WHAT did HE MEAN?

These days it seems authorial intent is an aside, an afterthought. What really matters is how the piece of music or poetry or prose made us feel and feelings are something we westerners are never short on. And so praise God for twitter and facebook, and someone thank Him for LinkedIn too, because without these outlets of immediacy, how would we ever know how anyone felt about anything? This morning a short twitter exchange:

Him: Sometimes I need to be reminded of what I sometimes believe. Me: Almost all the time I need to be reminded of what I almost never believe.

So this has me thinking about doubt this morning.

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

In my Old Testament class we began our study of Deuteronomy today. It is, in short, the paraphrase of the previous four books of the Bible and, in long, an instructive to remember and rejoice, remember and rejoice.

Forget authorial intent and even my innermost feelings, remembering and rejoicing slip my mind more than anything else.

Remember: what God intends, who He intends it for, and why. Rejoice: that God has not forgotten me or His promises, or most of all, His faithfulness to His character and word.

The other night a friend challenged me deeply. I sat on my bed Indian style, while her words came across the phone, and eloquence aside, she finished with, "So get up off your ass and do something about this situation..." Lest you think she's of the coarse, unfeeling sort, she sent me an epistle of love the next day filled with all sorts of right thinking and gospel truth.

Why?

Because I forget. I forget what God has done. I forget what He has promised. I forget what He does intend and not just how it all makes me feel.

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

This morning reading through the first few chapters of Deuteronomy with the rest of my class I'm reminded that there is cancer in that room and death, loneliness and confusion, joblessness and despair. In that room of 38 people who love Jesus deeply, who serve Him radically, who have been tapped on the shoulder by leadership at my church to come out and lead well, in that room of 38 people things do not always go well.

There are some of us asking: will we ever get to see the promised land? Has our sin been too great? Has His anger been too deep? Has our doubt been too strong?

And it's not because we don't know the gospel or the grand intent of God's hand: it is because we do not remember the gospel and sometimes forget the grand intent of God's hand.

So Deuteronomy is a sweet comfort to me today. Because it is a book about remembering and rejoicing—even if we never see what we think is promised to us. It is a book of history, of Ebenezers set at which to point and say, "Look what God has done thus far." It is a book about God's intentions, even when our feelings run rampant over truth.

Remember.

And Rejoice.

[PURE?] ENJOYMENT

"I enjoy your company." Because life is too short to mess around, I admit, I've asked a guy frankly on more than one occasion, "What's your intention?" The conversations are never fun, never comfortable, and never feel very fruitful. But it scratches the itch, gives them the opportunity to 'fess up, and lets me let my heart move on. In about 98% of these conversations I hear this one line: I enjoy your company, but...

This past weekend JR Vassar spoke at a conference for the home-group leaders at my church. He spoke on the Trinity and it was, let me tell you, enjoyable. It was heady and theological, it was convicting and reassuring, and it was life-giving and healing, but more than anything else, it was enjoyable.

He spoke about enjoying the gospel and never have I wanted to simply enjoy someone enjoying the gospel before as I did him. He's a brilliant guy with a deep love for Jesus and the Word, he obviously loves my church family and my pastors deeply, he's the pastor of a church plant in my native north—what is not to enjoy about this guy? But see, he wasn't talking about enjoying him, he was talking about enjoying the gospel—a different thing altogether.

This week, this month, I'll tell you, it's been hard to enjoy the gospel. There are some things weighing on me, family, time management, book details, the heaviness of my job, homesickness, tight finances, roommates, sleep, these things push in and crowd out my joy quickly.

I've started to enjoy things and people who enjoy the gospel, but it's not the same is it? It's not the same as enjoying the gospel. Enjoying the depth and richness that exists in being rescued from the clutches of death, covered with the righteousness of Christ, and called a son or daughter of a King. There's joy there, right there, sitting in that.

Yet I'm too busy enjoying the substitute instead of The Substitute, the creation instead of the Creator, the friend instead of the Groom.

But He's truly is the better choice. He is.

So here's my question to you today: what or who are you enjoying today?

Are you enjoying the company of a girl or guy because you haven't found "the one?" Are you enjoying religious things instead of God Himself? Are you enjoying the attention of your children, your readers, or even your spouse instead of dwelling deepest on the enjoyment that God has in you and you can have in Him?

