tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16191881903554607652024-03-13T15:16:10.773-07:00the wonder that's keeping the stars apartthe wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-61797490844344985802013-08-05T12:38:00.000-07:002013-08-05T12:38:15.199-07:00looking back to look ahead<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello dear blog! It's been too long. Let's write something.<br />
<br />
I'm a new season (thank God). However, I do not want to forget a morsel of what I learned from the previous season--mostly because I never ever want history to repeat itself! I also want to officially remember in thanksgiving so that I can cleanly move into a new place of the spirit.<br />
<br />
Below are some snatches of almost-posts/journal musings from the last year...<br />
<br />
October 15, '12<br />
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Some years your heart is wrung out, mistaken for a tattered
dishcloth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't say who does the wringing, but I know who mops up
the mess afterward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And such a
mess!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a stink it is, too—the deep,
heavy sticky juice melting into all it touches, all it feels.</div>
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Stains everywhere, on the most ordinary objects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It’s like this—you wake up and rush to a
physical because your health insurance is almost expired and that’s what
responsible adults do—they get physicals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The mundane tick tocks along until you are asked your family medical
history.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bored middle aged nurse says, “Let’s starts with your
Mom.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And Mt. Fuji erupts!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The UK sinks!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Heart stains everywhere, doubling you over as you stumble
out, “She dies in June.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cancer.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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The previously stoic-bordering gremlin nurse transforms into
Florence Nightingale, gives you a hug, and apologizes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You muster up all the strength of a two year
old and tell, with your toddler’s timbre, the specific cause of death and the
age of the deceased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heart stains
fade back into the carpet and you’re able to discuss more pleasant, normal
fare—like why you don’t want a pap smear today <i>(Ladies, if anyone asks you if
you’ve had your “Well Woman” lately, be warned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They speak not of vitamins)</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
September 18, '12</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Humility Buoys/Little Things</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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The little things I am not above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Making my bed and peeling carrots, taking vitamins and
braiding my hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve sunk underwater; I look up at life from twenty feet under like a stingray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
sunlight patterns gentle waves, flexing and flowing in simple loveliness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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From below, from below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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If I just make muffins, play a Sonata, laugh until my gut
aches…if I just go to bed on time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then
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<br /></div>
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I am a simple creature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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<br /></div>
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Let toes finger the deep, but don’t dive for long. <o:p></o:p>Let my greatness come from flying not falling.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I am
done with dazzling depths that collapse my heart.</div>
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Let the ordinary keep me afloat. <o:p></o:p><span> </span>Let it save my life.</div>
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the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-63285071302673260002013-02-19T11:06:00.001-08:002013-02-19T11:08:57.003-08:00February Nineteenth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtny1ueRR9As1_7TF3Gk5ybq2t3_5R2HR9LsEgG1GCKanm2AEE7_TOjU7JiC6sd9H58mQgZx5NK5IU1QyhVN0jjdrPVyqyDa_84DDH0qnryZNC5hJaRrABlDJxq17GyGxuHdoJkBZ8LIUt/s1600/DSC_0367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtny1ueRR9As1_7TF3Gk5ybq2t3_5R2HR9LsEgG1GCKanm2AEE7_TOjU7JiC6sd9H58mQgZx5NK5IU1QyhVN0jjdrPVyqyDa_84DDH0qnryZNC5hJaRrABlDJxq17GyGxuHdoJkBZ8LIUt/s320/DSC_0367.JPG" width="211" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It is February nineteenth today. This makes sense, as yesterday it was the eighteenth and presumably the twentieth will follow. It seems so inconsequential.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>But it's always funny that dates mean something, isn't it? Society decided that January 1st begins a new year, so millions of people dress up and kiss each other the second it comes and begin diets the next. There is power in observing dates. Creating rituals.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eight months ago my mother died. This time eight months ago people were slowly trickling out of our house and I finally got somewhat dressed and sat in heavy sunshine for a while.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A year ago, however, my mother was cheerfully clacking away at the computer, updating her CaringBridge site. She had exactly four months left on this earth--how inconceivable! But, as she mentions in her post, she knew she was 'mainstream in His Ways.' </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6363bd; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 16px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #7f6000;">Going Deeper </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #7f6000; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">Written Feb 19, 2012 12:51pm by LeMei Littlefield</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;"></span><br />
<div class="content apply-wordwrap" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-x: auto; overflow-y: auto; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #7f6000; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hi there, dear friends - Rejoicing in Him with you this day! <br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />This past week has been a very good one of rest and recovery. There were two painful bouts of reaction to meds and injections but they have since resolved and I now have increased energy and appetite-:-) ! Looking forward to this next week of strengthening before round 3 of hospitalization begins February 28. <br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />As we move deeper through this progression of weeks, the Lord continues to pour out His amazing presence and comfort, His Life and Love without limit. We are completely undone by the joy of knowing Him! And there is the sense of being in the mainstream of His Ways, so much higher, wiser, more loving than our own. How infinitely worthy of our worship and trust is our Creator and Redeemer, LORD of all history, all peoples, places and times! <br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />The gift of your fellowship and prayers is one we can never adequately express our thanks for. It's like a current of life flowing through our days. We bless you in His Name! <br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />P.S. And, Very thankful for answers to prayer -- we have arranged for an excellent place for my Mom to move to once she is out of rehab, within the next couple of weeks! A HUGE thank you to JoLene who helped us scout out the possibilities! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e06666; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was going to share some more of my story of 2012, but it is more macabre. I don't want to dishonor Mom by distorting her five and a half months of victory into a petty story of </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">oh look how hard my life is, woe is me! </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Or even a, </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">feel sorry for my mother's suffering, it's hell!</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mom was given the strength to suffer and still rejoice. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our suffering is slower than the 600 hours of maximum strength chemotherapy. It hasn't, so far, made my eyelashes fall out. Hair's as thick as ever. But we live on this earth and miss her like our hearts were cut out, and so we suffer. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We too have a chance to rejoice in our sufferings. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">God help me, that still seems like blasphemy written by the insane (well, it was Paul). But after witnessing Mom with that same insanity, I believe that we're the crazy ones. <b>There really IS grace for this. </b></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And it ends in hope.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fVSjComIDlW60buT7OS_kS-ZDPJdSWitTSpD6lXN__Q9Lb_EAuB9AmYSmurRRgPxi5kYJhgCg1eFGNlJT5RgqvQBP4hNcMW_2qswFJITb3n1BE0RH5O-EgHvJwlj_lGAuLLRJO2V3mHb/s1600/mom,+young+woman+-+Version+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fVSjComIDlW60buT7OS_kS-ZDPJdSWitTSpD6lXN__Q9Lb_EAuB9AmYSmurRRgPxi5kYJhgCg1eFGNlJT5RgqvQBP4hNcMW_2qswFJITb3n1BE0RH5O-EgHvJwlj_lGAuLLRJO2V3mHb/s320/mom,+young+woman+-+Version+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"...<span class="text Rom-5-3" id="en-ESV-28035">we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance,</span><span class="text Rom-5-4" id="en-ESV-28036"><sup class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; vertical-align: top;"> </sup>and endurance produces character, and character produces hope,</span> <span class="text Rom-5-5" id="en-ESV-28037">and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us." ~Romans 5:3b-5</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-85548502516208638982013-01-08T21:42:00.000-08:002013-01-08T21:54:01.114-08:00Hairy tales<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>I interrupt your normal blog-casting of deep, heady morose fare for....</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>HAIR TALK WITH STACIA!</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyg0gSriVZGd2HryFSFLJOlu3fzYv56DUSPtF9seJ8k6Y41oxoTEivbXb5kZ2yisUJ8MLsisoRx2nOQ41kdH2WOKzfyq1JWZEkjc83DCY6EGbbseD_9ClUi2w8Sc3UFHT6mnnqU8yxB4T3/s1600/PM0309_0230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyg0gSriVZGd2HryFSFLJOlu3fzYv56DUSPtF9seJ8k6Y41oxoTEivbXb5kZ2yisUJ8MLsisoRx2nOQ41kdH2WOKzfyq1JWZEkjc83DCY6EGbbseD_9ClUi2w8Sc3UFHT6mnnqU8yxB4T3/s320/PM0309_0230.JPG" width="320" /></i></a></div>
<br />
I have thick hair. In fact, I may have the thickest hair of any girl I've met. It bursts hair ties and shatters claw clips as a matter of course.<br />
<br />
Typically I give some warning to my hairdressers, the students at Paul Mitchell school. And typically the lucky student nods naively, greedy to get another haircut closer to graduating. She gushes over how beautiful it is and how lucky I am. All is happy-smiley. But then she starts washing it and wonders what happened to the shampoo. My hair swallows shampoo by the bottle. <br />
<br />
The girl, still perky, giggles nervously and guides my dripping locks back to the cutting chair. She pins it up. It instantly falls with impressive weight, cascading down like the Niagara Falls with mighty aplomb. The poor girl then tries several other clips, each one bigger than the last with stronger, sharper teeth. As the long task ahead becomes apparent, her frustration begins to jab at my skull with copious hairpins. I close my eyes to avoid wincing.<br />
<br />
She cuts one layer and unwinds another. I breathe out, calculating that at this rate, the ten tidy twists on my head will be shorn in good time. She sniffs, grimaces, and pins back half of the hair twist. Too much. We share a suppressed sigh.<br />
<br />
There is then: a long time.<br />
<br />
In which not much happens on my end, but my valiant little haircutter chips--er, snips--away at Mt. Vesuvius. My girl keeps casting dark glaring glances to other, happier, students with thin-haired clients. She mouths,<i> Look how thick! I KNOW! Can you BELIEVE it?</i> The other students quickly look away as from a bloody corpse, their minds reeling in horror.<br />
<br />
I fleetingly consider charging money to my own freak show or perhaps supplying goods to yarn stores. There's got to be a better use of my abounding tresses than $10-a-pop public humiliation.<br />
<br />
An old Asian hairdresser with feverish eyes randomly flits to and fro between the shearers. She stops abruptly at me, doubles over and starts hurriedly collecting shorn scraps of my hair. I forget all manners and roundly stare at her. Shouldn't I sign some waiver or consent form? What could she possibly want with my hair? Is this voodoo or something?<br />
She explains in broken English that she is doing a hair color project and needs samples of red virgin hair. Well, I do have both the red and the virgin going for me. Take it away, strange hair lady. Just don't take my soul. <br />
<br />
At long last the deed is done. Never mind the blow-drying that took the better part of an hour. Never mind that my girl's arms are about to fall off from heavy lifting. My hair is shining, laden with product that I will never slather on it again, and I am about just about to leave my chair when...<br />
<br />
The girl's supervisor sweeps by and does a final check-up on the cut. I smile wanly and nod, <i>Yes, yes, it's great, fabulous, I like the back, yes...</i> I say nothing of hairpin stabs or smarting remarks. That kid owes me big. All I'm thinking about is my snappy exit.<br />
