The Joy and Speed of Light

I've had this desire to say something beautiful to KP, Sam, Jack and Jules for some time. It's been on the tip of my tripping tongue and resting lightly in the back of my brain for the last few months. Maybe I'll write hand written letters to each of you but for now...here are a few lingering thoughts.

Jules, there are times when I'm in your presence I'll remember a powerful dream my mother once had after she was first saved. She dreamed she was in a lush green field wrapped in blue sky, as she was wading through the fields Jesus was standing on a smooth stone with his arms wide open to her welcoming her. My mother in her dream was drawn to him and quietly laid herself down prostrate worshiping him at the foot of the stone. You have a strength and faith and wisdom that seems to radiate from you and I think that is why I always think of this dream mingled with your presence, that and I love the rhythm of your stories the eclectic dabbles in your love of art. I love to explore your house not just because of the fields but because the rooms shine, filled with your creative spirit in a myriad of little ways and it makes me rest. I always seem to find something interesting and new to look at whenever I come. It makes me deliriously happy.

Sam, when I sit near you, in my minds eye I catch glimpses of a ship sailing on a pristine glassy sea in a forever ocean. I call it that because when your standing on the edge of the sun drenched, powdered shore the sky and the sea seem to have melted into one another. You look upon that fading horizon and it's an eternity out there greeting you. A cotton white against a brilliant blue but the colors aren't clashing their dancing. Unfurled, billowing sails on this distant ship were on, in the calm, calm sea headed somewhere I have yet to be but its somewhere I know I have longed for like a tangled paradise. You're adventurous spirit and your kindness gives me an unmasked joy. You never seem afraid to speak your mind and you never seem to hide.

Jack, I always seem to imagine you riding horse against the canvas of oil painted sunsets like Monet's Venice Twilight as you drift down desert mountains, I see your worn hands resting on the leather reigns, hands that remind me of my grandfather's own. On your trotting sojourn you'll breathe in shadow fallen earth while the stars crown everyone of us. I love your passion for the arts and of the wilderness. It's made us gypsies.

KP, I often tell you how I love your elegance but I don't think I've ever tried to explain it to you before. It's like sitting next to a row of blooming cherry blossom trees. The intricate, delicate detail of each pink flower and the trees graceful, carved bent of branches and sweet scent can be powerfully inspiring. Your patient and graceful and yet you are the surprising Jack of all trades. You think outside of the box and I don't even think you believe there ever was a box to begin with. Your mind and faith are refreshing to my soul.

When Kafka met Jesus.....

The other day I pick up a worn volume by Kafka. I felt like my spirit was drinking down a Davinci as I read meditations about Trees and Trains and Passers-By. I work myself through Metamorphasis and feel the weight of its saddnes. The Penal Colony is wanting my attention but I can't seem to work myself up to it. The stories softly bruise me and make me more aware of the world that I'm traveling through, though his short peices are like honey. A writer with such talent driven to write the twisted anguish of every man's soul. And I think to myself why couldn't he have written stories so beautiful that it makes you linger and cry and rest, instead of ones that bears down on you like heavy, laden bricks? And Jesus whispers in my ear "I loved Kafka too". Men are stumbling in the dark fearing the thing they need the most while God shines. We choose our fates. And in my own heart with the nature of sin there are parts that I have to willingly hold up to the light and say "God come into all the sharp corners and closets." I find there are times I'm becoming a slave to things that I don't want to be. It's the clash of flesh and groaning of beautiful spirit. Even nature longs for the turning of the world, while the rooted trees and stars await their newness. We'll always be at war til are eyes fall on those twelve pearled gates. And Jesus is so happy to forgive us and make us whole and make us new. To my surprise Kafka once renounced his broken stories. I hope it was becuase he found some manner of deep joy.

