS. I miss paper maps, with all of their folding frustrations. Good think I flipping love my sister and brother in law. Now it’s taco bell for lunch and twice the Missouri we had planned on.
Baby Names
Ali and Danny are going through the entire alphabet picking out the best baby names for girls and boys for each letter. Usually I am not aware of being a third wheel with them, and normally I don’t regret being twenty-five and single. I actually love my life and the adventures I’ve been able to have. But now they are discussing whether or not Collin sounds too much like Colon and we still have two hours left on our road trip. All of the sudden instead of a twenty five year old bright eyed adventurer staring back at me from the rear-view mirror, an old wrinkled lady covered in cat hair has replaced her. She is mourning the children she never had and thinking about how many great C names she could have come up with for a boy had she had one. Thankfully, she has her cats to name and console, and although she once hated cats and is still asthmatic and highly allergic, she has resigned herself to dutifully playing her old cat lady role in society.
Oh my, they just moved to the D’s, and they’re not even pregnant.
While driving from Arkansas to Kansas Ali took Danny and I on a tour of the family tree so that we might be better acquainted with Donna’s ex husbands daughters aunts parakeet. Somewhere along the way, while trying to regurgitate names, we missed our exit and traveled an hour out of our way. This is what happens when you use the iphone to research family trees instead of as a GPS. I miss paper maps, with all of their folding frustrations. Good think I flipping love my sister and brother in law. Now it’s taco bell for lunch and twice the Missouri we had planned on.
Baby Names
Ali and Danny are going through the entire alphabet picking out the best baby names for girls and boys for each letter. Usually I am not aware of being a third wheel with them, and normally I don’t regret being twenty-five and single. I actually love my life and the adventures I’ve been able to have. But now they are discussing whether or not Collin sounds too much like Colon and we still have two hours left on our road trip. All of the sudden instead of a twenty five year old bright eyed adventurer staring back at me from the rear-view mirror, an old wrinkled lady covered in cat hair has replaced her. She is mourning the children she never had and thinking about how many great C names she could have come up with for a boy had she had one. Thankfully, she has her cats to name and console, and although she once hated cats and is still asthmatic and highly allergic, she has resigned herself to dutifully playing her old cat lady role in society.
Oh my, they just moved to the D’s, and they’re not even pregnant.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Family Reunion Day One
Context: My brother in law, Danny, my sister Ali and I left yesterday to see his family for two days, and will continue on tomorrow for the Lorenc family reunion. I think there should be plenty to write about. Here's some from yesterday:
Crumb free since 93
I’m driving to Arkansas right now. Well, I’m riding, in the backseat behind my sister and brother-in-law, with whom I have the honor of carpooling. My sister is currently turned around in the passenger seat with her face six inches from mine, shaking the crumbs out of her jean shorts.
This is what happens when you order your already stale subway bread toasted. It crumbles and climbs down jean shorts. She’s screeching that they’re poking her. I think it’s going to be a good trip.
Crumb free since 93
I’m driving to Arkansas right now. Well, I’m riding, in the backseat behind my sister and brother-in-law, with whom I have the honor of carpooling. My sister is currently turned around in the passenger seat with her face six inches from mine, shaking the crumbs out of her jean shorts.
This is what happens when you order your already stale subway bread toasted. It crumbles and climbs down jean shorts. She’s screeching that they’re poking her. I think it’s going to be a good trip.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Oh one of THOSE days
You know those days when you get up at 5:15 am to go to the magistrate court to ask them to kindly revoke the warrant they issued for your arrest? The warrant that you got because though you dutifully filled out and sent in the information on the back of the ticket (which you got for not so dutifully ignoring a stop sign), your neglected to send a few key items? (You might think a warrant is a bit of an overreaction, but you certainly don't tell the judge that).
You know, those days when you wait outside in downtown Dallas for an hour next to some other quite kind and warranted folks for the judge to dismiss you? You want to be angry and bitter and scuff your feet, but you have a surprisingly delightful time. (You may have by your side your very own comical comrade who selflessly sees you through the ordeal).