THE BOOK RULES

At some point, maybe when you are 31, maybe when you are 25, you realize you have been sleeping on a mattress on your floor for one and a half years. It is not something that surprises you, because, in fact, it was no oversight that left you without a bed-frame. You sold it in a fury of adventure one and a half years ago for $25 and haven't missed it since. But now you are 31, or 25, and your name is not only the primary name on your lease, but, in fact, the only name.

It seems you're to stay put for a while at least.

So you make plans to buy a bed-frame, an inexpensive one that you won't feel badly about selling for another $25 in your next fury of adventure. You begin to move your furniture around your small room, cursing under your breath about the fact that you have accumulated so much in one and a half years.

But it is your bookshelf that you curse the most.

Your rule is simple, only own books that fit on this shelf.

You impose this rule on yourself because one and a half years ago you had two floor to ceiling bookcases packed to the edges and stacked to the brim with books. Your life savings in page form. Worth a fortune to you and anyone else, but also sold in your fury of adventure for pennies.  

Pennies.

You have no plans of reenacting that particular adventure again.

So three shelves on a simple wooden bookshelf bought in 2006 from an overpriced thrift store in your small college town.

The routine is familiar (if you cannot have a real adventure, you create adventure monthly by rearranging your bedroom furniture once again) and all the books have to come off the shelves before it can be moved. This is not because you are not a brute of strength, because you are, but because that bookshelf has seen nine homes in its life with you and it cannot bear the agony of a burdened move again. It will be sure to crumble under the weight of those books and so you brace yourself with each move for the end of its life.

It has withstood the test of time, six years worth, you count in your mind as you reorder those books on those three shelves. You have about a half a shelf left to fill before you've reached your law of allotted books. So there is not one book on these shelves that doesn't matter to you in some very deep way.

In the Great Book Sale of 2010 you only let yourself keep the books which changed you in some way. You were not allowed to keep books you had never read. No keeping books that could be found at any used bookstore easily. No keeping books with which you hadn't had some impacting moment. If they were underlined, scribbled in margins, and had multiple dog-eared pages, this was a sure sign of a keeper.

Sometimes the books on these shelves surprise you. You find yourself disagreeing with things you once wept through. You find yourself disappointed at directions authors have since taken. You really don't even like the writing in some. You know a few of the authors now and you know that they are just people, just like you. But sometimes, when you have finished shelving the last of the books again, a memoir or book on writing, or your favorite book of poetry, you run your finger down the length of them, across the bindings, remember every used bookstore from which you have gotten them and every tear that has been wept over them. You push against one side of that rickety bookshelf, half-willing it to crash and fall under the weight of so much richness, but you are comforted to know that it doesn't.

It, who has moved so many times, and had so many adventures, and carried so many good books, it stands. It bears. It holds, solid and firm.

Soon to be coupled with a simple wooden bed-frame to adventure alongside.

MEASURE OF MISSION

We measure out cups of flour, oil, bran, molasses and more, careful to follow the recipe, exactly. We are keeping people alive, she tells me. This, her hands brush the tops of the measuring cups, will save lives. I am eight years old, living in a comfortable house in upper-class Bucks County Pennsylvania. The concept of lives needing to be saved is foreign.

But I know how to help.

Carefully measure ingredients. Press the pasty mixture flat into a cookie sheet and then wait. The smell is of burnt granola and some smoky substance I can only assume is the molasses binding that mixture together. We cut the cooled sheet into bars, pack them tightly into wax paper-lined buckets, mark them with the project’s name and ship them off.

This is our once a month commitment to save lives.

What I didn’t know then that I know now is that by teaching me to measure baking ingredients my parents were teaching me to measure a life. They were teaching me the worth of a life. Was it worth it to me, for instance, to stand on our wide plank wooden floors, in the comfort of our massive home, for a few hours every month to perhaps save a life in Honduras?

It was.

We are all measuring lives, all of us. We do it unconsciously. We do it culturally. We do it spiritually. We do it physically. We certainly do it emotionally. Whether we are measuring the worth of our neighbor or the worth of a tribe in Papua New Guinea, the worth of a girl behind the counter at the mall or a staff member at our church. We are measuring them carefully, waiting to see if they are worth our investment, our time, or our energy.

