The Fog

There's something safe, something comforting, that hides in the fog.

It crept in on a smothering silence, I didn't realize it was here until it was already firmly rooted in place.
No time to appreciate it, or revel in it, or contemplate it.
     Finals, papers, all-nighters, all at the same time as life.

It lingered, patiently waiting for me to notice... to really notice.
     A night, a morning, waiting through my oblivion;
          a day, an evening, a night; still waiting;
               a morning.

The whisper of the fog in the morning finally caught my eye; maybe I finally caught the sound of an unfalling rain, vestiges of lingering clouds building up on the leves, the weight of the unnoticed heaviness finally crashing to the ground.

I slowly began to open my eyes to the thickness of the fog when I saw the effects of its persistent loitering everywhere: slick moisture on the surface of every resting place, even those under the protection of cover.

Held captive by my car on the way to school, I gave in to the invitation of the fog.
_______________

There's something strange about actually planning an all-nighter in order to finish an assignment for school.
In none of my previous college or work experiences of the past have I ever been able to actually prepare to (voluntarily) lose sleep, to (voluntarily) work through usual rest time, to (voluntarily) push through the dark hours of fading ambition and physical resistance for the sake of completion.

But this time I was.

Knowing I had to produce seven thousand words, coherently, and with valid sources, by a particular date and time, I was able to gather all my resources together, I was able to schedule a full night of glorious, uninterrupted sleep the night before, and I was able to build, ahead of time, the most time-consuming, perfection-demanding, and aggravating section of the assignment; the works cited page.

I barely noticed the arrival of the fog during the initial stretch of writing my paper.  It was more of an inconvenience to me, something else out of the norm, while I worked on a project that was just as much out of the norm.

The fog wove itself in between the trees in my backyard and into the clearing, tickling  the windows, blocking any and all sources of natural distraction.  I was able to focus on my assignment for a full fifteen hours; the clouded intruder silenced the normal sounds of the woods at night.  It allowed me to keep my train of thought, even when I stepped away from the keyboard to sate my nicotine habit in the midst of the witching hours; it is only now that I can be thankful for that.

I'm used to the delusion setting in around dawn when I miss sleep; the fog covered for me again by blurring the transition.
This time, my body failed me before my mind shut down.
Unusual.
_______________

I always look forward to breaks.  Makes me sound lazy, but in fact, I'm quite the opposite.  Breaks force me to slow down, or else I'd just keep going until I collapsed.

This semester is no different.  I'm looking forward to the month-long break like a weary traveler, with no plans, no major projects to accomplish, nowhere I need to be.
This longing set in around October, but deepened and strengthened as the weeks went by, intensifying as they went.

Life reared her ugly head during this time as well, testing and pushing every definition, playing scrabble with the words, mixing up the letters, and forcing me to choose wisely; deadlines and assignments still looming, poking me when I wasn't looking.

Break beckoned, like the glare produced by a dirty pane-glass window when the sun shines directly in; knowing you won't be able to feel the warmth until you go outside; when all you want to do is feel it, experience it... but life gets in the way... homework gets in the way... work gets in the way.  Before you know it, the sun has changed position, and illuminates something else.

_______________

Held captive, I had no choice but to hear what the fog had to say.

The first indication of the coming intensity was the rain; the view out my windshield blurring as the fat, pelting drops exploded on my windshield, this the only perceivable announcement of their presence, since the cloud surrounding me made every background color absent.

It was quiet.  I couldn't hear the rain hitting my windshield, I couldn't hear the whistle of the wind outside my window, I couldn't hear the sound of my tires against the asphalt. No jingling of my keys in the ignition, no rhythmic thump of my misaligned tire. I didn't feel like I was driving on the road at all, but gliding over it, or even flying.

I couldn't see anything outside of twenty feet in front of me.  The unease of my usual speed sunk in, forcing me to slow down.  I had to pay attention; every roadside hedge became a jack-in-the-box, concealing what may have been hiding behind.  Intersections that I would normally fly through with barely a glance now demanded complete scrutiny; I had to look through the edges of heaven on earth in order to see any extraordinary signs of oncoming traffic, dispersed glare from headlights, shadows from metal moving through the mist.

Landmarks became black and white paintings, now forever etched into my memory.  All that approached me closely becames vivid, whether a crimson tree on the roadside, or the single leaf falling, twirling, dancing diagonally across my path.

A car pulls out ahead of me, and won't go any faster than a slow crawl.  My itchy right foot taps the gas like an addict as my eyes scan the turns ahead.  Yet, the fog.  I wait, biting my lip for the next upcoming turn that I know will give me the opportunity to scoot ahead.  The turn approaches, and with it, the voice of the white-haired wizard whispering "You shall not pass"... which instantly meant less about passing the vehicle in front of me, and more about not getting out of where I am any faster than I should.

_______________

The book arrived in the mail the day I had  scheduled to write my paper, a gift to myself that had long been on my wishlist; a treat, something to dive into when I had the time after classes and finals ended.

I set it aside to do my paper, but threw it in my bag the next day in order to kill some time while waiting at school.

I wasn't planning on opening the book, but had a few minutes to kill, so I cracked it open.

________________

Coming Clean.

Like a fog that rolls away,  or gets burned off by starlight so bright it burns the eyes.

When the fog is here, everything is close.  Quietly intimate, personal.

But when the time comes for the fog to depart, it takes something immense, something powerful, to break the bond that has formed between earth and sky.
Like the sun... whose light has to traverse unthinkable distances, passing through the vacuum of space, and penetrating atmospheres...
      still, arriving with the strength to sear the windows of the soul.