And so you're thinking, at this point, "Hey, it's really not all that bad," and then you walk out to your car with a pep in a step to be halted by a green PARKING TICKET tucked ever so neatly into your windshield wipers. The pep turns to a downright pout, and you are for a good fifteen minutes beyond consolation.
One of those days where you stop at the grocery store to pick up baked goods, regain some of the pep, and then rear end another vehicle in the parking lot. More tears, less pep, and a solemn internal promise to move somewhere with public transportation. Then you end up having a delightful conversation with the person you hit, set up a coffee date to chat about womens ministry, and walk, ever so hesitantly, back to your newly customized car (a mere scratch).
So your feet are quite confused between all this pep/drag nonsense, and you drive NOT ONE MILE OVER THE SPEED LIMIT home to bake. Baking puts more pep until you open your flour and find there bugs feasting. You give up and decide to eat lunch, fix up a snack of all the remaining vegetables in your bare refrigerator, and then just when you're sitting down to eat, break the salt shaker all over your plate. You try to scrape and salvage, you give up, tear up, and eat flourless cookie dough.
I'm having one of Those days. Teetertottering all day long, threatening to utterly destroy my peace of mind, and then just when I'm ready to bury my head in the sand, patting me on the back. On of those swinging pendulum days. I've caught you up to two pm, where I'm left feeling bit squirmish about standing up and moving forward. I'll brace myself, and let you know what the day decides.
You know, those days when you wait outside in downtown Dallas for an hour next to some other quite kind and warranted folks for the judge to dismiss you? You want to be angry and bitter and scuff your feet, but you have a surprisingly delightful time. (You may have by your side your very own comical comrade who selflessly sees you through the ordeal).
And so you're thinking, at this point, "Hey, it's really not all that bad," and then you walk out to your car with a pep in a step to be halted by a green PARKING TICKET tucked ever so neatly into your windshield wipers. The pep turns to a downright pout, and you are for a good fifteen minutes beyond consolation.
One of those days where you stop at the grocery store to pick up baked goods, regain some of the pep, and then rear end another vehicle in the parking lot. More tears, less pep, and a solemn internal promise to move somewhere with public transportation. Then you end up having a delightful conversation with the person you hit, set up a coffee date to chat about womens ministry, and walk, ever so hesitantly, back to your newly customized car (a mere scratch).
So your feet are quite confused between all this pep/drag nonsense, and you drive NOT ONE MILE OVER THE SPEED LIMIT home to bake. Baking puts more pep until you open your flour and find there bugs feasting. You give up and decide to eat lunch, fix up a snack of all the remaining vegetables in your bare refrigerator, and then just when you're sitting down to eat, break the salt shaker all over your plate. You try to scrape and salvage, you give up, tear up, and eat flourless cookie dough.
I'm having one of Those days. Teetertottering all day long, threatening to utterly destroy my peace of mind, and then just when I'm ready to bury my head in the sand, patting me on the back. On of those swinging pendulum days. I've caught you up to two pm, where I'm left feeling bit squirmish about standing up and moving forward. I'll brace myself, and let you know what the day decides.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Swimming in the Margin
I have margin in my life now. For the first time in almost twelve months I have margin. Room to wiggle, though it feels more like I've been swimming. Like when you plunge underwater for a silent tea party, and all of the sudden the ruckus from above is hushed, and you are left with your floating hair and your clear teacup.
When I was a child I won contests for staying under the water longest without coming up for air. I know I had quite the lung capacity, but I also think I was just a bit more willing to endanger my life for the sake of continuing in blue silence. If I could just hold on a little longer, perhaps my body would start to adapt and I'd turn into a mermaid or at least grow some gills.
I was not a victim of my circumstances this past year. I made choices that left me with no margin and by God's grace I will never make those same choices again. Ironically, I actually knew better. I had learned and practiced rest (imperfectly) for years. But this year I did not, and sure enough, it led to bad places.
