Portholes: 12/22/12

My house looks like Christmas. I'm amazed. After spending so many years moving in the winter, or being so busy that nobody has time to hang lights, or being too poor to have any lights, or being poor enough to not even have a home, Christmas at home is an alien concept. And I kinda hope it stays that way. The atmosphere is so pretty I want to cry. I don't want to lose that.


********


I think I have a case of Jack of All Trades, Master of None Syndrome. I'm smart. I'm skilled. I work hard. Those, I think, are the most essential qualities of a career person. But I'm smart enough to know too much; I'm skilled enough to excel at too many things; I work hard enough to accomplish too much. I'm also more indecisive than the average human, so facing a cornucopia of options for what to do with my life leaves me stymied. I can do anything I want, so what's the right decision? Sometimes I think it would be nice to just be good at one thing. Or to only care about one thing. I could proceed down the path, then, without hesitating a moment.

As it stands now, I feel alive when I sing, and conversely dead when I don't. At any given moment, if you asked me what I'd rather be doing, I'd probably answer singing. That is, of course, taking for granted that I'm not already. I also feel the urge to go, which I can't help but associate with a musician's life. Not to say that you can't be a musician if you stay in one place, but performing more easily melds with travel than most vocations.

I also have an English degree and a fervent love of literature that reaches beyond wanting to read books. I feel uniquely compelled to encourage others in their creation of literature. While I do like crafting on my own, editing is by far one of my favorite things to do. It's a joy to help others reach in themselves and pull out a work of beauty. I've also taken up the cause of defending the gift of story. Too few people appreciate it for what it is. For many, story gets left in children's books and trashy romance novels people use to distract themselves from a life they don't like. To call that a tragedy only begins to describe the bleakness of such neglect and abuse. Story fuels imagination. It enriches life. It teaches people how to live; or rather, it teaches people to live. When I read a story, I don't proceed from the ending resolving to model my life precisely after what I just read, but I do feel encouraged to move on from there living. When I go for a time without a story passing through my mind, lethargy begins to seep through my body and will. Life overwhelms and I become too weary to live. I need stories of life, in all of its beauty and depravity, to inspire me to live the one I have.

And then I wander into the kitchen and find extreme fulfillment in making a cookie. Or a pie. Or tomato sauce. Or macaroni and cheese. Anything really, although I am partial to foods with flour. It's easy to get lost in the blending of ingredients for a whole day and not even care to eat anything. Physical indulgence is not the end of food-making for me. Just making it is the point. I'm too practical to let it waste, though, so I do appreciate when other people eat it. It's a reward to take part in sustaining life of individuals.

Running through all of these things is a love for people. In a vacuum, everything I enjoy would still be a joy, but a much diminished joy. I want what I do to be good for someone.

The possibilities are limitless, therefore I ask myself again, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"


********


God's up to something. I can feel it in my bones. I don't know what it is, but I see evidence of it. Peace is flourishing in my spirit like never before. My family is experiencing unprecedented prosperity in the areas that matter; our relationships continue to strengthen; faith and contentment is multiplying; and most telling, we, collectively, started dreaming again. We've always been the kind to sit around and talk about all the grand things that might happen, encouraging other to keep moving forward in the face of adversity and discouragement, but life can be overwhelming. It recently became oppressively so, and the imagination of our household languished. At times it's been a struggle to be human. So I recently almost cried when my parents started dreaming up plans for what they might want to do with their future. For too long "future" hasn't extended far beyond making it through the next five minutes. The words "What if we..." are as invigorating as water after a long desert. Something's stirring in the wind, and I'm excited to see what it is.

Looking for the lilies.

My hopes for this site are always so high. I'm holding onto them, for if I don't, there's no chance for fulfillment. But in the meantime, this remains a place for me to indulge in sharing my stories.

********

"Girl, that's what you've been doing, you've been dying. I'm gonna buy you some lilies to put on your grave, I think you're almost there."

I've been ruminating over death. Excuse me for sounding like Moaning Myrtle. I don't mean to, but these things happen.

Death was once a subject I avoided as much as I could. When I let my thoughts get close to it, it kept me up at night, and even clouded my emotions in the presence of daylight. In all transparency, it was also one of the biggest reasons I sought out Jesus. I heard very young that people died. All people died. Which meant that I, a person, was going to die too. That was frightening. I also heard that asking Jesus to "come into your heart" would save you from hell and eternal death, and allow you to live forever in heaven with God. I wasn't sure how it worked, but I wanted that. Unable to bear the thought of dying, at the tender age of four I asked Jesus to come in and save me. That's all being a Christian was to me then: not dying. And as much security as I found in my position with Jesus, anxiety still plagued me to the point that I asked Jesus to come into my heart several times over, just in case.

When I made this big life choice at the age of four, I was too young and ignorant to see the irony in my motivations leading me to the particular action I found myself taking. I hadn't read much of the New Testament yet, so I hadn't come across "you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God," or "those who want to save their life will lose it." When I did become aware of them, I was more than a little unsettled. I didn't lose my faith, but I wasn't sure what to make of all that. Dying was still terrifying, now suddenly I found out I had to die. There was no way of getting around it.

So I left that alone for a while and tried to ignore it. I don't want to advocate that passivity and neglect is the best way to deal with all problems, but in this case I do think it was what was needed. I wasn't prepared for such understanding, so it was best to leave it alone. When I was ready, it was right there waiting for me.

I've only recently been ready, sometime in the past year and a half.

The longer I live the less materialistic I am becoming. Moving will do that to you. Poverty will do that to you. Being jobless and forced out of your home will do that to you. Since I moved into this house, I've been reevaluating my relationship with the physical world, and I'm finding more and more that I'm not very attached to it. I never thought I'd say it, but that goes for my own body too. I'm not looking to actively get rid of it. On the contrary, since I've started letting go of myself, I've started taking better care of myself. But I know the day of my body's demise is coming and I dread it less every day.

This turn away from physical matters has led me to spiritual ones, so now when I read "those who want to save their life will lose it," I think about it in the latter context. This is a good thing, because that's as it was intended. I'm no longer distracted from the point by fear.

And I think coming to this has been the point of the last year and a half of my life. I've been dying. Not physically, but in ways more mysterious than that. I graduated, so the student in me died. As grateful as I was to no longer be beholden to an educational system, I had been her for 18 years. Loss is never easy. My ambition was to replace her with a new identity as a worker for financial gain, but instead I lost even more than I bargained for. I lost the use of my car. I lost my Internet connection. I lost my phone. I lost my computer. I lost my home. I lost my independence. With these things came the loss of ability to go anywhere, the loss of ability to make money at home, the loss of discovering new music and listening to any music at all, the loss of having the ability to learn anything I wanted to at my fingertips, the loss of the most stability I had ever known, the loss of interacting with family and friends.  And just when I thought I couldn't lose anything else, I lost my voice. I lost almost everything I treasured and with which I had aligned myself. I was isolated with no inspiration. That lack of inspiration was the key to my sorrow. Being alone in itself doesn't make an introvert like me sad. But my creativity died. My imagination became dim. My will to drink deeply of life to its dregs disappeared. I lost myself, and then I was truly alone. I had never really known what it was like to so longingly want company before.

Jesus was it at that point. I didn't have anything else. I've been without most things at one time or another the majority of my life, but I've never been without myself.

Spending so much undivided time with God himself helped me get to know him better, and my fondness for him has grown in ways I never would have imagined. I mean that with all sincerity. It's overwhelming sometimes.

Therefore, my breath caught one day when I read this:

"So if you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth, for you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ who is your life is revealed, then you also will be revealed with him in glory." (Colossians 3:1-4, emphasis mine)

So I'm losing my life to find Jesus, and then he's giving it to me better than it was before, because it comes from him, and he is true goodness. Wow.

In this light, death has become a great source of beauty. I don't hear the word and panic anymore. I actually often get an odd sort of comfort from it. Just yesterday a friend started talking about this very subject, and at the mention of dying I started crying for sheer joy. I know what that's like now, how painful it can be, and what wonderful things can come from it.