The truth is that before we started doling out our apportioned care for anyone, Christ had already completed the transaction. He’d already deemed its worth and it was far beyond what any of us could spare.

But somehow it’s easier for us to see the worth of that tribe in Papua New Guinea, a starving child in Honduras, or even a trafficked woman on the streets of Mumbai, than it is to see the needs of our next-door neighbor or the girl behind the mall counter.

Jesus said, “if you do this to your neighbor, you’re doing it to me” and “love your neighbor as yourself” and that sticks to my ribs like those nutrient bars would stick to the ribs of those children. Whatever I’m doing to my neighbor, or not doing, I’m interacting with Christ in the same way.

And He doesn’t say that to push me into involuntary servitude or slavery, He says that because more than any human who has ever lived has understood, He understands. He gets weights and balances; He understands measurements; He understands worth. He has not asked anything of me that He Himself did not taste. He understands it because in the face of our injustice toward Him, He still gave it all.

What my parents were doing, by bringing a piece of the needs of Honduras to our kitchen once a month was showing me that from our kitchen we could be neighbors with children in Central America. I knew that the oats I was mixing with my own hands would feed the bellies of children who would certainly die without these essential nutrients. I understood that I could not do it all, but I could do something.

As we walk through this year, brushing shoulders with opportunities across the sea and across the street, I want to encourage us to see worth in our neighbors—to see them through the lens of Christ’s all. To measure out worth to them by diving in and serving them in ways that may go unnoticed or unseen. To show them that the love of Christ knows no depth or height or width or measure.

Originally published on the Hope for North Texas blog. 
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Every Single Season

We've been having a spate of perfect days in Texas. I suppose there are no perfect days anywhere, but if they exist, they are present and accounted for here. The skies are clear, a spotless blue, the temperature is 72, the air is sweet and breezy, the sun warm and not wearing out its welcome. Every day I sit outside on our back porch and breathe in sun. Last winter I cozied and busied myself inside with wintery things, trying so desperately to make it feel like a familiar season, but when summer hit and the real cabin-fever set in (who wants to be outside when it's the 68th day of temps above 100?), I wanted those January days back.

This winter weather is getting every bit of me it can.

While I am calling to mind the things for which I'm grateful this week, it seems that singleness is topping that list for real. I italicize that because I have exercised that muscle of gratefulness before, but it has never felt familiar, good or right. It has always felt like a cheat, stealing away the best years of my life, chances for babies, young love and all that.

But the past week I have seen it nothing other than a sweet, sweet gift. I used to be jealous of my friends who married young, fresh faced and fertile, and I think it's worked out well for them. But I wish I hadn't spent my jealously on that.

I say to my dear friend last night, after we laugh at her three-year-old's antics and she challenges and encourages me, "I have literally spent the best years of my life doing things that my younger married friends may never get to do—and I have never been grateful for that. Ever."

I don't know if God has marriage for me someday, plenty of my friends say it will happen and there's always an acquaintance I see at a wedding who nearly pinches my cheek and says "Next time it'll be you!" (Note: if you're pinching the cheeks of 30 year olds and saying that, please stop.) I don't know if my own children are ever in my future. I don't know if a wedding is in my future. I don't know if I'll ever be loved with the sort of love I have looked at jealously. I don't know.

But here's what I know: I don't want to waste this season, this perfectly crafted season. I want to live it large, open, others-minded, with risk, faith, and possibility. I want to live it in its time, fully embracing this gift for this day. I want to keep my eyes on the blessings of this portion and I want to live it as abundantly as the Spirit allows.

Back in New York it's snowing and icing. My favorite people are curled in patchwork blankets and shoveling snow. They're making crock-pot soup and drinking hot tea with honey. It's winter there, a New York sort of winter. But here, in Texas, we're having a different sort of winter and it's not wrong or misplaced or a cheat, it's by design.

And I'm so very, very thankful for it.

Grace Grabbed

It's the story of ten men who wanted pity and got a miracle instead. And it's the story of me.

I know my leprous spots. I know them well, the loss of feeling, the flesh rubbed raw, the broken parts of me that I want to hide and can't.