A few weeks ago I was at a conference and a woman talked about envisioning ourselves on God's lap. When I shut my eyes, I imagined myself screaming and beating on God's chest, throwing a FIT. When my eyes opened I burst into tears and spent the next while praying with a friend, telling God how angry I was at him. I accused him of letting me get to this point of exhaustion, of not helping me see before, of being too gracious with me instead of smiting me, and other illegitimate "faults". It felt good to tell Him. I was wrong about all of it, and He knew how I felt anyway. And He. Just. Held me. I cried until my stomach hurt, and He held me till I was calmed and whimpering. And I rested in His grace.
DTS is over, and in two weeks I'll be done at West Dallas Community School. This summer I will rest and float in the wide blue margin God has given me. In July I'll go to L'abri, and God has not shown me clearly what I'll be doing in the Fall. I hope to live alongside honest people. I hope to see every piece of life in light of The Meta-narrative. I hope to hope.
When I was a child I won contests for staying under the water longest without coming up for air. I know I had quite the lung capacity, but I also think I was just a bit more willing to endanger my life for the sake of continuing in blue silence. If I could just hold on a little longer, perhaps my body would start to adapt and I'd turn into a mermaid or at least grow some gills.
I was not a victim of my circumstances this past year. I made choices that left me with no margin and by God's grace I will never make those same choices again. Ironically, I actually knew better. I had learned and practiced rest (imperfectly) for years. But this year I did not, and sure enough, it led to bad places.
A few weeks ago I was at a conference and a woman talked about envisioning ourselves on God's lap. When I shut my eyes, I imagined myself screaming and beating on God's chest, throwing a FIT. When my eyes opened I burst into tears and spent the next while praying with a friend, telling God how angry I was at him. I accused him of letting me get to this point of exhaustion, of not helping me see before, of being too gracious with me instead of smiting me, and other illegitimate "faults". It felt good to tell Him. I was wrong about all of it, and He knew how I felt anyway. And He. Just. Held me. I cried until my stomach hurt, and He held me till I was calmed and whimpering. And I rested in His grace.
DTS is over, and in two weeks I'll be done at West Dallas Community School. This summer I will rest and float in the wide blue margin God has given me. In July I'll go to L'abri, and God has not shown me clearly what I'll be doing in the Fall. I hope to live alongside honest people. I hope to see every piece of life in light of The Meta-narrative. I hope to hope.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
an update for the sake of publically recognizing this monumental moment
but without the least bit of creativity or capitalization or punctuation due to the fact that my mind is swimming with redaction criticism and my eyes are blurry because I read (looked at) too many pages today... and yesterday... and for three years...
and all this to say... today i finished my coursework for DTS. i thought that was blog worthy.
and all this to say... today i finished my coursework for DTS. i thought that was blog worthy.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Feelin' Hopeful. FullaHope.
June turned purple today. I was typing it after May after April and suddenly it turned purple and flowery, like a willow tree or a pompom flower but flowy and coming from my heart and I knew that when I heard “This too shall pass” in February, He meant it. And now I am watching in teary eyed amazement as it passes. As I type the last word and read the last pages and rush for the last time and slow to a halt, surrounded not just by purple dahlia flowers that keep kissing me on the cheek, but also by the ladiest of lady bugs.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Wishing I Were A Photographer
But I'm not. And perhaps it's better because there are some things I want to show you that can't be photographed. The woman on the subway would have considered it an imposition if I had drawn close to her and snapped the lines on her face, the vacant, fixed look on her eyes, the way her shoulders pulled forward though she was carrying nothing material. I would have stolen something from her, and she would have glared, and stepped away. So I memorized her for you. I memorized her as she saw past and through me, and never knew I existed. Her eyes were clearish green.
I want to show you the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. If Christen were here, she'd take pictures, and maybe you'd see it. You'd walk with her camera into the biggest cathedral in the world and feel for the first time the weight of Job's words, "Do you have an arm like God's,
and can your voice thunder like his?"
You'd feel irreverent for not falling to your knees, or you'd fall to your knees, as you realized how small you are, and how massive God is, and how you are at His mercy.
I wish I could show you the sideways rain in NYC, and how hard we laughed, soaked and freezing with umbrellas bent backwards, when the city tried to blow us back to Texas (We stood our ground).