Hands

My brother called the other day his voice cracked with a deep saddness I couldn't carry for him or take away. It happens at times. My spirit crumbles at these notes and I often reflect on them after I've already said all I can say about loving him and God's immeasurable love for us all. My spirit radiates this "please come and make your home in the harbour of Jesus's hands" to him, but I don't know if he notices. I don't know why it is that his suffering and struggles worry me so much when I consider God's in control and will do what he will do whenever he wishes to do it. And along with the worry that my brother's world may come tumbling down again I worry that mine will too through all these afflictions and then there will be nothing left to say. He tells me he needs to learn to love himself and I say I have Jesus for that. Jesus holding me up from the inside out telling me I'm beautiful, though I'm trajically fallen and my faith seems so immeasurably small. I don't know why I feel this nervous wrentching tension at times as if one day I'll break. It's all a terrible lie of course I know this but I have to keep pushing back the lies.I realize why I love the book of John so much. He is the vine I am the branches. I need to be rooted everyday in God. When did the lies ever mean anything to me anyway? I can only surrender all that I am. I do feel his clean, strong, steady hands cradeling my soul whenever I ask for his help. His presence cuts the tension as he tells me one day I will be whole, to never tire of doing good and to keep pressing as if this pain will brandish golden pearls I just can't see yet.

Slug

I'm not sure what it's been about today but I seem to be fighting a sluggish down spiral into sad. And I know by the morrow it will have passed me by like the movement of shadows climbing across the face of silver trees leaning against the setting of sunlight. It's not that I'm even aching over Karma today. It's this awkward loneliness....like I miss hearing the sound of God's voice whispering in my ear as if I hadn't heard it in so long I wouldn't remember it. Its the wondering if all this passion regained will really mean anything at all in the end. On one end of the spectrum I feel I could burst into flames and fling myself across the earth like a maddening comet and on the other end I want to walk in silence among stone bridges and fragrant gardens. I work in a grey cubicle in a grey building and today I feel trapped as if I know a part of me is not living somehow. I'm writing a novel that's light and fun and keeps my engine jolted in a direction but is it my calling?

I have a job,I'm not sick or begging on the street, I'm not cold or hungry or homeless. The other day a homeless person I passed on the street, bundled up for the coming winter, asked me for food. I looked them in the eyes with love and brought them a hot meal. For now I shall hold my tongue and hold of this sadness and keep watch because maybe I've helped angels unawares. They long to look into these human affairs don't they?

Wild Colts and Rivers of Jordan...

When Jack had stopped dreaming of roaming Gypsies...I dreamt of a wild, fiery colt and setting him free. I kept walking into different elegant rooms with high vaulted ceilings and white walls and mahogany furniture, leather chairs and crown molding and there would be this beautiful, sad, creature looking out the bay windows longing for the elegance of the sun and the pure joy of grass. I lifted my hands to touch the black coat and the long mane as if in slow motion, then before I knew it I was flinging wide doors open and setting him free. We ran past the garden, past the hedges and down a valley. Him all grace and strength. Me in wonder and happiness. The colt bucked once and stood on hind legs letting me know his joy as he flung his neck and dashed away rustling up the dust as he went. I smiled and awoke wondering if in heaven God would let me have a horse to ride like a lightening bolt. I've been writing steadily again though its pure silliness but I've found a heart for it and I rather like slinging my words around again even if the depth is not there at least its become fun.
The other day I kept thinking in poetry. The moon so full and bright hung in the sky while the sun rose. Two heavenly bodies clashing upon the same horizon. And I wondered why I toil so much when the world is bathed in such significance. I feel stretched sometimes trying to give myself to those who need me the most. I travel and work and wonder when my schedule will slow down...when I will slow down enough for me to fall deeply into God like falling into a river of Jordan.

Making Me....

There are fragmented moments when I feel like that prophet Elisha. Double blessings being rooted in me somehow by the Holy Spirit. I wonder what it would be like the day God revealed to him the Army of Angels guarding the lowly tents. Don't be afraid (isn't that what was said?) beacuse what you don't know is that God is so alive and touchable and moving on this earth for your immeasurable good. I was reading about St Peter's Basilica. I was reading about it because I've decided I need to see the Sistine Chapel and Michelangelo's Mary cradling Jesus in marble. A trip has been planted in my mind for the spring next year but we shall see what becomes of it. The church was built in Rome over the apostle Peter's humble grave and I thought about what Jesus said to him. How the church would be built on Peter "the Rock." I don't know what I had imagined but I wasn't thinking Jesus meant this so literally and it made my heart find faith in him more. Jesus seemed so real to me in the thought that my heart lept up. As if like Elisha something so immovable and solid of God worked its way deep down into my spirit. Reading the Book of John has a similiar effect on me. God draws me in with his gentleness and his truth. I want to live more fully now and have my lamplight readily burning up against the eve of dark. Whatever God has for me the lightness I've felt with my healing is starting to feel more solid its starting to feel like lightening. I'm not sure what God is up to but today its encouraging.