My epigram came from a brief bit of a conversation I heard someone having with my mother in recent weeks. While both intended for and relevant to her, when I heard it I felt like they were words for me as well. I'm eager to see those lilies. They're a lot prettier than the fear I've been dragging around.

I leave you with a song.

Because even I can find it difficult to keep quiet...

There are innumerable things I don't talk about much, if ever. This is one of them. Thus I can tell you with a sizable bit of confidence that you shouldn't expect to see a string of posts from me on this subject.

Also, the timing of this post has not been overlooked in either the writing or publishing. As separated from this subject as I do try to be, I'm not quite that willfully ignorant.

********

I dance near the edge of being un-American. So closely, in fact, I probably wouldn't argue with you if you said my steps, even the most practiced and calculated of them, crossed the line more often than I realize.

Had I been born in, say, Ecuador this wouldn't be too noteworthy. I haven't ever met anyone from Ecuador, but I'm supposing it wouldn't be a surprise for an Ecuadorian, or anyone else not born in the fifty states, to prize their own country over a foreign one. But, alas, I wasn't. I was born smack dab in the middle of Arkansas, about as home grown as one can be, and to this day have not even left the country for travel. A small, shallow spot in the Gulf of Mexico is the most exoticism my short, sheltered life has seen.

One thing I do prize about my country is I have the right to not like it. I can post this confession for the world to see and still be just as American as the stars and stripes flying atop the White House. (But don't expect me to start flying any stars and stripes atop my own house.) It seems odd to cherish this, yes, but the right to be discontent and dissatisfied publicly is one I don't take for granted. I'm like a self-aware Ebenezer Scrooge. An American self-aware Ebenezer Scrooge.

What is there to be discontent about? Waste. Entitlement. Selfishness. Blinding nationalism. I heard this phrase spoken recently in reference to my homeland, "We are the hope of the world," and I wanted to react. I'm not sure how I wanted to react, because I'm not the reactionary type, but I sure felt like doing something. Shout, maybe? Turn the TV off in huffy offense? Pace the floor? I'm pretty sure I did roll my eyes, and for me that's something. You know I'm seriously perturbed when I roll my eyes.

After working through the initial emotion I experience when encountering these things, I do begin to wonder if, in my worldly ignorance, I don't see them as prevalent in other parts of the world even though they may be there, and my ethnocentric worldview has only been convinced that Americans are particularly susceptible to such offending attitudes and behaviors more so than the rest of our planetary neighbors. Maybe Ecuadorians throw things away just as much as we do. I don't know. My only reference is what I hear from people who know what it's like in other parts of the world. Thus I can't speak from my own experience, and therefore try to be careful when making judgments. The impression I get, though, does not reflect well on my country.

As I mentioned above, I do pay attention to what others have to say of what they know about the rest of the world, and in doing so try to imagine myself living in other places and cultures. What would that look like? How is any given culture different than my own? Most importantly, I wonder how I would feel living in a different place, with a different people group, under a different government, with a different worldview. Through all my wonderings, I'm formulating an interesting conclusion.

Due to my own worldview, I doubt I would be content in any country or with any government. Not any that exists on this planet.

To an American mind, it seems obvious why I have fundamental issues with dictatorship, or monarchy. Placing all the power in one person's hands is never a good idea. Foul moods, selfishness, ignorance, any number of things can lead a person to make bad decisions, and it's scary to think that the well-being of a whole group of people could be upheld or destroyed by one all-powerful (human) leader.

But bad decisions are not limited to individuals. There is no magic that grants a group infallible wisdom, or the infallible ability to heed infallible wisdom when they come across it. It's for these reasons I'm not really keen on democracy either. This is where the United States of America, the "government of the people, by the people, for the people," and I part ways. In my experience, the people don't know what they're talking about. I don't even know what I'm talking about, except for this, the conviction that we're all inept. That I do know, and believe.

It's this conviction that makes it hard for me to get involved with government and politics. I genuinely can't do it. Call me a fatalist if you will, but I believe so strongly that none of us will ever get it right that my conscience won't let me. I don't talk politics with my friends. I don't follow the latest news from the campaign trail. I haven't even ever voted for anything, and unless my convictions change it doesn't seem likely that I ever will.

I believe that infallible wisdom is only found in God. In deciding how to live my life, he's the source to which I look. I can't make everybody do that, though. God doesn't even make everybody do that. Therefore, our human governments can't dictate that God be considered when decisions are made. But when we don't chaos follows accordingly.

For those familiar with biblical history, you may remember God warned his people, the nation of Israel, that would happen to them. In case you need a refresher, or your biblical history knowledge is lacking on the whole, they didn't believe it. They begged to be given a human king. Other peoples had kings, and the last thing Israel wanted was to be left out. As a nation, they wanted to be taken seriously as a peer to the rest of the world, so when God told them he was the only king they needed, they rejected the idea. God gave them a king, then, and they quickly fell into ruin. The first three kings left sordid stories behind them, and by the time the fourth one came around, the nation split into two. If God's own chosen can't fare any better than that, it doesn't look good for the rest of us.

I guess, then, I'm not purely un-American. Un-Earthly is a better description. If any person presumes to make decisions for a people, whether they be autonomous in their decision-making or working with others, and they do it apart from God, I can't jump in and participate.

The reality which can't be overlooked, though, is that I am living on the earth under earthly rule. As long as I'm here I can't escape it. And I think out of all the nationalities available, being an American isn't so bad. It's great, actually. I'm safer here than I would be in many places around the world. I have opportunities that wouldn't be as readily available elsewhere. I also don't have people threatening to break down my door, or worse, because I follow and talk about Jesus. For all these things and more I am grateful. I could have been born anywhere, but I was born here, in privilege and blessing. Glory to God.

So I follow the rules, like a good citizen. And I don't grumble about taxes. One thing I feel I need to make clear is even though I am a discontent citizen, that does not mean I am a rebellious one. I seek to neither defy nor overturn any governments, least of all my own, and although I do not feel released to continually assert my voice in how the government should be run, I do not project my convictions on anyone else. To the contrary, I think it's important for people like me who value God's direction and still feel freedom to exercise their rights in full to do so. By all means, vote. Run for public office. Become president. I do not mean to suggest in anything I have written that all people who care anything about God should pull out of government and politics. Like every messy thing in life, governance requires grace. I have not been given the grace for such things. If you have, live in that grace. I have been given grace to do other things that I notice are not common in all people, so it's those things in which I strive and hope to live wholeheartedly, and it's also those things which I am not surprised to find people avoiding like their lives are dependent on it. In a way they are.

I'm sure it goes without saying, but I have not voted early for the impending presidential election like so many have, nor will I be queuing up in front of a polling booth on Tuesday. (Side note: in the six years I've been eligible, I have never registered to vote. As an almost chronic gypsy, having these particular convictions has been convenient; no registration transferring!) Whoever wins the election, I wish them the best. And I pray for it, too. I wouldn't wish the job of American President on my enemy. That's probably because my lack of grace in that area has rendered me unable to imagine how anyone could bear up under it. I sincerely hope the guy who wins over the Electoral College on Tuesday can.

Timshel.

What's this? A new post from Emily two days (nights) in a row?


I hear Mumford & Sons has put out a new album. Aside from the first single from said album, which I hear frequently on the radio, I haven't heard it. But I have listened to their last album, Sigh No More, more times than I care to attempt to calculate. (Good thing it's not titled, Listen No More.) So I'm definitely a fan of what they do, even though I have yet to board the Babel bandwagon.

It's funny, though, how many times you can listen to a song and not understand what it means.

It's also funny how two occurrences that look different on the surface can coincide like they were meant to be.

I was just thinking more about life again, and realizing afresh the close correlation between the increase in my faith, and the increase in things like joy and contentment, and even provision. As the former has grown, so too have each of the latter, and then some. Faith has become the proverbial gift that keeps on giving.

Almost immediately after, my thoughts turned to Mumford & Sons' song "Timshel." I began to sing it. "Cold is the water..."

Through the first verse chorus cycle. Then through the second. And then I came to this, and my eyes widened as it sank deep...