I've been in New York City for five days. I've been walking miles a day, sipping coffee and interviewing pastors and ministers who profess love for God and love for their city. Men and women who eat, breathe, and live New York. Who strive to understand and serve their neighbors, who long to be faithful with what they've been given. I've met Presbyterians, Anglicans, Baptists, Atheists, Pluralists, Feminine Theologians, Counselors, Academics. To say I'm overwhelmed is an understatement. We've sat with some very experienced church planters, writers, theologians, hippies... and my head is swimming with words, ideas, and dreams. I got pretty worked up about it earlier but I've decided for the night to not take myself altogether too seriously.
What I mean by that is these men and women are exhorting us to serve God in their context. My context tonight is my roommate Chelsea and our lovely hosts. So tonight I'll serve them, and the people praying for me by updating my blog. And I'll listen to some beautiful music and worship my gracious Lord who cares for me and helps me to care for others.
And I'll think about the city and my future, but not now. Tonight I'm going horizontal, and praying for sweet dreams. Love to you, my friends.
I want to show you the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. If Christen were here, she'd take pictures, and maybe you'd see it. You'd walk with her camera into the biggest cathedral in the world and feel for the first time the weight of Job's words, "Do you have an arm like God's,
and can your voice thunder like his?"
You'd feel irreverent for not falling to your knees, or you'd fall to your knees, as you realized how small you are, and how massive God is, and how you are at His mercy.
I wish I could show you the sideways rain in NYC, and how hard we laughed, soaked and freezing with umbrellas bent backwards, when the city tried to blow us back to Texas (We stood our ground).
I've been in New York City for five days. I've been walking miles a day, sipping coffee and interviewing pastors and ministers who profess love for God and love for their city. Men and women who eat, breathe, and live New York. Who strive to understand and serve their neighbors, who long to be faithful with what they've been given. I've met Presbyterians, Anglicans, Baptists, Atheists, Pluralists, Feminine Theologians, Counselors, Academics. To say I'm overwhelmed is an understatement. We've sat with some very experienced church planters, writers, theologians, hippies... and my head is swimming with words, ideas, and dreams. I got pretty worked up about it earlier but I've decided for the night to not take myself altogether too seriously.
What I mean by that is these men and women are exhorting us to serve God in their context. My context tonight is my roommate Chelsea and our lovely hosts. So tonight I'll serve them, and the people praying for me by updating my blog. And I'll listen to some beautiful music and worship my gracious Lord who cares for me and helps me to care for others.
And I'll think about the city and my future, but not now. Tonight I'm going horizontal, and praying for sweet dreams. Love to you, my friends.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
First Impressions
Today was a day like any other. I rocked, I boomed, I carried the world forward. I moved and swayed and towered and held within me bustling cold business. It rained, and they went out anyway. They hid beneath my awnings, yelled when cabs drove by and muddied their boots. But I stood like a rock, foundations deep, not minding at all about the aching, moaning, screeching, singing, of a few. There were millions. I had to think of the mass, not the parts.
Two Texans came, feeling pretty big. Didn’t take them long to be cut down to size. Standing in Time Square, soaking and lost, wide eyed. I took note, boomed, they shook and scurried.
-New York (as interpreted by frenzied Abby)
Two Texans came, feeling pretty big. Didn’t take them long to be cut down to size. Standing in Time Square, soaking and lost, wide eyed. I took note, boomed, they shook and scurried.
-New York (as interpreted by frenzied Abby)
Saturday, March 06, 2010
a day in the life
Today has been so shimmery I think I should write it. At the same time I fear that writing now, 17 minutes before midnight, may somehow take away from it. I'm not sure I've enough skill to write shimmer, and I'm so tired and filled up that my bed wants to wrap me up and pull me underneath at once. Still, I'll try.
