the thrill of a challenge

Ok, so I have an idea. In an effort to redeem my sporadic, somewhat non-existent blogging, I thought I could present myself with a little challenge. And those of you (and you know who you are...) who have fumbled your blogs as well can jump on the wagon too.

I want to blog everyday this month.

Yeah, you may point out that we are already three days into this month, but I figured better late than never. And hey, it's a new year! Time for fresh resolutions and renewed attempts. I'm sure it will take me a while to stretch my writing muscles again, and there will probably be a few fails, but maybe it will stick and I can get my foot back in the door. It's been great having a little (or long) break to just write privately and kinda hone my writing voice. Hopefully I can share some of the things I've learned. But it's time to start publishing again. Open the draft folder. Say it out loud.

And honestly, I miss blogging. I miss having a safe, fun, and challenging place to share thoughts with people. My audience has dwindled, I know. But to the faithful few of you out there still reading, I'm coming back. Who knows what kind of a month it could be?

the night before Christmas

So it's Christmas Eve. The tangled lights around the tree are casting a spell on my vision. Light seems to be glittering everywhere. Quietly I sit here on this fluffy sofa, almost in unbelief that Christmas is actually here. Where did all the weeks go that protected me from this special day? Christmas kinda crept up on me this year. I'm prepared according to cultural standards. My gifts are purchased, the house is clean and decorated, all the food is prepared, the family is here. Yet somehow it still doesn't feel like Christmas to me.

Which urges me to wonder ... what makes Christmas "Christmas"?

It could be nostalgic snapshots that roll though my mind: Watching my family talk and laugh among one another while I listen from a distance with a warm cup of tea in my hands. Younger siblings shrieking in delight as missed relatives pull into our driveway. Apple spiced candles burning on the fireplace mantel. The beautiful green wreath enclosing five candles representing the many wonders of our Savior's birth. The music of merry celebration. The thrilling sound of paper tearing followed by squeals or tears of joy. Christmas arouses memories filled with warmth, joy, and the smell of cinnamon.

But also I wonder what made the first Christmas special. I don't think it induced the same vanilla-coated memories I associated with this holiday. It probably felt like an ordinary day. Forget Christmas spirit and red ribbons. Life was closing in from every corner. Demands, dust, and danger were the decorations of Mary and Joseph's first Christmas. They were far from family, home, and comfort. But God was near. So near in fact, they could stroke His face with their fingers.

My point is ... whether we feel "Christmasy" or not ... Jesus is near. He invaded life in the form of a helpless, tender baby, and grew up to become our sacrificial substitute -- ultimately changing the world and eternity forever. He didn't wait until everyone was gathered around the tree with fidgety anticipation. He came on a silent night, but it was a holy night. He came so we could be near God. And that nearness is what I love about Christmas. Family, gifts, cocoa, and Christmas lights do make me happy. But it is the quiet, thankful moments I cherish the most. Thank You, Jesus, for coming so I could be near You, especially on Christmas ... and the night before.

Why I Write

Perhaps there are chuckles at the subject of this post due to my apparent lack of writing around here, but I couldn't help but post this nonetheless. I have a quote my Mom found for me written on the inside of my journal that continues to inspire me to write, even when it feels risky. I googled it the other day for some background information since I am preparing to begin a new journal soon (thus a new inscription), when I came across the entire passage in which the quote was taken from. It was one of the most beautiful and eerily familiar descriptions I have ever read about the motivation and resolve I feel when I write. It was like the author pulled it right out of me and put it on paper. It's long, but oh so good. I broke it into paragraphs so it would be easier to read.

I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. I write to create red in a world that often appears black and white. I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin dialogue. I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things differently perhaps the world will change. I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my friends. I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write because it creates my composure. I write against power and for democracy. I write in a solitude born out of community. I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that keep me complacent.

I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain. I write to migrating birds with the hubris of language. I write to a form of translation. I write with the patience of melancholy in winter. I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know. I write as an act of faith. I write as an act of slowness. I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise in pure joy. I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt. I write out of my anger and into my passion. I write from the stillness of night anticipating--always anticipating.

I write to listen. I write out of silence. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around. I write because of the humor of our condition as humans. I write because I believe in words. I write because it is a dance with paradox. I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in the sand. I write because it belongs to the force of the moon: high tide, low tide. I write because it is the way I take long walks. I write as a bow to wilderness. I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness. I write because as a child I spoke a different language. I write with a knife carving each word through the generosity of trees.

I write as ritual. I write because I am not employable. I write out of my inconsistencies. I write because then I do not have to speak. I write with the colors of memory. I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as a witness to what I imagine. I write by grace and grit. I write out of indigestion. I write because I am starving. I write because I am full. I write to the dead. I write out of the body. I write to put food on the table. I write to the other side of procrastination. I write for the children we never had. I write for the love of ideas. I write for the surprise of a beautiful sentence. I write with the belief of alchemists. I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words always fall short. I write knowing I can be killed by my own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by both understanding and misunderstanding. I write out of ignorance. I write by accident. I write past the embarrassment of exposure.