The supervisor then leans in gallantly, delicately lifting layer upon layer of pampered hair. He is a tall, regal and strangely bald African American with a flashing wide smile. Motioning to the mass of butchered hair lying sadly on the floor, he comments sweetly, "I'm going to take your hair and glue it on my head, and then I'll be as pretty as you."<br />
<br />
I nervously chuckle, picturing little patches of auburn hair pasted on his dark bald head. Was that a compliment? <br />
<br />
As I pay up and leave, I am reminded of a roommate's comment; she and the other roommates love my hair. She laughingly warned me that one day I might just wake up and find it shaved off, and the girls dancing around with little Stacia hair wigs. <br />
Talk about a disturbing visual! Although...I suppose there's more than enough to go around.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Notes:</b><br />
~All of these things really have happened over multiple visits to the illustrious Paul Mitchell School. There's actually more that I've witnessed there, including random dance parties and a<b> marriage proposal. </b> I am so serious. Men: do NOT, I repeat, do NOT propose to your girlfriend in a salon. I don't CARE if she cuts hair. It is beyond tacky.<br />
~I actually love getting my hair cut because I get a head massage. <br />
~Oh, and virgin hair really is a thing--it just means that you've never colored it. It's rather rare these days, and every single time people are shocked that I'm still a virgin.</div>
the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-73326110335364921152013-01-02T11:17:00.003-08:002013-01-02T11:48:57.972-08:00Grief is glass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CliF0jLoeU2ZGicGwQTN3hATW1uUZkazoXkMwEVeL1YQ62xWa6120GLsuYrfTvxSuKSXgLwVHWChkoyImpwN2eRItjmNyVH7c4MXMHp2hJbehf6QWMnwoi4BgmnnRRwqV7fgtbU5yJIj/s1600/window5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CliF0jLoeU2ZGicGwQTN3hATW1uUZkazoXkMwEVeL1YQ62xWa6120GLsuYrfTvxSuKSXgLwVHWChkoyImpwN2eRItjmNyVH7c4MXMHp2hJbehf6QWMnwoi4BgmnnRRwqV7fgtbU5yJIj/s400/window5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Happy New Year! 2013, what an awkward little assortment of numbers. I'm still putting off writing, so here are a few poems.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The day Mom came home for hospice I went out for errands, after waiting hours at the hospital for details and the right oxygen tank. <br />
<br />
I knew I had to get colored pencils and journals, and Mom wanted plain yogurt. I bought a set of three slim journals, my pencils, and two enormous tubs of yogurt. <br />
<br />
I always bought her copious amounts of food; I think it was in hope that she'd live long enough to finish it. Anyhow, one of the journals I turned into a poetry/prose journal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are not as many poems as there are deranged scribbles, but a few stanzas survived. I don't want to always be sad, but do want to be honest. That's why I'm posting all the sad ones (they're not all sad) now so I don't have to prolong the process. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Grief is glass</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grief is glass<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
shattering shattering<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
pieces get hid<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
glimmering glimmering<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
stuck into toes into fingertips searching<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
into nostrils inhaled clogging up lungs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
some of it’s noble, knighted, sainted—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
colored and carved and placed in <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
cathedrals<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
most of it’s dusty dirty sneaky grenades<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
private heartthrobs and breath catching sighs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
yearning<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>waiting<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for something to shift, to resolve out of <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>augmented diminished
tritone agony<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>but<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my hope is in another world<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>my heart<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my treasure<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>has lifted
off <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and flown away<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what is here for me except dusty glass and empty
decades?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life lived just so </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
all can be
at last at last at long last<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>finished</u>… and real life can start.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
come.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jesus—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
come.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7.11.12<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>three days
before Mom’s 54<sup>th</sup> birthday</i><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<br />
<u>There is a soft sadness</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
There is a soft sadness<br />
that sinks in-between<br />
the everyday notches and watches of life<br />
<br />
It curls up precisely<br />
where it's hard to reach<br />
and doesn't envelope until all is ripe<br />
<br />
But when conversation's<br />
the most ordinary<br />
and when I would certainly rather not weep<br />
<br />
The silky soft sadness<br />
seeps up to my stomach<br />
and creeps, how it leaps and it heaps.<br />
<br />
8.5.12<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSBZnrgeSKrDk5qIb0mnazADmn62XSWct3rpH3Ih8xUhFzhwetAkfpo3GHKl1jnTJ0plnHz78IiNzmryO66KJSu3ulJEB0DQR8K0ZLrWUpT3Zw2ZJdmiH34XMkGW3I8h6t3U8xZrDVsHZ/s1600/LeMei+Pictures+-+3+(18).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSBZnrgeSKrDk5qIb0mnazADmn62XSWct3rpH3Ih8xUhFzhwetAkfpo3GHKl1jnTJ0plnHz78IiNzmryO66KJSu3ulJEB0DQR8K0ZLrWUpT3Zw2ZJdmiH34XMkGW3I8h6t3U8xZrDVsHZ/s320/LeMei+Pictures+-+3+(18).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<i>And, to not end on a thoroughly heavy note, a little poem from God to me:</i><br />
<u>open your eyes</u><br />
<br />
open your eyes, my love, my love<br />
<br />
lift the lashy veils and colored muscled<br />
pools of soul<br />
to me, to me<br />
<br />
the agony within will not cannot<br />
destroy me<br />
for I am deeper still within<br />
the cloying hurt<br />
<br />
8.6.12</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-6436971011202736242012-12-28T19:52:00.003-08:002012-12-28T19:55:08.450-08:00Thank God for coagulation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Wouldn't you know it; the week that I was being held accountable for writing in this thing was the week that I stopped blogging. Oh my poor accountability partner!<br />
<br />
For the sake of forward motion, I will cheat and post a poem that I wrote a few months ago. At least it's something, right? <br />
<i>(Note to readers: My favorite part of poetry is rhythm; yes, even with irregular meter. I just picture irregular meter as unusual time signatures, like 7/8 or 5/4. The best ones. All that to say, please read it out LOUD.)</i><br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
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<u><b>Thank God for coagulation</b><o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the skin tears from its sleeve, when the rip is long
and deep<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The body whitens, puckers in horror,<o:p></o:p></div>
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And the Blood takes its own sweet time seeping out<o:p></o:p></div>
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Darker than a red red rose<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By rights it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shocks, laments in crimson tears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now it runs its race with zeal<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bursts bandages trying to cotton the shrieks <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Don’t smother the sorrow that must be heard<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Don’t beat back the Blood that must run down<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Don’t say it is not when it clearly is The—<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Is it not The End?</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But now the red flow thickens<o:p></o:p></div>
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Slows, loses heart, is whisked into peaks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Blood brittles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The wound littles,<o:p></o:p></div>
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And gradually closes its mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The fire is buried in ash, in scab<o:p></o:p></div>
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The scab is vetted and fretted away<o:p></o:p></div>
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And only a long strike of lightning stays<o:p></o:p></div>
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That memory may always remain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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8.14.12<o:p></o:p></div>
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the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-2521482068944468442012-11-21T22:38:00.001-08:002012-11-21T23:06:53.355-08:00Really loving her<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnU4uZB1KKJJtgqhBjVRaBwykwSaEanVt1Muu7UuyPUNtyZ1ruruUugzZTGmPbvpSnPTpnEIktNF2S7LgA2nyrmhIJnzBKJSRzQzObM73dnK44v2qir8VD2L6E92k_IbQzANTYmgiw-60_/s1600/LeMei+Pictures+-+3+(31).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnU4uZB1KKJJtgqhBjVRaBwykwSaEanVt1Muu7UuyPUNtyZ1ruruUugzZTGmPbvpSnPTpnEIktNF2S7LgA2nyrmhIJnzBKJSRzQzObM73dnK44v2qir8VD2L6E92k_IbQzANTYmgiw-60_/s400/LeMei+Pictures+-+3+(31).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
I used to think I loved my Mom. <br />
Now I believe that I genuinely thought I loved her, probably actually did a smidgen, but largely just needed her. I received her love as a child, guzzled it down. Which is fine and dandy, but now I'm twenty six and slowly bumbling out of the heavy sweater of childishness. <i> {I'm growing up even as I'm growing younger. Maybe by the time I'm fifty I'll know the feeling of being a little child. Childlike without the prison of narcissism}</i><br />
<br />
God gave me lots of chances to really love her this year. I tried. That's a whole other post.<br />
<br />
Grief has a really obnoxious way of uncovering the heart when it's most naked. Exposing disease. I realized that I wanted my mother here <b>WITH ME</b> even more than I wanted her happiness. And God's plans? Screw it, I need her. Here and now. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">{I need her to believe that I'll finally get married and have all those kids and see all those beautiful dreams and prophecies, the ones that are soft and frayed from daily praying, actually materialize into gloriously messy reality. I need her to explain her recipes. She never measured. I need to tell her about Micala's wedding and Aaron leaving for grad school and my job imploding in the same three days, how well friends have loved me and how people can say really dumb things. How I've hidden and tried not to hide, how I can't even talk to one of my closest friends on the phone because I just can't talk. How my heart has finally been beaten into submission but I'm afraid I've beaten too viciously; it doesn't work very well now. How I'm worried about not being worried that the old burning ache to see China worship has been covered in ashy sediment. How I saw the ocean, saw the mountains, found a new artist and a new musician, that it all poured life on my soul. <b>How death is now a personal enemy and I feel power coursing through me when I sing, "Death where is your sting?" I know the devil hates it. I have the authority to lord it over him, ha! I will always keep singing. If I can't today, I will tomorrow. Just because of Jesus and lots of prayers. </b> How I've written ten songs this year, but too many of them are slow and in the key of A. How I have no f-ing idea where my life is going. How I'm in the mists; like when we hiked rain forests. How darkness comes early and winter is breathing heavy like a wolf. How days are bathed with the sheer exhaustion of being alive.}</span></i></div>
<br />
A few months back I was hovering, wandering about the water cooler at work with an empty head and brimming eyes. A coworker who had lost his Mom when he was about my age asked me something about name badges, and I stared stupidly up at him, a couple tears bleeding out. He roughly gave me a side hug. Advised me to remember that whenever I'm feeling selfish and want her here, just to remember how happy she is up in heaven.<br />
<br />
I sniffed self-righteously and thought, <i>It's not selfish to want your mommy.</i><br />
<br />
That's true. Death is an obscenity to which we were never meant to become desensitized.<br />
I've also argued with God since then, bringing up how hard Mom fought to stay on this earth. Clawed for life. Even with so much death around her, she would not acknowledge her dying body but fought the good fight. But I know that she is adoring heaven. I believe that she has assignments from Jesus that she's partnering with Him in, and also that she's part of the great cloud of witnesses. If God is all around, maybe she's not as far away as I thought.<br />
<br />