My roommate and I woke up, emptied our desks and hauled them to a West Dallas garage sale. We are not moving anytime soon, but they were having a sale and we realized we don't ever use our desks. They serve mostly as what my dad poetically termed, "crap-stackers." So we emptied them and whisked off to a garage sale. Along the way we had confession, tears, good conversation and some earl gray tea. When we got back, I had to laugh at the stacks of stuff piled up in my room. I whined, "Chels, I don't know what to do with this stuff," to which she replied, "look! more room for piles!" I thought this was great, and now I think I like my pile room better than my room with a pretend desk where work was never done. I prefer to work at the kitchen table or my couch or the coffee shop or any place but that desk. Now, I have piles.
I felt cleansed from getting rid of something I don't need, and from good honest hard conversation with my roommate who loves me without judgment.
Next I caught up with my baby sister on the phone and we laughed and exhorted one another and watched for truth in our conversation, and I organized my piles. Shortly after, I went to a local nursery to browse their flowers and spices. I decided I wanted to grow things, but that now I can't. So I will someday. Someday, I will have a garden.
Then a friend called with a direct answer to prayer. We went to White Rock Coffee and he poured truth into me and we prayed and I understood things more. And that is ambiguous and unclear but he was a good friend to me and I needed one.
Then I went for a walk at my lake. (White Rock Lake is my lake. It is also a lot of other people's, and we get along quite well). White Rock Lake hosts the most eccletic group of people a lake has ever hosted, and I couldn't help smiling watching the old men who take care of the ducks, the spandex people, the hippie hula hoopers (I was secretly jealous of them), the girl walking in silver stilettos, and the couples wrapped around each other around a bench around the lake, soaking up the sun's reflection on the water. I wished I were a photo-journalist, and I would have done an essay on love at white rock lake. A brother pushing his sister on her training wheels bike and the girl in the stiletto's with her boyfriend would have had the central focus.
I came back, got super cute, and my picked up my friend for a completely unbelievable evening. She had two free tickets to Savor Dallas, and she gave them to us! This event hosts sixty of Dallas' finest chefs offering samples of their best dishes over 400 wines. For $175 you can eat/drink as much as you desire. I had NEVER had food like this. Steak tartar, lobster bisque and the winner of the World's Best Chocolate award four years running... We walked around for hours, tasting, talking and listening to a band whose lead singer had one of those smooth-twenties voices and the big silver stand microphone to go with it. He sang and between the people watching, the fancy food tasting, and the laughter and live music, I was well filled up, and pinching myself to see if it was real.
So I started the day at a garage sale and ended the day with Dallas socialites. In between I had flowers at a nursery and beautiful conversation. I am... tickled, and so grateful.
My roommate and I woke up, emptied our desks and hauled them to a West Dallas garage sale. We are not moving anytime soon, but they were having a sale and we realized we don't ever use our desks. They serve mostly as what my dad poetically termed, "crap-stackers." So we emptied them and whisked off to a garage sale. Along the way we had confession, tears, good conversation and some earl gray tea. When we got back, I had to laugh at the stacks of stuff piled up in my room. I whined, "Chels, I don't know what to do with this stuff," to which she replied, "look! more room for piles!" I thought this was great, and now I think I like my pile room better than my room with a pretend desk where work was never done. I prefer to work at the kitchen table or my couch or the coffee shop or any place but that desk. Now, I have piles.
I felt cleansed from getting rid of something I don't need, and from good honest hard conversation with my roommate who loves me without judgment.
Next I caught up with my baby sister on the phone and we laughed and exhorted one another and watched for truth in our conversation, and I organized my piles. Shortly after, I went to a local nursery to browse their flowers and spices. I decided I wanted to grow things, but that now I can't. So I will someday. Someday, I will have a garden.
Then a friend called with a direct answer to prayer. We went to White Rock Coffee and he poured truth into me and we prayed and I understood things more. And that is ambiguous and unclear but he was a good friend to me and I needed one.
Then I went for a walk at my lake. (White Rock Lake is my lake. It is also a lot of other people's, and we get along quite well). White Rock Lake hosts the most eccletic group of people a lake has ever hosted, and I couldn't help smiling watching the old men who take care of the ducks, the spandex people, the hippie hula hoopers (I was secretly jealous of them), the girl walking in silver stilettos, and the couples wrapped around each other around a bench around the lake, soaking up the sun's reflection on the water. I wished I were a photo-journalist, and I would have done an essay on love at white rock lake. A brother pushing his sister on her training wheels bike and the girl in the stiletto's with her boyfriend would have had the central focus.
