So I say I believe in Blood.
Then why doesn't Grace run in control of my mind,
down my spinal cord,
filtering into my blue veins,
dripping into them
and giving life
while finding Home.
The Grace that cleans hearts
and removes debts
and saves souls.
15.9.10
1.9.10
A Walk.
I miss walking.
So this evening in Franklin, Tennessee, I took a walk.
Step 1: Find somewhere to walk. I get a recommendation from my friend Lindsay Cade. She suggests a trail by a lake reserve that is fighting for its life from new housing developments.
Step 2: Conquer the trail off Otter Creek Road.
I set out in my jeans and sandals, not intending for this to be an intense walk. I'm off, with all the intense walkers and runners passing me by. I don't care much.
I crunch through the leaves and dirt on a small trail, getting junk in my sandals. I keep looking down, partly out of real interest as to what I might find, partly to shake the rocks out of my shoes, and partly to hide tears coming out of my almost depleted tear ducts.
I about-face when I look up to see light through the trees reflecting off water. Anytime a spec of something promising shows itself, I will get myself to a good location to watch, post-haste.
A cute little boy and his dad pass me as I speed walk toward the paved road that curves around the lake in hopes of a good view of God's handprints.
Deer are to my left grazing in a sea of green stuff, in what I can only assume is peet. I ignore the couples walking around and the kids on their bikes, and I listen to the frogs and the fish sploshing out of water. I hear bug-music and smell sweet Tennessee air and I stop: God is here.
The Creator of the Universe brought me out here and is with me, showing me His creation. I'm doing what one of my favorite Southern Literature professors told me to do for years: I am breathing in my surroundings. Calmly sitting and observing where I come from.
The colors continue to bounce off the waters. Clouds change form and a plane flies through them, creating the illusion that the world above might actually exist within the water itself. The bugs and the fish blow bubbles on the water, making it look like millions of rain droplets that are being sent down from the heavens.
My gaze shifts and I see a spider on its web. My eyes adjust to its smallness. Once adjusted, I notice more spiders scurrying around and they suddenly become larger than my surroundings as I stare them down, watching them craft their silk. I finally begin to focus on the finite movement of hurried legs spinning the web.
I'm in a trance when Spanish floods my ears. A family is walking by me, and they are taking pictures. They are from some Latin American country (if they are taking pictures of everything under-the-sun then God knows they could very well be Peruvian), but I don't ask details. I only offer to take a picture of the whole family. I so want to speak to them but I hold back.
Darkness is coming and I have to turn away from the color fading into night. As much as I want to hang around to see the finishing touches, I don't want to get locked into the park.
I drive down the lane the same way I drove in: The windows down and the music off. I want to hear anything else the would has to offer me. I pass the gigantic houses, making me think the park was a dream.
I see lightning bugs float around in their bubbles of light.
The red-to-green flicker ahead of me in the distance signals my entrance into the man-made construction of time and the real world once again.
So this evening in Franklin, Tennessee, I took a walk.
Step 1: Find somewhere to walk. I get a recommendation from my friend Lindsay Cade. She suggests a trail by a lake reserve that is fighting for its life from new housing developments.
Step 2: Conquer the trail off Otter Creek Road.
I set out in my jeans and sandals, not intending for this to be an intense walk. I'm off, with all the intense walkers and runners passing me by. I don't care much.
I crunch through the leaves and dirt on a small trail, getting junk in my sandals. I keep looking down, partly out of real interest as to what I might find, partly to shake the rocks out of my shoes, and partly to hide tears coming out of my almost depleted tear ducts.
I about-face when I look up to see light through the trees reflecting off water. Anytime a spec of something promising shows itself, I will get myself to a good location to watch, post-haste.
A cute little boy and his dad pass me as I speed walk toward the paved road that curves around the lake in hopes of a good view of God's handprints.
Deer are to my left grazing in a sea of green stuff, in what I can only assume is peet. I ignore the couples walking around and the kids on their bikes, and I listen to the frogs and the fish sploshing out of water. I hear bug-music and smell sweet Tennessee air and I stop: God is here.
The Creator of the Universe brought me out here and is with me, showing me His creation. I'm doing what one of my favorite Southern Literature professors told me to do for years: I am breathing in my surroundings. Calmly sitting and observing where I come from.