I hope that one day loving someone won't mean letting them go. It will mean vowing to hold on, hold close. <i>{And even with Mom, I am not letting her go. I am letting myself live.}</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But at least for now, loving my mother, loving my friends, etc. means blessing who God has formed that person to be. It means blessing them to go where He leads. Even if it's not where I want them to be. Even if I need them here, closer.<br />
I get to love them the way God has given me to love them. It's just frustrating that so often this means bitter, freezing pain.<br />
<i>{The buck always stops at God's character. Always. He's so brave that way, letting the root of every accusation slowly trace its way back to, <b>Who do you say I am? </b> Because, naturally, he could have changed his plan so that my mother didn't die. Just like he could have prevented so many things. It's a gauntlet thrown down by the devil and God too--Will I still trust him? Do I still say that He is overflowing with loving-kindness?}</i><br />
<br />
But now I have the chance to really love my mother. Not for what she can do for me, but to just LOVE HER. <br />
To bless God's taking her. To twist my lips into a half-smile after doing another batch of weeping when I think of her dancing. I hear the overtones of her laugh sometimes, feel the life of her smile. Her obstinate joy that conquered lymphoma. I love her by getting up and living. <br />
<br />
<br />
After all, she's only as dead as Jesus is.<br />
<br />
file://localhost/Users/Stacia/Music/iTunes/iTunes%20Music/Karla%20Adolphe/Honeycomb%20Tombs/08%20When%20I%20See%20Him.mp3</div>
the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-23426120166538082742012-11-21T20:47:00.003-08:002012-11-21T20:49:44.049-08:00a few thoughts on fear, and The Beginning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It computes, I suppose, that Christians tend to be the most fearful people I know. We are called to higher things, to fling ourselves headlong into Love himself. And so of course our adversary would pinpoint us with fear like a sniper, shooting until we collapse.<br />
<br />
I know that the opposite of fear is love, that perfect love casts it out, and that God = Love. But living this truth is akin to breaking out of chain mail armor lashed with bolts and locks galore. It's the sort of thing you can pour your lifeblood into, burst a lung over--a real battle. The journey from fear into Love. I want to write without fear. I want to live without it. I want to run so far from fear that I crash heavily into Love, again and again and again.<br />
<br />
My mother taught me the most about not being afraid. I do not remember her being afraid this year, not once. Not when her hair was falling out. Not when the prognosis was 9-11% survival (that just annoyed her, and she would not talk about it). Not when chemo was making her old.<br />
<br />
During my forty days of wearing black I haphazardly wrote the story of how she died, frantically finishing just before I reemerged in color. It is extremely unedited and unfit for anyone to read--I'd have to kill ten people at least. <br />
Nevertheless, it is honest. It is called <i>My Vanquishing Vanishing Mother (</i>I can never resist alliteration).<br />
I may occasionally post slices of the story; here is the beginning. It relates to fear:<br />
<br />
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<span style="color: #675e47; font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC TT-Bold"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2;"> My mother, LeMei Carolyn Moore Littlefield,
celebrated the New Year 2012 with gusto.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She always did, praying and reflecting and celebrating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few days into the year I was getting off
work and about to go to Zumba class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
saw that my sister Micala had called me four times and had texted me that Mom
was in the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Dad had also
called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly called my father,
panic rushing to my throat and stabbing my gut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He told me that Mom had never gotten over her cold of three weeks and
that her cough was worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had gone
to the local clinic that had immediately taken her to an ER in Denver, at St.
Joseph’s hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not to worry. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were running tests to see what was wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #675e47; font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC TT-Bold"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-themecolor: text2;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
cried a few frightened tears and my roommate Nicole hugged me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She advised me to still go to Zumba, which I
did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next day I went up to the
hospital after work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My beautiful Mom
was there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked so vulnerable in a
flimsy hospital gown, but wore a calm, reassuring smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hugged her, and after a few minutes
couldn’t hold back the tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She held
my hand and told me that I don’t have to be afraid; fear is never of God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had some painful procedures, and asked me
to step outside while the nurse took a bone marrow sample.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Afterwards she mentioned that it hadn’t been
that bad; I probably could have stayed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The early days seem like such child’s play in contrast to the end,
where she couldn’t hide the pain anymore and held my hand so tight.</span></div>
_____________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
Mom told me not to be afraid, and she also commented that worry was a form of fear. God had been talking with her about that. <br />
I have not lived that well this year, but her words sank like granite to the bottom of my soul. Now I'm not quite so easily swayed to worry. I've got a bit more weight of glory in me. Precious little, but I can feel it. Maybe it's from her.<br />
<br />
<i>{On a side note, that first day was the only time I cried in front of her in the hospital. </i><br />
<i>Fitting, surreal, nauseating.}</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
I was going to wrap this thing up with a few pithy takeaways to avoid fear but the words taste false. <br />
<br />
Honestly, 2012 has left me with more, not less, fear. I don't have more separate fears, but rather a heightened foreboding of their fulfillment. The worst thing really can happen. It does, all the time. In another six months, who else will slip away? There seem to be no rules. The ones we have, that keep our universe bolted into place, have ample room for horror.<br />
Remembered pain grows into an evil tsunami, lurching over me as it grows and shadows the future.<br />
<br />
It really is true--only one thing remains. Jesus. <br />
Love himself. <b> He is with us.</b> He died to make that happen. And whatever horrors happen, there is grace rippling alongside. That's all I got. It doesn't feel comforting, it doesn't feel kind, it doesn't feel good. <br />
<br />
But He is more real than feelings and He is enough. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofgybd5coQE</span></u></i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-69068610791444175392012-11-16T16:56:00.003-08:002012-11-16T16:56:38.991-08:00Praying for people<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Today I prayed for women who came into a free healthcare clinic connected with my local church. I am now part of an intercession team that offers prayer to women who desire that before or after their doctor's appointment. Some come back solely for the prayer. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And I suck at it.</div>
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I used to know how to do this--I have been on countless prayer teams, formed a college prayer group centered on dessert (if there's ice cream, they will come), gone through a prayer internship, and been a full time intercessor for years. You would think I could pray for people.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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And I can. I do. Prayer happens. Worship happens. God is glorified. But secretly I think it's all a joke--me, who can barely get out of bed, offering people prayer!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
But I hobble to and fro in absolute exhaustion, worship, feebly ask women if they would like prayer, and am shocked if they say yes. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
And I am jarred out of my selfish grief world. And thank God that I have a car and not an abusive ex-husband. And I continue to pray for them. And start to ache for them, but then my heart saltily reminds me that I'm in way too much pain as it is, and to shut the hell up about these other people (my heart often has a potty mouth). And I'm disgusted by my myopic self-centeredness in a helpless sort of way.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've never been this weak before.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06BLR9dIOyxmDHrAOI2SpsLohZsHLEUtuKdu0UN7aLeY03smU2cp9JjCh7YB6PN-xa9UvCEnjF_K_9bXB1ZEaRQk7jNXN_qvH_f_aRRzW1YsvfnQVlsavA1HPvy9G_m8kwCe3zYxuvrU/s1600/laith+eyes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06BLR9dIOyxmDHrAOI2SpsLohZsHLEUtuKdu0UN7aLeY03smU2cp9JjCh7YB6PN-xa9UvCEnjF_K_9bXB1ZEaRQk7jNXN_qvH_f_aRRzW1YsvfnQVlsavA1HPvy9G_m8kwCe3zYxuvrU/s400/laith+eyes.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Today I arrived just as a mother, grandmother and little girl were being prayed for. Afterward, as they waited for a prescription, the three-year old girl spied a stash of children's books and greedily grabbed an armful. Girl after my own heart. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
She looked around, and caught my eye. I smiled and offered to read them to her. We read through a couple, and I became increasingly concerned by her lack of engagement. I always try to involve kids as I read to them, and she would not point out where the crab was, turn the page, or really do anything. She didn't say a word. I know it doesn't seem like much, but I knew something was wrong. From her eyes and a half dozen other things. She was not in a good situation, and I could do absolutely nothing except pray for her.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I cannot relay how horrible it is to see children shut down and lifeless, and know that abuse is happening RIGHT NOW but that it will probably be years before it stops, and more excruciating years before God addresses it and they slog through the awful miry bog toward healing. If at all. I told another lady, and we prayed, and I'll keep praying. Who knows what is going on. Who knows what God will do because we prayed.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Oh but it grates on my soul. <i>Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison.</i> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Jesus, you have such a brave heart to refuse to give up on this place where we live. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Jesus, rescue the little girl with the old eyes. Do your thing. I love it when you do (actually, that's a complete lie. I love it afterwards).</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Gentle knead her soul into breathing.</div>
</div>
the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-88748584810912021052012-11-16T16:48:00.000-08:002012-11-16T16:48:46.206-08:00my soul, juiced<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Well, here we are. The first blog of 2012. I've spoiled myself with tea and ambience and time, and now all that's wanting are words to fill the empty page. And hopefully some mental engagement to accompany said words.<br />
<br />
Some years your heart is mistaken for a dirty washcloth and goes through the wringer. <i>{Oh this post is da bien. keep going. keep going. One of these days I'm going to write a secret blog that has cuss words galore, and it will be secret except for those who will understand and appreciate profanity's highly debatable place in literature. I will strain my coarse venom out of this blog, however. This blog is a lady.}</i><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
I can't say who does the wringing, but I know who cleans up afterwards. A soul crushed into jagged realities--what a bloody mess. Like a lemon cut and mashed into a juicer. How do you heal that?<br />
<br />
I've been holding off writing for at least 11 months because I've felt I've had absolutely nothing to say. Now I see that there is much to be said, but I'm not sure how to say it, and don't trust myself to handle things adequately. Also, I feel like it would just plain be too sad.<br />
But regardless of whether or not people read it, I must write. <br />
<br />
Out of courtesy for my fragile mental state:<br />
<i>1. I am not going to start linking my blogs to facebook. At least not for a while. (What would become of my reputation as a relatively sane individual?)</i><br />
<i>2. I am not going to worry about making sense. That would take far too much mental contortion.</i><br />
<i>3. I am going to write in sketches.</i><br />
<i>4. I am not going to expect very good writing.</i><br />
If you still want to read this after all those conditions, Lord love you. And grant you grace and mercy!<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>A typical morning in grief:</i><br />
<br />
I wake up and cringe. Remember Regina Specktor's lyric, <i>I am awake and feel the ache. </i>Wish I knew more about her life. Press snooze ten times. Scrunch my comforter over my bedhead and groan like a toddler. Look at pictures of my mother on my wall. Miss her. Play her voice like a phonograph in my mind. Wonder, fear prickling, how much longer I'll remember. Look again. Stare. Hit the snooze. <br />
Remember that Christmas is coming and I don't know where her coffeecake recipe is. We have to have the stupid coffeecake. It's Jesus' birthday cake. Stare. I'll make it with too many chocolate chips, I know I will. It will be mushy and all wrong. Stare. Blink. Stare.<br />
