And the Wind Said

And the wind said,
Autumn is coming. It is close on my heels. Soon, I will melt the suffocating heat into fresh, dry cold. Soon, the allegory of death and rebirth will do its Dance Splendid across the stage, and it will dance to my music. For the live things will die, and shrivel, and sink, and wait for my voice. After Autumn, death.
Then I will come again and  I will breathe my breath of perfume and dogwood petals, and dry things will feel the sap of life beneath their bark. The clattering bones will turn to live and supple flowers, swaying to my song. The rebirth will begin. The continual retelling of an Old, Old Story of death and Resurrection. Autumn is the foreshadow of fulfilled prophesies, for with those souls in whom God takes pleasure, there is not death, only waiting. And a promise that something wonderful is about to happen.

As Incense Rising

Maker of my voice, content of my song,

you make me need to sing,

but when I sing I imitate

my Age and not the angels.

I wrestle for improvement, discovering

that men know little

of purity of praise;

our spectacles are smeared

with unholiness.

In my frustration I frown on

imperfections unmendable.

The birds worship better.

Still, my voice rises

the voice of the uncursed can only praise.

The father never tires of hearing  the untuned

voice of his little child;

and though I cannot rival the angels for quality,

I, the redeemed, am the mystery

even they cannot comprehend.

So, I, the imperfect, sing imperfections and am counted beautiful in my song,

as incense rising from the altar of my soul.

The Poetry of Pain

You wake up in the morning and it's there. It follows you throughout your day, a part of you that doesn't feel like you, but yet you can't shake. It embarrasses you, but you can't hide it. It lives up to its name exactly - chronic illness.

Pain wears you down. It makes you tired when you've had plenty of sleep. It blunts your intellect and makes you slow. Sometimes, it's like walking through a fog. You want people to understand why its so hard for you to get to work on time, why you don't eat everything on your plate, why your clothes never seem to fit quite right. When someone tells you how jealous they are that you can so easily lose weight your mind darts back to dragging out of bed that morning, dressing and doing your hair in between fits of sickness, of staring at your expensive dinner at a restaurant and knowing that your body just won't let you eat it, no matter how offended your host might be.

I sat down to write this post almost a month ago, but I couldn't do it. In my own heart I was still searching for answers. I was struggling hard, and I felt like I was getting nowhere. I needed something to grasp hold of to motivate me and push me forward. A light in the fog.

I began to sink into discouragement. I dealt with bad flare-ups before without so much emotional kicking and screaming, but for some reason this round was hitting me hard and I was not able to find peace in the midst of it.

Frustrated and discouraged, I described my inner struggle to my husband. He expressed sympathy and understanding, and then he gave me what I was searching for. An astonishingly simple, yet so easily overlooked truth.

"When you're struggling," he said, "meditate on the cross. Because that is how much God loves you."
It was like fingers of sunlight reaching through the clouds. It was the shout of joy and hope when the sun rises. It was the crocus pushing its head through the snow.
When you're tempted to despair, just think about the pain Jesus endured for you. Think of the overwhelming, never ending, sacrificial, death embracing, inescapable love that has chosen your pain for you. A love like that would never give you something that wasn't best for you. That wasn't for your benefit. Anticipate good. Because if you are adopted into the family of God, you are safe, and only good will come to you.

But can pain be good? Can suffering be good?

As I read through Luke recently, I came upon the familiar passage of the beatitudes. The words, almost memorized, stood out to me in their striking contrast:

"Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.

Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you shall be satisfied.

Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh.

 Blessed are you when people hate you and when they exclude you and revile you and spurn your name as evil, on account of the Son of Man!  Rejoice in that day, and leap for joy, for behold, your reward is great in heaven; for so their fathers did to the prophets."

Perhaps my idea of what blessed looks and feels like and God's idea of what blessed looks and feels like aren't always the same. Perhaps the reason I struggle, and grapple, and kick against the pricks is because I think that, because I don't feel the way I want to feel, I am not blessed. Christian, you are always blessed. As the Psalmist says in his effortless, beautiful verse, "Return, oh my soul, to your rest, for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you."