All I want is a little pity and He gives a miracle instead.

Last night I remember the ten lepers who were healed and the one who comes back and I want so desperately to be the one who comes back. I want to not forget what He has done and what I could not. But forgetting is what I do well and here is why:

I asked for pity, received a miracle, and am desperately afraid that the miracle was a one time occurrence, so I run. Because what if He sees that He has healed me? What if He takes it back? What if I stumble on this and fall on this and lose this, and He takes back the miracle?

I run instead. Grab my grace, gather my wits and run.

This week I am exercising gratefulness. Because to return to the miracle worker is humbling, to return is to submit that there might be more brokenness to be healed, to return is to say to Him "There is more of me that can't reach You."

Last night our church gathered for the first night in a series of five nights of prayer and praise. I opened my eyes during one song, looked across the room at arms spread wide, voices ringing out, heads thrown back, and I heard the sound of gratefulness.

Gratefulness that says "I was looking for pity and got life instead."

Brian Kershisnik

Trees don't pass you by

Did I mention our new house has nine trees? Actually there are ten. Yesterday I counted one more; it's stuffed up against the house a bit, so you can understand why I missed it before. So yeah, ten trees.

If you're from home in New York, you probably have acres of wood in your backyard or at least within walking distance, so ten trees sound like a prairie to you. But for a Texan, well, it's a forest out there. We can hang a clothesline, two hammocks, and from the branches too, if we want. It's that sort of wild out there. Appreciate with me for a moment please.

It's been over a year, really, since I've asked for anything. When I left New York I made a pact with God and I didn't take it lightly: God, I won't ask you for anything if you'll just show me your glory. That's it. That's all I want. I'll eat the bread of poverty, drink the water of deprivation if I need to, just don't pass me by.

And He didn't.

But He showed His glory to me in unexpected ways: namely by not answering the myriads of prayers I've prayed in the past. I mean, categorically, I can go down through the things I've asked for in the past years, things I've agonized over, lists I've made, and requests I've made known. I was the persistent widow and He was not the righteous judge. But it wasn't because He didn't want to give me what I wanted.

It was because I didn't know what I wanted.

The other night a few friends were over and near the end of the evening, when the numbers dwindled and the glasses were emptied, one asked me a question: what do you want? I should have been ready for the question, I should have had an answer, but I stumbled, I fumbled, I scrambled for words. And the next day I realized why: I didn't know what I wanted.

It's not that I haven't thought about it in the past or known what I wanted at some point. It's just that, right now, I have everything I never knew I wanted and am all the happier for it.

When I moved here, I moved into a flat ranch house in the suburbs, we had three shrubs and a holly bush. I didn't dare ask for more.

And now, on the flip side, when I think about all God has given to me and done in me, trees are what I'm telling you about. Trees? Trees!

Because here's something God loves to do: surprise us.

Because here's something about God: He's never surprised by what we deep down inside really want.

 (this is one bit of our backyard)

Book giveaway

A few times in life there are moments of self-recognition that happen in surprising places and ways. Most of those times, for me, have occurred while reading. I can't promise the same experience will happen for you when you read these books, but I can promise that you will be richer by reading over the shoulder of a few contemporary writers. And I want to make it easy for you!

I want to give you the chance to read one of four books that have contributed to my ah-hah moments. If you win, you'll get your pick of which book you'd like. Rules are below! 

  Somewhere More Holy by Tony Woodlief
Tony's book has been sitting on our side table, my nightstand, stuffed in the side of my bag for a year now. I wept through most of it. Healed through chapters of it. Tony carefully walks his readers through the rooms of his home, telling stories only the walls could know. It is a heartbreaking, moving, beautiful memoir living up to its subtitle: stories of a bewildered father, stumbling husband, reluctant handyman, and prodigal son.
 

A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L'Engle
When I was 11, I first read Madeleine L'Engle's Troubling A Star and was hooked. This woman wrote about adolescence the way I felt. A Circle of Quiet was first lent to me when I was in high-school and I wept through most of it. She understood quiet. She carved it out. She made it happen. This book is so good, poetry in prose.