Joy and Fireflies....

It seems I've been neglecting my blog lately. The cup of joy I drink from in this life is overflowing this last week. God only ever gives us anything that's good so...hear me worship in my steps and in the air rushing into song from my lungs and in the words I write down here.
Saturday we took Karma's sons to Cincinnati. We spent the day by the shimmering river. We went to the aquarium and pet sharks and ate cheeseburgers at Johnny Rockets then walked across the height of the bridge to a red's game. Their first baseball game where they watched the fireworks burst from 2 home runs. We drove home late and sung them modern lullaby's off the radio regarding fireflies and mountains climbed,while they slept in the car. It was a beautiful day. There were football cards and church and playing tag around the kitchen table. I sent my mother a string of pearls in the mail for her birthday and when she called me there was a tender trembling note of beauty in her voice that I'd never heard before. I wrote Karma's mother a long letter with a few gifts wanting to give her something beautiful to hold within her hands though I know my words moved her more. When I went to my viola lesson my teacher said that I was so in tune with the instrument that I was making it sing. I took Kim out to a fancy dinner with white table cloths and soft white light while we plotted out a novel about time travel on our table top. Michele wants to take me to see Chihully later this month and a camping trip is on the horizon with God loving and highly creative friends. I'm reading Larie R. King's O Jerusalem before I mail it to my father to read. He sent me a card with one of my favorite paintings by Monet on it. There was also the waitress I gave a ridiculous tip to and told her manager how wonderful she was. There has been rain this week but not in my heart.

K.L. Knight

Steps....

Last night,

Restless and wrestling with the need for sleep and food but found I wanted to pray more. I let the tiredness drift down off of me. The stars were out and I mingled with them in the parking lot on the way to church. My footfalls leading me through quiet hallways. It's late but I don't care knowing the doors are still open. I slip into a room and flop onto the couch, long legs leaning and arms folded across my chest. Eyes closed not in sleep but in the awakening of my tired soul. There are other voices mingled in the hushed soft tones of prayer in the next room. The lamp light bends the darkness away from us. I pour it all out. My words drenched in my heart and I'm letting God in on what he already knows. It doesn't matter...at least I'm talking and thats what has the most meaning to him. My fear is that I've planted seeds of bitterness somewhere deep down. I can't seem to uproot it all on my own. I need God. It comes out in ways that God would notice. I am fearfully and wonderfully made but my doubts and fears tend to crush me, bring me low and tangle me up. I need God's tending the gentle hands of a gardner who knows how not to trample young vines. There is no life in me left for the I love you's and joys and encouraging spirit that I should have made more plentiful in my life. My soul stilled. Finding a peacefulness I had forgotten. I listen. The clock keeps ticking. A question arises in the back of my mind "How many days left for me to worship here?". We only have so many days left...it makes me thankful and helps me to understand Daniels passion a little more. I think Daniel understood. Life is a cornhusk. A season. Restore my soul giver of gifts. Furrow the hard ground and bring me back to life.

Wonder....

I wonder why in the midst of the melancholy I don't hold onto all the worn photographs of Jesus. Its difficult sometimes too see him so human aging and leaning against the olive trees. Light and lakes where there enough for man made photographs while Jesus lived. Did he amuse himself looking at his image while sailing and catching fisherman? But I'm sure there were tears running down his beard and I long to know what his voice sounded like. Was it ruddy and deep or light and soft like illuminating candles waking up the velvet darkness. I dunno I forget how he can carry our hearts and hands and hold them up against the tide that swiftly moves against us. Next time I lift up my fingers tips to praise him I'll remember to think upon the pictures he's made of me and I of him. Love is a miracle. Light is a miracle. And I can only hope that this miracle is still making me.