Always. The Lord has always, is always, dealing bountifully with you. You must recognize the poetry in your pain, the bitter sweet rhythm of a tender Father gathering up his child in his  arms and carrying him through the rough places. A careful potter molding a piece of clay into a beautiful and useful work of art. A shepherd guiding his sheep through dark canyons, staff in hand. Who can be nearer to God than those who must lean on him for strength, daily? Who can know God so well as those who call out to him for comfort, and get comfort? Who can understand the workings of God's gentle hand better than those who hold it? There's a sweetness, a nearness, a special relationship available to sufferers. Recognize the blessedness and you will begin to see that the poetry is a lullaby.

Musings on Modesty (From a Barely-Not-a-Teen)

Clothing. Introduced after the fall, a necessity of life, and a matter of overwhelming complexity. There is no escape from the great American clothing argument. There is no escape from the uncomfortable fact that what you wear says volumes about who you are. First impressions are formed on your outer appearance and, whether we like it or not, people make initial assumptions about your personality, taste, and status based simply on the clothing you happen have hung on your body.

As women, the clothing issue bears special depth and significance. We are wonderfully crafted, intricately designed by a God who makes no mistakes. Our bodies are special and how we choose to cover (or uncover) those bodies is one of the oldest and hottest topics in Christian circles throughout the centuries.

Titus 2 commands older women to instruct younger women to be discreet and though the word “modest” doesn’t appear in this passage, modesty and discretion go hand in hand. So, how does one counsel young women who are wondering about modesty? Why are so many Christian girls struggling so much with this issue? I am no oracle, but as a young woman barely out of my teens I hope to throw a little perspective on what does and doesn’t work in the mind of a teenage girl.

Growing up in the homeschool community, I observed a number of families use a number of approaches to regulate clothing choices in their homes and I came to the conclusion that modesty is so much more than a shopping list or a user’s manual. It’s so much more than skirts vs. pants, inches in an inseam, or the cut of a shirt. Modesty touches at the very roots of our philosophy. It is a deep and weighty topic and should be handled as such.

You can’t hand a girl a list of ‘wears’ and ‘don’t wears’ and expect her to be modest. I’ve seen plenty of skirts that brush the floor and are definitely revealing. I’ve seen plenty of shirts that cover everything but still allure. If a young woman wants to attract, she will find a way. The rule book won’t prevent it.

You also can’t motivate a young woman to dress correctly simply by telling her that if she doesn’t she might cause a brother to stumble. This is not necessarily a bad argument in and of itself, but it should land farther down on the list of approaches than it often does. Telling a young woman who is just becoming conscious of her feminine charms ‘don’t wear this or guys will notice you’ is counter-productive—unless her philosophy is right. If her philosophy is right, then you shouldn’t need to use this argument at all. It should fall into place by itself.

In order to instill modesty in a young woman, to guarantee that she will continue to dress modestly once she leaves the guidance of her parent’s home, you must instill in her two vital beliefs. You must teach them to her at home and then apply them as you browse the racks at Target. When she leaves the home she must cherish two simple truths: God’s holiness and her own self-worth.

A young woman should have a strong sense of self-respect. If she views herself as a dignified, respectable woman, she will want to dress as a dignified, respectable woman. If she understands that her body is a special gift from God meant solely for her husband and her Savior, she will desire to guard it instead of visually giving herself cheaply to every man she passes on the sidewalk. She is a precious piece of artwork. She has value. She needs to understand that discretion in her clothing choices doesn’t make her a nerd, it makes her a self-possessed, respectable woman.

Finally, the more a young woman knows God in her heart, the more she reads his word and understands his character, the more she will love him and want to please him. As a young woman grows to love and value her God and begins to understand his spotless nature, she begins to see herself less and less and her God more and more. Her desire to by sexy or alluring fades out and her desire to reflect the holiness of her God grows. No need to give her a list of ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts’ because she has rooted her sense of modesty deep within her worldview, her philosophy of life, her view of God.

