air-brushed charms

I awkwardly steered my overloaded shopping cart into a checkout aisle and patiently waited for the line to dissolve. Grocery shopping always exhausts me. Maybe it's because I wait until we are scrapping the cupboards for breadcrumbs before I head to the store, forcing me to create my own mini-Everest inside a shopping cart. (New Year's Resolution #317: get better at meal planning!) I leaned against the cart as I waited in hopes of catching a second wind when my eyes met the sleek, outspoken magazine covers glaring from their shelves.

Oh those glossy, air-brushed faces begged for me to look, admire, and compare. Their hair, skin, eyes, complexion, curves and clothing (or lack thereof) seeped with a perfection I obviously lack. And not only did they assault my vision with the silhouettes of modern attraction but they also tempted my reasoning with vain promises: "Loose 10lbs in just 10 days!", "Ways to look younger in minutes!", "The body he dreams of!", "Tame your tummy!" and much, much more disgusting propaganda. It was here amidst my innocent quest for carrots, sour cream, and dishwasher detergent that I realized, perhaps with more consciousness than I've had in a while, that our culture is entirely obsessed with superficial beauty. And it's slowly corrupting us.

Almost everyday we are forced to decide between valuing and gravitating toward worldly attractiveness versus a holy beauty. We obviously recognize what the world considers beautiful. Go to the mall and look at the mannequins or stop by your local convenient store and pick up a magazine. Or better yet, observe the confused and insecure young women speckled across our nation who find their identity and value by how closely they can imitate the women plastered across those magazine covers.

Worldly beauty always flaunts itself -- so it's easy to spot. At it's core it is selfish and arrogant. "Just look at me" it demands. And with enough make-up, hairspray, designer clothes, and maybe even a little surgery (or at least a good editing software), you could attain to this fickle description of beauty. Yes, this paragon may turn a few heads, but their fascination will travel only as deep as your bronze-tinted foundation.

In the end, physical beauty (which is all the world seems to value) doesn't last. All the wrinkle cream, anti-age scrubs, and hair color in the world can't dilute the truth that physical beauty fades. "Charm is deceitful, beauty is vain..." (Prov. 31:30) But this is no cause for panic (so take a deep breath). God has an entirely different purpose and measure for beauty -- a beauty that speaks of permanence and holiness instead of shallowness and vanity.

(To be continued...)

start the day right

What are some things you simply must have to start your day off right? Well, one of my necessities is brewing downstairs and the other is sitting on the end table beside me. A hot cup of tea puts the "good" in my morning, but the leather-bound book at my elbow filled with underlines and red words gives meaning to my life. But I am sometimes guilty of neglecting it. Somehow it seems easier to pour a second cup of tea than to peel open the cover of God's Word and drink it in. Really, it makes no sense because those words on holy pages would outlast the effects even a good cup of tea has on me.

But with every morning comes the opportunity to begin it right. This morning has the potential to launch a wonderful day given the right fuel. And so with a steaming mug of tea in hand, I open wide the beautiful gilded pages that history and time couldn't erase and pray my heart listens. It's going to be a good day.

in the residue of beginnings

I've been sitting here staring at this blinking cursor for about 15 minutes trying to think up something clever to blog about. I know I am probably making this more complicated than it should be (typical for me, you should know), but I struggle with beginning things sometimes. You might be the same way. It's like beginning a journal. That first page is so white and clean and perfect ... you almost don't want to mar it with black ink. Theoretically the rest of the journal hinges on that first page so I better make it good, I reason. But I guess if that intimidates me to never begin anything, something is wrong.

You see, I am stricken with a disease called perfectionism. And it's not as glamorous as it may sound. I consider it a plague, in fact. I can't see things without wincing at the potential failure. I am more likely to keep my hands to myself than reach out to see what it feels like. I content myself with staring through thick glass windows instead of trotting down the front porch steps to enjoy the rain or sunshine. Because, who knows? I might make a huge, terrible, unalterable mistake. (yes, that had a twinge of sarcasm in it...)

It seems naive in these little black words on the computer screen. But it gets bigger in my head. I'm tired of living life with this illusive raincloud staring over my shoulder. I was reading in the gospel of Matthew this morning and perused over some verses that are beginning to morph into an anthem for me.

"You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven." (Matt. 5:14-16)

After reading over these verses a couple of times to fight off the familiarity, I thought to myself, "Why are you living under a basket?" It may seem safer, but it's also stupid. And it will eventually suffocate you. God made you a light ... so shine. This could mean different things for different people. But a few things are core. One being our works. They are supposed to be good works that are obviously, but not blatantly (see Matthew 6:1), visible to the world. As God's workmanship (we are the light), we were created to walk in the good works which He prepared beforehand (Eph. 2:10). Figuring out what "works" He has prepared for me is where I trip myself up though. Again, this doesn't have to be complicated or confusing. I am finding that the simple, daily obedience to God's Word is what He desires.

The second principle is the glorification of our Father in heaven. It's really not about me or my works -- but about God. He is the ultimate objective here. My purpose on earth is to shine my light, but He is the reason and also the means of illumination. "For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ." (2 Cor. 4:6) Any light that I reflect is produced by Jesus Christ who enlightened my heart with His grace and truth.

I think some of my perfectionistic fixation (wow, what a mouthful) is rooted in my pride. I want to appear a certain way to people. I want my report card to speak of success instead of failures. I want to get off the ground with no bumps or bruises. No dents in the paint, so to speak. I only want people to see me shine when I look perfect. Well, that is just never going to happen. And in the beauty of God's grace, that's ok.

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.