Shatter

If you didn't know I own this little property. The building is grandiose in scale but I've been trying to sell it for years. Maybe its just been too difficult to let go. My glass house. It's more like a castle forged on a hill lit ablaze by the burning seashores in my mind. My insecurities have built it. I find a worrying, trying day has caused me to carve out another bookcase, another closet, another mantelpiece with my hands. Things I did not need but could not help create. I don't like being vulnerable not when I've been used to being a strong tower for so many years. The strong tower fell but thats another story. I'd like to throw heavy stones at my glass house and have it shatter to the earth. I like talking about this even less. Kim told me I should write about these moments and share them because they're not really for me. There is something important about the sharing I suppose whether for me or you I can not tell. I do have these fearful days more than I want to admit lately. Not the fears of a nightmare washed away by morning but the childhood fears that linger on and leave you trembling. I doubt my steps. I doubt my relationships. I doubt my gifts. I doubt me. I never seem to doubt the existence of God and that is a relief. Though, I dunno, I haven't had much to say to God lately. I haven't wanted to talk to him. What was there to say? But I realize you cannot love someone and not want to talk to them after awhile. So I go down to the church and sit in a little room where I know the Holy Spirit breathes. For a long time nothing comes....then "God you are my bread. You are the bread in life and I seem to be starving myself. Help me." I leave feeling swept clean for a time. The fear is new from something I had forgotten all about and God bent down and made me remember. It makes me feel afflicted like Job and I never understand it. God makes me remember not out of cruelty who wants to remember pain? But for my freedom. It doesn't mean I have to like it. God in his wisdom allows me the choice not to like it. It just makes me feel terribly weak and upside down half the time. This isn't beautiful or funny or striking to look at. I feel out of step as if I will always be out of step. My gifts jar me at times as if being struck in the face. Powerful and yet for what purpose? I say I have such intensity and the intensity requires meaning but maybe the meaning was just to amuse God and move you. A comedy and a tragedy I make. I tell myself these words are selfish because my heart wonders about me and not something of you. But I can at least tell myself I showed my vulnerability to you for those of you I know out here. I miss Karma. I wish I was healing faster. I wish I was writing books again. I wish I felt more confident. Christ was wholly God in his confidence. Perhaps it is my pride too because I think I know what's best for me but really only God knows. And yet I find I'm still trying to follow God's footprints.

Dreamscape

I have this recurring dream.

I'm walking down a dirt road into the fading sunset surrounded by golden fields of corn. I'm in bluejeans and I'm barefoot. I want for nothing and I have this beautifully carved guitar slung around my back with a thick leather strap. The guitar is a work of art it's carved and has this beautiful golden tone. I am usually singing as the sun sets in this dream of dreams. Its deeply peaceful. I wake up thinking the guitar should be a violin. And I think about Jack and wonder if somehow I'm a part of his wondering gypsies.

Fallen Perfection

God I bare it all before you.
You are glorious and eternal.
While I was made mortal.
Nothing other than a polished man's rib and God's breathing.
I remember you from my dreams when we talked about the manner of songs.
When we ran through honeyed cornhusks, you thought the wind and a robbin's eggshell blue would also kindle celebration in me.
My grandfather found joy with the sound of the slamming porch screen door as I ran to pluck plums from the trees he had grown.
It seems my fervor is held within the scared palms of Christ and my husbands kiss.
I am both reckless and forgiving. Grieved and uencumbered. Cherished and Aching.
A fallen perfection.
There are sun drenched cathedrals beating in this heart and a rush of snowy wings housed in this soul along with the velvet train's childhood call.
But lightening split the old oak I used to walk to.
And Karma's ringing laughter is reserved for worshiping seraphim and my memory.
The only thing I know is what remains is you.

If you fell into my heart...

If you took a step inside my heart...and felt what I felt as if you were pulling on a fancy wool coat...you'd have this strange and akward lightness all the time. It almost seems like I'm not grounded or walking inches above the earth. As if touching the ground would give me such a hard stumbeling fall. Its extremly difficult to articulate this new lightness and this new part of me. It frightens me a little. It's an effort to focus on food and getting dressed and talking sometimes. When Michael Jackson died I wondered if anyone thought about the starving child in India but that is a side note. So the lightness is akward and I talk to God about it when I'm walking by the river thinking about Jesus walking on water and if it felt light underneath his feet. Its just plain weird and part of it makes me want to cry for some odd reason and I don't know why. I keep hearing violins playing beautiful arpegios and my dreams are a jumble. But I feel more grounded when I'm reading. Its like I was holding onto something so long so tightly and now its not there anymore. What do I do with the open hands? I sat down at a coffee shop and it took me an hour to write "The black hole was a hushed maddness in his mind." Writing line by line takes an effort I don't know if I have the patience for. My creativity is coming back but in these little intense spurts. The next time I see Jules I'm going to visit her fields and at least say hello to them.

