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.

Concord Today

Thoreau’s home (and Emerson’s, I think, and most definitely Louisa May Alcott’s) welcomed me with a hug and a twinkle. With white steeples and children in polo shirts with gel in their hair. With school buses and roundabouts and mobiles made of bowls and cups and plates and forks and spoons, and a store called French Lessons that is for lingerie and perfume. With mermaid ornaments, seashell earrings and tiny wire birds nests and postcards and a coffee shop boasting a warming menu that includes wine, fresh muffins and chocolate eclairs. Now, I write from the shop. Each table at the coffee shop wears centerpiece of a mug, filled with miniature gourds, fallish berries, leaves and dried corn husks. (I am reminded of Colonial Christmas in fifth grade, when we made dolls out of corn husks. Except I always thought they were tamale dolls, because I had only seen corn husks used to make tamales. We also drew each others silhouettes by having the subject stand between paper hung on the chalkboard and a shining projector. And, we made candlesticks. For the time being, for this moment, I would like to pretend that it all started there, making candles and corn husk dolls, that somewhere, in that suburban colonial day with tamale dolls and projectors, I sensed something deep and true calling to me from Colonial America, teaching me that there is something intrinsically gratifying about making things. Of course it most likely wasn’t Colonial Day calling me, and I can’t really argue objectively that it is better to make things, but I’ll tell you this- my sister’s salsa is a lot better than Pace, and my banana bread is better than a Little Debbie). But I digress.

Framed pictures of old Life Magazine covers hang near my head, with Sandy Koufax staring at me, looking very American and very skeptical. I am drinking iced coffee through a pink straw and wondering if I should buy the overpriced hat I saw next door. I should not buy the overpriced hat, but my head is normally too big for once-size-fits all hats (I take a moment’s pause now to gratefully acknowledge hats that honestly admit in their tiny sown in tags…“One Size Fits Most.”) and this hat fits me and it is plaid, so I probably will buy it, in fact. I wore a flowing scarf today, a light peach color with gold sequins braided into it. I didn’t think about it too much at the time, but now I’m grateful that I dawned one of my more whimsical pieces of clothing.

Kate (my traveling buddy for the day) and I opened our brown paper bag lunches on a picnic bench outside of an antique store. The store had a bubble machine on the outside, so as my friend and I chatted with our mouths full of peanut butter and honey sandwiches (which presented quite a challenge to chatting), bubbles floated by. Later I ran my fingers through a bowl of dried seahorses, very carefully so as to not break any of their tails off, and I talked to a woman named Karen who also believes in beauty.

And I wish I had friends who liked birds, because then I would buy them everything I could afford in the store called “The Nesting,” but I can’t think of anyone with any particular affection for birds. It doesn’t really matter. I bought some of you bird things anyways, and I think you will be appreciative.

There is just something about jasmine hand soup with starfish carved in, and about touching dead sea horses and trying on rings made of jade that made my fingers dance on this here keyboard. I wonder what makes your fingers dance? Or your pointer finger click or your guitar strings strum or your paint blend or your knitting needles pearl one?

Fall

Fall is kissing her New England growing things already, and I am paying the strictest attention. Most of the time fall seems to grow from the inside out on the leaves. It starts with a yellowish orangey spot on the inside of the leaf, and then grows until it takes over completely, like a stone causing a ripple in the water, or like a crater. Or like those purple ring-rocks they sell in gas stations sometimes as crystals. The sunflowers in the garden are turning their mammoth heads down to the grown and letting their petals sag. I tried to turn one back up to the sky to get a bit of warmth, but found myself disturbing the resting place of a golf-ball sized fuzzy bee, and decided to just let the bee be. The raspberry plants are still giving us hundreds of fresh raspberries every week, so we have fresh jam in the mornings. Sometimes the wind will pull a leaf to the ground prematurely, when it is still green, and I mourn the early death of these leaves, still in the Summer of their lives. I try not to get angry unless it is a squirrels fault. Then I don’t try too hard.

Pictures taken by my roommate, Mary

I, of course, am not playing it tough at all, and feel no need to, having been born and raised in glittery sunny Texas, and I am already (though quite happily) freezing to death. I live in a mansion (literally, with three full kitchens and apartments, three sleeping rooms for guests (with about 10 beds each), one butlers kitchen, three massive dining rooms, a library bigger than my apartment, and a lovely patio with a ceiling overlooking the lily pond). The mansion is a hundred and fifty years old, and heated with wood burning stoves. They do not turn on the stoves until mid to late October. One of the reasons I don’t write much is because it hurts my fingers to not be under a blanket or around a hot mug. But I am not complaining, and take walks every day. Gorgeous, sunny, and freezing.