Veteran's Day Conundrum

Veteran's Day.  The day when a grateful nation recognizes the service and sacrifice made by those who have chosen to defend freedom.
As we celebrate with our parades and ceremonies, flags and thank you's, keep in mind that for some, the battle still rages within.

For some, the sacrifices beyond the obvious will never be known outside the bonds of shared experience, sometimes horrific, and sometimes at the cost of a piece of their soul.

War wreaks havoc on the heart and soul, clinging to the conscience, for sometimes decades, after the return home.  The trauma isn't always physical; the wounds inflicted by armed conflict can be etched permanently into the emotions, the memory, or into the very being of the bravest of volunteers.

Sometimes a "thank you for your service" is all that's needed to plunge a vet back into the horrors of war; our intentional yet potentially ignorant gratitude reawakening  the demons that have taken God-only-knows how long to subdue.

Maybe it's time to return the favor.  Instead of blindly thanking our vets, maybe it's time we stood in the ever-widening gap for them.

The Veteran's Administration is sinking faster than the Titanic with the growing burden of vets returning from an ideological war that seems to never end;  a war that, fittingly, and by nature, is causing just as much emotional damage as physical disabilities.

Are you really thankful for our veterans' service? Offer more than lip service with your thanks:
   Fight for the resources needed to help our vets.
   Fight for the organizations that provide for the emotional and mental health of the vets who so desperately need it.
   Fight for the lesser known non-profits who are doing the most for our vets,who are maximizing every cent creatively for the maximum benefit.
   Fight for the proper spiritual training for those who are called to help those whose injuries concern the conscience.

Our green light bulbs and our purchased t-shirts, while raising awareness, can not, nor will they ever, take the place of us standing in the gap for our vets.

We must remember that raising awareness for the issues and struggles our vets face is a whole different animal than being there, in the struggle, with our vets. We are sadly mistaken if we think that by doing one, we're helping the other.

Our vets need to know they are not alone... not alone in their experiences, not alone in their trauma, not alone in their coping, and not alone in the battles they wage within.

A green light bulb will never give a troubled vet peace, only the presence of a non-judgemental and caring friend can do that.  And that will always mean more than the generic, blanket gratitude from a stranger.

To my brothers and sisters in arms: you are not alone.

Opening Prayer

Father,  we come together,  before you, and we recognize we're in a weird place.

Father, we're stuck.
We're stuck in between what we know about you, and what you're showing us.

We're stuck in between our understanding of worship as something we do, and what you're showing us - sharing our lives together as worship, as who we are.

Father, draw us together, closer, despite our urges to run.
Show us the one thing that we run from is the one thing we need most.

With your resurrection life inside of us, let us be what we each need for one another.

Amen.

Offended

As long as we remain "offended", we'll never be able to ask why.  Why something is the way it is, or why someone is the way they are, or why something is happening.

Being offended by something just proves how self-centered we've become.

When the words or actions of others have to be pre-approved by us, then we've effectively made ourselves (and our view of the world), a god. This makes everyone else around us subject to our demands, desires, and limitations.

This stifles relationships, and throws any kind of equality or partnership out the window.

This also crushes creativity and freedom, because now the people around us aren't free to discover their own paths or purposes, or giftings, or strengths on their own; they have to conform to a worldview that's only as big as we are.
God forbid those around us have a purpose that's different from ours.

But fear does that,  doesn't it.
It keeps us focused on ourselves, paralyzing us into a short of self- preservation mode, which we then project onto everyone around us.

Maybe the next time we're offended, we should focus on something that isn't us.
We might just learn something.

No Wonder

We listen to the ads on our flatscreen TVs,
Telling us we need this, or how we deserve that.
No wonder everyone's driving a big red truck.

Working for something used to be called "delayed gratification";
Earning what we could in order to get what we really needed.

But as the years have gone by, somewhere in there,
the value of "value" has changed;
debt became our master,
and we lost our souls.

Delayed gratification became instant gratification became entitlement,
And we consumed our way into an abysmal pit.

The blackness spreading on the back of the lie
that "more will satisfy",
Where the "greater good" and our "fellow man" are shoved under the carpet called "MINE",
That gets more plush, more thick, more (blood) stain resistant, and more smothering as the generations pass by.

We stand back and watch as corrupt old men buy their way into power.
We recognize the greed.
By doing nothing, we acknowledge and validate the all-consuming, blood-thirsty hunger behind it all...
We might even find ways to justify it in our own warped and broken minds.

But then, someone notices the bodies left in their wake...
living and breathing,
lonely and bleeding,
suffering bodies.

And we have to wonder, how did we go so far?  How have we let it get so far gone?

When year after year of people seeking and buying what they want,
(and mortgaging their future to get it)
we wonder why our children aren't satisfied by anything we have to give anymore.

After decades of darkening backdoor deals to obtain whatever goods our dark hearts desire,
we wonder why our daughters are being sold into black market slavery,
and we wonder why our sons are the ones forking over the cash.

After years of filling our grocery carts, and our homes;
with a system that supports us,
and a collective identity that ignores those who can't,
It's no wonder that homelessness and hunger and destitution are spreading like a smoldering prairie wildfire.

As our cars and our clothes and our homes become more opulent,
It's no wonder the cycle of poverty continues to gain speed on its devastating tracks.

After years of allowing our offenses to drive us (instead of common sense),
It's no wonder that at the beginning and the end of the day, the only person we view as important is our self.

What if it's like Newton's third law of physics: that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, except with people?
Human beings.
Sons and daughters,
mothers and fathers,
sisters and brothers,
husbands and wives...

If this is the case,that something I do, or something I want, or something I buy, affects someone else in an equal and opposite way...

If I find myself in the mentality of consuming, the mentality of chasing things,
then it's really me who's hurting someone else.

When I get that thing I want, the equal and opposite reaction is that someone else doesn't get what they need.

