Journal entry: "Clarity"

I was going to write about validation and call it just that. Instead, I'm moved to call this "Clarity." In the midst of a time dominated by needing to find validation (an unworthy and unrighteous endeavor), this quest for validation has finally come to an end, and with the divine absence of validation, clarity is allowed to push itself through.

I've been saying "it's not about me." I never meant it.

The heart change that only God could have done is realized because of the peace that passes understanding, and the desire to glorify the Lord in this season because of the LOVE HE HAS FOR ME .

1 John 4:16

"And so we know and rely on the love God has for us."

I had to chew on this truth for some time, and I'm still gnawing on it.

God/Jesus/The Holy Spirit does not depend on my life, nor does "how much" I love Him, what I do or don't do-God would indeed exist without me. Everything would move on. The reality of the situation is that my life is not about me. My own life is not actually mine. I can say this now with newfound clarity and assurance, thanks to the Gospel of Jesus.

Journal Poem: 19.10.11

The Gospel says love.

The Gospel says serve.

The Gospel says speak.

The Gospel says go.

The Gospel says everyone but myself.

The Gospel says death

and the Gospel says life.

The Gospel says give it away.

The Gospel says Truth is alive.

The Gospel says freedom.

The Gospel says sacrifice.

The Gospel says to rest

and the Gospel says to move in joy.

The Gospel says to be still--

it is finished.

Journal entry: October 10, 2011

Perhaps I should stop asking "What do I want to do?" or even "What do you want me to do?" These questions truthfully make this life sound all about me. And perhaps subconsciously, that is what I think.

So, it is with a full, expectant heart, that I pose the following to You, Lord:

What do YOU want to do?

I'm in it, but I'm not. I surrender to your purposes for my life and ask simply that you would use me for kingdom advancement; I would be honored to be part of the work at hand.

I pray, then, for peace of mind, clarity, and direction. In all the muddle of options, you are sovereign, and you know what's best.

Prayer: *Let me be to others as you have been to me, Lord.*Would that the Gospel radically transform me.*That the fruit I bear would be a result of a deep, intimate love with Jesus.*My actions and life choices would be motivated by such urgency to get the Gospel to others--mercy ministry be motivated by love of God for others and for myself, not by "what I can do for them."*In all things, that I glorify Him--an answer must be coming, and not just because I "feel" it, but because You are good, and I trust You.

I await the call as to where you're moving.

Journal entry: September 1, 2011

When I'm not close to You, I'm sinking. The earth begins to crack open, the omen of shattering laying heavy among your people.

Sparks from the depth of the earth fly into the heavens--red and orange and black.

My mind, just before falling in, drifts to the ocean--good days of blessing and laughter and communion with You. I reach up to blue, all the while sparks flying forward and backward and sideways.

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I don't fall in. I sit on the ledge, feet dangling over the heated pit. It beckons flesh: gratification, "ease," wealth, promises (empty), worthless temptation.

I look back, realizing I don't have to do this.

A field beyond calls--a voice calls. The God/Man waits, and above the hellish voices, I hear whispers in my soul to come to Him.

There is nowhere else to go: He is it. I've always known, but a predisposition -- it creeps up every now and again.

-----------------------

I'm in a field of wildflowers. Yellow and white and pink, and the Savior of the world is with me, calling my name. He wants me, though I deserve the cracks. He is my stability. He keeps me from wandering.

Journal entry: July 15th, 2011

Here starts (perhaps) a series of personal journal entries; I send them out to the blog-world in an effort to read through what I've written, sort it all out, and gain some perspective.

Today's "Jesus Calling" speaks of the danger of self-pity, how this invites us to step into a slimy pit of despair and depression.

I know from experience the depth of this pit and the cakey-ness of the mud, how it sticks to you, and you try and try to get out, to no avail.

It all seems hopeless, and so one day, you give up and just plop into the mud and cease fighting.

A long time passes, and eventually, it dawns on you that the only hope in the world is above you--not in the pit, not in other people, not in an imaginary utopia, and certainly not in yourself. So you look up to the light that was there all along and surrender to it, asking for help.

And God comes.

Trust grows.

Thanksgiving, despite circumstances, abounds.

While you focus on Him in trust, you begin to rise ever so slowly out of the abyss of despair. Finally, you can reach up and the hand of God rescues you. He pulls you into His light. He cleans you up. He holds you. And He clothes you in HIS righteousness, walking in the path of life.

Psalm 147:11
"But the Lord takes pleasure in those who fear Him, in those who hope in His steadfast love."

Small Notebooks and Memories.

I collect small notebooks that turn tattered and ugly; I refuse to throw them away. They're used to record recipes, sermon notes, directions and phone numbers, to-do lists, grocery lists, wish-lists, books to read, new singers to check out, Scriptures, Spanish words I want to look up.

On top of all this, I fill the notebooks with random pieces of paper or business cards or flyers--it's all very messy.

I love a good notebook. I could never tolerate an electronic device. I want it all tangible.

One of my more recent tiny books has held a yellowed, crumpled paper that I started writing on about a year ago; the heading is simply "To write-."

I remember writing this page fairly soon after I got off the place from Peru to the US--the final time I'd cross from the Southern Americas for awhile. Here is what this almost torn-in-half paper says:

The American Dream
"having it all"
24 and married
ipads
mortgages/renting
Being something great
who we are, defined by society

If I had written on all of this in August 2010, it would have been me throwing up a load of complaints about our culture and society, progress, money and possessions, politics and the economy, expectations, etc: A diatribe on "Things that make Sarah angry." I'll spare you this, and instead describe an occurrence that made me sit back for a year and soak in all kinds of remarkable lessons that have led to healing.

There is a vivid memory in my mind, the thing that spawned this list: Sitting outside a yogurt shop with Leslie. We are in downtown Athens, taking in the late August cooldown (77 instead of 97 at 8 o'clock), chatting, but half-listening to a group of University students at a nearby table.

One girl in particular seemed to dominate the conversation while her entourage listened and perked up periodically. She was distinctly preppy-looking (I hate to presume she was in a sorority, but this is probably the case), talking to a group of co-ed's (the young men, I noticed, looking very bored). They were "discussing life," in their 20-something way, and she made a statement resembling the following:

"Oh I KNOW I'll be married by 24. I have to be--I wouldn't know what to do otherwise."