"And I will tell the night
And whisper, "Lose your sight"
But I can't move the mountains for you"

I've heard, and can testify, that walking blindly in faith is the better way to live. I've also heard that a minuscule bit of faith is enough to move a mountain. It doesn't take much, but the mountain won't move unless you believe it will.

It's such a joy when what I see and hear, especially when what I'm seeing and hearing is beautiful art, affirms what I know to be true, especially recent revelations of truth.

Nonsense is best.

The gap between my last post and this one is a few weeks longer than I intended. I'm only okay with that because there's a good reason for it.

To get to that, allow me to jump over to and back down someone else's path. Early this year my mom and I paid a visit to our dear friend Amanda who has cut our hair for the past few years. If I wasn't so attached to the crazy dark brown stuff growing on top of my head, I would have made an appointment with her every week just so I could see her. She's that wonderful of a person. Almost immediately after my mom and I made it to the aforementioned appointment, Amanda began catching us up on the happenings of her life, and what she told us was radical. She and her husband had divorced, she moved to a town an hour away, and she had decided to quit her job and start cleaning houses. The one thing she said that has stuck with me most these many months since is, "I've been shocking people all over the place."

I knew she and her husband had their share of struggle, but it always seemed to me that they would fight through it, whatever happened. I think other people had the same impression. She was also extremely connected to her family and her community. Half the people that walked into the salon had either known her her whole life, or had been known by her their whole life. I doubt anyone expected she would ever move away. And if that wasn't dramatic enough, she was dead set on changing vocation. I know she didn't make a killing cutting, coloring, and styling hair, but going from that to cleaning houses almost seemed like a downgrade.

But all that is why what she did was so great, and why I was excited for her. She needed dramatic change and wasn't letting what anyone thought about it stop her from doing what was best for her. The only opinion she cared about was God's, and she was willing to follow him even when it didn't make sense.

My life doesn't make sense. To anyone. Not even me. But I'm living it. And I'm more content and full of joy than I've ever been.

Which brings me back to writing. I've been so busy living that I haven't gotten back around to my blog as quickly as I thought I would after getting this computer. But, Lord willing, I'll wake up to another day tomorrow, then another one after that, and another, and my story won't be over for a long time to come, giving me lots of second chances.

I leave you with a song I only recently began to comprehend. I hope you can experience this at least once in your lifetime.

Knocking down cobwebs.

Does anybody even read this thing anymore?

Well, obviously, there hasn't been much available to read lately, so I'm not expecting that anyone has been reading the past few months. But this post. Right here. Is anyone even paying attention enough to see it?

Look at this, before I've even begun, I'm already digressing. The point I'm wanting to make known in this post is that I am once again the proud owner of a computer. I have many hopes for my reacquaintance with technology, one of them being a return to blogging. Thus the wondering about the continued existence of an audience.

And that's all I have to say right now. I won't be captivating many minds with this bit of brilliance, but here's to the future.

24-year-old single female seeks the voice of experience.

I need some perspective.

Most of the people I know and know of seem to think a stable home is vitally important for a family. When I use the word stable in this context, I mean it in a physical sense. We could discuss emotional stability, mental stability, spiritual stability, etc., but my thoughts are currently turned to a more tangible sphere.

Back to the point, a lot of people seem to place high value on physical stability, particularly when talking about families, and my present question is "Why?." I don't disagree with them, but I also can't say that I agree completely.

Maybe my childhood is to blame for my wondering. It certainly is for my wandering. The longest I've lived anywhere is approximately 3.5 years, and that seemed like an eternity to me. My average is markedly shorter. Not only that, I've traveled most of my life almost like it was my job. It's not been quite that extreme, and some seasons are more full than others, but for someone who doesn't get paid to bop around the landscape, I've done it remarkably a lot.

As the person I am now typing this, I don't regret my life at all. I do wonder from time to time what staying in one place would be like, but never do I regret or feel mistreated. When I was younger, the nigh constant flux was a lot for me to handle; so much that it caused a lot of tears. Perhaps that's why people bestow such importance on staying in one place: to save their children from distress. I understand that. Well, I understand that as best as I can from my non-parent perspective. And if I may be so bold as to also speak this from that perspective, as much sympathy as I have for that position, I suspect too many parents are overprotective.

"No!" I hear you say. "That can't be! Don't insult my quality as a parent!" you admonish. "It sounds like your parents weren't protective enough." Maybe. I won't say there's no room for you to be right. But, although I can't claim to know all of their thoughts, I'm willing to bet I know my parents better than you do, and I wouldn't call them neglectful at all. I know the moving our family has done for the past quarter-century was not at the core of what they believed was important for us, especially not in my mom's heart. My dad didn't specifically want it anymore than she did, but he handled it better. Both of them wanted their own home where they could be together, build their life, raise their kids, and give each of us a platform from which to launch out to develop our own lives. That sounds nice, doesn't it? But life...God...dictated differently, and they were willing...forced...to go along and try to make the best of it. I think they've done an admirable job. Had they organized their and our lives as they wanted, we wouldn't have left the region where I was born. Even though it was difficult for me initially, speaking now as a 24-year-old product of physical instability, I'm grateful they didn't insist on having...weren't allowed to have...their way.

Is this an odd perspective to have? Or more accurately, is this appropriate? Acceptable? I guess the more pressing question (to my mind) is are we...am I...just an anomaly? I think I've fared rather well with a transient life, and I presume others would do the same given the opportunity, but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe most people would curl into a ball, either physical or metaphorical, and become bitter and mad at the world. I don't know.

What makes me wonder about this are speculations on my future, which now seems so near and simultaneously so far, and time spent with people at stations of life I have yet to reach. When I hear them speak I wonder if they know something I don't. In fact, I assume they know something I don't. I want to believe there are things I don't understand and can't until I reach the same side of the bridge. I can't help but think, though, and want to give my experience as much credit as I possibly can.

When I combine the full credit of that experience with the voices of my inward leanings, I get a message that says, "Looks like settling down's not for you." Maybe partially settling down would be okay, but planting my feet as two deep-reaching roots would be a stretch. My wondering then becomes, what does that do for my chances of having a family, or more specifically a healthy family?

Thus we are back to where I began. I seek to understand why so I can make better decisions. Or at least informed decisions. I can see myself living in the same place, maybe actually more the same general area, for a long period of years, but not spending all day, every day there for large chunks of time, and certainly not owning the space in which I live. I know. I'm weird. Who doesn't want their own house? Particularly what woman doesn't want her own house? Me, apparently. What I want to know is can I be this brand of weird and not destroy my family? And can I drag my kids out all over creation as I'm out doing whatever it is I'm doing while not at home without devastating them? Or will I have to leave them frequently for short periods of time and will that frequent absence be more harm than it's worth? Will meeting a man be the beginning of my staying in one place? Will my inevitable choice be transience or family?

And then there's the question that could trump them all: as my life progresses, will I change so much that all these wonderings won't matter anymore, won't even be relevant anymore?

The many things I say when I don't know what to say.

A brief note that I tell myself is for others out there in cyber world, but is in reality probably just for myself as there aren't nearly as many people out there in cyber world who care about this as I tend to think:

More frequently than I would have liked had I a choice, there have been many occasions in recent years where I have been unplugged for a prolonged period of time. Unplugged from the Internet, that is.

Even though I wouldn't have chosen it, however, as it's happening, it hasn't been so bad. In case you didn't know that life can still continue without the Internet, I am here to testify that it can. I do miss things, but as the Beatles say, life does indeed go on. I move on. And it really is okay.

The biggest trouble I have with unplugging is plugging back in. It's like I have to start over every time I go through this cycle. My email gets piled to the sky. All the blogs I follow collect stacks of unread posts - posts I want to read, but which take up a big chunk of time as most everyone I subscribe to seems to be as verbose as I am. And then I want to jump back in and blog again, but I don't know where to start. When I know I'm unplugged, I lose the blogging frame of mind, and the regaining of it does not happen in the snap of a finger.

Those are just a few examples. I could give more, but I won't, lest my many words lose their value. My point has been made, and I am currently facing that point and trying to get plugged back in now that my grandma is well enough to not need a live-in caretaker.