I recall how annoying it was when she'd wake me up, because she'd be preternaturally chipper, her voice jumping an octave in sing-song. I would motion for her to come next to my bed, and I'd bury my face in her stomach, and she'd hug me. I would feel about five and be happy. <br />
I close my eyes and feel dead weight forming beneath my eyelids. That's right, I sobbed right before bed. Crap. Am I getting eye bags? Can grief do that? That's so unfair. Should I get another brand of concealer? If I just managed to sleep, it'd probably take care of itself. <i>God. God. Jesus Jesus Jesus. Be with me. </i><i> Near. Really near. </i><br />
I stare at the white of my comforter, then at the creams and yellows in my room with the morning streaming in. An aspen room. It's so pretty. I should appreciate the aesthetics. I wonder how old I'll be when I die. <i>Jesus Jesus Jesus. Jesus. </i>Finally, finally finally I scrape the cover off and stumble up, dizzy.<br />
<br />
Music. On. Good. Getting dressed. Decisions. Oh dear. That requires thinking. My feet are cold. I always get grumpy with cold feet. Socks, socks, socks---<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>No, you FOOL!! MAKE YOUR BED! It's a matter of national security!! Make it NOW!! NOW!!! <u>MAKE</u> IT! Billions of LIVES depend on it, the fate of the Middle East--<u>JUST MAKE YOUR</u></b></span>--ok. Good. Done. HA! I made my bed! With cushions! I'm a success at life! Yes. Thank you Jesus. Now what in the world was I doing? Um...teeth. Brush your teeth. Oh bother, my feet are cold. Socks! Right. Socks. What time is it? OH CRAP! Brush your socks! BRUSH them! No...<br />
<br />
It is a miracle I leave the house acceptably dressed. If I have earrings on, it's a special miracle.<br />
<br />
I have, however, taken the precautionary step of donning a onesy to bed. That way if I completely lose it, I will show up to work halfway decent. Or at least warm.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-79939498052729296662011-12-30T14:56:00.000-08:002011-12-30T14:56:58.991-08:00hearts... the beginning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Hearts. Oh, the messy things! <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">It astonishes me what God would do for an undivided heart. </div><br />
Sending his only Son was just the beginning, ensuring that his quest could be successful. But once Jesus' blood covers us, God gently covers us with His righteousness like a surgical gown and goes to work. His shepherding leads us to quiet waters and still pastures, but it is when our souls are finally quieted within us that He can whip out the surgeon's knife. If there's any anesthetic, I haven't found it yet! Jesus' way always leads to <strong>more </strong>feeling, more bracing life. At least in this age, His consuming fire of love comes with searing pain.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://img1.artweb.com/users/1841/77499_human-heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://img1.artweb.com/users/1841/77499_human-heart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: xx-small;">http://img1.artweb.com/users/1841/77499_human-heart.jpg</span></div><br />
Back to the Beginning<br />
The first glimpse of man's heart and of God's heart is separated by one verse:<br />
<br />
Genesis 6:5<br />
The LORD saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every intention of the thoughts of his <b><span style="color: purple;">heart</span></b> was only evil continually.<br />
<span class="keywordresultextras">then in the very next verse, we see God's heart:</span><br />
<span class="keywordresultextras"></span> <br />
<span class="keywordresultextras">Genesis 6:6</span><br />
<span class="keywordresultextras">And the LORD regretted that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him to his <span style="color: purple;"><b>heart</b>.</span></span><br />
<span class="keywordresultextras"></span> <br />
<span class="keywordresultextras">Already God had bound his heart to ours--our heart moved His. </span></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-22298617836509376442011-09-26T14:14:00.000-07:002011-09-26T14:14:10.408-07:00The purse. The Red purse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I just have to brag on God about this.<br />
<br />
This past week was EHC's 65th Anniversary. With 150 international directors, countless conversations and airport rides, updates from continents and multicultural intercession, it was truly an amazing time. I did not want it to end. <u>I still don't.</u> God is moving mightily all across the earth, and I felt incredibly honored to meet some of His favorites (you are, too, you know). I need to let things settle internally a bit more before I attempt to write about it. But it hit me like a typhoon.... on a beach.... with sand and crabs and coconuts flying. just process THAT.<br />
<br />
So I'm NOT blogging about that, but AM writing about a tiny little thing that just shows God's kindness.<br />
<br />
There was a missionary boutique for the internationals, and after the conference it became open for IMs (Intercessory Missionaries) to shop there. Used/new clothing, purses, belts, etc. I had grown up getting my clothes from these yearly boutiques in Taiwan, and also from large garbage bags of clothes that families would give us in the US and in Singapore. I don't know how we got all these clothing connections, but people always seemed to give us clothes! Maybe they were trying to tell us something. :) <br />
<br />
Anyhow, they're lots of fun. Much less draining than shopping at strip malls.<br />
<br />
I have been casually looking for a red purse for maybe five years. Didn't want to spend a lot of money on it, and always seemed to find other ones that I liked. And I knew exactly what I wanted; was very picky about it. I'm kind of a mystic about these things, and knew that I would know it when I saw The Purse. <br />
<br />
So I was leafing through sweaters and activewear when I noticed a stack of bags. Lo and behold, under a couple of rather pathetic totes was my red bag. <br />
<br />
Now I was completely exhausted and as sick as a dog, so I unemotionally added it to my collection and took it home. Later that weekend, I looked at it more closely and recognized that it had EVERY detail that I had ever been looking for.<br />
<br />
Jesus is so so kind. I found all kinds of warm sweaters that I could have never afforded, and the perfect Red Purse. He doesn't give us just enough, He lavishes. May we live like that, too. <br />
<br />
Today there was a chorus that sang, "What is on your heart is on my mind," and I felt the Lord saying that to ME. Which totally ruined me!<br />
He really loves us, you know. And He knows even about silly things like purses. Xie Xie Ye Su</div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-88563193852443152552011-08-31T06:59:00.000-07:002011-08-31T06:59:24.916-07:00endowed with splendor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #444444;">Well, let's see how a very sleep-deprived Stacia blogs! Should be fun.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444;"> Let's talk about <span style="color: #a64d79;"><strong>BEAUTY</strong></span>. Oh dear, when I write it like that, it seems so daunting. Let's not be so epic. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://revelationsinwriting.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/beautyforashes-by-jvc-artworks4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><span style="color: #444444;">When thinking about <strong>beauty</strong>, I always think of a verse about differing splendors. Thank you, Paul (NOT whom I'd expect for beauty insights!). I Cor. 15:38-41:</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">"Not all flesh is the same: People have one kind of flesh, animals have another, birds another and fish another. <sup class="versenum" id="en-NIV-28759"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">40</span></strong></sup> There are also heavenly bodies and there are earthly bodies; but the splendor of the heavenly bodies is one kind, and the splendor of the earthly bodies is another. <span style="font-size: large;"><sup class="versenum" id="en-NIV-28760"><strong>41</strong></sup> The sun has one kind of splendor, the moon another and the stars another; and <span style="color: #0b5394;">star differs from star in splendor. "</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br />
<strong>Each of us is endowed with splendor</strong> although we differ from another in splendor.<span style="color: #a64d79;"> </span><strong><span style="color: #a64d79;"> Every woman is beautiful in a very personal way</span><span style="color: #6aa84f;">.</span></strong> The God who calls the stars out by name ensures a handcrafted beauty.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://revelationsinwriting.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/beautyforashes-by-jvc-artworks4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
We display His splendor (Is. 49:3, 60:21, 61:3. 62:3). He has endowed us with splendor (Is 60:9). [Yes, those verses are about Israel. We're grafted in. They're also about the redeemed and the already-but not yet kingdom of God.]. <br />
<br />
yeah yeah yeah there are many things in this world that try to destroy beauty (and I think some of the major ones are frantic attempts FOR beauty, e.g. botox and eating issues). <span style="font-size: large;"><strong> But as we draw closer to God (THE BEAUTY), the ashes themselves become beautiful.</strong></span> Restoration Resurrection HOPE. <br />
<div align="center"><a href="http://kibitskayainna.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/woman_9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://kibitskayainna.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/woman_9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
One of my favorite things is the moment when a veil is lifted and I see a woman's beauty. It's especially fun if there are things that might mar the beauty. When you're talking with her and she smiles or looks a certain way... and LOVELINESS is revealed.<br />
Simply and irrevocably. Oh I <strong>love</strong> that moment. Then you know how to see, and you can see God's splendor whenever you see her.<br />
<br />
May we all have Jesus' eyes to see.<br />
<br />
Just one more note: we are beautiful just because God gives us beauty. None of it is our own. There is incredible rest in that truth. It's all to Him and through Him...and FOR Him. God loves beautiful women, he created a lot of us! And we can rest in our beauty, for it depends on Jesus, not us.<br />
<br />
Let me end with a movie quote from Twister. I never ever thought I would write that sentence. <br />
The aunt catches the leading lady primping in her bedroom, and says, "Well, there's nothing you can do. You're beautiful."<br />
<br />
:)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://kibitskayainna.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/woman_9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><span id="goog_1531137411"></span><span id="goog_1531137412"></span></span></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-34814960531102821142011-08-20T16:47:00.000-07:002011-08-20T16:51:56.593-07:00i thank You God for most... (cummings. and a little me)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i>Almost</i> my favorite. I love e. e. cummings. Read it out loud!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>i thank You God for most this amazing day</b> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">~(e. e. cummings)~</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #444444;">i thank You God for most this amazing</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: white;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: white;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: white;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: white;"></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: white;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><div style="text-align: center;">and a blue dream of sky;and for everything</div><div style="text-align: center;">which is natural which is infinite which is yes</div></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">(i who have died am alive again today,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><div style="text-align: center;">and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth</div><div style="text-align: center;">day of life and love and wings;and of the gay</div><div style="text-align: center;">great happening ilimitably* earth)</div></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">how should tasting touching hearing seeing</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><div dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">breathing any - lifted from the no</div><div style="text-align: center;">of all nothing - human merely being</div><div style="text-align: center;">doubt unimaginable You?</div></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">(now the ears of my ears awake and</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><div style="text-align: center;">now the eyes of my eyes are opened)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDacpGsStzfC-sjEW5Srg78AZu4PoBhWgB5FOXzIQ8DCVzplXxFnTXQpGHcFqr4zjZs_SeOD-S_3OHUrB_LbPnZOyGX0z0VIPZIMIn8aBdH5XVWDt8clCKsCi5V0Hk3r0CyTsbjCTHByW/s1600/beautiful_day____by_cedz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDacpGsStzfC-sjEW5Srg78AZu4PoBhWgB5FOXzIQ8DCVzplXxFnTXQpGHcFqr4zjZs_SeOD-S_3OHUrB_LbPnZOyGX0z0VIPZIMIn8aBdH5XVWDt8clCKsCi5V0Hk3r0CyTsbjCTHByW/s1600/beautiful_day____by_cedz.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">*Illimitable means incapable of being limited or bounded. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And now my own little list--</div><div style="text-align: left;">i thank You God most for.... Love (which is You). </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">i thank You God (not MOST, but thank you just the same) for:</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Live swing bands and Debussy and Brahms and books books books and Vitamin water and families and the ocean and pumpkin muffins and jiao zi's</div><div style="text-align: left;"> and red red roses and the hope of New Zealand and Italy and different cultures and the particular peculiarity of us people. </div><div style="text-align: left;">For funniness... You didn't have to create hilarity, but it's lovely to laugh. I want to know your laugh.</div></span><br />