I chuckled at this comment then, and I laugh even still, now 25 and single. I've spent a year of "not-knowing." I potentially have years to come. But I've learned to rest. Maybe when I was 20 or 21, I too found it unfathomable to be a single 24-year-old. But in this year of transition, I've found a freedom in being with Jesus that I know is unique, unlike any time I'll have in the future as a wife and a mother.

I'm savoring it.

I'm learning about the invention of a so-called American Dream--we, in fact, cannot have it all.

I don't want it all.

I'm 25 and single.

I don't have a house; I'm renting a sweet apartment with Leslie as of a few weeks ago.

I don't own an iphone or an ipad.

I don't want one.

It's a daily lesson to speak the words to God: "Thank You for everything. I trust You." The days I forget to do so are pretty awful.

My potential, my beauty, my greatness, and my being are all wrapped up in Jesus and His righteousness clothing me. I do believe I have everything in Him--and I know He is directing my steps, even on days when I feel like I'm only walking along the edge of a cliff.

On Rain.

What a time the last ten months have been.

I write as I listen for the rain. Spattered rumbles of thunder, shifting leaves as creatures move to find their way home. Clouds dipping low as the burnt gold glow of last sunlight dully shines through the trees.

Rain brings healing. The passing of seasons bring growth. As spring births summer, it's easy to become steadily comfortable. However, I want my heart to be always prompted to bear fruit akin to spring rains watering the earth, buds blooming and seeds lighting up.

*********************************************************************************

I wrote to You to bring the rain, and you did.

It was glorious, smelling hints of it and wondering if it would come--
then listening to leaves rustle as
big drops of water begin to land on the earth.

The cool steadiness of it was soothing, as Your Word to our souls.
The whiteness of the water contrasting against green trees:
Astounding.

Pouring down now.
More than just sending rain.
Flooding this place with even more proof of a creator.

Rooted.

I've been reading a book by Mark Buchanan called Spiritual Rhythm. I highly recommend it to anyone, but especially to people who find themselves in any kind of transition. The following is an excerpt from the chapter entitled "Sustaining." Buchanan writes about trees and water and meditation and attitude and action....all sorts of things that he somehow poetically, beautifully, ties into Scripture. (See Psalm 1:3: "They are like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither--whatever they do prospers.")

Buchanan writes:

"And blessed are those who choose what, on the surface, looks bland, routine, boring: being rooted. In contrast to the frenetic activity of those who heed the wicked--a blur of motion, they are--those who heed the Word are immovable. The frenetic activity of the wicked increasingly parches them, whereas the stillness of the blessed continuously nourishes them. The blessed are not going anywhere, which in this case is a good thing. The apostle Paul warns that if we do not grow in Christ, bearing fruit, we will be 'blown here and there by every wind of teaching.' We'll be like tumbleweed, fallen leaves, chaff: something rootless. But we're meant to be trees, deeply rooted. Trees may be buffeted by winds, and bend beneath them, but if the roots are strong and deep, they stay where they are. Immovable.

Being rooted. That's a mixed picture. Does it convey stability or sterility? Strength, or cowardice? Sturdiness, or stuckness? Perseverance, or stubborness? Contentment, or complacency?

Both. It depends.

Sometimes rootedness is an alibi for doing nothing, going nowhere. Sometimes it's a failure to dream and take risks. Sometimes it's a way of justifying a life of complacency: 'I'm just staying rooted.'

But mostly, rootedness is a picture of strength. It's a picture of a life that is deep and vibrant, richly alive without having to chase the next thing, and the next one after that. It's a picture of one who 'bears fruit in season.'"

I read this and wanted to call up the author and thank him for writing it for me.. My prayer is something new, based on what the Lord has been teaching me of late. Before I encountered this chapter, I had already started talking about the idea of being rooted with Karen, a lady who essentially mentors me (whether she knows this or not).

Karen said I should just dig deep and plant roots wherever I am. Until recently, I would not have received this well--I wasn't ready. Furthermore, I assumed that planting roots meant that I was "stuck" in a particular place for the rest of my life.

But I see it now--it's just a part of life. When I plant the roots, they'll come up at some point--they have to. Trees live and die and are reborn from seeds previously blown into the wind, landing on fertile soil. It will probably hurt, this uprooting.

I have to go ahead and do it, though. The hurt will only mean one good thing: That I loved deeply.

My prayer then, is that I am rooted in Jesus, first and foremost. It's something I've prayed before. Meditation on the Word brings delight, brings rootedness. May I dig deeply into the Word, that it would saturate my soul and bring even more healing. Furthermore, that my rootedness would bear fruit; while I'm in Athens, GA, my hope is that people see the fruit of labor rendered in full pursuit of better knowing the triune God. Finally, that I am not complacent in this time of transition. I want to take risks again, dream again, live life to the fullest. As I approach my birthday, I recognize the roots I'm placing into this Georgia ground. It scares me a little, even still--but I am stilled in the knowledge that the Lord God is not only rooting me in Him, in this place, in this time--but that He is also helping me dig up all this fallow ground, making room for more fertile...stronger...better soil in which to plant.

For Stephanie, On Her Wedding Day

To Steph:

Remember when I was back—it was the summer of 2009, and I felt like you didn’t let me out of your sight.

I recall watching you from your bed, before you climbed in and we slept, like sisters do. I commented on how we were a pair. You said something about being “best friends,” which I didn’t let into my being—instead, it bounced off my own wall of protection, a wall I didn’t know had been created.

“You know, we better pray you get married before I do,” I commented.

You turned to me, a look of semi-hurt in your eyes, your jaw dropped open.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, if I get married first, you would be…too affected. Unable to let me go.”

You chuckled, I tried to assure you, in my naïveté, that it didn’t really matter.

The thing is, you did let me go when I went to South America. And I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now: It doesn’t matter who leaves first, or who gets married first, because it is always very hard to let someone go.

So I write this now in the knowledge that I was wrong: You would indeed have been the strong one had God given me someone “first.” Instead, He now grows me in learning not only to trust Him, but to depend on Him in this time. Perhaps you saw the roots of these lessons come up in your own life while I was away…

So it turns out I’m not as “strong” as I thought. It turns out, it is very hard for me to let you go.