 
The Reason for God by Tim Keller
In March of 2010 my pastor lent me this book and I read it slowly, every word carefully. I knew that I could not miss what this book was trying to tell me. What it was trying to tell me is that God is real, yes, but also that God is good and does good. He does not waste our questions, but He answers them in His time and way. 

 
One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp
It's probably no secret to anyone how much I love Ann and her writing. Her book touches the deep and secret parts. It's pure beauty. Ann somehow takes the mundane, the everyday, and spins pure gold from it. I don't know how she does it, but she does it. She shows how gratefulness is a discipline but also how it is so much joy, surprising joy.

I want to thank you for being faithful readers. I'm still amazed that people come here and think I have something worth saying. I'll admit, it scares me at times to know so many of you are reading, but it comforts me the same. I'm grateful, so grateful. And I want to say thank you to you! If you think you'd enjoy reading one of these books here's how I want to help that happen for you: 

1. Leave a comment below telling me which book you would love to get your hands on. 

2. And then do one of the following: 

--If you're on Facebook, go to this page and click Like. 

--If you're on Twitter, tweet about this book giveaway. You could use something simple like this: Over at http://sayable.net there's a book giveaway happening. Drop by for your chances to win one of @loreferguson 's favorite books!

One of you who commented and tweeted or liked the fb page will be chosen by random. I'll post the results here on the blog and then send you your book of choice!

Grateful for you!
Lore

Roads

It's halfway through two weeks and we're driving on wet roads to our town.

"Remember when you used to drive this road everyday?" She asks.

I nod. I remember. I remember driving this road more than I remember much of life in these parts. This road has heard its share of my frustrations, these trees know my secrets well, the skyline and the mountains on the horizon know how hemmed in I felt. I did my most unproductive thinking on these roads.

I tell her that, while we drive. I tell her that it feels like whole chunk of life didn't happen for me, save for this road. Save for the journey I took every day.

We are talking about how easy it is to forget how difficult things are and have been. We are talking about how how quickly the todays we thought would never end have now slipped through, forgotten in some strange and healthy ways. God is good to us, to let us forget the hard and keep the good.

In the middle of those todays, though, how very difficult it is to remember that He gives new mercies and trades our mourning.

The ache of being hemmed in, feeling helpless, hopeless, visionless, there is nothing about this that is explicable. We experience it fully, because there is no other way to experience it but fully, deeply, intimately. Aware of how uniquely painful this situation is to us alone. No one understands because no one can understand. And they shouldn't.

It has been crafted for you.

I think about that a lot these days. I wonder why it is that I feel so home here in my heart, among these trees, these roads, these people who love me so wildly, deeply, and undeservedly, and yet it is in Texas, where I feel like a foreigner, a yankee, out of place, that God chose to teach me about my innermost crafting.

"Things have changed so quickly." She says.

I nod again. Six months ago our group of friends was in a vastly different place than we each are now. One year ago, when we dug our toes into smooth sand on an Adirondack beach, none of us could have known where we would be today. And I nearly guarantee that none of would have thought we'd be where we are.

And yet, where we each are is exactly where we ought to be. God was crafting us even then, that night, with those memories, and that pile of experiences. He was making us into what we are today. And today is building what we are tomorrow.

Even if I forget about this day a year from now (a sure bet that I'll forget about it in three weeks or five), God isn't wasting it. Not one moment of it.

He takes us on the right roads to take us to the right places at the right times.

My toes a year ago, on our secret Adirondack beach.

Married to Gladness

I've worn my share of satin and strapless gowns, carried bouquets and endured updos. The old adage "three times a bridesmaid, never a bride" used to sting, but it's been about 12 times now, so I don't let it bother me anymore.

My best friend gets married in two weeks. A crazy, whirlwind, surprise relationship. We talk about how six months ago we couldn't imagine this happening. Now we can't imagine it not.

She's not the first best friend to get married, there have been plenty of those. But there is something uniquely different in my heart about our friendship and her marriage. And you might be surprised when I tell you it's gladness.

That's all, just gladness.

For every friend who has walked the aisle, there has been a stab in my heart. A knowledge that things were changing and I was not only powerless to keep them from changing, but I was also powerless in joining along in their adventure. Now, as friend after friend has gotten married, had one, two, three babies, bought homes, fought through finances, planted gardens, settled down, remodeled, I've felt that kinship drift down the way of life and growth.

