Once again sitting in the back of the van listening to the ever lingering Liturgy, Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band. Its flavor leaves a bittersweet tang somewhere, probably my heart. But today I am unsure of that, perhaps tomorrow I will know. Usually this feeling is accompanied by the knowledge of returning home. To the familiar. Today is different. I am not returning anywhere, just moving on - theres more to be had. It tells me to slow down and appreciate the forthcoming instead of holding always to the return. Shadows are only the end of reality. The sun at my front calls me to rise above the flat existence of something which, really, doesn't even exist.

Have looked at the past too much and too long and am finally come to a realization of what exactly I do by setting the bleakness of my past beside an idealistic sketch of my future. When finding the two cannot compete, I shortchange myself by convincing myself that I will continue to live a life shaded by greys and filled with blacks and whites. I see it now though, where I haven't before and this demands change. I said to my beautiful friend last night - the growth aspect of the Christlike walk is dominated by 90% choice. When I box myself in, bound to a specific criteria which labels me a phlegmatic, melancholy, nonconfrontational and moody, pessimistic and cynical I don't realize that it is more than a convenient way for others to understand my hesitancy and inadaquacy at quick words. No. It is an excuse for me to not strive for something with to my natural person does not come easily. It is rejecting the fruit of the Spirit, which demands we grow. It is rejecting an opportunity to reflect Christ. It is a refusal of balance and a harsh rebuttal to growth. Growing pains are necessary to growth. Pruning is painful but inevitable to gain fruition. And the harvest, once it is all said and done was meant to be shared.

So I change. I daily make a decision to change. No matter what the circumstances present, I must change.

It is the beginning of autumn, the leaves are changing at home. I'm not there, but I know they are. I wear socks and shoes today. My blue, red and green striped socks and my black doc's. This means I'm cold. I love autumn, but hate that it means that winter is on it's way. Winter is only fun if you're sledding or building a snowman with your siblings - the rest of the time it's an uncomfortable reminder that driving aimlessly and thoughtlessly was a thing of the past. Your awareness is raised and I hate it. I like the simplicity of aimlessness.

I think this while in the shower this morning. I admire decisiveness. I think I admire more than just because it's one of my many weaknesses. I admire it because I like the thought of no peripheral vision when it comes to goals and plans. The idea of being derailed or sidetracked is simply not even an option - because there are no obstacles to be seen. The ones in front are simply run through or over and eventually the destination is there. In front of you. Of course there is more to be had, there always is, but the idea that you haven't been detained in the past is a pleasant reminder that you can do it.

I haven't got that. Not even an inkling. I see the vision, but it's always further off than I originally thought and the black-eyed susans and cornflowers on the side of the road smell better than the bouquet of roses at the end.

Pastor Mike said to me a few weeks ago, after me having only been to one sunday in the past six or so, that this season of ministry was just that, a season. To walk through a season, longing for home was okay, but don't let it detract from my purpose away from home. He's wise. But now, after seeing so many faces from home this past weekend, I find that it's not the home so much that I wish for, but the comfort of being with people who know you and love you and where there are no fences and every hill can be climbed together. I miss that. I miss that a lot.

Essentially, all you recent readers, yeah you too, I mis
s you.

But it's the missing that makes us realize how much we have. If we don't feel a lack, I wonder if we ever knew, really, what we had.

Thinking about three things of relative importance.

.Humanity.
I know I write on this a lot, but it's relevance to who I am and Who God Is to me, or to the rest of humanity is so critical that I cannot help but want to think about it.
In our humanity, in the realization of how small we are and how inconsequential we ought to be, there is hidden a treasure of gratefulness. I say it is a treasure because when we have been given a gift, it's very existence is only counted precious by the thanks that we give to the Giver. To be given an anonymous gift is special, but it's memory lasts only ringing an echo from the giver - we remember it for the anonymity, not the gift. But to be given something in full realization of who gives it and what it means to them is so much bigger to the entire process.

.Authority.
Freedom in authority. We cannot know freedom in authority until we know our humanity. We cannot realize the importance of leadership until we see the frailty of lack. We cannot long to be under authority until we have known the fright of insecurity in aloneness. Whether a child in his toddler years losing sight of his mother for one moment in the grocery store, or whether an adult waking one morning to find that he has been aimlessly walking for the past twenty years toward nothing but his shadow. Lack of authority, lack of proper understanding of what it means to the Christian life only ends in the destruction of God given structures that hold and form the standards of living. Parental, pastoral, governmental - their necessity to growth comes solely from knowing the freedom they present.