My sister asked me on the phone last week, So what exactly are you doing? And I laughed and thought I might could explain it better. I am working at L’Abri, which is a study center for people asking any kind of honest questions. People can come and stay for twenty-five dollars a night, and while they are here they study, have long slow meals, serve each other by working in and around the property, (doing everything from laundry to mowing to gardening to painting), and just live in community. It was started by Francis and Edith Shaeffer in the fifties, and exists to welcome anybody and everybody who might be honestly pursuing answers. The people who work at L’Abri are orthodox Christians from all different backgrounds and denominations. I copied this from the L’Abri website for anyone who might be interested—

There have been perhaps four main emphases in the teaching of L'Abri.


First, that Christianity is objectively true and that the Bible is God's written word to mankind. This means that biblical Christianity can be rationally defended and honest questions are welcome.


Second, because Christianity is true it speaks to all of life and not to some narrowly religious sphere and much of the material produced by L'Abri has been aimed at helping develop a Christian perspective on the arts, politics and the social sciences etc.

Third, in the area of our relationship with God, true spirituality is seen in lives which by grace are free to be fully human rather than in trying to live on some higher spiritual plane or in some grey negative way.

Fourth, the reality of the fall is taken seriously. Until Christ returns we and the world we live in will be affected by the disfigurement of sin. Although the place of the mind is emphasized, L'Abri is not a place for "intellectuals only".

But what am I doing here? I came last term as a student to work through some things after Seminary, and now I am working on the hospitality side of things, helping to welcome people and make them feel at home here as they study. I love it. I spend most of my time cooking and cleaning and gardening, and then in my free time reading and having discussions with anybody and everybody. We also occasionally go to Irish Pubs, watch movies, and play games. As you can imagine, this place attracts everybody from over-educated suburban white kids (me) to modern day hippies to doctors to business people to immigrants to professors. At meals we talk about what we are learning and studying, and people ask about everything from whether or not aliens exist to how to be ethical in the arts community, how to steward their gifts, how to forgive people who have hurt them, why God seems silent and far away sometimes, etc. L’Abri believes that the Bible has the final authority when it comes to these questions, but many guests here disagree with that, and they are listened to and safe here. I like that.

I also get to cook and meal plan wonderful meals with fresh healthy food. So far my favorites have been a curry soup with hummus. My least favorite has been a meatloaf that I almost chucked rather than giving it to anyone, and lasagna rolls over which I almost had a panic attack trying to put together in time. By the time I got to that meal, I was too wiped to participate in any conversation, and just looked around tiredly, hoping people were enjoying their food.

Well, my fingers are too frozen to write anymore. Be blessed today! Find something very very small to be thankful for, and point out something wonderful in someone near you.

Heaven on Earth

Today is my study day. That means that this morning, after breakfast I can spend hours quietly in books. Right now I am studying to the biblical view of the bodily resurrection. I’m reading N.T. Wright’s book, “Surprised by Hope” and learning about the loss of the doctrine of our bodily resurrection, and the influence that has had on the way we live now. Normally I don’t post my every revelation on my blog, but I feel strongly impressed upon to include you all in this train of thought, and to invite your feedback via email if you feel compelled to offer it.

One thing God has been doing for me through two beloved professors at DTS, two dear and brilliant friends and through L’Abri is weaving back together what I had separated (I alluded to this in an earlier post), namely, the physical and the spiritual. I have learned since being here that the habit of separating the two has much to do with Plato (who taught we should transcend the lower physical desires in order to attain pure, spiritual ones) and little do do with biblical Christianity. However, my upbringing and thinking about life after death has been heavily influenced by this line of thought. I thought that one day I would escape my body and this earth. I thought that any beauty I saw in it hinted at heaven, but had no inherent significance or goodness in itself, as it had been marred, massacred by the fall. I spoke in that earlier post about thinking that I needed to close my eyes to the world, to turn away from it, reject it in order to pursue the eternal, namely, the spiritual. Like I wrote earlier, I have learned recently that while the Bible does command us to live in light of the eternal, this has absolutely nothing to do with turning away from the physical. Christ infuses the physical with eternal importance. Am I making sense?