I spend my weekend mornings alone, sipping coffee and writing. I work in an office 9-5 every day and spend my evenings doing whatever I want. The thought of having to wrestle over finances doesn't even occur to me, it's simple and easy when it's just me. The only discussions about birth-control are hypothetical and shrugged off. My life, I know, is easy, enviable, maybe, at times by my once white-dress wearing friends.

I've envied their lives too. Trust me. (Though I suppose that's not hard to believe.) There's something about stability, deep love and marrying your best friend, raising kids, planting gardens, even arguing about finances, that is just so beautiful to me. I want that. I do. 

But not at the expense of gladness. 

I've been surprised at how easy the gladness has been for me this time around. How every discussion with her boyfriend about rings, and what she liked and didn't like, every bit of talk about her beautiful new/old home, and every time I couldn't help but smile at her happiness, I've been surprised at how easy it's been to genuinely feel that.

I really mean that: surprised. I sometimes want to pinch myself, ask myself if I'm sure it'll stick, but let me assure you, it'll stick. Here's how I know:

Singleness doesn't scare me anymore. Oh, it's not a state I relish or dream about being my life-portion. It's not something that I think will be the most fun, most selfless, most adventurous way of life. It's not something I don't think about when I am alone and feeling it acutely. I just mean, it doesn't scare me anymore.

We have settled into a comfortable routine, singleness and me. I hope that routine never turns me into the crazy cat lady, I hope it turns me into a happy, joy-filled, adventurous single person, one who is filled with gladness at every physical representation of the Christ and His bride. I hope that the comfort of my singleness pushes me to productivity and points to Jesus. I hope it shouts the gospel. That, like Paul said about the single woman, I would be concerned about the things of the Lord, how I can please Him.

This would make me the most glad. I think.

(green wedding shoes)

season

It's apple season at home, so soon there will be bushels full of lush green and red sitting on road stands, and the scent of crisps and northern spy in the air. We light candles every night and wrap ourselves in color and woolens. We make fall bouquets out of what others call weeds and we call beautiful. The air is alive and we can taste fall when we walk out the door in the morning.

We take off our sandals. Exchange our summer skirts for jeans.

The ground is deep, lush green, the treeline is orange, burnished tipped trees, and the sky is a brilliant blue every single day--billowing grey clouds settling into spectacular sunsets every single night. We don't even bother taking photos because it is life as normal and nothing special.

Oh, but it is.

The space heaters get turned on at night and we sip tea while playing scrabble, warming our hands around hot mugs and high scores. We ride bikes late into the night, meandering on college town streets, talking to strangers and loading our bike-baskets with sweet potatoes that we roast at home with garlic and olive oil. We are eating autumn and it tastes so good.

It is busy, bustling, bursting with life even though we know it is about to bed with death, but we don't mind. We have enough squash soup to keep us warm through the long hibernation. We pull out the knitting we never seem to finish, we take a detour to Lake Placid and breathe mountains. The air smells of campfires and wood burning stoves.

We ask ourselves if every kayak outing is our last.

A northern autumn gives me words, more than any other season.

I miss this.

(i didn't know this would be my last autumn in Potsdam when I made this bunch)

Trophies

I keep waiting for the day when disappointment doesn't feel like a sucker punch to the stomach. The day when it doesn't feel like a surprise, when the pinch to my flesh doesn't say "Yes, you're real and this is real and it hurts."

I keep waiting for that day.

Every time I think it has come, that I'm so clothed in strength and dignity that I can laugh at whatever comes, well, something comes and I'm the last one smiling.

(pinterest)

This week has been a slow sucker punch to the stomach. I saw it coming and didn't even duck, I walked headlong into it. I welcomed it. I probably even asked for it.

But here we are on the swing side of things and all I know is that my heart hurts and I feel like a fool. That sounds dramatic and it probably is. But it's also the truth: that really is how I feel.

I've been meditating on Proverbs 31 for the past week and I'd like to blame my heartsickness on that. I typically stay far away from that passage because all it tells me is that I'm a lost cause. If that's what a man wants in a wife, I'm a certain spinster.