Light

Jesus has lead me to this leaving...to this last look of letting go. Sometimes sorrows makes you widdle away at what you've been carrying...forces you to lighten your load. Joy dwells in God alone and finds the lonely. When I meet my guardian angel I'll want to hold his brilliant face within the palms of my hands and say thank you maybe after I've worshiped God for a thousand years or so and said hello to Karma as if I've just been walking down a country lane. We all have a guardian angel that watches over us you know. Peter's went ahead of him I think when they supposedly answered his knock at the door. Anyway, sitting here now I'm thankful for all of you who have loved me as you have loved me as I am and not what I thought I should have been. It mattered all of your hello's and how are you's and silent prayers I never heard. It made me feel deeply loved and today I know I'll be better than I ever was because of you and God who sent you. I sing. I run. I hold my viola and strike notes that I know can make me weep if I just put them in the right order. I have dinner with friends and laugh with my whole heart. I hear God say "We will dance. I promise we will dance." And God never lies. So my hope is that you hear him too and dance your dance in your own unique way just as I dance mine. And that those unkown silent prayers for you are answered.

Star

I often feel tethered to the world. I could take flight if it wasn't for gravity...but gravity complicates things. We are sons and daughters of God. We are shining stars so I'm told. When I am most peaceful I think of God and wide open spaces. Places untouched except for God's spirit hovering over them. Like white scattered beaches, galaxies with no names yet, and roaming fields of corn, wheat or lavendar it does not matter wich as long as its as far as my eyes can see. I find my paradise in quiet places. I find my freedom in God. He is the Alpha and the Omega and there seems to be alot in between to discover of him yet. I'm not sure what it is that I'm trying to say. I toil and I laugh. Life makes a mystery. Inside I feel a fallen star. A miracle. And at the same time the push and pull of pain. Do stars grow like blooming flowers?

Curiosity

It all started when...

You know the good stories, the really deep stories always seem to begin this way. There is a when something was placed into motion in your life and you know from that when you are never the same. When I met, when I noticed, when I went...It all takes place during a when. Time, God's guardian over us. Well this story starts with a when I watched a movie called The Girl In The Cafe. The dialog was brilliant. The opening scene with an opening song even better than that. The Song was called Cold Water by Damien Rice. I can't seem to stop listening to it. It begins with the sound of a solitary piano and the ticking of a grandfather clock. There are arpegios of violins and halleluja's sung in it. This song takes it time with me, slows me down and lets me rest. I try to sing it and realize something strange has happened to my voice. It used to carry this rustic country tone and now it carries this light uplifting quality that I didn't have before. I didn't know voices could change so much. After the discovery of this I decide to go to the music store for fun and find I'm drawn to the cello's and violins. A few weeks later I go home and my father has decided to try and become a part of a community orchestra. He's out of practice but he wants to begin again. As if his whole life has been waiting to strike those strings and play once more. There is a light of joy reflected in his eyes when he talks about it. So I go back to the music store and set my eyes upon a Viola that comes with a case and a bow for about a hundred bucks. The instrument it rests beautifully in my hands. I pluck the strings and make it sing a little. My father is starting over. And I just want to start. For those of you who know me I have this habit of wanting to try everything. I am somewhat adventurous and I'm feeling joyful. I want to sail, surf, ride horses, play the guitar, write, paint, run, sing, dance, draw, carve marble and travel and who knows what else. It's impossible to do them all well. I understand this. But there is something in me that finds joy in the attempt. Even if I never take it up again. At least I tried once. I dunno there is a part of me that believes one day I will fall in love with at least one thing and revel in it for the rest of my life. Monday I have my first lesson. I start. I stop. I start again. God will have to work on me about the consistency of it all. He never stops. But I always this strange thought "How will I know if I don't try?"

Crash

Today was Karma's Birthday. I have this recurring dream that we are walking in the sunlight at somewhere and some when holding a deep conversation about God's glory I have yet to see and of the angels I have yet to hear sing. I dreamed this dream today in the early morning hours. I tell her how much I miss her but that its all right because I'm sure heaven is too beautiful for her to miss too many minutes of.