I know you’ll be here. I know we’re still wonderful friends. I know this because of Jesus and what He does when He binds sisters together who don’t share blood—it’s only in Him that I love you so much.

When the calls started coming to Peru from Georgia about this guy, I knew pretty quickly that Dane was the one for you. In fact, at the risk of boasting, I think I had this gut-feeling the first time you called to tell me about him. So, needless to say, I’ve had time to prepare.

In this time, I’ve discovered a few things:
I barely know Dane; however, the first time I met him, I saw how he looked at you. It was absolute love. Then, I began to recognize honor, protection, and respect. I’m so thankful God has brought you into marriage with such a man. I praise Jesus for Dane.

If I have to give you away, I can’t think of a better person you belong with. I can’t think of a better best friend for you.

I just ask that you keep me in mind. I will always, always keep you in my heart, Steph.

For My Sister, On Graduation

Today, sitting on the other side of the stage was surreal. I forgot about the excitement you must feel over completing this phase of your life.

It was only three years ago for me; I now claim no knowledge as my own. I only claim Jesus and what He has imparted to me.

Here is what I want to tell you:

Dream big for His Glory--knowing He may humble you.

Make plans for His Glory--knowing that He may have another, better plan.

Take risks for His Glory--risking it all for the name of Jesus.

Make mistakes, not because we are "allowed" to, but because it is inevitable--and know that He redeems them.

Live hard and passionately for His Glory, willingly spending yourself for Him.

Go boldly into the world for His Glory--knowing that He aims to use you for His Kingdom work, so that all people will know His name.

In the midst of commencing something new and celebrating something finished, I think we are whirled into fallacies that our culture deems acceptable. But, I have to say this:

Life is hard. Life is beautiful, but it's just plain hard. You can't "have it all" ("it" being whatever our society defines as "all"). I don't think any of us really want it all, anyway.

God makes life joyful, hopeful. He gives us everything in His Son Jesus, and we get to live and rest and play and do life all because of this abundant, abiding ability we've been given. Trials come, but Jesus is there--He never leaves. He has overcome the world.

Keep dreaming, daring, adventuring, risking. But don't lose sight of the One who gives you the capacity to do this.

From Jesus Calling:

Thank Me in the midst of the crucible. When things seems all wrong, look for growth opportunities. Especially, look for areas where you need to let go, leaving your cares in My able hands. Do you trust Me to orchestrate your life events as I choose, or are you still trying to make things go according to your will? If you keep trying to carry out your intentions while I am leading you in another direction, you deify your desires.

Be on the lookout for what I am doing in your life. Worship Me by living close to Me, thanking me in all circumstances.
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And if you faithfully obey the voice of the Lord your God, being careful to do all his commandments that I command you today, the Lord your God will set you high above all the nations of the earth. And all these blessings shall come upon you and overtake you, if you obey the voice of the Lord your God. -Deut. 28:1-2

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time He may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on Him, because He cares for you.
-1 Pet 5:6-7

Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. -1 Thess. 5:18

Green.

If someone had asked me a year ago if I saw better times coming, I would have laughed bitterly, snickering, and probably just cried my way through a sad monologue, trying to convey the depth of hurt and pain that I felt. No one would ever have understood what I was going through, I was convinced of this.

While 2010 saw agony and regret and bitterness and sorrow and many, many tears, 2011 is bringing redemption and healing. Praise God.

God is bombarding me with words and lessons and, perhaps more important, love. I still have hard days; I believe everyone does. To be honest, my winter, though it is leaving, shows its face every now and then. But the cool thing, the heavenly thing, is that when remnants of my 'winter of the heart' reappear, God has told me, ingrained in me, and given me the desire to take whatever hurt, whatever frustration, or whatever circumstance--and give it fully to Jesus and let Him have it. He knows what I'm going through. And in everything, I trust Him and give Him thanks for this moment, for just simply living life with me.

I'm seeing God's face and provision in countless small things. If anything, just reading my journal and tracing Scripture I've recorded, or conversations I remember having with friends and mentors--those are the things that help me remember that I am always going to be learning new things while I walk with Christ. He is teaching me about decision-making, being wholly confident in the Gospel, trusting Him and leaning into Him in everything, understanding that He is FOR me, how my attitude affects everything, seasons that come and go, and seeking first the Kingdom of God. This doesn't even scratch the surface, really.

Here is a song I wish I had written; instead, Sara Groves penned words that I know to be very true in this moment. It's a miracle that I can finally identify with this healing. Enjoy! :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtpZfYG1nBs
It's been a hard year
But I'm climbing out of the rubble
These lessons are hard
Healing changes are subtle
But every day it's

Less like tearing, more like building
Less like captive, more like willing
Less like breakdown, more like surrender
Less like haunting, more like remember

And I feel you here
And you're picking up the pieces
Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad situation
But you are able
And in your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars and more like
Character

Less like a prison, more like my room
It's less like a casket, more like a womb
Less like dying, more like transcending
Less like fear, less like an ending

And I feel you here
And you're picking up the pieces
Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad situation
But you are able
And in your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars

Just a little while ago
I couldn't feel the power or the hope
I couldn't cope, I couldn't feel a thing
Just a little while back
I was desperate, broken, laid out, hoping
You would come

And I need you
And I want you here
And I feel you

And I know you're here
And you're picking up the pieces
Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad, bad situation
But you are able

And in your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars (x3), and more like character.

Top 15

Oh, how I love music. I mean, I adore music more than most really good things in this world. I love how it moves people, how it often means many things or sometimes nothing at all. I love the creative process that must go into it, though I know nothing of that. Above all, I love a good lyric. Poetry in music is profound.

I've been to several concerts of late, and then I saw pieces of the Grammys, and it made me start to think about some really wonderful songs. So, I've decided to share some with you, along with some thoughts as to why they mean something to me.