.Sonship.
This is the thought that settles the previous two more firmly in my mind. A realization of my humanity shows nothing but that I am human. This is depressing. To only realize I am human is to limit myself and what I am purposed for. To convince myself daily that I cannot or will not do better or be more than what I am created for is to stunt growth and ultimately reject a standard of perfection.
Likewise, authority without finding freedom in it only sets another set of rules before our eyes. Legalism reigns and eventually we only find ourselves doing and never knowing why or for what purpose we do it. We begin to do because it is expected and never because we desire it.
Yet, knowing who we are as sons and joint heirs presents us with a choice: Reject our humanity, and by default rejecting the freedom in authority. Living lives dominated by legalistic rule sheets and having a never-ending 'to do' list in order to find acceptance. Or, embrace our humanity and inability to be our own authority structure, find freedom in the knowledge that God will always know our humanity more than we will and so therefore can probably direct our steps more efficiently and with more character refining paths then we'd ever take on our own, and s u b m i t .

"You didn't understand that when I said I love you, the choice wasn't up to you. I meant it, I still do. I love you regardless and not in spite of." 6.10.02

-You didn't understand that when I said I wouldn't choose, that I can and will love more than just one person at a time.

-You didn't seem to catch the purposed note in my tone which speaks of decision and intent.

-I didn't understand the full extent and implications of what my words were.

-But I meant them and I still do.

-Because love is patient and more than kind, it excuses all the lofty aspirations I have and only speaks of longsuffering. I will suffer long in order to love.

-You didn't understand that when I said I love you, the choice wasn't up to you, or me. I mean it, I still do. I love you regardless and not in spite of. But I repent for trying to do it on my own.

I learned something tonight on the way home. I learned that man is a selfish beast, and I am queen of all. My vision cloudy a bit from the tears that threatened to spill, but mostly cloudy because the windshield was fogging up in the newly chilled weather. Tonight more people I know are going to read what I've written. People that I know and people that I love and trust and they will read this and they will know that here, this line, is about them. But mostly they'll just know a little more about someone whom they call their friend and who calls herself selfish. Because really, when it all comes down to it, writing in here is a bit, no perhaps more than a bit, selfish. I write because I want to write. I write about the things I want to write about. I write because I want it to be read. I write because somewhere in my mind I think that if I write it all out and see it there in front of me than all of life messes suddenly make sense.


Tonight when I arrived home I found an envelope bearing my name on the dining room table. A long white envelope with only my first name gracing the front. My smile was quick and as I opened it I was waiting with excitement to hopefully see someone had taken it into their very heart of hearts to bless me with some funds for the trip - but, there was no check, in fact there was only a white piece of paper inside. I pulled it out and saw the crayon drawing on one side, blues, reds, oranges, and greens, all forming the misshapen outline of perhaps a horse? Or maybe a boat if you hold it this direction? A picture. A picture from my little brother. All my own. I hung it on my door, where I hope he will see it. I hope he will see it and it doesn't matter to me if anyone else does at all.

Because I used to think my mum hung our art class take homes on the refrigerator for a month at a time to show all the people who visited the beautiful masterpieces her children had completed. But now I find, it probably had little to do with that and everything to do with an affirmation of a passion. She had grasped the concept of building character and building passion by seeing us find pleasure in our very own art work. She understood the importance of affirming a job well done, regardless of how much it was expected of us.

And I want this. I want to grasp that.

And while I'm at it, remember that every envelope that enters this house in the next few weeks won't always be money.

I'm a little unsure of things right now. . . how do I preceed, now that I know I will proceed? How important is processing the things that surround us and make up the things of life? Emily and I were talking last night and after both observing that we overanalyze things and think too much, I decided that it must be that I prefer it that way. When I consider the flighty, flaky, grammatically incorrect journal entries that have been known to grace the pages of live journal users: "I went to get my hair done today. I saw him today. Tomorrow I'm going to go buy new clothes." I am reminded of how thankful I am that those things reflect the mind of a person who could be thinking about a lot more. They are wasting their brains on things that require little commitment and no activity in pursuing a holy life. The don't think about things because they know it means they would have to change some things. So when I am presented with a choice, to think or not to think, I choose to think, knowingly succumbing to my tendency to overanalyze and therefore thinking way too much, but realizing in the process that I will constantly change. Like it or not, realization demands change.


But I do it with a choice. We really don't do anything without doing exactly what we want to do.

My little brother, we have discovered, is left handed. Quite a feat for the small guy, in a family of ten, to be the only one blessed with his very own pair of scissors someday.

My mother, bless her heart, went to Birch Bark Books and got me the four volume, unabridged set of Les Miserables, that she had reserved three months ago. She put them in a paper bag and set it on the steps, planning on hiding it under her bed in wait for my upcoming birthday. I, nosy person I am, saw a bag sitting on the steps which had the form faintly resembling that of books. I am never one to pass up a new book and so opened the bag. This makes the third unintentional discovery of my 22nd birthday gifts. I am such a loser. My poor mum.