Today I'm not sad instead I can only think of hallelujahs for the friend that she was. I can only be thankful for the what I have's rather than the what I have not's. I keep thinking about that day in the bookstore as we sat in leather chairs and cradled our coffee cups. I read her a few scattered pages of my poetry. She said I was too gifted and blessed not to be a writer. She said I needed to start writing books and after that day I did start writing one. I just wanted to see if I could . When I had finished it two years later she was not surprised. And whenever I wanted to give up and stop writing she would say "This gift God has given you its not going anywhere this is standard for your life. It's a blessing and it's just who you are. God is only going to heal you and breathe more life into you and then what are you going to do?"

I thought my dream had burned up like cinder. I was too tired then. But..I think I am a foolish phoenix. Today, I want to pluck my dream down as if it were a ripe peach. Today, I want to crash into God and let the crescendo of his love ripple back to me.

Trees and Paradise

Yesterday,

I took my sketch book and a newly sharpened pencil and tried my hand at drawing. I do occasionally make the attempt. I found a shaded tree as subject matter. All the while thinking that its roots looked like knotted bones resting on the earth. The tree was beautiful. My sketch was not. But it made me undone this one little poetic thought. God had designed me to think and view the world in this way. It gives him joy when I play upon my words.

Lately, I've wanted to do nothing but grow deeper into God as much as I know how. I've had this hunger to read the bible and books about Jesus. I read the entire book of Proverbs yesterday. I want to read it again and again and again. I've started reading Knowing God by J.I. Packer. It's a great comfort being reminded of God's character. In an earlier post I've said that I've been trying to escape what I am. I feel so intensely at times that it can be tiring. And now I'm starting to realize in God my depth of emotion is not some sort of twisted defect or a joke that also went terribly flat. If I stare into God's face long enough I will find in his eyes staring back at me the security I had lost. A version of myself I can live with and be free and love. A version of myself that is more true than I know because God knows me better than I do. He knows what I will do and say and feel and think even before I've lived it all out. And its been good to be reminded that God doesn't forget. It's impossible for him to forget. And so it is impossible for me to be forgotten.

Measurements

Father, I belong to you.

A simple statement I find incredibly powerful.

I've prayed it every day this week and a peace falls into my unbalanced heart whenever I do. It makes me rest. In the end you belong and you belong to God. I weep or fail or fall all the while I'm being held by God. I get this picture in the eye of my mind of a fireman saving a child's life in the face of smoke and affliction. A face smeared by ash, lungs choking and then a body silent with head spilled backward while being held in the arms of their rescuer. Breathe child just take a breath. Eyes flashing to life while sirens wail in the street. Jesus this is a medical emergency. We need a rescue. Our father who art in heaven, give me this day.

The fact is every day our bodies are breaking down and dying. No matter how hard we try and fight growing old. But I don't mind growing old. I want to grow old gracefully. I want to grow in measurements I can't measure. I want to take another risk and love when its least expected. And even though I know the building is burning down to the ground it will be new again some day.

Path

My mother wanted to be an artist when she was young. She can draw well. But she rarely uses this gift or has the passion for it. She ended up becoming a nurse instead and she is gifted in this profession. My mother is practical but not what I would call a romantic. She is adventurous and kind and very, very funny. So I often forget that she wanted to be an artist. I was wondering the other day what were the things my mother and I had in common. I am very much the romantic in every sense of the word. But my friend called me and had just finished having lunch with my mother. She said that we were so similar with the way we spoke with our hands and the inflections in our ruddy voices. My mother has a wonderful up roaring laugh while mine is a more quiet chuckling when amused or a silent wail when I'm enjoying some portion of the comedy of life. Secretly, I've mesmerized my mother's hands. Small freckled hands with delicate palms.

My father always wanted to be an engineer when he was young. He still is one. The trajectory of his passion never wondered an iota. He can fix anything mechanical and has the memory of an elephant. Although, he is whom I would call the romantic though I would never admit it to him. An avid reader. One of his favorite quotes to me is "Life is often stranger than Fiction." I often find him reading history or biographies and well written works of fiction. Lately, we've been exchanging books through the mail. He used to play the cello in college. He loved taking me to the symphony, the ballet and the theater.

And here I am their romantic, romantic child who still loves words and daffodils.