It's no wonder then,
that the day the world started falling apart
is the day we forgot our neighbor.

What have we become?

What have we become?

People who would sooner divide ourselves than be united by something greater...

People who would rather criticize than encourage...

People who would rather shout from our ignorance rather than humbly learn...

People who would more easily rely on our learned economy of self-preservation and the resulting outward hatred, rather than expend the energy it takes to understand...

People who have idolized our symbols,  without understanding or knowing our history,  and without understanding all the perspectives of our precious symbols, and without grasping the concept of the symbolism changing our evolving over time...

People who would rather unknowingly fall with the majority than stand for a minute with the least...

People who would rather live in self-created isolation and polarity than grasp the true freedom that comes from recognizing and destroying our self-centered universes...

People who have idolized ourselves and our beliefs,  without the knowledge of where we, or our beliefs, originated from...

Father, forgive us...

The Backyard

(Another English journal entry)  

 My backyard has never seemed like solace before, until now, the last three weeks of school.  Just to escape from my desk in the cluttered office, or the dining room table where dogs wrestle under my feet, coming outside is a return to life for me, even if it's into my tamed backyard.
     The rain sprinkling down unnoticed (until it finds the tip of my pen) isn't going to stop me, for there's life in the rain as well.  Besides, the sliding glass door opened all the way, a chair in the opening, and me on it doesn't seem to separate me as much.  I can still smell the air, I can still feel the morning breeze, I can still see unimpeded by glass and conditioned air, I can still hear the mad symphony being played by unseen musicians in the trees.
     Be Still.

     I wonder how it is that spending one clouded morning on my back deck gives more peace than the previous weekend in the mountains.  I went to the mountains looking for something; answers.  At the great cost of disturbing my expectations of peace, I got them.  Answers to facilitation of my calling, which has been weighing heavily on my mind, almost to the point of distraction.
     Maybe peace comes from within.
     I couldn't relax in the mountains, because I had so much on my mind.  Even when I had time to be alone, to think, any appreciation for my view was tainted by my thoughts, my worries, my questions.
     Despite the setting, (which I'm sure may have been chosen to illicit choices and responses out of the sheer magnitude of the beauty surrounding us) nature couldn't be the manipulator here.
     What good is a lake in the mountains if all you can do is look at it?  Looking at it does nothing but awaken the desire to be in it.  To be on the water, whether fishing or playing, swimming or boating; to be on the mountain, hiking or camping, or just sitting and breathing.
     If not intimate and up close, it all looks the same.

     It wasn't until I stole away one morning to the lake shore that I was able to find the peace I sought.  Sitting on the shore, not three feet from the water's edge, I was overwhelmed by God, who showed me the lake as a metaphor for the human life.
     I couldn't write fast enough, the time slipped away from me, and all of a sudden, the clock and the schedule, (the actual reason I was in the mountains) trumped my moment, my observations.

     I've learned more about humanity by observing nature that I ever thought possible, fleshed out with words to a world that won't listen, for the words fall on ears distracted by the high-pitched whine of selfishness and comfort.

     My backyard is coming to life.
     The baby leaves birthed onto bare branches nestled in with the monotony of the pines remind me to look for life among the masses, in the midst of the conformity, among the lives that all look the same from a distance.  Some will bear fruit, such as the persimmon trees, some will offer shade, some flower extravagantly, and some just put forth seed.
     But all of them, together, make up and describe the landscape of my life.

Setting and Success

Shifting; always changing, whether mighty or minuscule; anything that follows God will always be shifting.

Looking around, I see symptoms everywhere of a copying and regurgitation culture.  I recently returned to school and see it in the students.  They'll take an assignment, and spit back out what they took in, seemingly unable to take the material in, think about what it means, and apply it.  I roll my eyes more often than not... it's like the capacity to think has been bred out of us.  Our great "learning centers" have regressed; we have been duped into shelling out the rest of our lives for this "education" now.

The same thing happens almost everywhere.  In the church, we read books by these up and coming leaders, and try to copy and regurgitate their methods in our own settings.  We fail to take into account the setting where they became so-called successful, and even worse, we fail to even consider how something like that would apply in our own setting.

There are "buzz" locations, places where what the institution and leadership calls 'success' is occurring, both in our own local setting, and on the national level.  And that's fantastic.  Really.  I'm glad someone is figuring out how to tap into the potential that's everywhere.
     But what is considered successful and what is considered effective in these places may not apply in any way, shape or form to the setting where you are.

What is 'success' in a church, anyways?  Do you gauge success by the number of people sitting inside on Sunday morning?  By counting the people (who already have everything they could ever need,) except now they call themselves faithful because they gather on Sunday mornings?

If this is your measure of success, then from here on out, you'll probably never see this.  It's just not how God is doing things anymore.
If you can't see how God is drawing us all deeper into Him, and closer to one another, then... well, I'll be nice and shut up.

So how DO we measure success, especially in smaller churches that are strategically placed in areas where the gospel isn't just empty words, but the only thing that brings hope?

Are we tapping into this, or are we just being lazy and doing what we've always done?

Instead of being all proud and boastful of how many people you feed in your food pantry "ministry", maybe what God is doing now is inviting us down deep, in the depths of humanity, to get to the real reason that people need to get food from a food pantry.
     Wouldn't it be nice if there was no longer a need for a food pantry??  THAT could be called success.  (Then the army of people who volunteer to help with the monstrosity that has become the food pantry can actually be doing something to feed someone's soul, not just their belly.)

What if real success is standing side by side with people as they endure all that life throws at them?  It could look like noticing that someone is struggling, or noticing that something is 'off', and making yourself available to them.  Where they do all the talking, and we utilize the ears we've been given.  (I am particularly fond of reminding people that we've been given two ears and one mouth, not the other way around.)
          Instead of preaching to them, we walk with them.  It doesn't matter what side we stand, there's an ear on both sides of our head...