The colors continue to bounce off the waters. Clouds change form and a plane flies through them, creating the illusion that the world above might actually exist within the water itself. The bugs and the fish blow bubbles on the water, making it look like millions of rain droplets that are being sent down from the heavens.
My gaze shifts and I see a spider on its web. My eyes adjust to its smallness. Once adjusted, I notice more spiders scurrying around and they suddenly become larger than my surroundings as I stare them down, watching them craft their silk. I finally begin to focus on the finite movement of hurried legs spinning the web.
I'm in a trance when Spanish floods my ears. A family is walking by me, and they are taking pictures. They are from some Latin American country (if they are taking pictures of everything under-the-sun then God knows they could very well be Peruvian), but I don't ask details. I only offer to take a picture of the whole family. I so want to speak to them but I hold back.
Darkness is coming and I have to turn away from the color fading into night. As much as I want to hang around to see the finishing touches, I don't want to get locked into the park.
I drive down the lane the same way I drove in: The windows down and the music off. I want to hear anything else the would has to offer me. I pass the gigantic houses, making me think the park was a dream.
I see lightning bugs float around in their bubbles of light.
The red-to-green flicker ahead of me in the distance signals my entrance into the man-made construction of time and the real world once again.
26.8.10
Peru family.
One of the things God taught me about in Peru was this idea I have of family.
My idea, I have to admit, was very small. I struggled with loneliness, and I often ascribed these feelings to not being around family or friends who REALLY know me.
I left Peru last year in July trying to escape and find satisfaction in my blood-relatives. I returned to Peru with a heavy burden based on the knowledge that I was guilty of the aforementioned confession.
Through other events, God began to show me about family as he sees it:
Marta, my Peruvian friend, became my sister; her mother became a Peruvian mama. Caroline in Portugal and Susan in Africa were my soul sisters on different continents. Steph became my best friend during this time and loved me as her own family. The mother of a former roommate at UGA encouraged me and loved me from Georgia-there's a reason I always called her "Mama Freida."
Furthermore, the Americans I encountered in Peru took me into their own families, for which I am so grateful.
I was thinking about you all today, missing you. While I have my biological parents here and my girlfriends and other supporters and prayer warriors, I miss my Peru family:
I want to move back in with Rebekah and Michael and hear "Crocodinosaur" from Gabriel. I miss Jenny's laugh and John's jokes and Caleb's stories and Elijah's excitement over seeing me. I want the Rains boys's hugs and Kristi's hospitality. And I hate that I can't walk down the street to the Christy's house and have Mark climb into my lap.
While I lived away from my Stateside family and friends, you guys loved me and showed me what family is. God used you in my life and I am blessed by you. Whether you fed me, housed me, or just let me hang out with you and your kids, the time you gave me and allowed me to enter your homes was so precious, needed, and it beautifully illustrated how the body of Christ should work.
(Shout out also to Scott and Meghan Dillon, Amy and Christian Listro, and Randall and Susan Anderson and all your kids.)
Muchos abrazos y besos.
My idea, I have to admit, was very small. I struggled with loneliness, and I often ascribed these feelings to not being around family or friends who REALLY know me.
I left Peru last year in July trying to escape and find satisfaction in my blood-relatives. I returned to Peru with a heavy burden based on the knowledge that I was guilty of the aforementioned confession.
Through other events, God began to show me about family as he sees it:
Marta, my Peruvian friend, became my sister; her mother became a Peruvian mama. Caroline in Portugal and Susan in Africa were my soul sisters on different continents. Steph became my best friend during this time and loved me as her own family. The mother of a former roommate at UGA encouraged me and loved me from Georgia-there's a reason I always called her "Mama Freida."
Furthermore, the Americans I encountered in Peru took me into their own families, for which I am so grateful.
I was thinking about you all today, missing you. While I have my biological parents here and my girlfriends and other supporters and prayer warriors, I miss my Peru family:
I want to move back in with Rebekah and Michael and hear "Crocodinosaur" from Gabriel. I miss Jenny's laugh and John's jokes and Caleb's stories and Elijah's excitement over seeing me. I want the Rains boys's hugs and Kristi's hospitality. And I hate that I can't walk down the street to the Christy's house and have Mark climb into my lap.
While I lived away from my Stateside family and friends, you guys loved me and showed me what family is. God used you in my life and I am blessed by you. Whether you fed me, housed me, or just let me hang out with you and your kids, the time you gave me and allowed me to enter your homes was so precious, needed, and it beautifully illustrated how the body of Christ should work.