So my stack of email is dwindling. I'm starting to check up on some of my Facebook friends again. But I feel half-hearted in all of it. I want to do it. But it's so much trouble. And if the pattern continues, it won't be long before I'm unplugged again and all of my efforts will seem just about pointless.

Why is that relevant enough for me to be talking about in this context? I want to get back to posting substance on this site more regularly, but then again I don't. Or, more accurately, I haven't convinced myself yet that it's worth the trouble in light of everything else that I'm trying to catch up on. I think I'll get there, but it's going to take a while. But then when I consider that it'll take a while, then I also consider that by the time the while passes, I may be knocked back down to the starting point again, facing another while before I get on my feet.

That, my friends, is what is on my mind. I intended about two paragraphs when I started. I guess that's what happens when I forget my propensity for verbosity.

Meeting myself.

I was just perusing my Pinterest boards outside myself. My thoughts:

- This chick's kinda all over the place. She seems like a mom one second and then the next I'd swear she's not old enough to even understand HOW to have kids. Babies having babies so to speak.

- There are also hints that she's formally educated, and then I see Atari coasters....

- And does she really want to live in a house that looks like one Mr. Magorium built?

- She must live in her head most of the time, this one.

- I'd hate to see her dropped in the middle of a fashion show.

- She seems to have lead a really interesting life thus far. I mean, how else could she be this weird? It's kind of impressive.

- We should be friends.

Lacking substance.

I've had many blog ideas hopping around in my head.

I really want to blog.

But I can't.

Well, obviously I can. I'm doing this now.

What I mean is that I can't blog anything that takes longer than a few minutes to write.

You see, here at my grandma's house, I'm having to use my little brother's quite old laptop. The battery on it lasts about an hour. When it's plugged in, it has to be sitting on a flat, stable surface.

While running on battery power, I can get in a cozy spot, curl my legs underneath me, and get in my favorite blogging posture. While it's plugged in, I have to sit at the kitchen table, in a straight chair, feeling completely uninspired.

Also, I can't sit at the kitchen table in the middle of the night, which happens to be my blogging hour of choice.

So until I can learn to write something of substance in under an hour, as long as I'm here hanging out with my recuperating grandmother, I don't see myself blogging anything but this.

Sad days are upon us. Us meaning me.

The fervent prayer of a righteous woman.

Once upon a Sunday morning, one not so long ago, I was sitting in a church service, soaking in truth with a smile on my face, feeling uplifted to such a height I could have sworn there were clouds within my reach.

Then a memory like a pin came in and jabbed a small hole in my balloon. I slowly lost altitude.

For much of the past eight months, I have felt like I've been living in a moment that is perpetually seriously wrong.

"God, why? This is driving me crazy. This is ridiculous. Do you not see how ridiculous this is? I am an untapped well whose resources are not being taken advantage of. What is there to be gained from me being completely helpless? Did I just take five years to get through college and gain a degree so that I could move on to keeping my house clean, hanging drywall with my dad, and serving as a non-paid taxi driver? What's going on? I don't get it."

That's just a small snapshot of my end of the dialogue I was having with God. There were moments that were less bewildered and self-imposing and more encouraging, but in general I spent most of my time feeling defensive, believing, subconsciously I think, that to stop fighting would mean admitting defeat, which was unacceptable.

I did eventually begin to get over myself, though. It was a remarkable work of grace. And I began to see how nothing was wrong, how suffering isn't always punishment, but - more often than not, perhaps - an opportunity for better; a grace is its own right. We'll leave that there until another blog on another day, and say nothing more on the subject beyond this frame of mind is the one I had on that high-flying Sunday morning. Another one of the reasons I was feeling so much lighter than air.

We now return to the prickly memory. I don't remember what anyone was saying at the time to trigger my specific remembering. All I recall is that my specific remembering was of a time several years ago. I came to a point in my existence where I was feeling particularly discontented by how content I was to be comfortable. When I get comfortable, I get stagnant. I don't grow. I don't contribute much to the world. I don't do anything to enrich another person's life, because I'm not doing anything to enrich my own. I only drain life, I don't give it.

I was so unsatisfied by settling for comfortable contentment, that I remember writing these words to God: "Lord, don't let me get comfortable." And for a time after that, as I would think-talk to God, I would repeat those words, "Please, don't let me get comfortable." I repeated them often, and fervently.

Vividly flashed the memory. Sharp became the realization: I begged God to disallow my comfort, then what did I do when my comfort was undermined? I felt like a victim. I fought against defeat.

Oh. Yeah. That's right. I did say that, didn't I?

It's a good thing I'm not condemned. My balloon did deflate a little, but I very quickly felt that much more a victim of grace than I had before. God honored my prayer, even when I didn't understand the gravity of what I had prayed or that I had prayed it at all. He's not letting me settle for less than the fullness that is available to me.

Thank you, thank you, Jesus.

On Lent.

I didn't learn much of anything about Lent until I was grown. Before that, I only heard the word a few times and all I knew of it was that it was somehow associated with Easter. I was born into the religious circle of General Baptists. General Baptists don't talk about Lent. General Baptists talk about believing in Jesus and getting your hands dirty; the school of love God and work hard. My heritage is a practical one, and the idea of sacrificing something for 40 days and giving extra care to prayer and penance was too complicated for my doctrinal forefathers. Baptists of all types, whether "General," "Primitive," "Independent," "Southern," "Missionary" or any other name you can imagine, are "the plain people." The only exposure I had as a child to all things liturgical, aside from the days of Christmas and Easter themselves, came through my father's father and the Methodist church. He was a United Methodist minister when I was growing up, and we would occasionally visit whichever United Methodist church he happened to be pastoring at the time. While in that religious sphere, I would sometimes hear words like "Lent" and "Ash Wednesday" and "Advent," but as my stay never lasted long, my understanding of such matters remained shallow.

I still am largely uneducated in Lenten matters (just last year, while I was still a student, I saw a girl walking around campus with a smudge on her forehead. I let my initial confusion pass, but after I saw another girl, I thought, "What is going on?" Only then did I remember it was Ash Wednesday.), but after learning what little I do know, I've found the tradition interesting, and I've thought about participating.

But my want of education, in both senses of the word, is at once my first and second hesitation. My first hesitation is that I feel I lack the knowledge to, in a sense, have the right to participate. I felt the same way about Communion (or the Lord's Supper, Eucharist, whichever is your term of choice) when I was a child. I have known about Jesus my whole life, and I gave that life to him when I was four years old, but I didn't understand the whole thing with the bread and wine (or juice in the cases of every church I've ever attended) at such an early age. I heard "Do this in remembrance of me" over and over again, and watched all kinds of people nibble either bread or crackers and drink tiny shots of grape juice from these nifty fluted cups, and felt like I should do it too, but I didn't get the context surrounding it or understand the depth of its meaning. So one Sunday morning, while walking with my aunt through the procession at the front of my grandpa's church, when my father's sister looked down at my short frame and offered me a piece of bread I shook my head from side to side. I didn't understand it, so I didn't want it. Even though I adore freshly baked bread and grape juice more than most other things on this planet.

My second hesitation is this: clearly, Lent is currently nothing more than an intellectual curiosity for me. The essence of my interest is contained in my desire to know, not in a desire to be affected by it. If all I want to do is pull it apart and examine it so that I can store knowledge and experience in my brain....is that the right posture to have when approaching Lent? I think I too often engage the world solely with my brain and not with my heart, and that detached intellectualism has a way of stripping beauty, truth, good things, of their meaning. In my zeal to learn about the flower, I pluck it from its roots, and pretty soon the life that attracted me to it is gone and I'm cradling a broken, dead, decaying configuration of atoms; not a flower. I don't want to kill Lent.

But maybe that's just how I roll and I need to embrace it. I think most of the time I need to see the flower die before I can appreciate what it means. Then, through the sacrifice of that one flower, I can go on to find other flowers and be fulfilled by only gazing at them and breathing in their scent, not tearing them apart with my fingers. Maybe I could jump into Lent with no more knowledge of it than I now have, and being around it, looking at it, hearing it, smelling it, would allow me to experience how meaningful it is. But more than likely, it wouldn't. More than likely, I'll have to make it die, to pull it apart into myriad facts, ideas, and theologies before I can find its essence, the essence that I have ripped away.