</div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-20184803638014250862011-08-18T16:17:00.000-07:002011-08-18T16:17:46.921-07:00asking<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well. It's been a while since I've written, so I'm determined to write something. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZKkdGFCqojSngDx4E_KHUqJZYUFkd0rJAZ2MwM4nRaDN7AfTQD_0AuWTTt3aTODvoQAwGighQKwYDQw2CnmAsU0euIM9rWHqd2krv_oTtPZgtPCq-WEKlBq_50XrCyyNR2lUlKQcp7mbx/s1600/123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZKkdGFCqojSngDx4E_KHUqJZYUFkd0rJAZ2MwM4nRaDN7AfTQD_0AuWTTt3aTODvoQAwGighQKwYDQw2CnmAsU0euIM9rWHqd2krv_oTtPZgtPCq-WEKlBq_50XrCyyNR2lUlKQcp7mbx/s320/123.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Asking.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Asking God for things. </span><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jesus asks us to ask him for specific things.</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Like when he asked a blind man what he could do for him (Matt 20, Mark 10, Luke 18). And when Jesus asked the cripple by the pool if he wanted to be healed (John 5).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(I always thought those verses indicated a sense of humor, but now I believe Jesus was in earnest. Drastic healing means drastic change, and voluntary change is never for the faint of heart.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And of course, the famous, "</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ask [in my name] and you will receive</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, and your </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">joy will be complete </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(John 16:24)." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened (Luke 11:10)," "</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened (Matt 7:8)." And more.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">God has asked me what I want during various conversations, and my typical response has been, </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I want what you want."</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I truly want what He wants, and believed that this was the right, holy answer. It's also a pretty safe answer.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I still think that.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">HOWEVER~~~~ </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wouldn't be very fun if a father asked their four-year-old what he wanted for his birthday, and the kid replied precociously, "I want whatever you want to give me, Daddy." </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It builds intimacy to voraciously LONG for a red fire-engine and then receive it. More fun for the parent, too. There's no robotic qualities whatsoever.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So with God, He's been nudging me to ask for things I want. Which is terrifying and difficult!</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It challenges who we can truly say that He is (probably most important question of our lives). </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is my Jesus kind?</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Does He care about my desires? Are they submitted to him but not stuffed into deadness?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And after the courageous leap to ASK (for healing, for a nation, for strawberry bubble gum, whatever have you) comes.... the waiting. [duh duh duh DAH. Beethoven's 5th]</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wonder if the hours in the Garden of Gethsemane were not harder for Jesus than the flogging. </span></span><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The anticipation, the AGONY... the waiting.</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">confusion and doubts and accusations sting like hail. No wonder faith (being SURE of what we HOPE for) is called a shield.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, that's all I've got. Being in the thick of things, I really don't have resolution except that </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. God wants us to search after what's in His heart and ask him those things. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. God also asks us to ask Him for things that we truly desire. He LOVES it, because this means that we trust his kindness towards us, and we HOPE in Him. This brings us closer to him. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. Waiting is a battlefield, and God is glorified when we dare to fully feel and ache with him.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. We know Jesus in a unique, precious way when we wait for things we long for. He's only been waiting, oh, several thousand years for his bride!</span></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-76037948966372385922011-07-13T05:56:00.000-07:002011-07-13T06:02:28.718-07:00Psalm 63<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, I am about to take the plunge and post POETRY. How scary is that--I am about to go emotionally skinny dipping. Ah, well... let's not get on the subject of nudity. This blog is a lady. Here we goooo...!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Psalm 63</u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The ache only grows</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">for my God Jesus</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I feel it in the lament of empty arms and fingertips</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I taste it on honeyed lips ready to flow to my beloved</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My belly flames with longing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Miss you, Jesus. I miss you God.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Do you remember the garden I only know through thick glass?</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have seen you—I have—</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and yet it is never enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I would shrink back, half-dead with heartache,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">but for your strong hands on my shoulders holding me fast, even washing my feet</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">as I stagger on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tell me again the story of us, stars singing for joy as the world careened into motion, into love, into singing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You fill me like a tidal wave drowns</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You change me like fire ruins clay</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You cripple me and break all my brokenness</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Until you are my only help, you my only life.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">O kind Love, kindly kill me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Until charred flesh gives way to glory.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><em><u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">the only Cadence</span></u></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">my joy is your joy</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">my name is your name</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">let all else be ravished</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">let love remain</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(mostly july 5th ’11)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">*cadence is music-speak for 'ending'.</span>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-67339482855036107862011-07-08T14:22:00.000-07:002011-07-09T14:37:59.272-07:00Eyes of the heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7JfxNJRO2mg07fmo6cqlt-z_lpBvMk8nDBdvo9M1M_lZqA3FKW_lzF11TdgrIFkDPFnw_g8CwDBN1jvX4WMK66ycnFxrXTiOkPEkMWlrlnx90I180nKi3qU9pOkOyJK61gFQ4vd953uHt/s1600/lovely-eyes-default-heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7JfxNJRO2mg07fmo6cqlt-z_lpBvMk8nDBdvo9M1M_lZqA3FKW_lzF11TdgrIFkDPFnw_g8CwDBN1jvX4WMK66ycnFxrXTiOkPEkMWlrlnx90I180nKi3qU9pOkOyJK61gFQ4vd953uHt/s1600/lovely-eyes-default-heart.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Well, I missed June. Oh well! Happy July to all. Go play some Christmas music (Am I the only one that does that?).<br />
<br />
Anyhow... It's astonishing how critical perspective is. In short, I suppose that perspective is a fancy word for how you see. Your box seat in life. <br />
<br />
To step just one metre (i miss the Queen's English) deeper--Jesus is life. There is no life apart from Him. So all that matters truly is how you see Jesus.<br />
<br />
"Who do you say that I am?" I LOVE that Jesus asked his disciples this question. <br />
He knew who he was. But Jesus wanted to hear them name him. He cares incredibly about who we can say he is.<br />
And that dictates how we see. If we can say You are GOOD--then even in really horrific circumstances, we will see through the lense of His goodness.<br />
<br />
I also think he cares about us answering honestly. He's never gone in for robot worship. If we cannot honestly say that in our lives, Jesus is kind and gentle with perfect leadership, he doesn't pout or shrink back in disgust. <br />
<br />
It's an invitation to wrestle. And the more we fight INTO him, the more we truly see him and his kindness. Really, like Madeleine L'Engle writes (oh Jesus thank you for Madeleine L'Engle), the only unbearable thing is the refusal to love. Because that seperates, and that is death. As long as we're kicking and screaming and bleeding and yet still engaging Him, then I believe that He will perfect our sight.<br />
<br />
I really want to see Him. <br />
<br />
To give a little anecdote--God often gives me songs a few days or weeks before I absolutely need to sing them to survive. Or he might have others compliment me or bless me right before I'm really attacked in that certain area. <br />
<br />
This could be considered cruel, and I could grit my teeth whenever I receive anything encouraging or any song. Or it could be taken as a tender touch by Jesus, preparing me and blessing me before hard things.<br />
<br />
All depends on how well you see. <br />
<br />
Eph. 1:17-19.the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-57649276264207687912011-05-15T14:32:00.000-07:002011-05-15T14:32:41.302-07:00rainy day post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Time for a Taiwan memory post... other topics require too much brain power at present. :) <div><br />
</div><div>The rain...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://organizations.oneonta.edu/historyclub/chinese%20town.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://organizations.oneonta.edu/historyclub/chinese%20town.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>There are several seasons in Taiwan: hot and humid, hotter, rainy, and typhoon season. The rainy season was the closest we got to winter, in the low 50s, and it actually did feel cold because we didn't have heating. Sometimes it would rain for weeks. I would daily lean out our apartment balcony, parting the waters of drying laundry, and strain to see how misty the mountains were. If I couldn't see them at all, it would rain all day. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Nothing ever really dried during the rainy season. We would pin up sheets and everything else until they were close to dry and then use them. The humidity injected an unavoidable musty smell on fabrics that you didn't notice until you visited another country. </div><div><br />
</div><div>We didn't go on as many walks to the university (our neighborhood park equivalent) during the rainy season, but would have fantastic make-believes with random dress-up clothes. Looking back, I had no idea where we found them all, but we had furry vests (think John the Baptist camel hair...mostly used for Native American characters), lacy scarves, and a pink panther costume. </div><div><br />
</div><div>And a decidedly Asian tepee made from bamboo poles and mosquito netting that my resourceful father constructed. Armed with these tools and a little (well... a lot, actually) facepaint, my siblings and I would create tunnels and houses and rescue each other from lava. </div><div>My sister and I would dance to the Nutcracker, and Mom would dance to Ron Kenoly. We would, too... and I would drag my brother into it as well. My brother would write a million stories and we'd all draw and paint enough to fill a museum. Paint each other, too. My poor mother.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There's something about rainy days and the arts. Maybe it's the ambiguity. There's space in the blank white/gray sky to imagine all sorts of worlds. That sky always reminds me of Chinese watercolor paintings, when often over half of the canvass is left blank. The white could be snow, sky, sea, a lake... </div><div>I like it because it leaves room for all the messiness of life. There are things that are clear, and if there weren't, we'd have no painting at all (e.g. absolutes). But there must be room, must be tension, for those things that are not so tidily compartmentalized into boxes (e.g. would this doctrine fit into every culture and age?). How much tension can we live with? How much must we, especially in international missions?</div><div><br />
</div><div>Rainy days also make me sleepy. It's like the sun got tired of its conspicuity and felt like shyly hiding away for a couple of days. Makes me want to hide away, too, and read and bake muffins. And play Chopin. Mozart's a little too brash for rainy days, and Liszt would be too much period. But Chopin... and Debussy...would be perfect.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://eschersketch.com/images/Goldfish-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://eschersketch.com/images/Goldfish-large.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><div>Ok well i think this post has enough random ideas in it for present. :) may your rainy days have lots of good books, music, hot tea, and lovely company. </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-50450875491447489792011-04-09T21:01:00.000-07:002011-04-09T21:01:21.959-07:00quenched<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Well...it's April! I vaguely remember blogging in the ancient past, before weeks started to speed up like they were on a bet with the energizer bunny (oooh man I just made a corny blog joke. What is this blog coming to??). Well. Let's begin.<br />