Two things to note:

"Suck it up." - My Brother 9/10/02
"My life is an open book I see! - Anne Shirley early 1900's

The very essence of purposing to be honest means being honest with myself first.

The general consensus is to continue the weblog, suck up the negative feedback - not everyone will always like me, so I needn't always try, and continue to be myself. Which, by default, means to continue to write. I write. So here I am. This is me. I'm not the same person I was three years ago, nor the one I was seven months ago. I can't even admit to being the person you knew yesterday. I'm just me. A little confused. A little weak. A lot weak. Mostly human. All human. But at least it's the humans God chose to glorify him and we have that over the seraphim's and celestial bodies up there.

Mom says, "Your writing is the only thing you haven't succumbed to nonconfrontational tendencies, don't start now. Keep writing. It's who you are."
Jax says, "You have a guilt problem." But we've always known that, so thats no new news.
Ryan says, "We see you this way anyway, you're no more or less honest in real life." Actually that's not a direct quote, but it sums up the deal pretty well.
My heart says, "I feel naked. I feel exposed. I feel like all my incoherent ramblings for the last three years are inconsequential and unimportant, slightly."
But the One Who inhabits my heart says, "Good. Maybe you'll finally learn to be humble one of these days."

So, I'm learning. Not humble yet, but when I finally say I am, it will be the first realization I'm not.

Thankful for friends. People who love and love even when we mess up. And love us more when we finally, after hours of processing, realize that nothing is as big a deal as we originally think it is and most of the foolishness of this world is inhabited by our own hearts. There is no bigger fool then one who remains with their head in the sand and right now my eyes are still caked with it.

But life is a process. I should know that by now.

Excuse me while I find a washcloth.

I've learned something this weekend. Hard lesson, but most are. The ones which aren't only seem to be simple and it isn't until later that we realize we haven't really learned much at all.

I began this weblog, if you will, as a way to keep in touch with six close friends who lived in other states. Phone calling was out of the question, I hate it and hadn't the money. Emailing was okay, I enjoyed it and it was fun to receive emails back, quite time consuming though. When I discovered Live Journal through a friends weblog and learned how easy it would be to keep in touch with these friends without writing six emails that all seemed the same, and they could read them on their time and only as long as they remained interested, I thought 'what a fine idea!' The thought that it would ever be discovered by others didn't bother me. I hadn't any friends besides these and at that time was firmly set in my antisocial circle and refused to be moved. Strangers reading what I wrote was also not important to me, if they find they are interested in the musings of a 19 year old farm girl, far be it from me to refuse them. So I began writing. Keeping a log for three years was quite an experience. I learned that I loved writing. I learned that my friends appreciated the flexibility of an online constant email. I learned that I thought about things more thoroughly and really wanted to be sure of their validity, more than I ever had before. I enjoyed meeting people with similar thought patterns and love of writing. It was a fun journey.

The thought occurred to me a few times after I began building friendships and meeting new people that someone could possibly stumble across this and catch a glimpse of me that I hadn't shown them yet. It was fine though. I figured, if they read it and had thoughts about it, than I had achieved, even through no direct fault of my own, the sense of transparency in relationships that I strive for. I don't just want to be honest, I want to be direct. I want to be open. I want to have no ulterior motives behind my every move. Of course I fail. I can't think myself above that, but I want to not fail. I want people to believe me as much as I want to believe them. Overall, it didn't matter to me.

But now I find that more than just one or two have stumbled across it. It seems that there are several, several people that, while I want to be honest and direct with them, knowing that I am inadvertently being honest and direct with them was a little unnerving. Knowing it could hurt them. Probably not through my writing, though I am open to suggestion, but probably because as honest and bold as I am online, I'm not in person. I don't say half of the things I say in this journal, meant for my six closest friends, aloud. Why? Frankly. Well, as much as I say I'd like to be honest and upfront and bold and faithful and loyal and personal and pure in all I say and do, I'm scared. It's easier to just write it and see it in black and white than it is to say a word aloud that cannot be erased from the slate of a relationship.

So know this, and you dear people know who you are, I never meant to be something other than the person you know. I never mean to be dishonest. I never mean to write more than you think I should. I never mean to be anything other than someone who makes mistakes and in this made a huge one. I began this as an update page, it turned into a one sided heart to heart talk. I slowly let my downhill trod into the pit of transparency turn into a cliff that I now find myself trying to unsuccessfully climb.