And for all my debating on both sides of the fence, maybe that's actually not such a bad way to operate. I seem to remember some guy saying that it's only in losing my life that I can find it.

As Lent is already upon us in Christendom this year, maybe this season can begin my education. And maybe before the next one rolls around, I will have thoroughly ravaged it enough to put it back together and finally have it mean something to me.

My misfit children.

In an effort to capture as many thoughts as I can, I write down things on a regular basis. If I have a specific plan for them, they could end up any number of purposeful places. My order-loving left brain won a battle with my erratic right brain a while ago, and it's winner's demands were that I categorize the colorful array that dances through my head and designate separate depositories for every category. With a minimum of eight notebooks/journals, it has worked well, and my right brain has complied. But the ease of submission has been helped by the fact that His Orderly Majesty was merciful, and did allow me to have one place that could be a catch-all for everything that refused to fit in a category.

That notebook has become one of my favorites. Its contents are all of the things that I don't know what to do with, but don't want to lose. As a misfit that has found a place with other misfits and has been cherished enough to not be left for lost, that notebook resides in an empathetic place in my heart.

So, like a proud mother, I present to you now a sample of what's in the quirky pages of my beloved. Why? Because that's what mothers do. Much of it is self-explanatory, but if you're reading these thoughts, and they don't make sense, don't panic. I'm aware that the chatter that happens in my head on a regular basis would likely be unintelligible to most if it was audible, and by writing it, I'm essentially making it audible. If anything you read below peaks your interest, and you want to understand more about it, just let me know and I will be happy to let you in on the joke. Or at least try to let you in. As with all jokes, some people just "get it" and others don't. (If you're reading this, that likely means you're my friend, and as my friend, that means you're probably cool (read "nerdy," "dorky," "geeky," or any other delightfully similar adjective) enough to "get it.")



"I appreciate having online conversations with people who don't take me seriously."

"My great aunt and uncle died last year and left us Febreeze."

"My mom and I are both eating close-to-midnight sandwiches. Mother-daughter bonding. But that looks like a weak bond. Maybe I should write it mother=daughter bonding."

"I've taken to sleeping with an array of books again. I'm taking that as evidence that my heart is alive."

"I appreciate living in a place where I can hear trains on a regular basis. There's a loneliness in the whistle that captures my sympathy whenever I hear it. But the train is also a reminder of other life being lived out in the world. Travel. Interaction. Non-loneliness. There's more and I long for more."

"Feminine clocks...clocks with fur coats..."

"It's weird/interesting knowing that I live in a house where druggies have been in before. Makes my life seem more interesting that it actually is."

"I'm grateful for friends who inspire the use of genuine exclamation points."

"I look like I'm wearing someone else's clothes. Someone else's larger clothes. If this shrinking keeps up, I won't be able to wear half the stuff in my closet."

"Fear me and my words of might!"

"1 Chronicles 1:10 reads, 'Cush became the father of Nimrod; he was the first to be a mighty one on the earth.'"

"What other people got from the Grammys: 'So-and-so won this many awards, Yay!'; 'What the heck was that?'; 'Is she for real?'; 'Oh, Whitney. We'll miss you, darling.' What I got from the Grammys: 'Milton Babbit died? Really?'"

"Due to a lack of vengeance, apparently I'm a disappointment."

"Often times, the best moments come unexpectedly. I hope I'm always ready to accept them and make the most of them while they're around."

"Editors are nasty? I suppose. Gentle editor, am I."

I also have a number of lists in the notebook, including but not limited to: "Things I Intend to Do When I Live Alone," "Disney Songs," "Emily's Favorite Things," "Songs for My Blog," "Harry Potter Discussion Topics for a Podcast," and "Skills I Have Which I Don't Want to Turn into a Full-Time Job."



Thank you, reader, for allowing me to be so self-indulgent.

On free toothpaste, washing dishes, and overcoming responsibility.

Every time I shrink away from writing a "this is what I did today" post, one of the things I tell myself is that the only people who follow this thing are my friends. If we were looking at each other face-to-face, I would tell any one of my friends everything that I feel compelled to write about what I've done, so in reality, such a post is all good, yes? Yes. So, although I don't want this site to decay into nothing more than a depository of Emily Lynn Harmon's current events (...and now, there she goes to the mailbox...), for this friendly reason and for another I will soon explain, I will now talk about a few things that recently happened in my life.


This week, it has been a challenge to engage my right brain. I've wanted to write more, and not just more but better, but that hasn't happened. So here I am writing something just for the sake of writing something.

Every day this week, I have awakened and soon devoted my thoughts to cookies. "Today, before this day is over, I'm going to make some," I've told myself. Then, I get started on the things I "need" to do and/or following through with plans that I've made. If you're intimately familiar with the state my surroundings, you'll know that "things I need to do" truly means the "things I can't possibly put off or my world will feel like it's tumbling out of control." My life isn't that organized and perfect. It's more like a regular battle against chaos. One of those things that I've "needed" to do, something that directly relates to the cookies, is clean the kitchen. We don't have much room in the kitchen to begin with, but when dirty dishes are added, the surface space fades to nary a square foot. With no dish washer and no hot water in the pipes, washing dishes, for five people no less, is a bit of a challenge. But it's a challenge I didn't want to leave undone before I made cookies. I can function with messes in certain situations, but in a kitchen, especially a cramped one, I find it to be nearly mentally and emotionally impossible to overcome.

Thus, several days this week, I have valiantly begun attacking the kitchen mess, aiming to finish quickly so that the cookie-baking can begin.

I still haven't done it. Those dishes never disappear. It looks like I'll have to get over my kitchen-mess-ophobia if I ever want to make cookies. That, or the Harmon house will likely be homemade cookie-less until we get either hot water or a dishwasher.

I've also been continuing my efforts to shop wisely and thriftily. Every store ad that comes in this house gets scoped out for the best deals, and I diligently search through my coupon depository to find coupons for sale items. When something's on sale and you have a coupon for it, chances are it can be obtained for a pretty low price.

My mom and I went to two drugstores today. While I don't know the exact numbers, I do know that we saved over 50% on everything we bought. The thing I'm most excited about is that we made $2 on some Vitamin D. No joke. We also managed to pick up some free toothpaste. And tomorrow, I believe we are going to acquire a free light bulb. I'm kind of a rookie at this bargain hunting thing, but it seems to be working out pretty well.

As cool as all that is, I'm fighting a battle that all people incur, creative types especially, I think; how should I balance my priorities? The typical responsibilities never leave, and while I am in the middle of a glorious opportunity to learn to not be so duty-bound by them, I have not yet become so untrained that I no longer care about them. I do care about them. Tending to them does good things for my family and me.

But I want to write more. I want to read more. I want to sing more. I want to become a better musician. I want to make things. I want to be a better German speaker. I want to become more learned in Latin. I want to make cookies. And share them with my friends.

Every good writer I've heard address this subject says to forget the laundry overflowing the hamper, look at the dirt laying on the floor, and move on. If what you want to do is write more, then leave it all alone and write. And when you can't leave it alone enough, feel no guilt in trading sleep for playing with words. I know they're right. And I do that sometimes. Regularly, even. But not regularly enough to feel like I ever accomplish much.

What to do, what to do....

"Love is not a feeling in your chest."

I don't usually give much thought to Valentine's Day, therefore would never think to write on it. Consider this an exception.

I have no qualms with Valentine's Day. I have qualms with excessive commercialism, but it and the Celebration of Love are not inherently linked. What I like about Valentine's Day is the idea that there is a multitude making an extra effort to let someone/s know they are loved. Just like on Christmas, more people than usual are thinking about how God made himself like us and came into the world. Love and Emmanuel, the fullness of love, are glories we should always be mindful of and whose worth we should be demonstrating with every breath breathed. But I think it aids our human nature to have days like today set aside for remembrance.