What if real success is slowly, patiently, changing the mentality of entire communities from hopelessness to a mentality of grace, and accountability, and general concern for the well-being of one another?  Where people stand together, united and connected.
     I would call that a kingdom transformation!

When looking at what to do next, it will take a holy imagination, and a whole lot of listening to what God is doing to figure out what is coming.

If we're not tapping into these things, then we'll just see more concrete proof of the crumbling of an institution built by man to honor God, but ignoring Him in the process.

March

In the blink of an eye, time passes.

The most desolate month of the year is gone (thank God), and in its place arrives a command:  march.

The darkness of February brings us to self-preservation; the cocoon is built, the blinders are on, and we close our eyes, all in hopes to weather the storm we cannot escape.

I am a bewildered soldier who knows what the command means.  I question everything about it, for it came with no answers and no clarity, only more of the unexplainable notion of faith.

     Work still has to be done in what was supposed to be periods of rest... will relief ever come.

     Relationships still have to be explained and maintained and nurtured, despite the agony of our brokenness and our misunderstandings and our offenses all being laid bare in plain view.

     The mortally wounded lay grovelling at the feet of the offenders, begging for mercy.  The apparent injustice of it all sickens me.

     'Confession' feels like feeble attempts to soothe the beast; words fail time and time again, so we just stop using them; somehow thinking that things will get better on their own.

The command echoes; the sound it creates is the only peace I know.  I keep chanting it, like a mantra, as it drives a rhythm into me, activating bone and muscle and flesh and neurons into action.

I am in between the first and second step, I think, of my cadence; time slows to an eternal pace as I try to anticipate where this procession leads before the second foot falls.

But, like the predawn sky, the command comes out of the darkness, pushing me.
Prodding.
Driving.

I am too tired to resist.

Road Kill and Funny Hats

     Earlier this month, on my way to school one morning (it was more like every morning), I was lamenting over everything that was happening in my life, and in the lives of the people around me - family, friends, our community.  I was getting ready to hit that magic point; teetering on full-blown overwhelmed, fighting back tears over the magnitude of decisions that needed to be made, and the possible outcomes that could come from those decisions.
     My heart was breaking for those I couldn't be present with; not that I had any special knowledge, insights, or grand solutions to offer; no, I had nothing to offer but myself.  And I couldn't even do that.  Which led to aggravation at the sudden imposition my school work was becoming.
     I know myself well enough to know that these were dangerous waters to be treading in... rather than stretch myself or adapt, I'd just as soon be rid of the imposition.  Be done with it.  Quit school.  Again.  And I could very easily see myself making (and justifying) the excuse that "my relationships with others are more important".  (This is part of my suck, and I know this.)
   
     Driving down the road, there was a dead raccoon on the side of the road, about a foot off the edge of the asphalt.  He was flat on his back with his head turned toward oncoming traffic, as if he was watching the cars go by.  He looked very cartoonish, back legs straight behind him, front legs laid at his sides like arms, his tail whipping in the currents created by every passing vehicle.
     I seriously felt like this raccoon looked.  Bowled over, knocked out.
     February makes me feel like road kill.  Caught in the headlights, frozen, and then, WHAM!

     I spent the next few miles relating to this caricature, distracted enough by it that I didn't notice anything else, nor could if I wanted to.
   
     Until the Volkswagen.
     It was in front of me as I arrived at the next intersection; both of us in the left turn lane.  Nothing spectacular, a newer style Bug; no external adornments, no flashy colors, just a simple, grey Bug.
     Movement in the back windshield caught my eye; a dog: a fluffy white poodle.
     Maybe it was dancing, maybe it didn't like riding in the car, maybe it was unbelievably excited about the world it was seeing outside the box it was trapped in.  Never the less, this dog pinged back and forth between windows in a three second racetrack, over and over and over.  I followed his chariot all the way to the next intersection.

     (Have you ever had one of those moments where you can actually see the atmosphere around you changing?  This was one of those moments for me.)

     The determination of this poodle in car beside me held me captive, until I moved my eyes from the activity in the back of the car, to the activity in the front of the car.
     The driver was singing.  Her head was bobbing, exaggerated because of the mood-changing hat she wore.  This hat was a bowler-type, and purple.  And covered with the most vibrant colored flowers I'd seen in months. Huge, gaudy, floppy flowers that bobbed and jiggled with the motions of her singing and car-dancing.  The silliness of the scene overcame me.
     I suddenly forgot all else.  There was nothing else happening in the entire world at that moment, except this woman singing, the flowers on her hat swirling in rhythm, her hands flying to emphasize certain words, and her dog dancing in the back seat.
     Tensions drained in a moment so quick that the weightlessness of the resulting peace was dizzying; physically altering those few seconds of my existence.  I couldn't help but laugh out of sheer joy.

     Since then, the raccoon on the side of the road has disappeared.  I don't know if some magical road-kill-clean-up-crew came through and disposed of his body, or if, more than likely, he became lunch for something else.  I'd like to think, however morbidly, he became lunch, because then there would at least be some purpose to his untimely demise.  Just like I'd like to think there's some sort of purpose for all the shit sammiches February keeps packing in my lunch.

     Then Lent shows up.  Preparation time; time to give something up.  I don't know if I can do it this year, give up something else.  I don't know if there's anything left to give.
     The usual self-sacrificing messages aren't bombarding me this year, thank God; it's something else.  It's OK.
     It's OK that I'm overwhelmed and don't know which end is up.
     It's OK that I can't even admit I need help, or that I don't know how to ask for it.
     It's OK  that I'm not perfect.
     It's OK that I'm human.