(Shout out also to Scott and Meghan Dillon, Amy and Christian Listro, and Randall and Susan Anderson and all your kids.)
Muchos abrazos y besos.
25.8.10
happy things.
This is a brief (or not-so-brief, whatever I feel like doing) list of things that make me happy these days. At the very least, they are attempts at making me happy.
1. Seeing my dogs and just laying with them on the floor.
2. Going on a walk and sweating so much that I detoured to an empty pool afterwards and jumped in.
3. Being blessed to have a car for a few months.
4. Visiting with old friends and telling stories and laughing a lot (or crying a lot).
5. Sitting in bookstores and reading to read.
6. Seeing old Journeyman friends. They just get it. I don't have to say much.
7. Unexpected rain showers.
8. Ray Lamontagne and David Gray live-in-concert.
9. Sitting with my sister.
10. Remembering Athens.
11. Making "The Salsa."
12. Discovering and re-discovering modern-day bards (Jon Foreman, Jorge Drexler, David Gray, Josh Ritter).
13. The late-setting sun.
1. Seeing my dogs and just laying with them on the floor.
2. Going on a walk and sweating so much that I detoured to an empty pool afterwards and jumped in.
3. Being blessed to have a car for a few months.
4. Visiting with old friends and telling stories and laughing a lot (or crying a lot).
5. Sitting in bookstores and reading to read.
6. Seeing old Journeyman friends. They just get it. I don't have to say much.
7. Unexpected rain showers.
8. Ray Lamontagne and David Gray live-in-concert.
9. Sitting with my sister.
10. Remembering Athens.
11. Making "The Salsa."
12. Discovering and re-discovering modern-day bards (Jon Foreman, Jorge Drexler, David Gray, Josh Ritter).
13. The late-setting sun.
17.8.10
A Metaphor.
I went to the wedding of two beautiful friends on Saturday: Lindsay and Noah had a worship service to celebrate their union. It was lovely.
A wedding is something God rejoices over because He created love. When two people commit to serve God together for the rest of their lives, the Son is glorified. The Father is glorified. The Spirit is glorified.
I was humbled to witness two people I deeply respect profess their love for Christ and for each other. As I sat and watched and worshipped with them, a thought came to mind that I've been wanting to write about for some time:
Christ runs after His people::
I want to be run after::
Pursued.
I'm pursued by Christ and I deserve to be pursued by a Godly man someday, just like I imagine Noah went after Lindsay; He went after her, he wanted to be wherever she was.
Ponder this:
Noah and Lindsay's wedding is a metaphor for the marriage of Christ and His people. Noah's pursuit of Lindsay is a metaphor for Christ pursuing each one of us.
Metaphors are intriguing things. You find them throughout life, sometimes screaming at you, sometimes hiding from you until you, having garnered more wisdom, unearth them.
This has happened to me. The unearthing.
I'm still digging them up, but they're mine to dig. I know others before me might have already discovered this particular metaphor; in my case, understanding has come.
A wedding is something God rejoices over because He created love. When two people commit to serve God together for the rest of their lives, the Son is glorified. The Father is glorified. The Spirit is glorified.
I was humbled to witness two people I deeply respect profess their love for Christ and for each other. As I sat and watched and worshipped with them, a thought came to mind that I've been wanting to write about for some time:
Christ runs after His people::
I want to be run after::
Pursued.
I'm pursued by Christ and I deserve to be pursued by a Godly man someday, just like I imagine Noah went after Lindsay; He went after her, he wanted to be wherever she was.
Ponder this:
Noah and Lindsay's wedding is a metaphor for the marriage of Christ and His people. Noah's pursuit of Lindsay is a metaphor for Christ pursuing each one of us.
Metaphors are intriguing things. You find them throughout life, sometimes screaming at you, sometimes hiding from you until you, having garnered more wisdom, unearth them.
This has happened to me. The unearthing.
I'm still digging them up, but they're mine to dig. I know others before me might have already discovered this particular metaphor; in my case, understanding has come.
13.8.10
Hairdressers, Quarterlife Crises, and Truth.
I went to get my haircut this week and had a lovely, albeit random, conversation with my friend Lorena, who has been making the Junco ladies look beautiful for the last nine years. She is a not-so-sassy (I would describe her as un-stereotypically chill) Latina of Mexican decent with a little girl and a husband named Carlos. They're pregnant with their second child, they work with the youth group at church, and they have been recently "discussing strongly" (I take this to mean fighting) the issue of child-rearing.