Ragamuffin

I've just finished reading Brennan Manning's book "the furious longing of God". It made my soul sing. Manning the ragamuffin theologin his words made me feel not so lonely. And I've been too sad and tired with Karma gone to want to be creative at least until now. And its been silly because I've tried to purge my creativity from myself or hide it away because of an unsual longing to be understood. But God has always understood. And I find a reveling joy in poetry and art and music. I want to trade my fear and trembling in for peaceful abiding. I find that God talks more often to us than we realize. It's a matter of listening. On being ready to really, really listen. I found it odd that God gave me a word for someone who had been counseling me for over a year. I found it odd that sunday's message was on the power of God working through story. I also found it odd that they asked for people who beleived that they were called to speak about Jesus to every corner of the world. I am not a missionary but I felt lead to come and recieve prayer. The Holy Spirit fell on me and I swayed once trying not to fall. Usually the invitations for prayer at the end of the service are just not for me. This heart its wide open.

Manifesto

I think a part of me has forgotten the equation of God. I read these little pieces of my heart written down here and its some sort of beautiful madness. I have a ridiculous love for alliteration for one thing. I have a rhythm to my soul that's deeper than a muddy river and sad and solidly sweet all at once like honey dripping off a too salty twisted pretzel. And I wonder what is God gonna do with all this inside of me? I am dramatic and dynamic and I want to be a Michelangelo? What? Really? Ahh broken jealous, prideful heart. I imagine God laughing at me at this point. A gentle breath of God coming to me like in the book of Job first the earthquake and then the whisper of God. Good thing he still calls me friend. I filled with the want and chase of earthly desires and at the same time with the want of God. It becomes a merry merry go round. So here is my manifesto:

I will choose God even if it breaks my upside down heart.
I will trust God. Again. And Again.
I will wait on God. Again. And Again.
I will love. Again. And Again.
I will begin to believe every part of me was made for a purpose.
I will let God rule my creativity instead of it ruling me.
I will not give up. Even when I fail. Again. And Again.
I will laugh more.
I will be more thankful.
I will not let fear move me.
I will live up to my inheritance in God and light up the sky like a star.
I will sing.
I will write only when I feel inspired too and am able to pour my whole heart and joy into the work. I will believe that God is in whatever I'm working on.

Michelangelo

Whenever I'm as still as I can be in this world...I just keep hearing God only ever say one little line to me over and over and he's been saying it for the past 2 years. That I'll be better than I ever was. And this is the hard part. He never did say when. If you knew me well enough you'd know I have little patience and yet I find myself in the position of always waiting. Inside I feel irritable that God didn't make me a Michelangelo. A great heart and passion for the love of beauty anywhere I can find it on earth or in heaven but unable to express it as I wish to when I actually know it. I suppose when you've seen angels things can become complicated. Michelangelo used to pray that God would grant him the ability to do more than he thought he could accomplish just so he could try and accomplish it. A man with the patience of Job. In the last few years I've traveled a mountain of a road. The loss of Karma has terribly saddened my soul among other things. How can I ever be better than I ever was? But I Know I've made some progress. I've been told don't mock the process of things. But I don't want to walk I want to run. I get so tired of my somber moods and irritability when Christ's kingdom has come. The things I know in my head usually do not light up my heart. But hearts are much like the weather you'll find the tempest and sunny skies all within the same day. I pray that God draws near me because I find at times I'm still running away. I want to run or complain or be sad or laugh or rest anything at all but be creative. Anything at all but use my gift and let my words collide upon paper. So I pray as often as I can that Christ takes hold of me. He is the only one that can.

Writing and Running

These days I'm not sure what kind of writer I am. I'm still writing very little and my love affair with words is on again off again at its best. There is no tension of push pull dogged determination like there use to be. Maybe thats a good thing. But I do know writers need to be persistent and devoted and passionate. I am none of these right now though ironically I felt strong enough to write about it. I guess God will have to talk to me about this feverish creative thing in me or stir it up in me. Although I'm not too terribly worried about it. But I wonder how you all would feel. Those who love my writing see my potential and what I could do if I was persistant. What if I really decided to never press it anymore. Would you be o.k. with the now of what I have become? I've decided to try and do some physical activity and focus on running...or an attempt at running. I have running shoes and an ipod. Maybe that makes it official. I just wanted to see if I could and to see how far I could get. I'm starting slowly but I like my rythem. A passing pass time for now I suppose. I love the sun. It lights me up from the inside out.