As a teenager, I had three particularly wonderful pastor’s wives and a particularly wonderful and beautiful mother. All of these women, though varying greatly in style, were examples of pretty, stylish dressers who never erred in their modesty. As a growing young lady they showed me that it is possible to look nice, fashionable, and beautiful without inappropriately showing off your body.

Not everyone has such examples in their lives, so be that example to the young women around you. Be the example of beautiful modesty to the girls in your church, your younger sisters, your roommates. Don’t make modesty an easy fix list or a guilt trip, make it a part of who you are and teach them to make it a part of who they are. Only when the roots of modesty reach deep into the worldview will we see a change in dressing patterns. So don’t tell girls to dress modestly; teach them to be modest as a part of who they are—beautiful, dignified, children of the Most High. 

Country Mouse, City Mouse

This morning, when I awoke from a restless sleep, I heard a train somewhere in the distance. No birds, no rooster, no wind among the trees, but a noisy, wailing train. In the half light, I felt uprooted somehow. I felt like the country mouse visiting his city cousin, just this isn't a visit. This is to stay.
Since I last posted a lot of wonderful things have happened in my life. I got married to my very best friend, went on my honeymoon, and settled into a little tiny apartment in the middle of a not-so-tiny city. As much as I am enjoying my new life, my new name, my new home, this is not the quiet sylvan corner of nowhere I grew up in. This is a humming, thrumming, bee hive of humanity. And this country girl is just a little bit out of her element.
But God gave me a tree.
A real tree. A huge, four story tall green tree. And it's just outside my living room window. And you know what else? There's a bird's nest in it. Just outside my window. So when I sit in my living room and listen, I can hear a bird singing. I can watch a squirrel scampering through the branches. Sometimes, I can even hear the breeze in the leaves.
Because that's the kind of God I serve, the kind of God who calls a country girl to the city, but makes sure that she has a tree outside her window. Complete with a bird's nest.

How the Beautiful Groan

“For we know that the whole creation groans and travails in pain together until now.”

Last evening, the finale of a particularly warm, soft April day, my siblings and I came upon a baby squirrel, no bigger than my hand, that had been mangled by some animal. It was lying on the moss, clinging to some leaves with its tiny hands and groaning a high pitched, tiny little groan. We made a bed of moss for it in a little container and brought it inside where it could be safe from predators. My siblings watched over it with compassion and concern and my mom tried to feed it some milk and peanut butter. Its hind legs and tail were limp; I think its back was broken. When I went  to check on it later in the night, it was dead.

As I reached out to touch its velvet gray fur I felt guilty. I saw first hand the effects of sin. I realized that this innocent animal didn’t partake in the Fall, but it was affected by it.  Sin often doesn’t  impact the sinner in isolation, but the bystanders as well. And beautiful creation - God’s perfect, good, masterwork creation - literally groans; I heard it groan last night.

I wept over that suffering little squirrel, not for the animals sake – it’s just an animal without the ability to self-reflect or understand – but because I grieved over the weight and darkness of my sin. Over the pain and travail – the groaning – it causes in a world that longs to return to Eden. I ached with longing,  homesickness, for a place I was created for but have never known. A new Eden.

But, in the world of the loving God, there is always hope. Because the groaning isn’t forever, and the beautiful creation knows it, and waits. The travail is a labor pain until the restoration of Eden. My sin, however bleak, is purged. The great at-one-ment accomplished. Soon, creation’s agonized wait will be over.  The groaning will be over.

Our wait will be over.

“He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces.”

And Joy Flew In...

When I graduated with my creative writing degree in December, I deeply anticipated the freedom that comes with post-college life. I was going to have a vehicle at my disposal, I was going to get a steady job and take charge of my own finances, I was going to read whatever I wanted and write whatever I liked. No syllabi, no assignments, no deadlines. But, as is often the way with plans, most of them didn’t come to pass. Instead, I found myself, along with my family, neck deep in some extremely trying circumstances. I had no car at my disposal, no job, and not much time for reading and writing.  Most of my time is taken up with housework. How do I feel about that? Well, that is the great adventure.