     Not that I can revel in these confessions, but I can take some solace in the fact that the answer for them and to them doesn't have to come from me.  I don't have to search for the answers, nor do I have to produce them.  There's a huge relief in being reminded of that, of understanding that; almost makes me want to put on a funny hat and sing like there's no tomorrow.

     On the downward slope, making my way out of this month, I'm learning that it's okay to feel like road kill.  That when we're bowled over, and feeling crushed by life, there's always someone with a funny hat; so unexpected, so disarming, that all we can do is laugh, or we might break into the dust we came from.
     And maybe, just maybe, it will remove the immense weight of life from our shoulders, even if it's just for a few minutes.
   

February

Spring never seems as far away as it does in February.
    
     February, it seems, is a month of extremes.  Teasing warm days followed by bone-chilling frost and wind.  Quiet health and ravishing sickness.  The days are starting to extend, but not nearly as much as is needed.   Certain times of the day seem to stretch out space;  the yard seems particularly empty, and in its emptiness, it appears so much bigger.  Tricks of the eyes, or the senses, or the sun herself, I don't know.  A smaller calendar, fewer days, yet a constant increase in the number of obligations.
     February always seems to be a month of adversity, a month that runs out of days before it can come up with any conclusions or offer any solutions.  Just as abrupt as the end of this month, so too the disappearance of all that ails in February.
   
     Maybe it's just the hope that comes with March;  a new season just around the corner,  with the promise of more time trapped inside the extending hours of sunlight. 
     It could be the hope that arrives on the heels of the return of color, the putting-away of the death-garb of winter.  The undertones of the next holiday, Easter; something sweet, the promise of new life, the swarm of pastels, and something in the air that tastes like young sounds.

     By February, every blanketed morning sky is just another grim reminder of winter.  'When will it end' seems to never end, lasting far longer than any other time of year.
     The shortness and the busyness always leaves me breathless.  It's almost like I'm the one who has to do all the work to bring forth spring, and when spring finally decides to show her face, I can relax.

     It could be a monstrous combination of all these things.   Or it could just be that I need a nap.

Done with Church? (Part 2)

So.  You did it.  It's official.
No more church.

Now that that's out of the way, you'll have some time to figure out how this all plays out in your life, without at least some of the confusing messages from everywhere around you.  You've got some time to think, if you do that sort of thing.  (You're reading this, so it's probably safe to say that you're already doing that.)  You can think about all the reasons you left church, and where to go from here.

Maybe it became too political; the involved members with the most money to give thinking they could buy the decision-making power, their purse-strings being a direct link to the will of God; but only if the will of God matched their personal desires, thoughts and agenda.

Maybe it's because after that glorious moment that the heavens opened up and accepted you in as one of their own, most often called "salvation", you realized that, in church, you spent more time questioning your salvation instead of moving beyond it, into sanctification.  That salvation was presented as this amazing doorway that was opened up before you, promising mountaintop highs, and a companion that could grant you any wish along this journey called life.  Salvation came, emotions waned away, and the faith spoken of so frequently in reference to the ancients became a dirty word, only because of the guilt and "christian service" attached to it.  I'm sure you've wondered at some point in time, what happens after salvation?

Now that you think about it, you can almost point out what the church expected to see in you once salvation came; quietly slipping in their subtle cultural expectations of you, sometimes making indirect jabs during sermons at the person you are, whether it's how you look, or dress, or how you talk; as if these are the determining factors of whether or not you're "saved".  The thought of the church's preoccupation with appearing normal and/or acceptable haven't left your mind, they've just been suppressed.

Come to think about it, you're not even sure if the church knows, or cares, who you are, where you came from, why you do what you do or did what you did, or even what kind of life you live outside of Sunday morning.  Instead, your tithe has come across as more important than your person.  George Thorogood comes to mind as you realize the similarities... "she said that don't confront me, long as I get my money next Friday".  Never mind the demons you fight to suppress, never mind the struggles you're going through, never mind the doubts, the questions, (pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!)... as long as you give your ten percent next Sunday.
A bourbon, a scotch and/or a beer might even sound good right about now in your thought process, once you realize and accept that there's no one from the church there with you to tell you it's a sin.
Jesus Christ.  (-clink- pop!) 
You didn't think you'd end up here, but nevertheless, here you are.

The sin management means of control you're so familiar with isn't jiving with the paramount notion of grace the church seldom mentions, but you can't help but feel like that is something they should be talking about, and a lot more, judging by how little you know of it.

You might even be getting kinda pissed, like you, and others, are and have been getting fleeced in this whole deal.  If grace is so great, why doesn't anyone talk about it?  Wouldn't grace imply some sort of freedom?  And what does that freedom look like, since you don't think you've heard anyone ever mention it in church?

So, for the first time in...well, ever, you pull out your Bible.  Not out of obligation or duty or expectation, but to actually learn something.  To find answers, just like all the commercials and billboards claim.  Out of all those pages, there has to be something in there that talks about life on a level deeper than a baptismal font.
Your eyes gaze over words, hungering for truth.  It might not happen right then, that first time, but something begins to stir.  You read from books never talked about from the pulpit, and for some reason, it's beginning to make sense.
You come to learn that life isn't about this radical and instantaneous transformation you've learned the church wants, but it's about a life-long process.  No relationship on earth begins at the same level as one that's endured a lifetime; hell, you even realized that the nation of Israel, the people God chose, weren't being transformed right away either, or even if ever!

You can now see that these conversion factories aren't interested in anything other than the conversion, so they pay little attention to the process that gets you there, and even less to the process that begins after you've reached the end-zone they've established.  And if you stick around long enough afterwards, they'll put you to work.
     It's funny how the church took on the characteristics of the people in it, looking to get something from the church.  Or is it the other way around...?