In no particular order, here are my songs and the stories behind why I chose them:

1. "Psalms 23," Trevor Morgan and Geoff Moore
This comes off the Glory Revealed II cd, and I didn't really discover the song until I was in Peru, though I'd had the album for awhile. My friend Ginny was talking to me about a verse in 1 Timothy (I think), and it made me trail off into Scripture and find some other relevant verses, and I came across Psalms 23. The performance is beautiful--the way Morgan sets the Psalmist's cry to music is deeply powerful. "You anoint my dead with oil, my cup overflows."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYtWlMURWsM

2. "Be Set Free," Josh Garrels
I was visiting some friends in Portugal and we got to go to a pro-surf competition in Peniche (one of the most breathtaking beaches I've ever seen). Afterwards, we hooked up with some missionary friends who work with Christian Surfers. Just being able to see this ministry in motion was a blessing; we helped with their event that night, which involved showing "Walking on Water," an evangelistic film with pro-surfer Bryan Jennings. I was completely astounded not only by the film, but by the passion for Jesus within the surfing community--it was very cool. The movie's soundtrack was awesome, too, and I ordered both soon after I returned to Peru. This track is one of the most chill songs I've ever encountered. I've worn it out pretty well, but one particular memory surrounding it involves a trip to Puno, Peru. I'm sitting on a boat, looking out on Lake Titicaca (blue beyond blue), and absolutely soaking up God's creation. He says to be set free every day.
http://www.walkingonwater.com/themovie/

3. "Abre Que Voy," Miguel Enriquez y Su Salson
I have to include a salsa song on my top list. I'm back in Orishas in Peru, dancing my heart away with Julia, Edu, Cesar, Rosmi, y Manuel. This song is beyond fun and takes me back to lots of salsa dancing. I miss it. :) "Salseros, se llaman, 'yo vengo'...and la clave starts.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LMfCCQUBwg4

4. "Your Love is Strong," Jon Foreman
This man is pretty much one of my heroes of the writing world. The man can write. I can't say enough about Jon Foreman; if I could just have lunch with him one day and pick his brain, I'd be a happy girl. This song is on his Spring EP--all of his "seasonal" EPs are whoa-crazy-good...go get them if you don't have them already. I remember walking around a retreat center at night in the middle-of-nowhere Peru and stumbling upon a group of our summer missionaries singing this song at the top of their lungs. I just sat and listened and soaked it up in the darkened room.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hA7YIqWzKfQ

5. "Come and Listen," David Crowder Band
Who doesn't love some awesome DCB? I remember getting "A/B Collision" and being absolutely blown away-Crowder is a creative genius. I would play this song on repeat at UGA, driving around campus-the song is so simple and beautiful. "Let me tell you what He has done for me..."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUxF3LULDG4&feature=related

6. "Gold Digger," Kanye West
Alright. After a few Jesus songs, I know it might seem weird that this is a top song for me. And yet, it is a top song based purely on the fact that every memory that pops into my head when it is played is a fun one. The one that will always stand out is the night my senior-year roomies and I hung out at our apartment waiting for Sara Lawrence to come back as a soon-to-be Mrs. Mitch Kimbrell. Christy, Mel, and I were absolutely ecstatic and high on the adrenaline of the knowledge that our friend was getting engaged. We danced to many songs (including this one, in which they and only they know what dance move I pulled out), sang, jumped up and down and laughed in general. CT and I even set a record driving to the store and back to get chocolate and sparkling Champagne to celebrate.
No link needed--everyone in the world knows "She give me money, when I'm in need..." and the notes that follow.

7. "Hold You in My Arms," Ray LaMontagne
I first discovered "Trouble." Then I fell in love with Ray. When I discovered "Hold You in My Arms," I made Stephanie listen to it at full volume, pretending Ray was singing to us or something. This is an epic song that moves everyone who hears it, I believe. His voice is beyond powerful and soulful and sexy; his writing-genius is on display here.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O6O-8crNF_M

8. "I Exalt Thee," Chris Quilala
I had never heard this song until August 2008. I was at the two month training with the International Mission Board and some of the Journeymen began to meet in the small chapel at night for worship sessions. We crammed upwards of 40 people in a space meant for 10 or 12 and sang our hearts out to Jesus. Chris Black usually led worship and he pulled this one out one evening and it blew me away. It's so simple. I will never, ever forget worshipping with those people and having that incredible acoustic sound waft through the wooden rafters, lift into the clouds, and reach the throne of God.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-lY8VQpSTY

9. "Mexico," James Taylor
This is one of the most fun memories I have in life: The James Taylor concert in North Carolina with my aunt, uncle, and cousins in 2005. I was working at a summer camp around there so I was able to spend some time with them. We went to James Taylor one warm evening and sat on the lawn and soaked up summer. It began to rain during "Mexico," and we danced on the lawn in the rain. Best night ever. This is a great clip, but we heard the full-band version-a little more upbeat. :)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FVAUP_Yigw

10. "Your Love, Oh Lord (Psalms 36)," Third Day
I loved Third Day even before I became a believer, which happened in September of 2009. I have been to more Third Day concerts in my life than anyone else (Bebo Norman is a close second). I love their sound, their lyrics, but above all, their purity in worship. This song is amazing. I will always rememeber my first mission trip: Honduras 2005. I went with Prince Avenue people, and one evening, Jacquelyn Gillette (who would later become my roommate and "JG") and I stood in a field, sky black with millions of stars lighting it up, and sang this song to Jesus. I close my eyes and can still see our shadows in that dark field.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEF7IoQ3eUk

11. "Wildfires," Josh Ritter
Laying on Ryan's couch in Lima. An unexpected sunny day in May. All doors and windows open, breeze and warmth coming in. Music on at full blast, Josh Ritter singing this haunting song. A beautiful afternoon.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OtCWvBpi37c

12. "Arise and Be Comforted," Watermark
This song is similar to "Psalms 23" for me, except I knew immediately the impact it would have on my life the moment I heard it. I bought a Watermark cd in 2006 and fell in love; I found more songs by them and happened across this one. I wore it out. Took it to Peru with me and wore it out there. It's an anthem for people who hurt, and we all hurt at some point in our lives. Christy and Nathan Nockels captured hurt and healing in this song perfectly.

13. "Lejos de Ti," Gian Marco
I'm not sure why I love this man, but I do. He's bald and at first look, not that attractive. Then I saw him in concert in Lima, Peru and pretty much almost fainted. There is something charming about him when you see him in person, and he is very attractive and has a beautiful voice. He has an awesome way with words in music, and he puts on a fantastic concert. Go see him, even if you don't speak Spanish. At the very least, listen to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZWI5XqZLDQ

14. "Sunday Morning," Maroon 5
Open up all your windows on a sunny-day drive through the country and tell me if you don't smile with this song. I've done this many times and it never fails. Enough said.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2Cti12XBw4

15. "Kind of Blue," Miles Davis
I didn't know much about instrumental music other than my Kenny G cd I had as a child (this is a fact that is hard to admit). However, as I started experimenting listening to other music, I heard a song by Miles Davis. I was about 13 or so, I think, and I went out and found two tapes of Miles Davis at Target. I bought them and began to fall in love.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEPFH-gz3wE

The Beautiful Thorn

Today I found a Peruvian thorn in my scarf.