But today I've been meditating on the woman who's laughing at whatever comes. Staying up all night and buying fields are better left to the real trophy wives, I'll be good if I can chuckle at uncertainty.

Today though, when the punch hit my stomach and I had to look away before the tears let loose, I thought: maybe laughing at whatever comes is actually the hardest part of that list of near-impossibilities?

Maybe buying a field and burning the midnight oil are only possible through the strength and dignity which says "I don't know how this will turn out, but let's laugh on the threshold anyway!"

Maybe disappointment is thwarted not by the lack of sad things, but by the expectation that the sad things aren't the end of things?

I don't have much more for you tonight. The sucker punch still hurts and the tears are still near. But maybe this is how strength and dignity are built? One redeemed disappointment at a time.

We got a gust of the northwind this afternoon. She brushed through the trees and stirred up the dust and was gone faster than any of us liked. A respite though. Brief and necessary. I had forgotten what it felt like.

I drove home tonight with my windows rolled down, the heat of the day subsided, and the evening air moist and heavy. It will not rain, I know this. I am learning Texas. But it is enough to feel like it might rain. It is enough to be content with a hope, even if I know it won't come true.

I confessed to Him on the way home. Said words out loud. Asked questions. How long? Why? What's your divine purpose and why me? Why this for me?

The other night I cried in front of my roommates, confessed the deepest hurt of my soul and they listened. They don't understand, how can they? I'd never wish that they would! But they listened.

And I think sometimes that is what I think about God. That He listens but doesn't understand. And when He finishes listening, He is gentle with me, loves me, tells me it won't always be like this, but then He goes on. Because being listened to should be enough sometimes. I think this about God and I think I'm wrong.

The deepest ache of my soul is that the Father doesn't care, not really. That He will listen, but when I am finished and my tears are spent, my heart raw before Him. He was thank me for my transparency and He will move on to His next appointment. The truth, though, is this is not a Father's heart at all.

He does not give half-gifts or half of his time. He does not give snakes instead of fish, or rocks in place of bread. He is not tapping His toe waiting for me to just hurry up and be content with the mere heaviness of air, while He holds back heavens full of rain. He doesn't withhold any good thing from us.

I pull into my driveway and ask Him, right out loud, "God, what is good for me?"

"What is the best thing for this day for me?"

(This is not a selfish prayer, I am learning. This is where we begin so that we can always end at His glory, because He knows. He knows.)

I walk into my living room, where my roommates and a friend are watching a movie, eating popcorn. I make an egg for dinner, with a peach and I ask Him, more quietly this time, "What is it God? What?"

"Where am I settling for a mere shadow of things to come, when you want to show me the richness of today, today?"

This is it, He says. Here. With these people. In this home. With that peach. With the wind today. And the words spoken tonight at church. The hug in the hallway. The encouragement from a friend. The provision for my car problems. The opportunity to sit and write. The quietness of my room. This is my good for you today.

And it is enough.

Well. It has been a month.

It didn't seem like much to you, I'm sure. In fact, that was probably the most regularly this blog has every been updated (Thank God for post scheduling!), but to me it was restful. I had high hopes for a month of no writing and I really meant it to be no writing at all, but it was helpful for me to remember a voice I once had that was lost.

I wanted to get it back, but I'm afraid it's still lost.

But I think I'm okay with that. More on that later. Or not. We'll see.

During this month:

My roommate Jenna headed to Africa for two months.
My best friend got engaged (to an amazing, astounding, wonderful man who treasures, adores, and loves her to pieces).
My other best friends had a baby, Gideon Archer.
My brother and sister-in-law had a baby, Iliana Mae.

I booked tickets home to NY for two weeks in October.
My friend Liz Boss moved to Texas, to our home, and got a job at Starbucks (you'd better believe we'll be taking advantage of that little perk there)
It has been over 100 degrees every day of this month, plus a few days more.

I read some good reading.

I've gotten to know some people from church a bit more and I feel like my desire for community is both being refined, blessed, and challenged. All good.
I went to Echo Conference and ohmygoodness, I'll be thinking about some of the things I learned there for a long, long time.