A couple of years ago I began to find a bit of theological grounding for taking care of the earth. I had always wanted to, had always hated litter, been drawn to recycling and not wasting, but I was probably more influenced by trend, and I had little theological grounding for doing so. Then I began thinking a little bit critically about the creation mandate, about the earth being created by God, and God LOVING it, and saying “It is good.” After that, the nature passages in the Bible came to life before my eyes. God treasures his creation, and we should too. So that gave me a bit of motivation, and a strong belief that Christians should be on the front lines of careful conservation movements. However, I found it difficult to justify anyone spending much time working to care for creation in light of what seemed to be an entirely spiritual future, moving either toward heaven or hell.

But as I learn more what the Bible has to say about our future, my thoughts are hesitantly changing. My final paper last year in seminary looked at the Greco-Roman influence on the Christian idea of heaven. While Jesus talked mostly about a kingdom and a re-creation, and Paul talked about our own resurrection, the Greeks and the Romans taught about a spiritual world of Zeus and the other gods, and a beautiful place called Mount Olympus. Somehow my idea of my future has been a mesh of the biblical messages of hope and the ephemeral idea of a banquet in the sky. I am learning that the mental notion I had of heaven has little foothold in the bible, and I have been astonished. Both the Old Testament and New Testament point toward a very physical hope for our future, and a kingdom at least for a time established on this earth, with us in our physical bodies. I’m not sure why, but I have never spent much time meditating on the bible talking about our physical resurrection until now.

I don’t know nearly enough about this to be writing so brazenly, but this morning as I wanted to write, I felt led to share this with anyone who might be reading. If you have the chance and some extra reading time, I strongly recommend the aforementioned book by N.T. Wright. I wish I had someone here with which to discuss it! I also recommend a fresh look at the gospels or Paul’s writings on the future, on the Kingdom.

This is all I can do for now, and it is both amateur and immature, but from a heart longing for truth and the privilege of processing in community, even if that community expressed here is a bit virtual for my taste.

My mother

This, in case you didn't know, is my mother. She is the one on the right, kissing the shoulder of my baby sister Keila. It shows more of her character than her physical features. My mother loves her daughters. This was a hard day for Keila, and she was there there to love her.

Well, I can't write the funny story as promised, and the lesson has been learned: don't say you'll write something when you haven't written it yet. I actually wrote the whole story, but as I was writing I realized I didn't feel quite right. I think I realized that some of her stories are hers to tell. The thing is, as I've said before, my mother is magic, and especially to her family. But you have to know her to know. She gets to choose who she lets know her and who she does not, just like I do. If anyone read my blog two days in a row, I'm sorry that I can't make good on my intentions. But I would like to invite you over for dinner so that you can ask her about the funny story I was going to tell. Or just to know for yourself how easy it is to pass hours standing around the kitchen island when my mom and dad are there making you laugh and making it home.

Home for the Fall.

Hello all. This is my home now, for the next few threeish months. (It's much more like two, but I'm rounding up.) I am just inside the window just to the right of the door as I write this. If you look really close, you can see me waving at you. ;) This week, Mary and I drove from Dallas to Boston. We took four days to make the trip so that we could stop everywhere we thought there was something pretty to see or fun to do, as well as every hour so that I could go to the bathroom. We listened to Dixie Chicks in Arkansas, Johnny Cash in Tennessee, Nickel Creek in Virginia, and then made up the rest because no music came to mind when we drove through Delaware or Connecticut. Any ideas? Oh, and we accidentally timed our trip to where we drove into and out of Manhattan during rush hour, so we tried not to die, and once we were completely stopped we rolled down the windows and listened to rap songs that celebrated the Big Apple.

Now I am here, at L'Abri. Today I took a walk and looked at the leaves that are changing colors, went grocery shopping, helped clean the house to get ready for guests, and chose a Halloween costume. I know I'm early, but a friend at L'Abri has a green cape with a hood and a beautiful wreath crown thing, so I am going to be a woodsy elven Tolkien- creature. Or at least, try.

I am writing this because I realize being here how much treasure I left at home. You are likely my friends and my family, and I value you. I don't want to fall off the face of the earth, really. I would love a for real letter from you. And if you write, I'll write you back. I would also like prayer for two things. If you pray, please 1) Please pray that I my days would be filled with praise of the Author of all this beauty, and that I would count others needs more important than my own. 2) Please pray for my future, as I am seeking God's will and direction with this Next Step.