Driving down 316 into Athens, passing familiar sights on the way to Walmart, I fingered the blue and brow-striped cloth wrapped around my neck for warmth on the chilly Winter day. I started a little as something stabed into my finger.

I looked down and saw Peru. My eyes registered memories instead of the actual object sticking through the end of the scarf. I felt very little pain from this protruding object; instead, happiness engulfs me as my lids shut and I remembered:

Trudging through the plants, I realize the thorns cover my cltohes, embedded into the threads that interwine. I try to pick them out, but no use. My failed attempt doesn't phase me in the midst of such beauty.

I feel the wind in my hair as I climb up enormous hills in Tinajani, sharp, jagged rocks flanking my sides; behind me, a green valley with a river cutting through tall grasses. Ahead, clear blue skies, the sun casting shadows on the images carved into the rocks by the hand of God. Dancing.

I hear the brush underfoot as I trample through plants with unknown names. I hear other footsteps, but am wrapped up in my reverie. I pick tiny flowers to hold onto throughout the trip. No reason or rhyme to this. Holding them lightly so as not to crush them, I stand in silence among years of ancient story, known only to the natural environment in which I find myself. And of course, to the Creator.

----------------

The Walmart parking lot is full of money, old and new. I enter thrhough the automatic doors, walk straight to my destination: The photo center.

I pay for the 33 prints of Peru. I smile as I open them up and touch my friends--some familliar, some strangers. I gaze around the store aimlessly. My steps lead me swiftly out of corporate hell.

I clutch the paper memories, climb into the car, find the thorn in my scarf, and smile in the silence.

A Long Wait.

Well hello, 2011.

It's been about three months since I posted anything on the ol' blog; to be honest, it's been about that long since I've written anything substantial at all.

I continue to journal and write things aimlessly, but nothing that I've aimed at developing to post and actually do something with.

This is me declaring my highly anticipated (wink, cough, laugh) return, after a short break, to the internet sphere of the writing world: The ever-present, sometimes hated, and never boring BLOG (cue dramatic music).

The blog is a funny entity to me. There are serious ones, stupid ones, funny ones, useless ones, useful ones, entertaining ones, boring ones, inspiring ones, etc, etc. Apart from channeling Dr. Seuss in that catalogue of blog-attributes, I would like to adopt an attitude based purely on sharing with you thoughts, stories, and the happenings of my not-so-interesting life (for the moment) on this blog.

I will attempt to convey something of worth or value as I write. This is not an evangelistic effort by any means; if anything, it's to share, through written word, life with anyone who happens upon "Washed By the Water," to the glory of Jesus. Not your Central American neighbor Jesus--Jesus Christ, Son of God, only Way to the Father God.

No apologies. No regrets. No false words. Just truth, reality, and life (maybe with some questioning, lamenting, rejoicing and cheesy emoticon "happy" smileys thrown in). That's my aim.

If you read these words, be blessed. More to come in the next few days.

I Believe In Miracles: A Reflection

Since returning to the United States on August 9, I have gone through more valleys, high mountains, big storms, hellish waters, calm waters, and beautiful fields where peace has indeed overcome my soul. With such differing circumstances, you can imagine my emotions have exceeded what one might classify as an "emotional limit," if such a thing exists. I've cried for hours on end, only to be followed by very happy times, whether spent with Christ Himself, family and friends, or just experiencing something new and being blessed in that.

Here are a few things that I've been astounded by over the last three(ish) months:

1. Soon after returning, I received a car loan from a ministry in Jonesboro, GA that gives cars to missionaries on furlough. I get to keep this car for about three months (ie, my time with the Nissan is coming to an end). It's been such a blessing to have a cheap car for such a time as this.
*Prayer request: I am going to need a car after I give this one up (there is a waiting list; believe me, I've checked to see if I can extend).

2. The International Mission Board kept paying me. There is a reason they keep the paychecks comin': I had zero desire to work once I got back, mainly because I couldn't figure out all my emotions and what was going on around me. So it's been nice to live off of what they (ie, Southern Baptists) have been giving me.
*Prayer request: I need a job. Yes, I've applied to a lot of things. Yes, I've interviewed with several of those things. Nothing has come of it. This job hunting thing pretty much sucks, but I'm confident God knows what is happening and something will come in time.....[PLEASE GOD, let it be time soon!!!]

3. I have been able to travel some and visit good friends. I've been to Greenville, SC, Raleigh/Durham, NC, Memphis, TN, Nashville, TN, Moultrie, GA, Athens, GA and Macon, GA. If I could, I would have hit up FL, TX and KY. Those are on the to-do list.

4. A kind lady named Brenda in Nashville counseled me. She was the first person who was willing to sit down with me and just listen. I cried more than anything, but she was okay with that. I debriefed with her, her husband, and some friends in Nashville and spent time on her farm, which is one of the most peaceful places in the world. And I grew to love Nashville (and Brenda) in that time. So thanks, God.

5. I spoke to Jesus. I mean, I'm still speaking to Jesus. I've spoken with Him in the past, but never like when I got back here. I had an encounter with Him like I've never had in my entire life, and a healing process started because of that encounter, for which I'll be forever grateful. I'm relearning a lot of things and discovering new ones. Praise God for He is good. Beyond good...Great...Enough.

6. I have gotten to talk to my parents. Some things have been revealed to me through observation and conversation, and God has moved in incredible ways--restoration, understanding, and maturity have come.
*Prayer request: Keep it comin'!

7. My sister Cristina has been someone to lean on. Praise God.

8. I met a lady at Starbucks the other day. I was listening to her conversation (yes, eavesdropping is bad, I know). But this was a God thing. I ran after her once she was done counseling a couple to ask where she goes to church. One thing led to another and she asked to meet with me and hear my story. We went to her church to chat (a really big one around here, that I like--it's just so BIG) and she sat with me during the singles/college worship deal and introduced me to some people. We'll see if God does anything with that. Regardless, the sole fact that I met her, and that she was such an encouragement to me and willing to help--that was enough.