I'd like to apologize in person. But I don't even know who all found this. I can't know obviously and I wouldn't expect you to tell me if you did. All I ask is that you forgive me. I defrauded you and I am ashamed. I am purposing this day to be honest with all, this doesn't mean I will be one to involve myself in all the conversations that radiate around me. It doesn't mean I will always say what exactly is on my mind. But it does mean that you will know, if you care to, me.

I am discontinuing this journal today.

Goodbye, it was fun.

I think the hardest part of letting anything go is the final realization that something will never be the same. The original shock, if I may, is not hard - it simply resounds of pain. But the pain shortly subsides and all you're left with is a hole where once something significant rested. A glaringly empty place in a family picture. An uninhabited seat at the dinner table. And perhaps the hardest, a picture on the wall of photos that consistently change as all else grows and forms, while that one never does. How can it? Time stands still when death stands knocking.

I can't say that I have never gotten over Drews death. I have. If you can get over a death, like it's some sort of molehill in the mountain of life. I just mean that I suddenly realized this past week, while in Pennsylvania, that those down there to whom there is never a constant reminder of his death, there is no hole for them. Of course there are a few that miss him and mention him occasionally, but to them, life has gone on down it's stone garden path and he is one less zinnia in the bunch.

And so, I will miss him, but only because I knew him. The rest just caught an occasional taste.

I am returned home. Safe, yet hardly sound.

I watched a movie the other night. Two lines return to haunt my thought and vision.

". . . And it will be the kiss you measure all others by."

"I don't know why we always expect home to stay the same, nothing else ever does."

Both have rung true this week. I expected to go home and find every person I have ever known intimately to remain the person I envisioned in my mind and heart. They haven't, but than I'm becoming more and more convinced that I haven't either.

I cried this week. Buried in my green chenille coverlet that went wherever I went, I wet my pillow with tears. Tears for Liz who lives in a world of denial, "Oh, he only hit the baby once." For Ginny, "Well, since the accident, well, I guess the drinking just takes the pain away." Salena "I just got tired of waiting for that perfect guy, there is no perfect guy. . . " Cried for Beka "I only got drunk once, because you know there is no legal drinking age down there and yeah, well, I liked it. . . heehee." For Karol "Well, he put an ad on the internet, I answered it. I know he's not perfect, but. . . I'm 25, Ive got to get married sometime." For Sara, "I'm moving in with him. He needs someone to take care of his kids." Reb, "I'm just ugly and I don't like myself anymore." Rebecca, "Man, but this stuff is good, it just makes me feel good." Cried for all the girls I have loved in my life finding that once they fell below the line of perfection, the line of perfection, of walking alongside Christ, became a nonexistent goal and unimportant vision.

I hesitate to say they are throwing their lives away, but they have. Having fallen into a false sense of Christianity and all it embodies, "Come to Christ and your life will be easier, satisfactionary, complete and you'll get all the frequent flier miles you'll ever need, just accept this offer today." Of course they are disillusioned with the Christian Life! Of course they are beaten and trod down and of course they decide it isn't worth the continual search for more of Christ. They haven't understood the gospel. They haven't grasped their humanity and inability to be anything without Christ. It is only then.

I encountered pride this week. This is not to say I don't encounter pride all the time, I face it daily. Its attempts to break down the frailty and humanity that I am made of, by telling me I am better than I think I am, are successful and yet still futile - I AM A HUMAN is my only defense. And yet, somehow, it always works in breaking the enemy of self-satisfaction and self glory. But I encountered pride that is unknowingly proud. That is the pride that comes from feeling so little worth about yourself and who you are that you will just keep trying to do what you do best - that is fail. That is pride.

I was told several times this week that I live in a bubble, and this is the only reason I can remain unhindered by the horror and daily depravity that faces most of the world at large. Most times I just say nothing, shrug my shoulders and think "Perhaps I do." But the final and last time I thought for a moment and replied, "Yes, maybe I do. But I'll remember to tell you that next time you move six hours away from everything you've known, had a brother killed, have your parents go through a nasty divorce, and watch your little brothers go through the same abuse you've lived with all your life. Yes, maybe I do live in a bubble, but at least you've been spared from most of my reality." I regretted my words instantly as soon as I said them, not because they weren't true, but because they were true and that, that is what the rest of the church never realizes. They live in a bubble of self gratification until it pops and they blow another up. Living from bubble to bubble to bubble, thinking always that they belong in a bubble and they belong basking in the goodness of the world, that blessings ought to be lavished on them and they never realize the emptiness of it all. How little they deserved until there is no more soapy wate
r left and they stand there, missing the shimmering, rainbow colored, clear sphere they've created for themselves and thinking that somewhere there must be a clich in the system, because after all, they're Christians and Christians should always live lives that define perfection.

How little I know.

I had quite a sad trip. I am quite happy to be back in my current bubble.