I discovered 1. A farmer's market, 2. A used bookstore, 3. That I love the town they're both in and hope to move there soon.
I was surprised with a brand new iMac at work that makes my life so happy and my work so fast every day.

I repotted all of my houseplants and watched them finally flourish for the first time in Texas.
I practically killed all of our outdoor plants because I cannot figure out how Texas does plants.
I celebrated the 4th of July on a lake with friends and felt myself breathe at the space found there.

Our campus pastor preached a four-part sermon series from the book of Haggai, which is a feat because there aren't even four chapters in that book.
I gathered with a group of single leaders and brainstormed how to foster authentic communal living and deep biblical fellowship among the 3000+ singles at The Village Church.

I was very, very, very homesick.
I was very, very, very home.

I got my hair cut short.

I put Texas plates on my car and felt a bit of me die. A bit of NYer in me die.

I was challenged, rebuked, forgiven, blessed, joy-filled, surprised, sore, full, sad, heard, and so much more. It has been a staycation for my soul.

Thank you to those who stuck it out with me. I know I lost a few readers (the archives were too namby-pamby for them, I guess!), but thanks to the rest of you for letting me shut down the comments, for enduring a bunch of wistful melancholy and posts about home, for skipping over posts in your reader when they piled up, but thanks, mostly, for this:

Almost a decade of writing is piled up here on this page and it has been the most healthy outlet for my brain to absorb what the Lord has been gracious (and long-suffering) to teach me. But more than that, it has been a place where you have let me grow very publicly. You have let my theology fumble and my questions remain unanswered. You have let me sort out death, divorce, loneliness, homesickness, doubt, fear, sin, decisions, faith, redemption, and life. You, if you're reading this, you have been a faithful friend to me.

And I appreciated that.

This month, more than anything else, I have appreciated you.

Thank you for July.

PS. Comments are back open!

He Defends His Cause

"He defends His cause."

That's what the heading to Psalm 74 says in my bible. Then David goes on to give God a litany of reasons he feels He is not defending His cause: your foes have roared; they set your sanctuary on fire; they profane your name; we don't see any signs; why do you hold back your hand?

I wept with a friend the other night, a litany of reasons making us sure God is not defending his cause. There has been a burden on my heart for weeks now for another friend, one prayer fighting for space amongst the others: why, oh God, won't you pull through for them? I get an email last night asking: where is God in the middle of this?

I won't deny there's a flame of hope in me making it easier for me to have faith, and I won't deny that at the thought of the gospel my tears are close at hand, it is easy for me to see God these days. But I'm not so far from three months ago, six months ago, a year ago, that I forget kicking the tires of my totaled car or shouting at God for His lack of provision. I haven't forgotten the lump in my throat walking through the doors every single Sunday, the guilt accompanying a girl without faith. I'm not so far from asking "Why do you hold back your hand?"

I remember that.

Another translation captions Psalm 74 this way: He remembers His cause.

What that means is, "I remember how hard this is; I remember how difficult it is to believe in Me; I remember your pangs and your tears and the pain that accompanies all of these questions. I remember you."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sometimes I think God's cause is to bring heaven to earth. I think His cause is to prove to us that we are peons, but He is gracious to us anyway. Sometimes I think God's cause, His end-goal, is to establish a grand kingdom with Him as King. Sometimes I think He is heading up his army of pro-bono volunteers to work this grand plan of His, kept secret from us until the very end.

But today, this week, this month, I remember that I am His cause. I am part of His kingdom on earth, part of the army who prays, "...on earth as it is in heaven." I am his cause and Jesus is the way.

And He remembers me.

And He shapes and crafts these hard things through which I walk for me.

And He defends me. My squabbles and failures and falters and wrong turns--He defends against people who might object to them being a part of His design for me.

I know how selfish this sounds, how egotistical I must be to believe that God isn't more concerned with wars and rumors of wars, starving children and world politics. But this is why I am a Christian after all. Because He has dipped Himself down to earth and made Himself real to me. Because I haven't been forgotten.

Because thousands of years ago He delivered a message to a young girl-child, impregnated that single girl, birthed a baby in the middle of squalor, raised that boy in the sight of people who wanted to murder him, nailed that man to a cross and accomplished His plan for His Son.

Because He defends His cause and we are His cause. We are the cause.