<br />
I miss rain. Torrential tropical downpours that give meaning to the word 'drenched.' In Singapore, every single road, no matter how miniscule, had ditches along either side. Major roads had twenty or forty foot chasms dividing their lanes. If it were not for these drains, the city would be constantly flooded.<br />
<br />
During downpours, the huge ditches would violently churn with yellowish water, tree branches, and whatever trash that immaculate Singapore could conjure. During the rainy season, even the drains reached their limit and trash cans would slowly float down the street like congenial neighbors. <br />
<br />
And you know what I miss about it the most? It was WARM. You could take a walk in the rain and get delightful soaked and never ever be chilly. For the longest time I had no idea why Westerners would always link rain walks with catching colds. Just like I never understood why those silly people would check the weather outside before getting dressed. Now, with a couple of temperate seasons under my belt, I still haven't learned--if I decide it's the day for flip flops and a skirt, it will undoubtedly snow. And hail. And sleet. (I live in Colorado. enough said. :> ),<br />
<br />
I love walking in the warm rain and getting so wet that it takes half a day to dry off. Just like it's marvelous to soak in the sun so long that you feel your bone marrow sizzling. <br />
<br />
QUENCHED. I really like that word. Partly because it starts with a 'q' and there aren't many like that. At least in my vocabulary. :) And it's an... onawanapeia. I have no idea how to spell that! It's when a word sounds like its meaning, like... ok, I'm cheating and googling it. <br />
<br />
Onomatopoeia (well, I was kind of close. not at all.)--e.g. hiss, buzz. They're fun. I guess quenched isn't REALLY....that hard-to-spell word... but it is in my world.<br />
_________________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
When is the last time you felt <i>quenched</i>, drenched to the utmost? That's what tropical thunderstorms make me think of, when you're sure that even your muscles are filling up with water. And that's how I feel in worship, in God's presence. It is tricky though, because the more quenched in God I am, the deeper the ache grows for more. This seems mean of God, frankly. <br />
<br />
But I'm slowly learning that I must trust who God is (His goodness, that He IS LOVE) in order to walk through spiritual doorways. <i>Then</i> that goodness will be apparent. And He just adores that place when faith is not yet made sight--it is precious to Him. <br />
<br />
God cares so much about how we love Him. It's crazy. <br />
<br />
He calls us out when we're lying helpless in our own blood (Ez. 16), loves us, gives us His love to love him, and then meticulously orchestrates circumstances to allow us to choose Him (and gives us the grace to do so). And celebrates our feeble movements toward Him! Maybe He just likes to party. :)<br />
<br />
And so the deeper ache is carving out more room for Him. So we can truly be quenched. <br />
Ach, it's late and I need to go to sleep. I'll finish with poetry--first read this poem in one of Madeleine L'Engle's books, and loved it. Had to look up 'replete', though (it roughly means 'full of'). There's some dispute over the authorship, but it's either Thomas Brown or Sir Thomas Browne. Here you go:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,<br />
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Like to a shell dishabited,</span><br />
Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,<br />
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">And say — "This is not dead," —</span><br />
And fill thee with Himself instead.<br />
<br />
But thou art all replete with very <i>thou,</i><br />
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">And hast such shrewd activity,</span><br />
That, when He comes, He says — "This is enow<br />
<span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Unto itself — 'Twere better let it be:</span><br />
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-78144564398177657422010-11-22T11:57:00.000-08:002010-11-22T13:06:00.397-08:00KeQi<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqv34r4qRcn7wD0e4xM_ENhRY37KdjXJ7xvW9z-HHYiK7Al0KBOtZCj3cJrx7pGJQg0YjIQaTZGptfgPVlESf3efzeH0hhkqyjilG_UjWSbsbj1Uw8rTU9VmC2JVQZc4d_erf2e8w4MYi/s1600/edited+P1020072.JPG"></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">OH there's so much I want to write about! I've been holding off on some subjects because I didn't feel wise enough, but thankfully I'm realizing that I'll never be wise enough. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">I'd rather just take a stab at it; hopefully I'll hit at something worthwhile. Although it will sure to be like stabbing a rhinoceros with a toothpick. hehehe. God WHERE did you get my mind? It's so wacky.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">This past Sunday I went to the Chinese fellowship after church. The Chinese church meets at 11:00 and has homemade lunch afterwards. This is really typical of Chinese churches; it's a great time of fellowship and delicious </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">fan</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> (rice... food). I've always kind of wanted to go to the service, but was intimidated and knew that my Chinese wasn't good enough to understand everything.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">BUT through another friend who teaches English to a few Chinese </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">tai tai</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">'s (older married ladies), and also learns Chinese from them, I was invited to the lunch. So I went! </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">:)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">It was so good to be in that culture again. *sigh* SO good. And the Pastor Rachel (yes, the pastor of the church is a woman.. that's cool, too) came over and welcomed me and found me a place to sit (very Chinese). We talked in Chinese, and she said that I was very good (which was very </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">ke qi </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">(kind, polite... also has the connotations of being flattering, but this is positive, not negative in this culture). </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">I of course denied this, partly because I knew it wasn't true, and partly because I knew what to do when given a compliment. Which is so refreshing; in English, sometimes it's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">keqi</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> not to accept, sometimes it's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">keqi</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> to accept them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Then I had rice and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">hong dou tang (</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">red bean soup--hadn't had that in AGES!) and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">cha ye dan</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> (boiled eggs soaked in tea. marvelous) and glass noodles... delicious. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">And I chatted with a few </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">ai yi's </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> (aunties; what you respectfully call any older woman. Rachel</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> mu shi (</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">pastor)</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> introduced ME as </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">ai yi</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> to a middle-schooler! yikes). I understood and pieced together more than I thought I would, and did the smile-and-nod routine the rest of the time. They had moved from China, and thought that Americans were friendly, greeting people on the street, and also that the air/weather was very nice here. But they would also like to go back to China. They had been Christians there... I had tried to tell them about </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Jesus in Beijing</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> but forgot how to say the title of a book. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Anyhow, one </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">ai yi </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">wanted to invite me to her house and cook for me, so we exchanged phone numbers. And I got to write my Chinese name a few times! To people that could read it! One person said it was very beautiful; I love my Chinese name. It means 'rhyming poetry,' and has old romantic and musical connotations. (</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">shi yun)</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">connotations</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">This actually brings me to what I wanted to blog about regarding the whole experience: <b>truth. </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">In the culture in which I grew up, truth is delicately wrapped in circumstance and connotation. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">In the West, truth is black and white, and if the dress looks awful you should let the person know. If a store is out of tuna, there will be a sign about it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">In the East, truth is found in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">guan xi (</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">relationship--but that word is pathetically lacking. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">guan xi</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> is one of the driving forces of the culture. Think of connections). Truth is an art, not a dividing line.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">Indirect answers are given because <b>the truth is</b>, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">the truth is complicated. Many details are needed for complete understanding, for a <b>round full truth</b>.</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">If the dress looks awful, they may say nothing or compliment you on it because<b> the truth is</b>, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">this relationship is important, and matters more than what you're wearing. </span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">If a store is out of something they will not tell you, even if you ask for it several times (this happened several times in Taiwan). </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"> Because <b>the truth is</b>... </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">we will have it eventually, this is a reliable store and we want you to come back. (Although sometimes the only 'real' truth is--we want you to come back! :) )</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Of course, this is the truth that they want to project. But I think it's rather pompous to think that what we think of as 'truth' in the West is absolute, and not also the truth that we want to project. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Now--</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">there is absolute truth</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">. You get into dire straights if you apply this to theology. The Bible offends and challenges every culture. That's why we need EVERY culture and tribe to be redeemed and come together for the richest, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">fullest</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> TRUTH of the gospel. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><b> While the Western church loves those verses about freedom and honesty, the call to leave worldly riches and die to self is preached, if at all, with lumps in the throat. </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><b> The Eastern church glories in dying to self and sacrifice to the point of idolatry while the message of grace and lavish love is meagerly expressed. </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Obviously, all of these observations are just that; and I'm trading in gross generalizations here. I had to add that part because I'm Asian. :> <i>do you understand?</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Oh I think I am just scratching the rhino now. Maybe I should try again on this later.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">But to summarize-- JESUS is the TRUTH. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">He's the truth behind the Western black-and-white, clear (sometimes garish) statements. e.g. "I am the bread of life... you must eat my flesh and drink my blood." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Couldn't you have COUCHED that or something, Jesus?!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">He's ALSO the truth behind the</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"> guan xi </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"> and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">keqi</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"> of Eastern culture, in the way that he lived out truth in love and tightly wove the truth of the kingdom in layers of stories. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">God draws near, God waits to be sought after. God rises up shouting and breathes in the wind.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Just a LAST thought:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><b>What if</b> the gospel had spread SOUTHEAST instead of NORTHWEST? I know it did spread SE to a certain extent, but it has generally spread up to Europe, West to the Americas, then West to Asia and West/South to Africa, and now the world is awaiting the final movement West, <b>back to jerusalem.