After my hair was perfectly shaped and sprayed, I hugged Lorena and we exchanged numbers, saying that I'd love to visit her church sometime (a positive thing considering I am without a church a right now). I left the salon and sat in my sister's car that I now periodically borrow (I'm without transportation currently) and came to the following realization:
My hairdresser, with the exception of my family, is the only "constant" in my life.
Let's start with a question, one I have for the masses: Is the PC term "hairdresser," "hairstylist," or "cut specialist" (or something else I am unaware of)? :)
Another question is one you might have for me: Why the extremely dramatic and semi-confusing statement about Lorena being your only "constant?" Let me explain...
People in life come and go. Friends you had when you were eight are probably not the friends you now have, except maybe in Facebook-land (which doesn't really count if you don't keep up with them), or if you grew up in a really small town.
I left college two years ago and proceeded to leave the country; I recently returned to a completely different world. My family is still around, but my friends are scattered and in different life situations (jobs, relationships, etc). I'm entering a "quarterlife crisis" that doesn't bode well for my already fragile state. (As I write the words "fragile state," I remember the Scripture that says to be "bold and courageous," and I'm trying. As I write "I'm trying," I remember that I should stop trying and just let go.)
I want to embrace the change. I'm trying to enjoy starting over because everyone tells me it's an exciting thing. But I have to admit: It's hard and it's scary. Good thing I know deep down in the part of my heart labeled "TRUTH" that God doesn't promise ease or happiness all the time.
Today I wanted to speak Spanish. I wanted to walk or take a taxi. I wanted all the white people to go away. I wanted salsa music and dancing. I can still have those things in North America, which is fine; I suppose my heart is just pulling me in various directions--North, South, East and West. I'm not sure where I'll end up, but I'm trying to remember that my home is what I make here with Christ.
I'm thankful I have Lorena as a "constant," among other people (my dentist, my doctor, and the cashier at Publix).
At least in all the movement around me, I can listen to salsa music with her, comment about how I'm tired of gringos now, and speak Spanish (although I'll have to learn Mexican slang now).
I'll make the transition in time.
After my hair was perfectly shaped and sprayed, I hugged Lorena and we exchanged numbers, saying that I'd love to visit her church sometime (a positive thing considering I am without a church a right now). I left the salon and sat in my sister's car that I now periodically borrow (I'm without transportation currently) and came to the following realization:
My hairdresser, with the exception of my family, is the only "constant" in my life.
Let's start with a question, one I have for the masses: Is the PC term "hairdresser," "hairstylist," or "cut specialist" (or something else I am unaware of)? :)
Another question is one you might have for me: Why the extremely dramatic and semi-confusing statement about Lorena being your only "constant?" Let me explain...
People in life come and go. Friends you had when you were eight are probably not the friends you now have, except maybe in Facebook-land (which doesn't really count if you don't keep up with them), or if you grew up in a really small town.
I left college two years ago and proceeded to leave the country; I recently returned to a completely different world. My family is still around, but my friends are scattered and in different life situations (jobs, relationships, etc). I'm entering a "quarterlife crisis" that doesn't bode well for my already fragile state. (As I write the words "fragile state," I remember the Scripture that says to be "bold and courageous," and I'm trying. As I write "I'm trying," I remember that I should stop trying and just let go.)
I want to embrace the change. I'm trying to enjoy starting over because everyone tells me it's an exciting thing. But I have to admit: It's hard and it's scary. Good thing I know deep down in the part of my heart labeled "TRUTH" that God doesn't promise ease or happiness all the time.
Today I wanted to speak Spanish. I wanted to walk or take a taxi. I wanted all the white people to go away. I wanted salsa music and dancing. I can still have those things in North America, which is fine; I suppose my heart is just pulling me in various directions--North, South, East and West. I'm not sure where I'll end up, but I'm trying to remember that my home is what I make here with Christ.
I'm thankful I have Lorena as a "constant," among other people (my dentist, my doctor, and the cashier at Publix).
At least in all the movement around me, I can listen to salsa music with her, comment about how I'm tired of gringos now, and speak Spanish (although I'll have to learn Mexican slang now).
I'll make the transition in time.
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