The most common sort of love talked about today is the kind of husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends. But if one is going to acknowledge the holiday, I don't think the love celebrated should be so limited. Which is why it's a day still applicable to me. And which is why this song, so fitting for today, is also applicable to me.

"For the Love of God" by Andrew Peterson

Yesterday we drove all night to Pittsburgh 
Jamie laid her head down in the back 
My little boys asleep beside their sister 
They’re the best I have 

I brought an old recording of your father 
He was teaching men and women how to love 
He carried on about his sons and daughters 
Growing up 

As we drove across Ohio 
At the dawning of the day 
I could hear the tune of truth was in his voice 
And it felt just like I knew him 
Though I never saw his face 
Maybe that’s because I know his boys 
Who live their lives 

For the love of God 
In the name of Jesus 
The groom who gave his life 
To love his bride 

I know you thought you’d never find a woman 
I never thought I’d have to write this song 
But here I am and there you are together 
After all 

You felt like you were buried 
In a city underground 
All broken bits and pieces of the past 
And somewhere she was searching 
On the surface of the mound 
She was digging for a treasure that would last 
Now she’s giving you her heart 

For the love of God 
In the name of Jesus 
The groom who gave his life 
To love his bride 

Now, love is not a feeling in your chest 
It is bending down to wash another’s feet 
It is faithful when the sun is in the west 
And in the east 

It can hurt you as it holds you 
In its overwhelming flood 
Till only the unshakeable is left 
“This new command I give you,” He said, 
“Love as I have loved” 
So brother, love her better than yourself 
And give her your heart 

For the love of God 
In the name of Jesus 
The groom who gave his life 
To love his bride

Happy Valentine's Day, friends.

"Like a lark who is learning to pray."

Is it okay if I'm transparent with you? If it's not, I guess I'm going to do it anyway.

I'm really happy at the moment. All strong emotions tend to spread of their own accord, but happiness bubbles further and more quickly than the rest. It's harder to resist sharing.

The reason why I'm happy is that my voice is finally strong again.

I became sick the day after Christmas. I felt it coming on the day of Christmas, so I suppose that's a more accurate start day. After that, I felt seriously ill for three weeks, well into the month of January. My health had improved greatly by the end of those three weeks, but my voice was still mostly gone for an additional two weeks. After five weeks of relative silence, I was finally able to speak clearly again and carry a tune that spanned beyond half an octave, and not just any octave, but half of my lowest octave.

My voice had returned. I could feel it. Before that point, even when my speaking voice starting sounding like it was approaching normality, I could still feel something in my throat telling me that it wasn't. I knew if I talked too much, what little voice I had would disappear again, and if I ever tried to sing anything, there was always something there blocking it. But whatever it was had finally gone away.

I rejoiced. I didn't have to repeat every word that came out of my mouth anymore. People could finally hear me again. And I could finally sing a simple major scale without sounding like a dying bird. I did expect, though, that after such a prolonged period of non-use it would still be somewhat weak, even though my throat had healed, so I wasn't shocked when singing the national anthem was still far beyond my reach.

I knew it wouldn't get any better continuing to lay dormant, so I began to use it as best as I could, as often as I could without fear of creating damage, and I figured it would be back to the 100% I had come to know faster than you can say "Bob's your uncle."

But it wasn't quite that fast. I kept testing the proverbial waters and finding them to be lukewarm. After a little while, I started to feel a bit of sadness seeping back in. Yes, I know I needed a lot of rehab, but did I really need this much? I've been doing what I can to rebuild, but for days on end there's been no progress. Shouldn't there be progress? And as much as I tried to not think it, eventually "Is this as good as it's going to get?" popped into my brain, and that was not an encouraging thought.

But as of today, I can confirm that all strength I had pre-Christmas has returned (what made this more ironic, is that I sang a lot on Christmas day, publicly that is, more than I had in a while, then woke up the next day as hoarse as a chain smoker), just a few weeks after being freed of illness. Funny how a few weeks can make me feel so defeated. I'm grateful it was only weeks and not any additional months.

I count my voice a gift. I've had others share with me an appreciation of it, and that is a blessing I am sincerely grateful for, but I think it has been a gift as much to me as it has to any of them. Music is a thing that I draw life from, and God knows that. He made me that way. So what a great blessing to be able to make it myself. I can't tell you the number of times I've felt healing begin to displace my wounds as I've sat singing out my hurts. And as much as I enjoy hearing the voices of others, nobody else singing would have done the trick. Mercifully, God has helped me disentangle my identity from my voice, so when it fails, I'm not as fragile as I used to be. I still feel there's hope to go on, whereas I formerly would have been devastated.

But because of God's grace, I am not limited to only enjoying the root of my identity. If my voice ever leaves, it'll be sad, and I'll move on. God will heal. But as long as it's here, I'm going to be happy about it.

Like running into a wall.

The process of writing is different for every writer. What inspires one person might be a hindrance for another. Some may like quiet while others may think better with white noise. Some may be highly organized, filtering everything through an outline before constructing a draft, while others never have any real "drafts," but rather a constantly evolving work in progress until an acceptable end is achieved. (<--- me)

I think, though, there are some aspects of being a writer that all workers in the profession share. The phenomenon commonly known as "writer's block" is one of them.

Today, I came across an amusing example of how I deal with writer's block when it invades my process.

I needed to reference an old document which I no longer had saved on my computer, so I pulled out my brother's external hard drive which he so graciously lets me share. I quickly found the document, and began browsing through it. When I came to the bottom, I laughed out loud at what I found:

"Writer's block is like running into a blocked Platform 9 ¾. Like wandering into darkness. Like a strait jacket around the brain. Like a chalkboard eraser to the mind."

I could think of nothing related to the task at hand to write, so I wrote about the only thing I could think of: how I couldn't think of anything to write. I could publish volumes on that subject.

What amuses me most is not that I wrote that, but that I saved it. I usually erase things like that as soon as I type them. Maybe I subconsciously knew that a year later, on a quiet February evening, I would appreciate the laugh.

Getting linky with my blogging friends; or joining "The Saturday Evening Blog Post."

It's after midnight, but let's pretend it's still Saturday.

I was made aware of "The Saturday Evening Blog Post" today (it's still Saturday, remember?) thanks to my friend Jen. "The Saturday Evening Blog Post" is a first Saturday of the month feature on Elizabeth Esther's blog, where she invites bloggers to share their favorite post from their own blog from the month before.

I thought, and still think, that this is a great idea. Bloggers need places to share with each other. And who knows what goodness you may find out there from someone you don't know?

So I selected a post, this one to be exact, and cast my lot in with the 58 others who posted before me and the yet untold number to come after.

So go check out "The Saturday Evening Blog Post." I've read several of the linked posts so far, and there's some good stuff in there.

The end of me and what I know and what I found once getting there.

I attend and participate in a weekly Bible study with some very good friends. We - a bunch of kids fresh out of high school - started out under the umbrella of the church that we were all involved in at the time, but a lot has changed since then. Our group kept meeting faithfully (it's been...ah...six years...at least), but we don't all attend the same church like we used to. We're not even officially affiliated with that church anymore. Our meeting place has hopped all over the Boro. The faces have also changed over the years. Some people have come and gone, and they have always come and gone with our blessing. But our core is essentially the same, and the ever faithful Charlie Chase still guides our discussions and offers us wisdom we couldn't possibly have gained in our scant twenty-something years.

Before I go on to say more about the Bible study, I want to let the attention dwell on Charlie for a moment. Charlie is a man in his fifties, old enough to have been a father to each of us. As his two kids are a part of our group, he actually is a father to some of us, and he's kind-hearted enough to treat the rest of us like we are his own. Whenever we all get together, he remarks on how happy he is that his "kids" are all in one place. As eager as he is to be a father, he's not an overbearing one, which proves he's eager to be a good father. Everybody is always free to share what they have to say, and just because he's a fifty-something-year-old adult does not mean to him that a twenty-something-year-old adult has nothing to offer. Charlie respects. Charlie is also a man that does not let money define him. He spends his days installing phone lines and fiber optic cables, but if you ask him what he does for a living, he'll tell you he's a teacher. He's never made a dime teaching anyone anything, but that singular role is more important to him than all others, save those of husband and father. Often times college students (which is what we all were when we started out) end up leading themselves. I think this is a symptom of two things: 1) we're adults now, we think we can take care of ourselves, and in our want to assert our place in the world, that's what we do; and 2) we're adults now, so the older adults don't want to have to take care of us anymore. They wash their hands of responsibility. Just leave leave them to themselves, they think, they've been taught the basics, they'll find their way eventually; we don't need to help them anymore. We have a gift in Charlie Chase.