A thought about nature: This summer as I walked in Boston, sometimes things that I knew were beautiful felt very far from me, if that makes sense. I mean, I could acknowledge their beauty in mental assent, but I couldn't feel it. I knew it, I rested in it, but sometimes I couldn't be moved like it. I wondered if this was a sad part of getting older, or if I were still a little depressed, or what, what was keeping me from being moved. Anything I could say about the river floating by our house or the trees growing out of the water like huge mushrooms was stale and rigid. Yesterday I think I realized why that was. I was separating the spiritual and the physical again, trying to connect with God, and then trying to connect with nature, forcing both. Yesterday when I walked, I stopped and closed my eyes. I told God how meaningless nature and beauty seemed apart from Him. How stupid. How I would rather have peace and twinkling wonder from the inside out, rather have Him physically with me than any tree or mountain. And what amazed me was that when I opened my eyes, I found myself not asked to reject or belittle the beauty I saw before me, but asked to see it as it is: charged with love from the Creator, charged with meaning and purpose, trees growing tall and strong, saying something about our God (He said, "it is good"). The sun rising and setting, saying something about our God (Romans 1, Psalm 19). Nature isn't robbed of it's beauty, but charged as I look to Christ. Christ makes sense of the broken parts of the world, the robbery, the selfishness, the ignorance and lack of care for people without, the trashing of creation through pollution. And He makes sense of the beautiful; people created in God's image, with diversity and inherent dignity and little creators themselves, an absolutely stunning jewel like creation, imaginations that long for heroic stories, etc. He makes sense of my desire. So when I stopped and saw the trees and even the squirrels and the sunset in light of Him, I reveled. I talked to Him, I fell to my knees in worship.

For a while I thought I worshiped a God who asked me to turn away from this world. It was worth it, because I saw Jesus and I loved him, and I believed in sin and I loved people. I still think those things, but now I see that Jesus came to this world. He came here. Stunning. God became a human, and embraced this world. He touched people, and he ate and drank and went to a wedding. I am not asked to turn from this world but to love it well. To take care of it.

I have so many thoughts about that, but I'll stop now because I am small and tired and shouldn't talk too much about things I don't understand. But just this one more thing: I know that if I can't find beauty in the small things; a basil plant, a well baked cookie, a kind word to a neighbor, then I won't find it in the big things; the Grand Canyon, the ocean, etc. I will at first of course, but my appetites have grown now, and the Andes can't fill them and Europe can't fill them and neither can a piercing or a trip to China. If I can't find beauty in coffee with a friend, I won't find it anywhere. I don't know if that's the same for you. I'm finding myself turning to smallish, smallish things again. The very smallest actually. Oh, this has grown too long. Goodbye then. Tomorrow I'll tell you a funny story about my mother.

Adventure Time

It started this at six this morning, with me bouncing back and forth between making quiche, packing for three months, and cleaning my bathroom. Today my mother, sister and I hosted the wedding shower for the future Sra. Sanchez. We had mimosas, coffee cake, parfaits, and quiche. We homemade them all and are very proud of ourselves. I feared awkward moments, as I usually do when hosting such events (which is ridiculous. there are such better things to be afraid of than awkwardness... like salmonella and bedbugs and asthma attacks... but no, I fear awkward) and breathed a sigh of relief when people seemed to enjoy themselves. Hooray for champagne in the morning.

The guests left and I scrambled around the house, feeling a bit anxious, not knowing whether to scrub pots and pans or pack that extra pair of shoes. I tried to both and managed not to pack the pots or scrub my shoes. I am not good in moments like this, and often can get confused and side tracked. It is usually Ali's job to keep me on track. (She gave herself that job after she found me trying to fill out my birthday calendar when I was supposed to be moving out of my apartment last spring. It felt urgent).

I left at two today, picked up my friend Mary and headed East on 30. We are driving to Boston, taking our sweet time, staying with some strangers and some friends and just enjoying the ride. Tonight our hosts are Debbie and Jody, a lovely couple in Little Rock Arkansas who enjoy peanut butter ice cream, football and laughing their daughters. We spent the last few hours chatting with them about football and nooks and Elvis. They are the kind of people you can slouch in front of without feeling bad. I like 'em.

Already as the trees grew taller and the land bumpier I am feeling a bit of newness. Tonight as I lay down it is about 50 degrees outside. Tomorrow I'm chasing fall to Tennessee.

A Return

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.