At first, I took to sweeping, mopping, dish-doing, laundry, etc. with a kind of nervous energy, then a kind of bitter energy, then an altogether lack of energy. Nothing drains like a discontented spirit and my spirit was not content. I began to grow frustrated and harried. Frustrated at my family for making so many dishes (I’m not sure what I expected them to do. Perhaps eat their breakfast on a napkin), frustrated at entropy for generating mess, secretly frustrated with God for changing my plans without my consent. I knew in my heart that all this frustration sprung from a thorn of rebellion in my heart and nothing, I repeat, nothing causes sickness of the soul like rebellion in the heart. I knew that I was creating new attitude habits, the repercussions of which I would suffer from for the rest of my life unless something changed – soon. So I went in search of change and the answer I discovered was remarkably simple.

I opened my hand.

That is all. I opened my hand and embraced the work God set before me. People who don’t trust God live with their hands clasped shut, knuckles white, desperately clinging to the idea, dream, relationship that they have set up as more necessary to their happiness than their Heavenly Father. I realized that this was me. I realized that joy belongs only to the open-handed Christian. So I opened my hand – and joy flew in.

Life is challenging but life is wonderful. Even in the midst of trial, of dark valleys, joy is there. Don’t sit and tell yourself that on the other side of your shadow there will be joy. On this side of your shadow there can be joy, you just have to open your hand and let joy nestle there, in the place of the lesser thing. 

The Lovely Thing About Winter

Winter comes every year and, in most of the world, is colder than the rest of the year. Winter has a 100% rate of accuracy; it always comes and it is always cold. In recent history, winter has never forgotten to blow round and bring with it several months of low temperatures. Yet I have found, with a mixture of amusement and despair, that everywhere I go are people in denial of the regularity of winter. As soon as the leaves are off the trees, the grumbling begins. Even Christmas fails to coax some appreciation from the shivering, bundled populace. They turn their eyes down and in. Down on the dark, frozen ground and in on their chilly, aching selves. And they miss out on a season of magic.

My house is nestled in one of those wonderful, remote, sylvan places of the world mostly forgotten by mostly everyone. Except the birds. Birds everywhere. Birds in rainbow droves hopping over the snow, darting through the trees, fluffed out in their brightest winter foliage. When all the world is white and gray, have you ever noticed a cardinal bobbing and darting across a field like a red shooting star? Have you ever noticed a brilliant blue jay clinging to a tree branch like a tatter of blue flag? In winter, birds are like spatters of color on a blank canvas, more brilliant and fascinating, bringing more joy and wonder to me than they ever could in spring.  

Have you ever noticed the sky in winter? Baby blue in morning with lazy, cotton fluff clouds. Clearer than glass at night, the stars like sugar scattered on black velvet. Steely gray, dropping tiny gems of crystal and diamond. In the evening, when the sky is clear, the angle of the sun creates a certain golden light that gilds the landscape in a uniquely intense and wintery way.

And I haven’t even mentioned the music of winter wind, or the sparkle or iced trees, or the splendor of a pink sunrise on a freshly fallen snow.

Winter can be cold, and dark, and inconvenient, but it is also beautiful and majestic. If we try, if we draw our eyes up and out and look around us so that we not only see but also observe, then winter becomes more a collage of sparkle and glister than dusk and dank. Open your eyes and you will begin to discover all the lovely things about winter.

A Little New Thing

This is a new blog. It is not a platform for political rant, nor is it an online diary. It is not a vehicle for me to express my opinions on popular culture, to post a gallery of pictures, to create an artificial public image of myself. This blog is a little, new thing. A small voice of musing amidst the din of a deeply vocal culture. You will find no empty optimism here, but you will find authentic joy. I will never promote a grin-and-bear-it stoicism, but I will encourage you to feel deeply. I am not writing because I believe that my perspectives will change the world, I am more of a realist than that. I write because I love it, because I relish it, because I am an artist and the words bubble up inside me and must, must be put on paper. I write because I am an artist. My paint – words. My canvas – you. I’m just a little, new voice amid bigger, older voices with more to say, and I speak of little things. All the lovely little things of the world.