I came back, got super cute, and my picked up my friend for a completely unbelievable evening. She had two free tickets to Savor Dallas, and she gave them to us! This event hosts sixty of Dallas' finest chefs offering samples of their best dishes over 400 wines. For $175 you can eat/drink as much as you desire. I had NEVER had food like this. Steak tartar, lobster bisque and the winner of the World's Best Chocolate award four years running... We walked around for hours, tasting, talking and listening to a band whose lead singer had one of those smooth-twenties voices and the big silver stand microphone to go with it. He sang and between the people watching, the fancy food tasting, and the laughter and live music, I was well filled up, and pinching myself to see if it was real.
So I started the day at a garage sale and ended the day with Dallas socialites. In between I had flowers at a nursery and beautiful conversation. I am... tickled, and so grateful.
Monday, February 08, 2010
and then she thought
i'll tell you one thing. there are so many girls with lovely hats and boys with scruffy beards and beat up jackets banging on drums, and singing to make something beautiful happen. and there are so many fields that haven't been mowed, and yellow dogs catching frisbees.
and then there are the cowboys, who have really got it figured out. and they lean over their fences and look at you when you pass them, and they've got it, and you know they've got it.
and there are the hippies and the mennonites, and they (respectively) live together and share and ache and break and celebrate as one.
and i'll tell you something else. there's something beautiful, something that they can't wrap their arms quite around, that's pulling them all, and they catch it like a lightening bug in a jar. sadly, the bug suffocates when caught and goes out after awhile. so they search again, with the jar in the field for the bug. with the guitar and the horse whip and the music and the commune. and the truth is, they've got it, at least, a piece of it. they're RIGHT. but still, just when they've caught the bug, it dies.
so they've got to learn, and i've got to learn, to let beauty pass through us like a cool breeze, to inhale but to exhale too, and be okay when the breeze stills, or when the breeze freezes.
and more, they've got to look, and i've got to look, beyond the breeze. beyond the hippies, to what brings them together... to the Source...
and then there are the cowboys, who have really got it figured out. and they lean over their fences and look at you when you pass them, and they've got it, and you know they've got it.
and there are the hippies and the mennonites, and they (respectively) live together and share and ache and break and celebrate as one.
and i'll tell you something else. there's something beautiful, something that they can't wrap their arms quite around, that's pulling them all, and they catch it like a lightening bug in a jar. sadly, the bug suffocates when caught and goes out after awhile. so they search again, with the jar in the field for the bug. with the guitar and the horse whip and the music and the commune. and the truth is, they've got it, at least, a piece of it. they're RIGHT. but still, just when they've caught the bug, it dies.
so they've got to learn, and i've got to learn, to let beauty pass through us like a cool breeze, to inhale but to exhale too, and be okay when the breeze stills, or when the breeze freezes.
and more, they've got to look, and i've got to look, beyond the breeze. beyond the hippies, to what brings them together... to the Source...
Saturday, February 06, 2010
wedding car cans
When I live in survival mode, I coast on top of my days, unable to really dig my heels in. Unable to stop, to soak, to lift, to stretch out a bit.
I do NOT like to live in survival mode. I think I'd rather eat chalk than chase my day like the cans tied to the back of a wedding getaway car. Those sad cans. Eyes brimming, heart swimming love just a few meters ahead, coasting smooth, and they just bump and jolt and slam along, never quite able to catch up. Then, when the car finally does stop, they're too tired and banged up to be of much use. Oh! That's quite perfect. That stop, that arrival-- that's my friday. My week is the wedding getaway car, and I am the cans, hopelessly chasing it down.