9. God sent me someone right before I met Karen, the Starbucks lady. Jason was another Starbucks guy (I go to Starbucks a lot). I knew he was going to be in town; he works with the IMB as a Hispanic Mobilizer and he wanted to meet with me. Despite me showing up on one day and him showing up on another, we eventually connected twice during his time in Atlanta. I had no clue what this guy was going to say. In the end, though, he was a God-send. He too wanted to know my story and ended up listening and working through some things (mainly forgiveness issues) with me. So thanks, God. And thanks, Jason--a new friend who calls me "mija" ('my daughter') and prays for me.

10. Some might already know that I went to San Francisco for a visit. I went with the purpose of visiting a seminary (Golden Gate Baptist Theological). I came back with new friends and a newfound interest in being in the Western United States. I loved the school, the people, everything--there exists such passion among Christians there to see people around them come to Christ. It was refreshing to be out of the Bible Belt and see the need for Christ IN OUR OWN COUNTRY.
*Prayer request: For San Francisco, the whole Western US, to come to the Lord; that people in the Bible Belt would get up and move and see that this area of the country can stand to lose a few Christians to go be missionaries to North Americans in California, Oregon, Arizona, Washington, etc.

And finally, the big one: I would like to move out there as well. I would like to go to seminary. I would like to devote my time to walking with Christ in purposeful ministry while studying the Word in a formal context. Ask me about my goals, I have a lot of them that come along with moving out there.

The point of my "Top Ten Cool Blessings/Miracles" if you will is this: I may be continuing to walk through the waters, but God is walking with me. Sometimes (a lot of times), He even picks me up and carries me. I see that now. He did it in Peru, too.

My life isn't all about crying right now. Yes, there are some very hard days. But through my grieving and through lament and sorrow and pain and not understanding, Christ Jesus has blessed me immensely, even in the last few months. I just wanted to share it with y'all.

Much love to you.

Northern Adventures: Part 3

I don’t want to leave this place, but Julia and I are hungry. Our intended hippie-jewelry browsing is apparently not going to happen, as we catch up with Sandro, who offers to take us to one of the best restaurants in Mancora, of which I forget the name. Just take my advice: When you arrive in Mancora, walk towards the center, and this restaurant will be on your right with a wooden patio in the front.
Walking through Mancora, I realize quickly just how ‘cholo’ (redneck) it is. But this town has its charm, manifested purely in the hippie presence. We find this ‘spectacular’ café (per Sandro) and Julia and I order to-die-for sandwiches and Maracuya drinks. It’s at this dinner that we start to get to know Sandro better. Not because he is drinking (though he wants to, and reassures the waitress that he would except that he is our chaffeur); instead, he opens up to us about his life in Peru:
Sandro, fifty years of age, knows everyone in this town. I really think he must be famous. He wears shirts unbuttoned one-button-too-many. He is divorced, a pituco from Lima who claims to actually be more Italian than Peruvian. He tells us stories about people he has gotten drunk with. It’s a running list, including former President Toledo, current President Garcia, and maybe even, as Julia and I conjecture later, ex-lover Jaime Bayly, pundit extraordinaire and my favorite Peruvian, next to Gian Marco, of course.
We love every semi-truthful claim Sandro makes. We believe him because he is our friend in this moment and because the Pisco from our Maracuya sours is making us laugh more than usual.
After dinner Sandro suggests a drive through the “better” beaches: Vichayito, Las Pocitas, and others. We agree and he drives like he owns the private properties and hotels that we enter, using the excuse that we are interested in a stay, when in reality, we are exploring solely for the sake of exploration. All I know, in this moment, is that we’ve left the “big lights” of Mancora for untouched darknes, and incredible stars, accompany my growing desire to move to this place. My stargazing lasts the whole ride home as Julia and Sandro tell stories and I half-listen, stumbling out of the car and moving away from the few lights illuminating the bungalows so I can take in the peace being imparted into my heart from each star. They are the fingertips of God.
The next morning Sandro takes us to a taxi stop to get a ride to Tumbes. He is chatty today—saying he knows the guy clearing that piece of land, that those cows used to graze on his property, etc, etc. He knows everyone, including cows, apparently. On the way to Tumbes, the landscape overwhelms me. Green takes over brown to my right, and the ocean continues, unending, to my left as we move north toward Ecuador. I can’t place the smells around me; Julia tells me it’s burning land. Rivers and inlets and waters are everywhere. A woman naps in a hammock just off the road.
Once in Puerto Pizarro, Rigoberto, Sandro’s friend (of course), approaches us. We don’t have to approach people here for help, as we do in Southern Peru—the people here are so much friendlier. I’m in love with Rigoberto and the Manglares. “Rigo” or “Berto” doesn’t wear shoes, but I notice he has flip flop tan lines, and he smiles and jokes with us and asks for English lessons. Our tour includes a Portuguese girl, which adds to the mix of tongues. English, Portuguese and Spanish float around my ears as the boat calmly penetrates through rivers and estuaries and makes ripples in the river-forest.
The estuaries cut through bushes and shrubs. Birds take over and color is everywhere, as are boats and the ubiquitous smell of fish. “No hay vago” (There isn’t a bum) here, says the man with a constant smile. I could live here, too, in this never-ending heat, this perpetual summer. They were right for once, the Peruvians—summer lingers here forever. Clouds come and go and tropical rains invade. But I like that.
We say goodbye to Rigo and leave our adventure in Tumbes, which is not an impressive city, but it overflows with happiness. We drive back and I can only think of the wave of fatigue that has rushed over me, but I can’t close my eyes, not yet, because I’ll miss something beautiful.
Our last afternoon on the beach is spent sunbathing. I am the only one on the beach, and my codependent tendencies vanish in the knowledge that My Creator is next to me. The Spirit is here, speaking and teaching; Jesus and I chat about life. It's an all around really great late afternoon. This time of day is incredible, with the wind picking up and the clouds coming in. The sunset will be spectacular. The water starts to change colors. As I sit on the sand, I observe a man paddling far out in the water, standing on a raft. My reverie is interrupted as a plethora of crabs inch closer as if they are going to attack me.
The last night in Zorritos is peaceful. That sentiment characterizes this place: Peace. It’s July 4th, but Julia nor I know it because we’re the only Americans on the beach and drunk on relaxation. I celebrate with another sunset, crabs poking out of the sand, and, later, a drink with Jaime Bayly talking on TV. I suppose if Sandro had been around, my last night would have been spent drinking with him, Jaime Bayly in the background, and hearing Sandro’s stories about their love affair.