I keep writing and suddenly, I am overcome by the sheer indulgence, the madness, the meaninglessness, the ridiculousness of this list. I trust nothing, especially myself, and slide headfirst into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on my way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it to shreds--and then I realize, it doesn't matter, words are always a gamble, words are the splinters of cut glass. I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient we are. I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love. {emphasis mine}

-- Terry Tempest Williams, Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert

I mean, I want to put this in a frame and hang it on my wall. For me, writing is as much a form of worship as singing or praying or reading. It is almost beyond my control, in that I can't help but do it. Yes it is hard and humiliating and vulnerable and terrifying. But it is also beautiful, precious, calming, and life-changing. Indeed it is "a dance with paradox."

silent fears that aren't so silent

Sometimes I feel as if I am standing on the edge of something great, something awesome, something absolutely terrifying. Teetering between taking one step back toward the safety of the familiar or one step into the unwritten future, I am calculating the cost of both. History can be comforting and confining. I struggle to move away from what I know, yet I silently yearn for the unvoiced melodies to be discovered by taking a step into what is uncomfortably new. The choice watches me as a wake, sighs when I sleep, whispers as I venture about my day. Don't be afraid if the door is opening. Walk on.

It's amazing to me how much our daily choices reflect what we are afraid of. If it is unknown, different, or frightening we automatically choose the safest route away from what we are silently afraid of. Oftentimes we don't even recognize it. Maybe we blame our safe choices on our "personalities"... you know, I just don't like "change" or "the unknown". Well -- newsflash -- no one really likes change. It's uncomfortable. It feels weird. It makes us change when sometimes we really don't want to. So perhaps technically we could all use that excuse. It's in all of our personalities to make the safe choice, to do what is comfortable, to try our best to keep things just the way they are.

But sometimes God is calling to us over the cliff. It's part of growing. We must take a deep breath. We must take the jump. We must change. In our hearts we know this is the truth and we know it's very good. But yet that queasy stab of fear grouts our feet to the floor. Maybe if we don't move at all He will stop pushing. Nope. Because of the cure of fear: love.

What we are afraid of will dictate -- unless we trust something greater than fear. "There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love." (1 John 4:18) Perfect love talks louder than fear. How? Through inserting a foundation firm enough to walk on, deep enough to trust, loud enough to hear, and constant enough to follow. If someone is waiting on the other side of your fears with a grip on your heart stronger than you first assumed, well that just might change everything. In fact, it does.

shake the world again

To eat, to breathe

to beget
Is this all there is
Chance configuration of atom against atom
........... of god against god
I cannot believe it.
Come, Christian Triune God who lives,
Here am I
Shake the world again.

{Francis Schaeffer}

it's a perfect day

And here I am again -- the bad blogger - seeking to redeem lost time and posts with a fresh hello. There is just no time for blogging anymore! I have still managed to maintain a healthy personal journal, but my blogging so easily gets shoved aside on my way to getting things done. All that to say -- hello, I'm still here, I know you thought you would never see another post from me, but I thought I would shock you.

In other news, autumn is soooo close! As I write this post, my windows are open allowing the soothing sounds of crunchy leaves and wind to set the mood. It's a perfect day. Autumn is the most wonderful season ... in my personal opinion. :)

Lately I have been thinking about knowing Christ, in particular from the perspective of Paul who penned the verses "Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ." (Phil 3:8) I know I have blogged again and again about these verses, but, I mean, this attitude is incredible! But my great sorrow is that I don't possess this attitude most of the time. I get distracted, complacent, and comfortable in my progress as a believer -- instead of running hard after Jesus. But, the motivation for pursuing Christ is clearly seeing the great, surpassing value of knowing Him. I want this vision. I want a greater taste of the mind-blowing value of knowing this Savior.

vision of a sunset

I stare
at a sunset.

last moment of daytime beauty
before her last breath is taken
and she sinks beneath the tree line.

my world is tinted in gold
rays of yellow kiss the silence around me.

as a mother lowers herself to look
into her child's face
i look the sunset straight in the eyes
with no fear.

the pace of dusk is haunting
mesmerizing
captivating.

colors shoot like fireworks out of her smile
the sky is polluted
with whispering glory.

I stare
at a sunset.

her call comes to us every evening
tugging at our sleeves

tonight our eyes met
I could not look away.

wonder floods my vision
sending echoes of clarity
into every sacred place beneath my skin.

listen to her wordless sermon.

loneliness is not the doom
or patient torment of existence.

through her voice
i hear the pulses of a heart
far greater than my own.

this moment
this beauty
is a fraction of the glory of God.

and I stare
at a sunset.