So Friday comes. This Friday, for example, I woke up, and felt it. I knew that the week would stop today. So I got up and went to substitute teach for the first grade. In the first hour a child projectile vomited all over the classroom. (He had told me he felt sick earlier and I told him he was fine and to please sit down). In the second hour a child spit on me (purposefully, while screaming "I HATE THIS SCHOOL.") In the third hour, while reading the bible, I read one phrase at a time, in between telling children to stop coloring, picking, jumping, tickling, poking, etc. You can imagine how conviction and worship welled up in the hearts of the children by the climactic exhortation, "And then God said to David-- SIT UP AND STOP TOUCHING THAT..."
I made it to 3:30pm. Scoreboard read: Kids- 1. Miss Lorenc- 0. And I drove home, slouched in body and heart. I don't remember putting them on, but I found myself in my pajama pants by 7pm. Like the wedding car cans. The car had stopped. And I was worthless.
Thankfully, a friend called and asked me to get root beer. I sensed myself getting to a very bad place, the place where I convince myself of the utter worthlessness of my life and look at prices for one way tickets to developing countries with hammocks and mountains. So I decided to take her up on her offer. I spent the evening half asleep at the Alligator Cafe, content at least to be around jovial people who didn't seem to be convinced that they were eighty-year-olds in twenty-five year old bodies.
AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE?! Boys should KNOW, they should just KNOW, not to tell girls they look tired. Why?! How is that helpful? I heard it three times in three days. The third time I cried, but in a bathroom stall by myself. Ick. Boys. Please if you can remember, it is nice when you open doors and don't tell girls they look tired. So nice.
Today I filled up on beauty. Spent hours in a coffee shop with lovely friends and books. Cooked. Listened to peaceful music. Drank tea. Curled up in the library. Prayed with a godsend of a friend. And now I'm sitting with thoughts and music and three candles. And I'm thinking about how I know God, and He loves me, and keeps me. And how if I don't point up to Him every time, then what am I really doing?
And I'm thinking that He'll be faithful always, and one day, I WILL be with him in a way that is different than now. And I'm hopeful.
I do NOT like to live in survival mode. I think I'd rather eat chalk than chase my day like the cans tied to the back of a wedding getaway car. Those sad cans. Eyes brimming, heart swimming love just a few meters ahead, coasting smooth, and they just bump and jolt and slam along, never quite able to catch up. Then, when the car finally does stop, they're too tired and banged up to be of much use. Oh! That's quite perfect. That stop, that arrival-- that's my friday. My week is the wedding getaway car, and I am the cans, hopelessly chasing it down.
So Friday comes. This Friday, for example, I woke up, and felt it. I knew that the week would stop today. So I got up and went to substitute teach for the first grade. In the first hour a child projectile vomited all over the classroom. (He had told me he felt sick earlier and I told him he was fine and to please sit down). In the second hour a child spit on me (purposefully, while screaming "I HATE THIS SCHOOL.") In the third hour, while reading the bible, I read one phrase at a time, in between telling children to stop coloring, picking, jumping, tickling, poking, etc. You can imagine how conviction and worship welled up in the hearts of the children by the climactic exhortation, "And then God said to David-- SIT UP AND STOP TOUCHING THAT..."
I made it to 3:30pm. Scoreboard read: Kids- 1. Miss Lorenc- 0. And I drove home, slouched in body and heart. I don't remember putting them on, but I found myself in my pajama pants by 7pm. Like the wedding car cans. The car had stopped. And I was worthless.
Thankfully, a friend called and asked me to get root beer. I sensed myself getting to a very bad place, the place where I convince myself of the utter worthlessness of my life and look at prices for one way tickets to developing countries with hammocks and mountains. So I decided to take her up on her offer. I spent the evening half asleep at the Alligator Cafe, content at least to be around jovial people who didn't seem to be convinced that they were eighty-year-olds in twenty-five year old bodies.
AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE?! Boys should KNOW, they should just KNOW, not to tell girls they look tired. Why?! How is that helpful? I heard it three times in three days. The third time I cried, but in a bathroom stall by myself. Ick. Boys. Please if you can remember, it is nice when you open doors and don't tell girls they look tired. So nice.