Northern Adventures: Part 2

From my spot in the front of the bus, I finally see a small sign for our hotel. I collect a still-drugged Julia and we disembark in the middle of the highway to the bungalows that have been beckoning me since late May. Our bungalow is about 30 steps from a private, deserted beach, and I almost cry because I’m so happy.
In our relaxed state, we sink deeper into this idea of doing absolutely nothing in Zorritos. Sun and clouds mix together. No one is around, save for a couple on their honeymoon. I walk around in my swimsuit, trying to talk myself out of stipping off everything altogether. Our first future friend arrives to welcome us to Bamboo Lodge: Sandro. We don’t know he will become our friend and ‘pituco’ (snobby) Northern Peru chofer/Sugar Daddy.
Between doing nothing and getting a sunburn, Jenny the cook makes us some incredible fish and Sandro takes us into town. He plays European club music in his car. We come to find out he lives in California and has his own business there; he’s in Peru to see family and help with their business.
Zorritos is everyman’s town. I wander around, in awe of the people not wearing clothes or shoes. I’ve just come from the cold weather in Arequipa and Lima, where scarves are worn in 65 degree weather. I drink a cold, icy, glass-bottled coke and relax while the Peruvians watch me. Not many tourists get to Zorritos—most stop in Mancora, about 30 minutes south.
I leave the shack-restaurant and wander back to Sandro. No matter if he leaves, though, I could stay and live here. I’ve convinced myself of this already. And anyway, someone would certainly give me a ride or find me a ride back to the bungalow.
On the way back, Sandro stops for gas in front of a shanty-town area. Two houses with people just hanging out are the main attraction, and you know their source of income is the gasoline sold to travelers. Sandro hops out and fills up, talking to the guys outside while Julia and I take in the all-too common poverty. Sandro gets in the car and knows what we are doing, as he watches us survey the situation. He says this, in the Spanglish he has adopted for us (even though Julia and I both speak Spanish): ‘There is poverty, pero se viven felices’ (There is poverty, but they live happily). It’s true. Just from my fifteen minute adventure to town, I can see this. I wonder if tourists understand that there is more to Northern Peru than nice bed and breakfasts; that life here often means nothing and everything all at the same time. People eat together, sit outside together, wave to each other from the road. A light is in their eyes, a happiness that seems different even than the Southern North Americans that I know.
After more beach time (I literally could stay on the beach all day), I move from doing nothing on the beach to doing nothing in the hammock. Sipping coffee and listening to waves, I hear a stranger’s voice talking to Sandro.
‘Sarita, this is Pascual, the artist I was telling you about.’ This is not what you might be thinking. Sandro was not trying to set me up with Pascual as a potential love interest; rather, Pascual, ‘spelled with a ‘k’ because it’s artsy’ wants to show me his paintings. In my free-and-easy state I humor this guy as he begins to show me geometric paintings that are just okay. Geometry and I have never gotten along—this goes for book learning AND understanding the aesthetic value of shapes on a canvas: I don’t understand either.
Surprisingly, Paskual with a K opens up a breathtaking piece, and I know I have to have it. I don’t know how you are about art, but my theory is this: If it takes your breath away, it’s for you. Don’t buy something to fill a room—buy something because it was created for you and you know this in your bones.
My painting is a horizontal blue and black view of the ocean. Paskual has captured the ocean and waves perfectly, reflecting the moonlight and stars off the water—A simple and not-enough description.
I pay Paskual and find out he is coming with us into Mancora. Sandro has offered to take us because ‘we have to see Mancora, it’s fabulous.’
Julia and I pile into Sandro’s crappy car once again, this time with my new artist friend, who is chattering away about beach life. I realize I’m having a mini-adventure with the man who painted my new present-to-myself, and a smile fills my face.
We stop to take some pictures in Cancas, a port town. Its full of boats, and the smell of fish saturates your nostrils. The boats float on the calm ocean and pelicans inundate the blue ocean that conspires to float into an even bluer sky, which tonight, promises a spectacular sunset. We leave our perfect vantage point to get to Mancora on time in hopes of catching the sun disappearing underneath the water from an even more perfect vantage point.
Julia and I thank Paskual for his kindness and make our way to the ocean, pausing only long enough to tell Sandro we’ll find him later (it’s a small town, and everyone knows Sandro). It’s funny how ugly can so quickly give way to beautiful: Mediocre streets populated with people asking if you want marijuana lead to a serene beach with surfers crowding the water in a perfect, not-too-crowded way.
If you’d taken a survey of the people on the beach watching the sunset with us, you would have encountered representation from the following countries: Poland, Great Britain, Spain, Argentina, Australia, North America, Peru, Sweden, Germany, Italy and maybe a few people from France. I didn’t ask for said survey; I just know they’re there. I’ve met these people as I’ve traveled Peru—this mix of people from around the world that just leave wherever they are to take a chance at seeing things they’ll only see once or twice in their lives. I know this because I recognize this sentiment as the common bond that knits us together.
Julia and I find a spot on the small strip of sandy beach, joining a multitude of people who apparently had the same idea as us: Watching what must be a daily display of glory, magnificence showing up in the form of a massive star sinking under the ocean, painting the sky canvas a myriad of colors.
Since being in Peru, I’ve come to love sunsets even more because you’re never disappointed. As a girl who grew up on the East Coast, I would have grand aspirations of waking up early on beach vacations to catch a sunrise. However, for a girl who is not a morning person, this goal was never successful. Instead, good intentions almost always morphed into me hitting the snooze button and rolling out of bed at 10 AM.
So today I take it all in with Julia and the tourists. Fifteen minutes allows us to feast on visual pleasure that includes watching surfers live it up on wicked waves that make this beach famous.