</b> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">But... if it had spread East to Asia and South to Africa--what would current Christian culture be like? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">hmmm. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-33297821959668488322010-11-08T13:45:00.001-08:002010-11-08T15:04:23.979-08:00In-Between Land<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.thecinemasource.com/moviesdb/images/news/News%20-%20Narnia%20Dawn_Treader%20Michael_Apted.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.cenacle.com.au/images/the-magicians-nephew-by-cslewis1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 309px; height: 500px;" src="http://www.cenacle.com.au/images/the-magicians-nephew-by-cslewis1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Aaah I haven't blogged in forever! There have been even more hundreds of thoughts swirling around in me lately, but I think that the sheer vastness of topics has hindered writing. <div><div>Also, I'm realizing more and more that I don't know anything about anything... which is an exciting place to be. I trust myself more here. </div><div><br /></div><div>But all this does not contribute to blog posts, and I've also been aching to write. Well, enough about me. Let's talk about... </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In "The Magician's Nephew (C. S. Lewis)," there is an intriguing land with many pools. Each pool, or puddle, leads to a different world, and characters travel time and space through wearing rings and slipping into these pools. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't remember if the land had a name, but I like Jack Johnson's album title: "In Between Dreams." Let's call it the "In-Between Land." I've always felt an affinity for the characters in this place, and can picture the look of it. </div><div>If it were music, it would be Peruvian wooden flutes and pipes, with low cello and bass sliding scales... and maybe an accordian. A bland wind blows half-heartedly through eerie space, just enough to chill you into picking a destination. Grey and gray and dirty browns stain the mossy floor, and the sky blankly keeps the seasons secret. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's been years since I've read the actual book, so I forget how Lewis described it. </div><div><br /></div><div>In-between worlds. In-between time. No-man's land. transition. pause. </div><div><br /></div><div>Translation?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Between the motion and the act falls the shadow (T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men".).</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Airplane rides. Not the ones for vacation but the ones that are the finality of months of labeling boxes and smelling packing tape and quietly observing a life shrinking, by degrees, into __________. </div><div>First the books then the less-used clothing then the extra bedding then the cookware (leaving a remnant), then the crafts then the toys then the boxes of superfluity that no one knew existed, then more clothes, then giving away furniture, then the night on a mat and the mad dash for the last items on your bed stand that were almost forgotten because they were so close... </div><div><br /></div><div>Then the eery time when you brush your teeth in airports for morning, night, and morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>You glide over "In-Between Land" and fall as the plane's nose gently dips into another pool. Then you continue falling in freeze frame. Living in the pause. It takes time to fully materialize. Does that make any sense? </div><div><br /></div><div>The whole thing is quite fascinating.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've spent a good amount of life in the "In-Between Land." I've been told that TCKs disconnect six months before a move. My lease is up in 5 and I'm already saying goodbye to parts of my apartment. I'm already there and can hear the delicately painful music. In a minimal way, of course. I didn't even think that I'd mention it when blogging, but there you go.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>I have the sand of nations in my soul... please don't wash it away...</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Typically one day a year I ache for every place I've lived and visited and loved--where I just miss EVERYTHING. I've experienced it to a lesser degree each year, but I desperately hope it won't go away. It's not this awful thing; on the contrary, I think it's healthy. It feels like <i>remembering who I am</i>. And an honest grieving that I can't ever go back.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>But God is ushering me forward--instead of "The Magician's Nephew," the present and future feels like "The Voyage of the Dawn-Treader", which is probably my favorite. Although it's SO hard to choose. </div><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><img src="webkit-fake-url://D6859D2B-83D2-4202-8E8B-48931ACA6158/News%20-%20Narnia%20Dawn_Treader%20Michael_Apted.jpg" alt="News - Narnia Dawn_Treader Michael_Apted.jpg" /></p></div><div>Instead of passively watching worlds emerge and fade, God is weaving me through all kinds of waters, visiting distant islands and having marvelous adventures. Instead of "In-Between Land" there is a constant Presence upon which I ride; singing under mighty wings and tasting sweet water.</div><div><br /></div><div>He's been the only one who's always been there, and I know that He is faithful. He's been my rings that slipped me in between worlds. And we've had lots of conversations in "In-Between Land", God and I. Lots of whispers and tears and screams. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I wouldn't have longed for Him as much otherwise. </div><div>Thanks, Jesus. Ni mei tian yao wo, mei tian xiang wo, mei tian ai wo.</div><div><br /></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-34884754846209327732010-09-22T21:30:00.000-07:002010-09-22T20:52:53.451-07:00flower in the rain<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymvLf7DlHOjGEzBLsd-8_kL2TMIakzuWG4W-V8Kz9rXq3cww4F7cuw5W-UATPNTfIvHtMUegoVR7g0N01EDP0xDi9TtFemEKS5YH35QjS7gPLPgm08OLyByxkdU7DwmyA7lJhzDA-stm8/s1600/1236273122ZHxlDWY.jpg"></a></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">I don't really have thoughts congealed enough to shape tonight. But read this--</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">"Again [the Shepherd] smiled, but only remarked quietly that the important thing about altars was that they made possibilities of apparent impossibilities, and that it was nice that on this occasion it had brought her peace and not a great struggle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">She noticed that he looked at her keenly and rather strangely as he spoke, and though there was a beautiful gentleness in the look, there was also something else which she had seen before, but still did not understand. She thought it held a mixture of two things, not exactly pity—no, that was the wrong word, but a look of wonderful compassion together with unflinching determination.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"> When she realized that, she thought of some words which one of the Shepherd’s servants had spoken down in the Valley of Humiliation before ever the Shepherd had called her to the High Places. He had said, “Love is beautiful, but it is also terrible—terrible in its determination to allow nothing blemished or unworthy to remain in the beloved.” "<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">Hind's Feet on High Places (Hannah Hurnard) p. 163<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">for all the things that don't resolve</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">that sink below the memories</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">for all the things we lost along the way</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">for all the things that used to shine</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">but cried themselves to rust</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">I pray I pray I pray</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">oh I know that there are holes</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">and scars too deep to mention</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">but</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">you bring beauty again</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">and it's alright </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">if all is dead tonight cause</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">you raise the dead in the morning.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">carve my heart into your art</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">no matter how I scream about it</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">make it so that I can hold the rain</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">hold my sorrow in your eyes</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">that wept when mary cried</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">just show me how to live another day</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">I know that there are holes</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">and scars too deep to mention</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">but</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">you bring beauty again</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">and it's alright if all is dead tonight</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">cause you raise the dead in the morning.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">darkness and sighing will flee away</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">death's swallowed up by life today</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">darkness and sighing will flee away </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">death's swallowed up by life today</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">~me. A few months too early, as usual. It's always weird when you write something and then God teaches you what it means--or puts it to good use--later.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">it's a song (of course it is). </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymvLf7DlHOjGEzBLsd-8_kL2TMIakzuWG4W-V8Kz9rXq3cww4F7cuw5W-UATPNTfIvHtMUegoVR7g0N01EDP0xDi9TtFemEKS5YH35QjS7gPLPgm08OLyByxkdU7DwmyA7lJhzDA-stm8/s320/1236273122ZHxlDWY.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519948281371152258" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-55824879352664469782010-09-01T22:32:00.000-07:002010-09-01T23:12:58.991-07:00batter my heart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJZ_A9axE1Tp1_Qzu_AeDUjQu2jMXzJuRMXdJvLziQmX_HUzcLEKyqtZrOhOEKYGV4m6CEWTZfdPEX3n6LE52C6rLYpy5k9GBZUQHKb34chEb4_xD641EyLGEVDV31hAoe08AgC1LIS7s/s1600/burning_heart2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 171px; height: 171px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJZ_A9axE1Tp1_Qzu_AeDUjQu2jMXzJuRMXdJvLziQmX_HUzcLEKyqtZrOhOEKYGV4m6CEWTZfdPEX3n6LE52C6rLYpy5k9GBZUQHKb34chEb4_xD641EyLGEVDV31hAoe08AgC1LIS7s/s320/burning_heart2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512195113584650706" /></a><br />I can feel the deep, deep deep love of Jesus calling out my name, I'll never be the same<div><br /></div><div>I've been marked by heaven forever and ever</div><div>I've been marked by heaven forever.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';font-size:medium;"><center><span style="font-size:+1;">HOLY SONNETS--John Donne</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:-1;"><b>XIV</b></span><b>.</b><br /><img src="http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/invidot.gif" vspace="3" border="0" alt="" /><br /></center><b>Batter my heart, three-person'd Go</b>d ; for you<br />As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;<br />That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend<br />Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.<br />I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,<br />Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';font-size:medium;"><br />Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,<br />But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.<br />Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,<br />But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';font-size:medium;"><br /><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,<br />Take me to you, imprison me, for I,<br />Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';font-size:medium;">Read this in high school. Loved it. And also loved the other piece by Donne (no man is an island...the bell tolls for thee... that one) --he totally had Connectedness for his top strength. :)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';font-size:medium;"><i>There's violence in love</i>. When we sing, "He is jealous for me," just how far do we suppose that jealousy goes? God likes having us around--God came down for us--God wars for us--God died for us? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">I get annoyed when people say things like, "God does not need anything or anybody. He is sufficient in Himself."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">Yes, that logically theologically makes sense. He is GOD after all. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">BUT the way that comes across is completely false--it's like a wife saying to her husband, "I don't need you. I'm fine by myself." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">Yes, that's true. Even though it may not seem like it, humans can keep going even if something horribly awful happens, like the death of a spouse.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">Yet we still say to each other, "I need you, I would die without you." That NEEDING is part of love, the binding.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><i>Set me as a seal upon your heart, for love is as strong as death. (song of songs)</i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">Infinitely more so, God doesn't need us to exist. But He loves us, He longs to gather us under his wing. God <i>longs.</i> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">He needs us like a lover needs his beloved. