Tag Archives: remember

today: a Wednesday not so long ago

Some days are about stopping, forced pauses and seeing. Life abounds. God, here.

On A Wednesday not so long ago, I felt walls closing in on questions I could not answer. I lacked sleep and perspective. Blinded to goodness, I staggered through the day, wallowing and grumpy. The sun shone, though, beckoning me outdoors. I leashed the dog and packed my camera. I walked. And I saw. It was a return to gratitude and perspective. Life abounds, God, here.

tonight: oh this? itislife.

“It is not length of life, but depth of life.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

oh this? it is life
with turns unexpected and twists dramatic
with soft-spoken hopes and bone-jarring fears
with a yieldedness (or not) to grace
and a drifted-ness from doubt to faith
with a quiet, quiet, quiet way that stops my stumbling

bread, cup
broken, bought
death, life
redemption (always)
aware or not
incarnation and oh,
resurrection

and oh, this? it is life
and oh, here? here I am
alive

today: this is the day you were born

Which ever way I go I come back to the place you are
Peter Gabriel (I see John Cusack every time I hear it and smile. I am sure I am not alone in this phenomenon.)

Hallelujah, every breath is a second chance
And it is always, always, always yours
And I am always, I’m always, always yours

Switchfoot

I am 21 and we have just read the story of the Passion. April is there and Jessica is there, and other friends who were really close then but who aren’t the lifers that those two are, are there. We are outside, and we are doing mission work. I have a thought in my head that I really do believe this story: that Jesus washed the feet of the disciples and broke bread and was arrested and tortured. I really do believe that after they beat him he hung on the cross. I believe his disciples denied or fled, that a friend asked for his body, that his mother cried. I believe they laid him in a grave. I believe that before that Isaiah, a prophet, said the story would happen. I believe that his punishment becomes our peace.

I am 21 and the whole story is profound, and my friends are there but I am unaware of them because my face is wet with tears, because I am hungry for and humbled by the kind of God who is love and is humble and who dies. And even though I know the finality of the cross points to the fullness of a whole different kingdom, because what seemed like the end in that moment, well, it wasn’t (but we’ll save that for another day), I am in the moment.

And Jesus, he is serving.
And Jesus, he is thanking.
And Jesus, he is breaking bread.
And Jesus, he is taking the cup.
And Jesus, he is betrayed.
And Jesus, he is surrendering.
And Jesus, he is arrested.
And Jesus, he is suffering.
And Jesus, he is broken.
And Jesus, he is dying.

And the sky goes dark. And the world groans. And the curtain tears. And the world receives back the fulfillment of hope.

I am 31 today, and that moment of the realness of the story of Jesus then still cuts me to the core today. All I have is thanks. All we have is grace. This Friday, it is good indeed. The world receives back the fulfillment of hope. We are living the best story. And it is always, always, always yours.

today: nine eleven

I woke up because the phone was ringing, ringing, ringing.
My dad told me the news.
My eyes couldn’t focus on the TV.
Jet-lag fogged my brain. I’d been in Poland days ago.
And I watched the loop of those planes crashing (Montana is MST, and the damage was done.) over and over again.
Then I wept.
I went and watched the news for the rest of the day with friends.
We wept.
Our ability to comprehend what happened before our eyes did not help us understand.
All these truths that had seemed so real in Poland seemed far off.
Nationalistic pride and hope did little to ease the ache.
I wrestled.
Jesus wept.

Remember.

tonight: remain child

“I am Eloise. I am six. I am a city child. I live at the Plaza.”

“Getting bored is not allowed.”
-Kay Thompson in the beloved Eloise books, one of which my little friend Lucas and I read before bed tonight.

sept103

not unaware of the tallness of trees and the darkness of dark
and sometimes not unafraid either
but not knowing better than showing fear looks good on a face
the tenderness it invokes when honored and dignified
perhaps hungered for day in and day out
so quick does sight get lost as we gain height and often, often forgo light
crouching down around fear and then it owns us
because we know better than vulnerability
removing from play that tenderness once welcomed
starving greatest need for want of preservation
so slow to recognize finding fullness requires humility
childlike much?
please just be.
please be.