Today I filled up on beauty. Spent hours in a coffee shop with lovely friends and books. Cooked. Listened to peaceful music. Drank tea. Curled up in the library. Prayed with a godsend of a friend. And now I'm sitting with thoughts and music and three candles. And I'm thinking about how I know God, and He loves me, and keeps me. And how if I don't point up to Him every time, then what am I really doing?
And I'm thinking that He'll be faithful always, and one day, I WILL be with him in a way that is different than now. And I'm hopeful.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Berbery
Context: 1) I work as a receptionist at an AMAZING school. 2)Berbery is a very strong Ethiopian spice comparable to Turmenic, or Curry.
I had reached my capacity for weird at 1:15. It was little things, really.
A fourth grader called the front desk to inform me that he was terribly sorry but would not be coming to school today.
A certain high ranking government official came to the school, I welcomed him and asked him to wait one moment while I got someone, and his body guards (there were two) looked at me like I was ridiculous, and let themselves right in. By the time I picked my jaw up off the floor he was in the cafeteria.
Shortly thereafter I went to one of our student’s parents house for lunch. They are Ethiopian, and know of my fondness for Ethiopian cuisine. What I did not know is that today, January 7, is Ethiopian Christmas, and I walked in to a complete party, where I was stuffed with food, asked to show off every Ethiopian phrase I know, and invited to meet with an Ethiopian priest who can teach me about Orthodoxy. I was also hugged and kissed and patted repeatedly by total strangers. (I liked this part very much.)
As I rushed ten minutes late into my office, my boss noted that she smelled Ethnic food. Her nose led her around the office, to my hair, and to my horror, I discovered that I was a walking Berbery Air Freshener. I started to really be hyper aware of the smell and sat in a corner self-consciously, warning everyone that came to my office to please wait at the door. Then, when no one was around, I bent over in half and shook my hair out with my hands. As I flipped it back right side up (you know my hair, I looked like Diana Ross) I found myself face to face with one of our schools board members. I tripped over my words, explaining that I wasn’t doing anything weird, it was that I smelled like I had washed my hair in berbery lamb shampoo. I thought that would ease the tension. He smiled sympathetically, and walked away.
Then, just before I sat to write this, I had our office manager spray bathroom freshener in my room, and walked through it. So now I smell like steamed Ethiopian lamb bathed in Hawaiian Aloha Hibiscus.
Weird.
I had reached my capacity for weird at 1:15. It was little things, really.
A fourth grader called the front desk to inform me that he was terribly sorry but would not be coming to school today.
A certain high ranking government official came to the school, I welcomed him and asked him to wait one moment while I got someone, and his body guards (there were two) looked at me like I was ridiculous, and let themselves right in. By the time I picked my jaw up off the floor he was in the cafeteria.
Shortly thereafter I went to one of our student’s parents house for lunch. They are Ethiopian, and know of my fondness for Ethiopian cuisine. What I did not know is that today, January 7, is Ethiopian Christmas, and I walked in to a complete party, where I was stuffed with food, asked to show off every Ethiopian phrase I know, and invited to meet with an Ethiopian priest who can teach me about Orthodoxy. I was also hugged and kissed and patted repeatedly by total strangers. (I liked this part very much.)
As I rushed ten minutes late into my office, my boss noted that she smelled Ethnic food. Her nose led her around the office, to my hair, and to my horror, I discovered that I was a walking Berbery Air Freshener. I started to really be hyper aware of the smell and sat in a corner self-consciously, warning everyone that came to my office to please wait at the door. Then, when no one was around, I bent over in half and shook my hair out with my hands. As I flipped it back right side up (you know my hair, I looked like Diana Ross) I found myself face to face with one of our schools board members. I tripped over my words, explaining that I wasn’t doing anything weird, it was that I smelled like I had washed my hair in berbery lamb shampoo. I thought that would ease the tension. He smiled sympathetically, and walked away.
Then, just before I sat to write this, I had our office manager spray bathroom freshener in my room, and walked through it. So now I smell like steamed Ethiopian lamb bathed in Hawaiian Aloha Hibiscus.
Weird.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
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…
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…
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 12, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 05, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
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.
…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.
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