As time passes following your departure from the institution, life throws curve ball after curve ball at you.  None of the platitudes or chants you were taught to regurgitate apply; in fact, you find yourself sickened by your own hypocrisy for even muttering the words.  You've become hyper-aware of the possible thoughts and questioning looks on the faces of others who might hear you.

You find yourself praying out of desperation, rather than obligation, often in disgust, or anger, or frustration.  And to your surprise, you're finding that those are the prayers that seem to elicit a response from a God who doesn't seem quite so far away now.  Instead of perfected and wordy prayers, you've come to rather enjoy the breath-of-fresh-air unscheduled conversations with the One who made you.  For the first time in your life, you don't feel the pressure to change, because God hasn't told you that you need to, after all.

You realize that as the church went from being the 'expression of God in the world' to the self-titled 'sole authority of God's word', it removed the possibility of a relationship with God from the masses, and enslaved its members to its own law once again.
But now, now that you've removed yourself from that, you experience freedom.  You hear the words "there's no condemnation in Christ," but sort of chuckle when you think 'there sure is in the church, though.'

In your conversations with the Big Guy, you discuss things that plague you, most of which end up boiling down to matters of your fear, your selfishness, or your pride.  Or all three.
Yeah, all three.

The immensity of the stranglehold those have on your life bear down on you, and suddenly, the cross doesn't look so bad.  An exasperated, half-joking, "God you'll have to do this for me" lights off a million light bulbs in your brain, one of which illuminates a distant memory that the church never said anything about this.

Welcome to Faith.

Done with Church? (Part 1)

For those who are "done" with church:

You have no idea how excited I am for you!  I'm sure that's probably the last thing you were expecting to hear from anyone, especially since making the decision to walk away from church. 

If you have already announced your decision, in no matter which form, you've probably caught some static from the people around you.  If you haven't made your decision a matter of public record yet, don't worry, you'll be catching all kinds of crap when you do.  Whether it's from the people in the church, or family, or neighbors, or whoever; whether it's in the form of people questioning you, or talking behind your back, or even people completely writing you off and never talking to you again; your social circles will probably change.

This is going to be an exciting time in your life!  No more bondage to Sunday mornings!  One more day on the weekend you can sleep in, one more morning to catch up on the Sunday news shows, one more morning you have to do some recreational Walmarting.  

I totally feel your pain; I have been in your shoes before, standing right where you stand right now.  I know what it's like to be involved in a church.  Have the family involved, be at all the functions, show up when the lights are on.  Doing your Christian duty, doing the God-thing on Sunday mornings, tithing and praying and reading your Bible and serving, or at least trying to...

Yet something's not right.  You can't really put it into words, or even put your finger on what it could be.  There's no fulfillment from any of the serving and attending and bible studies you're doing.  Every once in a while you get the idea in your head that you're really not doing anything more than going through the motions.  This can't be all there is to being a Christian... is it?  

You tried ignoring those feelings, and agreed to push through the uncertainty, listening to sermon after sermon on mustard seeds and proper behavior and giving and being holy and blessings of prosperity, knowing that none of these are addressing the growing void in your gut.  

Depending on your determination to push through this. or your tolerance of self abuse, whatever you like to call it; this "phase" could last weeks, months, or even years.  But when the end of your church-going era comes, you know that you know that you know.  You are DONE.

Ice Storm. Ha.

Journal Entry 1
Winter morning.


     Ah, my backyard.  The mundaneness and wildness dissatisfy me to no end, yet it draws me here quite consistently.
     Dreams of taming the wood-fenced sandpit spurn me to visions of a self-sustaining utopia, but lack of finances (and always a lack of time) force the changes to be minuscule and somewhat unnoticeable.

     I should be recovering from the mental onslaught that is college algebra, but God answered my desperate and fear-filled prayers with weather that, as usual, forces this southern state to shut down in anticipation of an icy armageddon.  The world wakes up with hopes of a thick blanket of crippling ice, but the reality is that we've received heavier frosts.
     The determining factor in whether I drive anywhere or not is if my dogs slip as they rush out the back door to relieve bladders.  This morning was no different than the last.  Maybe they could smell the chill as I opened the door for them; maybe the arctic air that rushed in at their feet was enough to tame the call of nature -to remind them that despite their four legs, despite their animal instincts, the blankets and pillows on the couches would be much warmer.
     They are spoiled, and therefore, not rushed, so no one slips.
     Even now, all I can see is eyeballs emerging from the corners; buried in piles of plush blankets, fluffed on newly mangled pillows; my companions, my babies wait for me.

     The weather has afforded me a few extra hours to catch up on some reading for tomorrow, but the window beckons.
     My fear with returning to school was losing my mornings, the time where my brain flows in its most creative mode.  Mornings remind me of the beauty of life, the perseverance of life, regardless of our best efforts to control every moment of it.  Mornings are my worship, and sometimes that worship responds.
     As the mornings slip away, so too, the words that flow from grey matter to hands, hands to pen, pen to paper.
     If it is necessary that I travel during this creative time, I am naked if I leave my house without any one of my trillion notebooks.  (Should I die tomorrow, I pray that my husband and closest friends could find all I've written, and miraculously publish it all, hopefully to the end of providing the Waldenesque life my husband so desires.)