Northern Adventures: Part 1

God made Northern Peru exceptionally well. I’d only been here three days, but I already knew this to be fact.
Julia and I slept in a twin bed (I hate sharing any bed, much less a twin) on a freezing Lima night, the air water-droplet laden. We slept for about 2.5 hours before dressing in our tank tops and t-shirts with heavy coats draped over us to eventually shed as the Northern heat brought us out of the miserable Peruvian winter.
We were going North, to the beaches people have called ‘divino’ (divine) and ‘increible’ (incredible).
Good Limenos know to migrate North in the winter. The beaches are known for the warm temperatures year-round and amazing surf. In comparison to the bone-chilling Lima winter months, it’s heavenly. After only a few days in Lima, I had to get out.
We make it to the airport after hailing a taxi at 1 am, always an adventure in Lima. Lima taxis are something one prays will work in his or her favor. We can only hope that the taxi driver is merciful and trustworthy as Julia and I climb in. At the airport, we decide to each take a sleeping pill. It’s approximately 2 am, our flight arrives in Piura (translation: The Desert) around 5 am, and we have to find our way about 3 hours west to the coast. We leave Lima tired but semi-alert, at least conscious. I don’t remember much after buckling my seatbelt, as the sleeping pill had completely set in with its wonderful trippy side-effects. I would later find out that our pills were higher dosages for motion sickness (a common pill sold in Peru that apparently also has the effect of knocking one out).
Our plan upon arrival is to embrace the fact that we don’t have a plan. (This is my fault, by the way—I figured I would buy our plane tickets and my responsibilities were fini.) I was unaware that my decision not to plan would cause the following to ensue.
I wake up and we are in Piura, stumbling off the plane as if we’d been drinking tequila all night. We figure that the easiest way to get to the coast is to take a van or taxi; however, at 5 am, two gringas can’t expect to receive anything easily from Peruvians, regardless of the fact that Julia and I have both lived in Peru for two years. The van wants to charge us 300 dollars. Dollars. Not soles, dollars. We’ve already spent an arm-and-a-leg to get up here from Southern Peru, so this is out of the question.
We take a taxi to the bus station and find a ride for 15 soles, about 5 dollars (score!). Julia and I know we found a deal, but as with all things cheap in Peru, it usually comes with a price: Comfort and time.
Good thing we are drugged.
The drive from the flatlands of inner Northern Peru to the coast is bumpy and winding (typical). Julia and I have seats in the back of the bus. Imagine being in the very last row on a rollercoaster as it twists right and left, leaving very little time for you to think about how sick you feel; this is the bus ride for us. The saving grace of this trip is that the roads are not one foot away from a 200 foot drop into ocean.
All I see between sleeping and being jerked awake is desert, and I start to wonder if we’re in the wrong place, maybe going to a not-so-heavenly place instead of my promised Eden. But then I start to see some green. Then the bottom breaks in two and blue is below you. It sparkles as the sun’s rays pierce it and the current, and the waves create a picture of glory.
My idea of heaven has always been wherever water meets sand.
As I revel in the knowledge that I’m almost to my destination, I look over to see that Julia is dead asleep. She’s not even asleep, she literally appears to have died. She bumps along with every uncertain movement that the bus makes, swerving around potholes, making sudden stops to avoid hitting cars or people, or just simply careening around curves so fast it seems we’ll fall over. It doesn’t phase her in the least.
After our supposed 2.5 hour journey turns into 4.5 hours, I start to worry that we’re on the wrong bus, we’ve missed a stop, etc. Living in Peru forces one to learn how to not worry and go with the flow. Be flexible. However, there comes a point when the anxiety creeps in over the suspicion that a well-intentioned Peruvian probably gave you wrong directions, suggested you eat something that is ‘clean’ when it really isn’t, or puts you on the bus to Northern Colombia instead of Zorritos, Peru.
Julia is no help, so as we leave Mancora, I start to look for our hotel in Zorritos. Peru’s beaches are so untouched that few signs exist to indicate where they are. This could also be due to the fact that no Peruvian actually knows where they are exactly. The man in front of me, however, is a local, and he gives me ‘good’ directions to our stop, and I realize we are actually getting close and I have to now tell the bus driver where to stop.
I make my way up the death-aisle, smelling every Peruvian on the bus, listening to the World Cup coverage on their radios, and being tempted by whatever foods they’re eating. Once in the drivers cabin, I awkwardly stick my head in, butt hanging out the small square contraption that resembles a doggie door. I sense every eye has miraculously opened as I passed and is now staring at my backside.
I turn on the charm for the bus driver and his faithful assistant as I ask him where we are and inform him of the impending drop-off. I’ve shamelessly learned during these two years how to get what I want by flirting. (This is a topic for another story.) A Peruvian man usually will not be ambivalent with Julia or me. While this sounds strange, you eventually (and maybe also unfortunately) get used to all the attention. Needless to say, I’ve learned the advantages that come with being a ‘gringa guapa’ (pretty gringa). In this case, I get a free ride up front with my new friends.

Jungle Inspiration

The sunset just changed. The clouds begin to open up and a peak of sun showed itself in orange and pink God-glory. The music of strange birds and jungle bugs combine with earthly musicians, the forest sounds overpowering more sweetly the tones produced by human hands.

Previously brown rain water from days earlier catches and soaks up the sky colors and begins to look not-so-murky or stagnant. Something once ugly is transformed into heaven's essence.

The sunset changes again. In a different kind of quiet, the rays disappear, the orange burst sinks down, and the shifting of the clouds create a bright jolt of light softly screaming from the fluffy covers.

"Life is always changing, every moment," I think to myself.

Let go and embrace it.

"October Poem"

Today I want a sunset over the Pacific.
I want the lighthouse
and the stroll through curved landscape,
turning corners, hoping for the sun to
display itself in magnificence.

I miss the slowness of it-
the way it comes down, tinting
clouds pink and yellow and orange.
In loneliness, a good sunset calms a soul.

The sea below contrasts the slow setting sapphire
as it rushes into rocky beach,
sands peppered with sharp objects
that make it nearly impossible to walk barefoot.

But no mind-I miss that too.
Amongst the joy of sunset, I miss the pain inflicted
in walking on rocks, edges piercing into skin
like sharp arrows bursting into every cell of the body.

Contradiction:
Pain and enjoyment.
Visual pleasure and physical discomfort.
The beauty of life, of another day done,
overcomes the momentary hurt.

I'd do it all again.