Turning attention back to the group, under the guidance of Charlie and the Holy Spirit, we study one book of the Bible at a time. Sometimes we make it through a chapter or two a week, other times we make it through five verses. However much it is that we study, the Bible is all we ever study. There are many people out there who do great work putting together Bible study materials for people to use, and I have used them to my benefit before, but never has a Bible study grown me as much as just reading the words on the page and talking to other people about what we know and what the Spirit has revealed to each of us. It's a life-giving practice.

Our time together this week granted me a particularly alive shot of life. We are currently making our way through the book of Joshua. This week, the Israelites took charge of the city of Jericho. To briefly recall the details of the occasion, Joshua is leading God's people. A messenger, often translated as the "commander of the army of the Lord," comes to Joshua and tells him that the city has been divinely granted to him and his people. They just have to follow a few instructions: have all the armed men walk around the walls of the city once a day for six days, walk around the city seven times on the seventh day, have the priests blow their trumpets during the seventh day's circling, then have the army give a shout while the priests give a long blast after the seventh time around. This was supposed to knock down the walls. And wonder of all wonders, it did. If that's not crazy enough, God's next instructions were for the armed men to storm inside the city and destroy everything, both living and non. The only things to be kept intact were those of silver, gold, bronze and iron, and they were to be given to the Lord, not kept by the individuals who found them. Other than the land, the people were gaining no spoils from this conquest.

This is what we humans call counter-intuitive. Marching, trumpeting and yelling will make a city crumble? Maybe if the city was made out of lincoln logs and stood about two feet high. And who destroys free stuff? We keep free stuff.  This mandate of destruction is even more nonsensical in light of the circumstances the Israelites were in before this. Once they gained freedom from their captor Egypt, because they made some poor decisions, they ended up wandering in the wilderness for 40 years. There wasn't a lot of food out there in that wasteland. Nor was there a thriving marketplace where goods were produced and exchanged. The clothes they had when they started were the only ones they would come to see for four decades, and while it was good that they supernaturally didn't rot and wear out, I'm sure their eyes were longing for something new.

After all those long years, always changing in that they didn't have a home, yet never changing in that they did the same thing, ate the same thing, looked at the same things every day, here came the promise of Jericho. A home, protection, food, material things to make their lives more comfortable. But they had to destroy it all. Why would God command something like this?

If I were them, a home with big sturdy walls would have made me feel safe. I would soon have come to rely on those walls as my only source of safety. If some ill-intentioned persons challenged their strength and they ever failed, my peace of mind would fail with them. Having all of that food right there in front of my face without having to wonder from where my next meals were going to come would also have been nice. And the less I wondered, the more settled I would have become, and the more settled I would have become, the less prepared I would have been for any moment when that food might have run out. New things, creature comforts, would have also been lovely. They make one feel comfortable, which is why they're called "creature comforts." I would have been content to let them fuel my comfort. Then one day, should I ever lose them, my comfort would disappear just as quickly as those things did.

The Israelites, as a people, lived in a culture of nonsense that lasted a lifetime. But maybe he led them around like nomads to help them learn that he would provide for all of their needs. Then once a whole city was granted to them, he first took away all temptation for the Israelites to look to their own abilities to help them succeed at life by having them do nothing more aggressive and challenging than walk around and make noise, and he then took away all temptation for them to look to the city as their ultimate source by having them destroy it. The fancy self-contained, self-sustaining city would have distracted them, and if you track their history through the old testament, Lord knows they didn't need any other excuses for distraction. They were good at finding them and fixating on them, even when God worked really hard to eliminate distractions to aid their focus. Maybe all of the wandering, and city-circling, and comfort-destroying wasn't such nonsense after all.

As we were talking about all of these things Wednesday night, and Charlie was gently, persistently leading us to draw these own conclusions for ourselves, I began to think, my life hasn't been nonsense for nearly as long, but in this latest stint it has been so for about seven months, which in my short, ambitious life is approximately six months and 29 days too long. But what if God is removing distractions? What if he's trying to help me to look beyond the success I can bring myself? Because I inevitably fail from time to time, and when success is all about me, my failure to bring it is depressing. What if he's eliminating the temptation for me to find comfort and security anywhere but in him? What if he's helping me realize that he is the ultimate source of all good things I could ever want, not a house that gives me shelter, or things that make me feel like I have some sort of claim in this world, or food that gives my body life, or relationships that boost my self-esteem, or a job description that proves to the world I'm doing something with my life.

My life may look like nonsense, but I think God's in it. Yes, God is in my life, and if he's in my life...friends, that is the most encouraging thing I could ever know.

I walked away from the hospital, our latest meeting place, Wednesday night with a little weight removed from the heavy burden I insist on carrying through my life -a burden God is slowing convincing me to release - and a rejoicing spirit.

Here's to nonsensical living!

Grocery shopping joy.

(Pre-script. Only someone like me would blog about the wisdom of the mind in the stories of Solomon and Harry Potter one week, then grocery shopping the next. Life is a many splendored thing.)

In a post last month, I shared with all you faithful readers what had been keeping my brain preoccupied since Christmas. I also told you that if my preoccupation ever amounted to anything, I would come back with an update.

Thus, here I am.

I went grocery shopping yesterday with a mission to find a bargain. I scoped out sales and matched coupons to those items to reduce the price even further. (I sound like such a mom.)

After visiting two stores, here are my stats.

Total spent = $38.47

Total saved (according to receipts) = $38.47

50%! I saved exactly 50%. And I didn't buy anything that the eating of which would make me regret my life.

I think that's pretty nifty. And not bad for somebody who's never attempted anything like this before.

Off I go now to prepare for my next challenge: drugstore shopping. My mission is to find my mother some supplements we have not been able to afford lately, but that she needs to be a happily healthy person again. I hope the return of that person is soon.

The wisdom of Solomon and Jo Rowling.

One of the reasons I read as much as I do, is that I routinely find things that arouse excitement.

Check out this excerpt from the story of Solomon, Ancient King of Israel:

"...God said [to Solomon], 'Ask what I should give you.' And Solomon said, 'You have shown great and steadfast love to your servant my father David, because he walked before you in faithfulness, in righteousness, and in uprightness of heart toward you; and you have kept for him this great and steadfast love, and have given him a son to sit on his throne today. And now, O Lord my God, you have made your servant king in place of my father David, although I am only a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in. And your servant is in the midst of the people whom you have chosen, a great people, so numerous they cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant therefore an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil; for who can govern this your great people?'

It pleased the Lord that Solomon had asked this. God said to him, 'Because you have asked this, and have not asked for yourself long life or riches, or for the life of your enemies, but have asked for yourself understanding to discern what is right, I now do according to your word....' 

Then Solomon awoke; it had been a dream." - 1 Kings 3, New Revised Standard Version

Now take a look at this scene from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, just after Voldemort had hit The Boy Who Lived with the Killing Curse:

"[Harry] lay facedown, listening to the silence...A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface...He stood up, looking around...Harry turned slowly on the spot, and his surroundings seemed to invent themselves before his eyes...He spun around. Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him... 

'Where are we, exactly?' [asked Harry.] 

'Well, I was going to ask you that,' said Dumbledore, looking around. 'Where would you say that we are?' 

...'It looks,' he said slowly, 'like King's Cross Station. Except a lot cleaner and empty, and there are no trains as far as I can see.' 

'King's Cross Station!' Dumbledore was chuckling immoderately. 'Good gracious, really?' 

'Well, where do you think we are?' asked Harry, a little defensively. 