     This particular morning, and the extra time it has awarded me, are giving way and releasing the looming clouds of frustration; offering as a peace-treaty with my inner battle, clarity for all I'm involved in.  Whispers of purpose, and all things tying together, no matter how brief, give me new excitement for the next few months of my life.  Sure, I'll be busy, and sure, I'm really going to have to prioritize what needs to be done.  Those thoughts, those things that are new to my schedule that have a tendency to overwhelm me, cannot find a stronghold in my thinking on a morning like today.
     There is a god in heaven, and he is merciful, if only for the reason that of all my reading assignments, and all my projects, and all the (forced) paper assignments to write, there is one class that requires a journal.  Be still my heart!  The creative juices will not be dammed up this semester!

     The damp, the cold, the slick outside can't crush my spirits this morning, as they are usually able to.  The lack of unobstructed sunlight outside doesn't matter today, for the morning shares revelation in brief moments, snapshots of purposes, and big picture understanding, which all make way for the light to emanate from me today; giving me the intestinal fortitude to press on and not give up.  I can't control the weather, but every once in a while, I can let the weather not control me.

     I should be reading about Hinduism right now.  As fascinating as it is, or some think it should be, nothing beats the call of the backyard.
      It has the familiarity of home.  Consistency.  Convenience partnered with purpose, so to be useful and enjoyed, all at the same time.
     But it always shows me something different.  Some days it shows me peace, other days it shows me possibility; in itself, and in the world around me.
     Darkness and light both speak to me in the backyard.
     The trees erupting from beyond the fence, although never losing leaves, serve as a surprising canvas that changes almost daily.  As much as I claim to hate the long-leaf pines of North Carolina, they continue to surprise me; gracing me with new perspectives, never in my face but always there; stoic in that no matter which birds land in their branches, which animals rub and destroy their lower barks, or which machines run into them by accident, they remain.  Quiet.  Strong.  Growing.  Such a combination that seems inevitable for the natural world, but so nearly impossible for humanity.
     If only I could be so quiet, that pride and arrogance would never plague me.  To be so strong that small things could rest on me, or big things run into me, and remain undamaged.  To be growing, patiently, rolling with what's thrown at me, strengthening my roots, forming my shape, but not determining my identity.
     The beauty of the trees is what I'd like to see in me.  It's easy to see it in them; they aren't corrupted by arrogance, polluted by free will...  But, in the hindsight perspective of the life I've lived, how much fun would life be without those things?

      My morning ponderings reveal greater truths, things my soul needs to be reminded of.  This new phase of my life, this midlife return to academia, is a means to an end, albeit an end I may not see clearly yet.
     The morning shows me what it is.  Enduring, persevering.  I can imagine myself there.  Morning reminds me of the experiences of my life that have made me enduring, experiences where necessity showed me that I too can persevere.
     The morning also shows me that she will always be the morning, no matter what we wake up to: snow, ice, rain, warm, cold, sweltering, wind, calm.  She is the morning.  The things that adorn her don't make her any different that what she is, she is morning.  
     I am reminded, thankfully, that I am who I am, too.  That no matter what I do in this life, it is merely a decoration; an adornment.  It doesn't change who I am at the core.

     Surrounded by youth, and those who share their wealth of knowledge with a corner of the world willing to pay for it, I am glad that this reminder of who I am came early in my academic journey.
     I am not plagued by a need to belong, so the usual calls of campus student life have no appeal to me.  Teacher's pet is no use to me either, for so much identity is lost in trying to be some one's favorite, not to mention exhausting.
     I am, however, a common ground person.  No matter the relationship, I try to find, and build on, common ground.  I have to remind myself that this isn't a "me-jump-into-your-world" exercise, because that only works when both parties in the relationship are willing to go all in into the life of the other.  There's an intimacy, a trust, and a deeper friendship; a brethren, kindred spirit kind of dynamic that I really don't think will surface in this place, with these people, in this period of my life.  Well, as far as I can tell; it is, after all, only the third day of classes.

     Do I approach my new assignment as a period of time where I glean everything I can, or do I embrace who I am in this; learning as I go, rolling with the punches, growing, staying humble, and keeping quiet...
   
     My answer is written in the morning.
          Be who you are.  That cannot, nor will it ever, change.
               But enjoy the adornments, for they will come and go.

     The sheet of ice melts, the water drips from the roof, and morning fades into afternoon.
   

Beginnings

Blanketed by darkness, the air is so frigid that it glistens; hanging on with all its might to maintain its icy grip with each passing minute.

But the sun rising is inevitable; revealing its power across the expanse with achingly slow patience.

As the light creeps through the sky, stretching from one horizon to the next, the first rays reach more than just the sky; thin and wispy ribbons of clouds are the first to give evidence to the new day.  Their contrast to the lightening sky are the first strokes of this day's brush; the calling card of the artist; singing of possibilities so endless, and all by design.

The darkened shadows of the newly exposed treetops are the next in line to stand out, giving more definition to an uneven horizon.

Sunrise casts a veil between the sky and the earth, woven in brilliant threads that disperse the light into millions of tiny flashes; each sparkling as if the air itself was made up of the dust of all the diamonds of the world.

The dust settles where the sunlight lands; from behind the veil the wind sways the new horizon.

The cold and the dark are helpless here; bound to lose, but hanging on to their last moments as if they could change the inevitable.

The sun peeking over the horizon releases the veil, and gently drops it to the ground in a silent billowy show; sure to be missed if not witnessed.

As the veil descends to earth, the full and direct rays of the sun hit the top edges of the shadowed horizon, giving clear identification to all that marks the landscape.  The needles of the pines brush up against the sky on the whim of the winds, the light revealing the glory of the colors and complexities of creation.

The darkness loses its grip.  The light, as it shines brighter and higher in the sky, only shows its strength in its brilliant difference from the dark.  The shadows only grow deeper and darker in their retreat, preventing any revelation of what it hides.

As the light hits the trees, with no veil to protect its fullness, creation becomes the veil.
     Glory revealed... through colors... light and shadows... wind... shapes... sounds... movement... reflection.... purpose.