Sun

There is a rhythm in my hands. A river in my hands. Forgiveness in my hands. Words become symphonies within these reaching palms. I cannot hold the world within me and all its intricate beauty. Even sunlight whispering on grass becomes too much for me. Knowing that there are cleanslated stars anchored in a jubulint sky while walking becomes too much for me. I can only let it all wash over me in the blinking of an eye. And it leaves me longing. I can hold onto nothing. I am the grass. And it is only God who takes hold of me.

Zander's Paper Cranes

Zander's 2 small paper cranes can each fit inside the palm of my hand. They are delicate and in bright colors. One is canary yellow the other is jet blue. They sit at my desk at work reminding me every day of a small boy's heart and joy and creativity. He was so excited to give them to me and I with thoughtful care decided not to crush his wish or his prize and placed them inside my wool coat pocket. The reality is they have brought me a tender kind of happiness. Wishes and Dreams can be unfolded from your pockets.
Thinking of pockets, I used to have a small compass in my back pocket, whenever I became lost in this life I'd pull it out and listen to it. Jesus always seemed to point true north. But what if I hadn't lost it? What if I had just misplaced it on the mantle for awhile? Or left it in my other coat? The summer one not the winter one. Seasons of winter make your hands crack, your voice weak in the blustery coldness. Spring seems to be thawing me out... my hands...and... my voice. I think its time I started making paper cranes of my own.

Birthday...

I have this habit of celebrating my birthday's as if they were Christmas. I mean there is only one me and only one God who is the maker of me. Somehow I know he is celebrating and laughing and having joy and dancing and singing about this vagabond lightening child. Oh precious, precious child. I never feel that way half the time but I still know that its true. I'll go home and have dinner with friends far away, then have dinner with friends here, then my parents will visit and we'll have dinner and then my husband will take me out to dinner too. They're will be cake and phone calls and Grandmother's Birthday cards and my brother's "Hey, Happy Birthday." They're all happy somehow that I'm here able to just be me and give them me. I'm old...er today. Growing old with God, being still in love and holding on to God is a blessing more than I could have ever asked for. This year, is gonna be a year of jubilee...when you get back seven times what you lost. Propehetic and creative and peaceful and joyful seven times over and its only ever God. Best be watching out for this waterfall. I dunno how I know but I know. I dunno why but God...my good friend Jesus, closer than a brother Jesus, started talking to me last night before I was drifting off into sleep, and it was nothing but joy and goodness and blessing. I had made him happy in all my turmoil and sad and stumbling humanity and I don't really know how. I will raise my hands in the darkness, in the morning light, when the sun is rising and setting upon me. Tonight, my parents are visiting and were headed to Chicago to see all the museums, eat deep dish pizza and ride the subway. It will be terribly cold but this Birthday will be all warmth and hope and light.

Sleep

Dear God,

You taught me how to breathe. You flipped the light switch on the inside of me. And it was a brilliant stunt. You and you’re miracle magician’s son who lent us rest until the Holy Spirit had come. I want to lie down in green pastures and have your hands pass double portions of blessing over me. The good stuff the pure stuff the blessing that’s crushed and poured out in measures greater than half pints. We raise our hands in churches and sing words that say “lift us up.” My voice mingled with them only
I’m singing come rain down. Lift us up and rain down. If we cry out in earnest with any sound of suffering you said you would come. I know it’s there somewhere in your word how a prince shackled and dragged and spent, pleaded with you for his freedom and you heard him and you came to him. And you sing not love lost songs over us. I don’t hear them with my ears but I can feel the reverberations of them somehow when I’m passing untouched golden fields. I feel like my hands are eyes, my throat is golden and I’m dreaming of water so often but never drowning, never drowning by the purposes of man but being molded by the spirit of God as he bathes me with only himself as a lover’s lover. I have lost many days perhaps in this longest night. I never thought it would be this long. You went thru the longest night too in the garden counted the hours, wished your friends would have woken up. it is the way of man separated and never complete I understand them well. You help me to breathe again like it’s the very first time breathing in you. All my worries and my doubts and sin can be redeemed. My rebellion can be taken backwards and every day is a new day. My mother reminds me often Jesus is right here just on the other side of the looking glass waiting to pull us through to that other dimension. I find that you are everything that is everything and yet the soul wanders and wonders. Doubt is as faithful as faith. Two sides of the same coin it seems you can’t have one without the other here on this trodden down Eden. I’m like the father pleading for his son’s sickness to leave him God I believe but help my unbelief.