'My dear boy, I have no idea. This is, as they say, your party.' 

Harry had no idea what this meant... 

[After talking for a time with Dumbledore,] the realization of what would happen next settled gradually over Harry in the long minutes, like softly falling snow. 

'I've got to go back, haven't I?' 

'That is up to you.' 

'I've got a choice?' 

'Oh yes.' Dumbledore smiled at him. 'We are in King's Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to...let's say...board a train.' 

'And where would it take me?' 

'On,' said Dumbledore simply. 

Silence again. 

'Voldemort's got the Elder Wand.' 

'True. Voldemort has the Elder Wand.' 

'But you want me to go back?' 

'I think,' said Dumbledore, 'that if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that you have far less to fear from returning here than he does.' 

...[Harry] stood up, and Dumbledore did the same, and they looked for a long moment into each other's faces. 

'Tell me one last thing,' said Harry. 'Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?' 

Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry's ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure. 

'Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?' - J.K. Rowling, Deathly Hallows, chapter titled "King's Cross"

After Solomon's dream took place, he became known in his kingdom for his great God-given wisdom, which made him one of the most well-known and respected rulers in history. Harry returned to the chaos of the most devastating battle Hogwarts had ever seen, and the conversation he had with Dumbledore helped empower him to defeat Voldemort with a finality he did not achieve as an infant, and become known as a savior for Wizard and Mugglekind alike.

Think twice before ever letting yourself be convinced that what's in your head is meaningless.

A new way to live.

I'm not often caught off guard by anything except face-to-face interaction with people. For whatever reason, interacting with other humans is a mystery I can't seem to conquer. There are moments when I feel I have achieved the impossible. I'm engaging, I'm warm, I instinctively know the appropriate things to say, and, more importantly, I instinctively know the appropriate things to say to provoke other people to speak. In the midst of such miracles, I think, "Maybe I've finally figured it out. Maybe this is the day that the mystical magic required to have a comfortable conversation made its way into my bones at last." Oh the hope those thoughts bring.

Then I go talk to someone else. A different person takes my place. I stammer, I can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound like a textbook, and I'm either mostly silent, or I ramble through a multitude of unimportant words. The impossible becomes unreachable again and I wonder where my charm decided to hide. And why it decided to hide.

Most other things don't throw me for a loop. You know those people who drive you crazy with all the things they do so well all the blessed time? I've often been one of them. I intend no arrogance when I say that. I just say it because it's kind of true. When I was a kid, I was always near the top of every list that measured academic prowess. All the smart kid award ribbons they gave out at assemblies; I got 'em. Spelling bee champion certificates; got those too. I was also on the teachers' mental "most attentive and well-behaved" lists, which meant extra responsibility that I reverently bore on my shoulders. And my success wasn't limited to the classroom. In generally all other areas of my life, if a standard for performance was set, whatever it was, I would meet it.

With that kind of record, it was easy for me to develop an expectation that everything will work out. The results might not be perfect, and getting to the goal might not be easy, but the goal will be met. It always is. A challenge comes before me, I confront it, I conquer it. A flawless formula. No surprises. No chances of wondering what's happening and why.

But that system broke down and I have been unequivocally baffled by the last six months.

38 weeks have passed since I stopped being a full-time student and gained a degree, and I still don't have a job. Not even at Wal-Mart.

Before last summer had ended, the mental interrogation began. "What is this? I'm capable. I'm competent. I have talent. I have skills. I'm a hard worker. I have initiative and to spare. Why is this happening?" Soon after came the accusing. "You're not as capable as you thought. You didn't have a detailed plan. You should have had a detailed plan, then you could have followed through and everything would have worked. You didn't try hard enough. You're being lazy. If you would just make up your mind and get up and do something, then you wouldn't be in this position."

But that wasn't true. At least not completely true. I tried, or at least made moves to try. But every plan, every attempt, was stifled. I fell into, and am still hoping to get out of, an exhausting, stifling hole. No money, not even enough to drive a mile down the road, meant going out to find a job became an as of yet unconquerable challenge. But the longer I don't have a job, the longer I'm not making money, the longer I'm incapacitated. No movement. No progress.

The larger problem with the dialogue in my head, though, was its focus: me. I've been learning more than ever lately how much my life is not about me.

I have always believed, and do still, that being responsible for oneself is important. Some people need to learn that lesson. But my lesson was different. It's easy for me to live by my own ability and expect that what I do is the answer for everything.

My opinion is beginning to change. I think God loved me enough to not let me live the rest of my life thinking that I can do whatever I decide to do, or that it's even ultimately up to me to do anything at all, or that situations will always work out. Some things, no matter how hard a person may will them to, don't work out. People die. Fires burn possessions. Security is stolen. Heaven is the only sure redemption. I live and breathe only through God. The most important thing I need to do is know him.

It took a long time, but I think I'm finally beginning to rest in that. Knowing God. The knowledge of him I already have is the the most life-giving I have ever known, and there is yet an infinite depth still to explore. And by his grace, in knowing him, I can be faithful to move and work in the means given to me. I'll get a job. Probably. I'll pay my own bills one day, live in my own place. I'm still vigilant and looking for what I can do where I am. When opportunity is presented, I'll take it. But whether I'm making a paycheck or not, God is providing. He's gracious. And he is the source and definition of my life.

"Easy" is not a word to describe these last six months. I have been broken down further than I ever thought I would be. But I've been saying the closing words of this song all the more:





Thank you, Jesus.

Because nothing I do can ever go without authorial comment...

My last post featured an abstract something that I wrote. I don't really know what it is. Maybe it's a poem? I don't normally write poetry, but more surprising things have happened.


For those of you who read it, to refresh your memories here appears the poem-piece-work-thing again. For those who who have not read it, here now is a chance to read it for the first time:




Twin faces look out from the wall, one above the other.
Their eyes are both fixated to the same point.
They share a look of fright. A look of worry.
As if something's coming after them.
A relentless pursuit.

Each countenance is frozen.
The upper's eyes are wider than the lower's.
The lower seems to feel more dread, like there's a finality about this chase that the other doesn't see.
With both mouths agape, neither of them appear to like what's coming.

The terror is close.
It will catch them any second.

They could run, only they can't.
They're in the wall.
Immobilized.
Incapable of fleeing what is sure to strike...now.

Seconds pass.
The faces are unchanged.
The terror has not overcome.
It just looms.
Like a rain cloud neither approaching nor departing.

In these faces is mirrored my own.
Frightened.
Unmoving.
Never overcome, never overcoming.






There's a real smile-bringer, eh?


Before I continue, I'd be grateful if you would entertain a small digression on creative interpretation. This could mean and/or represent any number of things (although I doubt any of them would be very happy). One of the gifts of the human mind is interpretation. As someone who internally interprets things from the outside then releases them back into the world with her own fingerprint added, the last thing I want to do is stifle that same privilege in others by saying that what I thought when writing is the only valid meaning to be discerned from my creations.


In that spirit, I would like and intend to share here what I was thinking when writing the above unnamed work, but I do so free from the attitude that "what I say goes."


Back to the business at hand, this was inspired by a thoughtful look at my bedroom wall. The "twin faces" were found in an electrical outlet (an American one, of course), that I spied from the side. The vertical slits formed each pair of eyes, the round holes made to accommodate the third prong on three-pronged plugs served as mouths. I was feeling particularly melancholy in this moment, and as it's melancholy and mirth that spawn the majority of artistic endeavors, I guess it's no surprise that I was overwhelmed with an urge to find a pen.


The brand of melancholy darkening my mood was spawned in part by frustrations of feeling almost incarcerated in circumstances, unable to get out of them to do what it is that I want most. As soon as I saw the faces, I thought it was significant that they were unable to move. I also found significance in the fact that not only is their spatial position fixed, their expressions are never allowed to change. If their expressions can't change, maybe what's bothering them is unchanging. The good news of that is, it will never get any worse. The bad news is, it will never get any better. I've felt that.


Though I've felt that, however, I don't believe it. Not eternally. But my eternal beliefs would not shine with so much hope if melancholy didn't take me to such dark places.