With everything now visible as a reflection of the expression of light, the darkness has no escape.  The risen sun begins to illuminate formerly hidden places; revealing what's there, but without the distortion, without the cover, and without the deception that darkness can bring.

The winds, unseen, serve in their dual purposes of whisking away the vestiges of the shriveling dark, making room for and ushering in the light; light that filters through creation, and slips in where it will... bringing heat... bringing life.

New

Oh, how positively cliche of me to write a blog on the first day of the new year.  But I have to capture some stuff floating and bouncing around in my grey matter, and you, dear reader, are the second benefactor of my brain barfings.  (The first benefactor being myself, of course; writing is how I snapshot and process what's going on in my head.  If you know me well, you know this already. If you don't know me well, then, welcome to my dementia.)

I don't get all sentimental at typical celebrations, or on particular dates.  Holidays (& holy days) are very atypical for me; our tradition in our house is to not have traditions.  Or something like that.

New years is no different.  After many years of drunken debauchery, in a rare glimpse of sober clarity, I realized that I felt no different on new years day than I did on new years eve, or the 364 days prior to that, other than the hangover that took me longer to recover from year after year.

Maybe I drank into the new year to numb the impending personal let down; knowing deep down that I'd yet to stick with any new years resolution.  Ever.  Who knows.  Nor do I care; at this point in my life, if I was to go on a new years bender even remotely resembling new years benders of the past, it would take me all of January to recover.  And frankly, I don't have time for that.

What I can say, clear-minded, is that just like everything else I've tried to shrug off in the past year, something's different now.  Maybe because I'm in a constant state of learning; of history, of tradition, and the meanings and context behind things.  This has been the case for my holidays and most of my experiences this past year.  As I've learned to meanings of and histories behind specific days, whether seasons or holidays, celebrations or rituals, I've tried to pay them no mind, not let them sink their hooks into this girl.

Alas, despite my best efforts... well, not really.  I should say, despite my best efforts at just getting out of God's way, all of these special days on the calendar have been affecting me, but not in the expected ways.

Normal church holidays, for example.

Easter has gone from a once-a-year holiday to a daily celebration; one that has deeply and most profoundly affected my life.  Rather than be a day of remembrance, it has become a new way to live.  This itself has probably been the biggest life altering mindset change in my life.

The days of Christmas being a consumerist's dream are gone.  We only have my stepson on Christmas every other year, and it's been that way for the last ten years.  So Christmas has always been a creative holiday, in that we've had to come up with new fitting ways to celebrate.  Only a few of those years were "Santa" years.  Believe it or not, we've had the most fun in the "not Santa" years.  But nothing has ever been consistent in our last ten Christmases together; whether it was the different days we opened gifts, or the different income levels which drastically dictated the thought put into each gift, or even the locations of where we'd open gifts.  Even the anticipation for Christmas morning, no matter what day we celebrated it on, has changed.  It went from the typical "can't wait for the boy to open his presents"; to the less than spectacular "let's just do this because it's expected" as we each learned about the history of Christmas, the roots of the celebrations, the religious ties, and the cultural contexts; then back to the "can't wait to open presents", as we found ourselves comfortable in the midst of the cultural celebration that Christmas has become in this country.
You won't find anyone in our household jumping on the 'Jesus is the reason for the season' bandwagon.  But you will notice two distinct levels of the celebration; one played out to the mimic the American Christmas, and then the deeper, and immense event that stirs the marrow-deep gratitude that can only be manifested in our daily lives in a way that makes our cultural Christmas look like a gross mockery.

Holidays had to be undone, made unholy to me for the obvious reasons.  Then God had to re-make them holy in my life.

Sooo....

I went to bed before midnight last night, knowing that when I woke up, it would still be 2015, whether I watched the transition from one calendar to the next or not.

I woke this morning with new ideas.  New inspirations, new motivations.

It's one thing to declare what I want to do in the coming year, or what changes I want to make.  When I'm the one driving the best of my own intentions, I'm sure to let myself down.  But when I give up the reigns, and quit trying so damn hard to do or be something I'm not supposed to be, even if it's just "yet", then I remain surprised at the way life happens.

I thought  that I had one big thing coming up in 2015, and that was to return to college as a full time student.  That's what I fell asleep to last year.  I woke this year with a new anticipation.  (I love playing with words, as if last year and this year were separated by anything more than a mere second in the midst of the eight hours I slept.)

The new year I awoke to promises more than I expected.  They usually do.  In fact, they always do.

I see new projects.  Why I'd wake up with a project in mind (that my right mind says will probably be way too much for me) is beyond me.  Even if it's for no other reason than to envision the project and immediately ask God how the holy hell I'm going to find time to do this; then realize it's gonna be Him anyways, so why worry.

I had no 'great expectations' of, or for, the new year, other than what I'd already planned.  (This year being no different than the last few years, I made no resolutions.  I didn't want to set myself up for disappointment by resolving to be or do anything better, or more, or less.)
I'm excited about school, but school itself isn't the passion I'm chasing.  But one of these projects keeps my passions moving forward; not out of necessity, but out of desire.  Not the end goal, but part of the process.
I knew I'd be getting more deeply involved in community, but awoke this morning with different and new ideas to engage community.  My passion for the vision of what community looks like in our setting was stoked overnight by a holy wind, flames building and spreading.  Again, not the end goal, but more pieces in the process.

The last few years has been a process of deconstructing what I think of everything, letting go of expectations in order to even be open to learning and extracting what I need.  The most interesting thing about it all has been as I've let go of my limited expectations, God's still meeting me where I don't expect Him to, and He's shown up in almost everything I've dismissed.  Nothing looks the same anymore.

What a difference a day makes!