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">ruthless, audacious, unbelievable...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">I'm reading Jeremiah and finished other prophetic books recently, and what struck me is the emotionality of God. He HATES what his beloved people are doing, it GRIEVES him, he sent this and that and YET THEY HAVE NOT TURNED!! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">Again and again... he will STILL have compassion on them, they STILL turn away, but he will NOT abandon them, he will still relent and have COMPASSION, and love the harlot they've become, and there will be a BRANCH and a priest and a king....</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">May we never, ever, ever in all of our study of God, reduce this wild love to a remote God who doesn't let himself need anybody like a hermit. It's not like that. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">Too often the technical (God is all-sufficient) has clouded an understanding of love. Our God is not a God far off. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">What response is too radical to such love?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">Moving into scary territory now. "Batter my heart, O three-Person'd God." "I tear my heart, I rip it open", "Arms wide open, heart exposed," "I want to KNOW Christ...and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings," "I've been <i>crucified with Christ--it is not I who live, but Christ in me."</i> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">AAHH!! Last time I check, it HURTS to rip your heart open!!!!! to be crucified. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;">You'd have to be insanely in love.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Book Antiqua';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:medium;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">Take me to you, imprison me, for I,<br />Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;"> </span></span></span></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-91659642913951114262010-08-23T21:36:00.000-07:002010-08-25T18:42:59.500-07:00poked stars<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsiHGr8jiDQQAwg6tJ86HTACTiw7mgKhr42Tkf4aWVklX6_tD0o3eett1o8O6nWFCQcz2iNPGjcmw-sOJCaixQFWqiwW5_ZfXAokzJ5dRgiINEORIxiN0DyZxKqMPNL4U8WKsfThEajcAy/s1600/1229893051VYIUKh6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsiHGr8jiDQQAwg6tJ86HTACTiw7mgKhr42Tkf4aWVklX6_tD0o3eett1o8O6nWFCQcz2iNPGjcmw-sOJCaixQFWqiwW5_ZfXAokzJ5dRgiINEORIxiN0DyZxKqMPNL4U8WKsfThEajcAy/s320/1229893051VYIUKh6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509528061684778722" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">if vision is the only validation then most of my life isn't real (black&gold)</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">Sometime when there's a full moon, or at least a very sizable sliver, you should try very hard to imagine this:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"> Stars are just pinpricks into REALITY-- glittering eternity. The moon is our best peek because a thumb poked through the black canvas, revealing what's</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"> really</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"> out there.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">Of course, if I really believed that the stars were holes, then they couldn't sing, and I love that the stars sing (read Job. or just look at them). </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">But it bends my mind just enough to remember that there's such a deeper, firmer, MORE bodily reality than we can comprehend. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">sing to me of the song of the stars</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">of your galaxies dancing and laughing and laughing again</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">when it feels like my dreams are so far</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">sing to me of the plans that you have for me over again</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">so i lay my head back down</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">and i lift my hands and pray </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">to be only yours, </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">i pray </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">to be only yours</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">i know now you're my </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">only</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">hope</span></span></div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-84394999518609504612010-08-14T16:30:00.001-07:002010-08-23T21:05:44.492-07:00typhoons<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.art.com/images/products/large/12356000/12356717.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 262px;" src="http://images.art.com/images/products/large/12356000/12356717.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div>One of my favorite songs is "How He Loves" (John Mark MacMillian). It's incredible, simple, powerful and all about love--enough said. It begins: "He is jealous for me, loves like a hurricane, I am a tree bending beneath the weight of his wind and mercy..."</div><div><br /></div><div>Such vivid imagery. But I didn't really have a schema for it, having never experienced a hurricane. Until i realized---wait, wait--a hurricane is a typhoon. </div><div><br /></div><div>They mean the same thing--a hurricane is a huge blustery storm in the west, and a typhoon is a huge blustery storm in the east. Of course they have to have totally different names; why would you <i>simplify</i> English? </div><div>Oh, and btw, why do people drive on different sides of the road? We've only had cars since the 20th century, after all. I actually saw a car with the steering wheel on the right side yesterday--it was so weird! Like Singapore. When we'd visit the US I would always embarrass myself and get into the wrong side... way before I had my driver's license.</div><div><br /></div><div> ANYway-- there is a whole typhoon season in Taiwan.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sky would get darkly moody, rain would turn to downpour and street signs would rip away and crash along the streets. Think "Wizard of Oz" cyclone without flying houses. One night as we were going to bed, a typhoon was brewing and my parents were worried about my bed being against a window. </div><div><br /></div><div>I, being the level headed, non-emotional child I was, immediately pictured me huddling in a corner as a tree branch shattered the window and sucked out the bed into a black whirlwind. Which was very exciting; I was quite looking forward to it.</div><div>We ended up just moving my bed a foot away from the window so no dust or rubble would seep in. *sigh* </div><div><br /></div><div>Once my Dad was late teaching at a church and had to walk back during a fierce typhoon--we prayed that a small tree wouldn't knock him out. He made it home safely, having huddled in an alley and made short dashes between secure shelters. </div><div><br /></div><div>The weather was just dire enough to stir up excitement and cause somewhat sizable damage, much like many tiny earthquakes that happened regularly. Of course, there have been horrific typhoons with death tolls and fallen buildings... thankfully we didn't experience one like that.</div><div><br /></div><div>We used to take post-typhoon walks to survey the damage, and especially around a university campus that was the only 'park' close by. We'd navigate around signs, broken glass, and huge fallen foliage.</div><div><br /></div><div>Although Singapore was too sheltered geographically to endure typhoons, would have wonderfully violent thunderstorms almost daily. It was most dramatic on the beach, when the waves would kick up and palm trees doubled over like heartbroken lovers.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I have a picture. God's love like a typhoon wind, buckling trees under the weight of sheer glory. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's real. </div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1619188190355460765.post-79318918461370286612010-08-02T15:24:00.000-07:002010-08-02T16:13:29.632-07:00airport imaginings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cdn.wn.com/ph/img/7d/3e/99cb325d190dd35e074cf436db8d-grande.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 468px; height: 312px;" src="http://cdn.wn.com/ph/img/7d/3e/99cb325d190dd35e074cf436db8d-grande.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cdn.wn.com/ph/img/25/d7/c5cef5ea970bb6ab42cd27054b29-grande.jpg"></a><br />This is kind of a long-standing tradition with my sister; we're each writing a sentence (or impassioned paragraph) to create a stunningly brilliant short story! kai shi ba!<div>bonus points for pp who can tell which narrator is which sister.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once there was graceful young porpoise who loved to swim among the swaying seaweed off the coast of Tasmania.</div><div><br /></div><div>This porpoise was very delusional, for she believed she was a mermaid and swam around humming tunes about princes and lobsters and fish named Flounder.</div><div><br /></div><div>In her quest for a prince, she stumbled upon a family reunion of merpeople who were welcoming back a constantly singing redhead who promptly slapped her for trying to steal her story.</div><div><br /></div><div>The spiteful princess Ariel continued to harass the poor porpoise until she was well outside of the barriers of the kingdom. Overwhelmed as her blissful ignorance was shattered, the poor dear aimlessly swam deeper and deeper into the unknown depths of the uncharted seas........</div><div><br /></div><div>Suddenly her snout scraped against coral, and, smarting, our heroine Blenfulsy realized that she was entangled in the Great Barrier Reef. As she collected herself, a band of clownfish solemnly assembled.</div><div><br /></div><div>Taking one look at her, they uniformly shook their heads and, in unison, grimly informed her that she needed to get her act together. After helping her dislodge herself from the coral, they gave her pointers on embracing the beauty of the porpoise, the true essence of her species. The first thing to changed had to be her name. Instead of the common mermaid name of Blenfulsy, she would now be called Seastar... a coveted name among porpoises.</div><div><br /></div><div>Blenfulsy blinked. Could she really take on another name? She started to hyperventilate, her whiskers annoyingly getting sucked up into her nostrils. Yes, she could. And she would! "Thank you, my little friends. I will gladly take up your name for me." The newly christened Seastar thanked the kind but grim little clowns, and twirled upward.</div><div><br /></div><div>Though Seastar now understood that her standards for a man must change, she still wished to find the prince of her dreams. However, why stop at porpoises? Why not a killer whale, or a shark, or even a whale? She had heard there are plenty of fish in the sea and she set out to test the theory.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seastar now traveled west, set on Italy and dark-eyed Italian killer whales with smoking eyes and accents. She practiced "Ciao!" and "T'Amo" with newly found chuzpah. But just as she was passing South Africa, she heard the most dreadful noise--</div><div><br /></div><div>She looked over to see a fellow porpoise belting his heart out to the languid tones of Celine Dion. She scrunched up her nose in disgust and began swimming off as fast as she could.</div><div><br /></div><div>"neear, faar, whereEEEEEEEEVVEEER you are, I beliiieeeeve that our hearts wiiill (BREATH) go ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOooooonnnnn....."</div><div>Seastar swam faster, wincing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Suddenly the porpoise stopped and said, "Wait, I hear you, who are you?" Surprised by the odd wording, Seastar turned around to discover that the porpoise was actually blind! Having not quite let go of her previous fantasy she said in her sweetest mermaid voice, "My name is Blenfulsy!" To her joy he replied "Oohh I've never met a mermaid before! It really is a pleasure!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"The pleasure's all mine!" she chirruped. "I'm just on my way to a European cruise. I hear that Grecian beaches are just deLIGHTful." The porpoise sang out jubilantly, "Hallelujah!! I was just heading that way myself! Please allow me to accompany you, beautiful mermaid. My name, by the way, is Gus."</div><div><br /></div><div>So they set out together! Everyday Seastar would tell Gus magnificent stories about the glamor of being a mermaid and the burdens of the beauty and fame that accompanied her race. He would drink in every word with an a awe and reverence that never failed to boost her confidence level even if it all was a lie. Until, one day, Gus confessed</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm not really a singer." Seastar gasped. Gus whimpered. "I never was! I always wanted to be, but everyone told me I was awful. that's why I was wandering around alone in the ocean. I was trying to practice." Seastar comforted him, "Well, I've gotten so tonedeaf since listening to you, I think that everything else sounds worse! You can always sing for me, Gus."</div><div>Gus, tears still bubbling, slowly turned toward her--</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm also not blind Blenfulsy, or whatever your real name is. I was only wearing these glasses to gain inspiration for my rocker image. But now, after spending so much time with you, I am convinced that you are far more beautiful and glamorous than any mermaid that ever lived."</div><div><br /></div><div>Seastar sighed in delight. "Reeeally?" "Would you like me to sing it to you?" Gus offered. "No, no, I believe you dearest," Seastar hastily replied. "Let's just elope to New Zealand. My name is Seastar, by the way."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Charmed," said Gus gallantly. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>the END</div>the wonder that's keeping the stars aparthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16487309561145552093noreply@blogger.com1