Came home this morning to two packages addressed to me on the table. One containing a letter from my roommate from RBI days. What a surprise! She enclosed this verse to me, which makes me wonder how exactly kindred spirits, or bosom friends [as Anne Shirley called them] can tell, even without seeing, our exact feelings.

When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered, I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you. Yet I am always with You, You hold me by my right hand. You guide me with Your counsel and afterward You will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but You? And earth has nothing I desire besides You. My heart and my flesh may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Psalm 73.21-26

Good.

The second package contained photograph's of our tour team taken our last day together by my closest friend who visited us from her hometown. She is talented. Sometimes I think I'm biased and then I think that it's okay to be biased, but I don't think I am. She's good. I hope Derek is happy with them. He will be.

There was something else in the package; a new journal and not just any new journal, a grass woven one from I don't know which country. She found it at a Gifts of the World Fair and knew that I'd love it. I do. It's so perfect! But inside it is the best part of all of this. She wrote on the inside first page:

"This is what the Lord, the God is Israel says: Write in a book all the words I have spoken to you..." Jeremiah 30.2
"Forgive me for the out-of-context use of this verse, but I know you'll get it. After all, it was you my beloved sister, who challenged me to do that very thing. As you go over the sea and see things my eyes may never see I gift you with words that you once gave me, "You are a world changer, my friend." I know this, for you have changed me. I love you."

And I cried. Because somehow changing the world never occurs to me. I find myself content in my sphere and bubble. I find myself happy with the thought of never leaving and living in a little cottage with a front porch and garden all my life. The thought of a world bigger than my world is beyond my grasp and not within my vision. I find my world expanding, but still not the world I know God holds in His heart. I say to a friend with big enough vision to see millions at the altar, "That's okay. You have the means to bring them to that place. I'll do the follow up; in my living room." Why? Because my vision doesn't expand past my own comfort zone. Sure I'll call it discipleship. I'll call it follow-up. I'll call it relational building. And of course it's all good and necessary. And of course it's my hearts desire. But shouldn't there be more? I may have changed Bean, but it was default, only letting the shadow of my lessons fall on her and besides she's done the same for me. I didn't change her world by purposing to rock it.

I want to go further. To be one step ahead of my vision, because that is what vision is, isn't it? Seeing something within my grasp and knowing I can go further? But, which is perhaps more, I want to go beyond that which is expected of me. My tendency is to do exactly what I'm told, directions are necessary for me. I need black and white boundaries and the thought of expounding them is beyond my idea of 'permission granted.' But wasn't it Jesus who said, 'Go ye into all the world'? He had to known that those people to whom He spoke wouldn't physically touch the world with their words, but that they would send others, who would send others, who would send others and on til they sent the one who told you and the one who told me. I want to be like that. One who sends others on, but even more I want to be one who goes further and takes more ground so that the others that I send won't have to.

So thanks Bean. You are a world changer. I know this, for you have changed me. I love you.

I guess the thing about writing and really writing is that you are transparent without meaning to and honest continually. Writing not for the sake of other people, not to be read, not to be one more voice in the crowd of faceless people all clamoring for a chance at fame through their writing, but that you are letting the inflow of your throughts be put on paper. Black and white. There. Present. You've said it. You had just thought it, but now you've said it. I've said it.

So, I've been thinking about so many things these past few weeks and not written them down. Why? I don't know. I guess fear of man, which proves to be a snare. I guess when the familiar feeling of a burlap sack filled with unnecessary burndens takes it place on my shoulders the accompanying inhibitions take over my mind again. It's not that i like living there, it's just normalcy to me. It's just become a bit too comfortable to take off and know that my back is uncovered adn open for criticism. Hate that. But choices are few and I'd rather take the one I know all too well then branch to one that has had so much whiplash as a painful reminder of what was and what was so shortly.

See that. It took me all of one minute to write those two paragraphs. One minute and forty two seconds. One minute and forty two seconds of complete inhibitions. I'll leave the spelling and grammatical errors intact. Cause you know. That's me. That's who I am. Errors and all.

a·moe·ba also a·me·ba
n. pl. a·moe·bas or a·moe·bae
Any of various one-celled aquatic or parasitic protozoans of the genus Amoeba or related genera, having no definite form and consisting of a mass of protoplasm containing one or more nuclei surrounded by a flexible outer membrane. It moves by means of pseudopods.

I laugh at myself sometimes.

An email from a dear one last night said this.

i was going to email you anyway tonight. did i laugh too hard at your fish story? i feel like i did, and so i feel terrible. it was funny -- all i could think was, "bob hope probably wrote a script like this!" -- but you are also my friend, and sometimes *i* get tired of people laughing. maybe you do, too. and so i don't want to be the one who laughs too much, too long, too loud. sorry.

i love you.

The fish story she talked about is funny. I'll tell you sometime. But the whole thing, which I never thought twice about reminded me that I need to laugh at myself more often. At least as often as others laugh at me.

I guess every once in a while we find out something that could have the potential of revolutionizing the way we go about life. For me one of those times was last night. I found out that as the saying goes was not what I had been saying.

The best defense is a good offense.
Only I've always thought it was The best offense is a good defense. Which, well, works for me. I'll stay in my little castle surrounded by my little moat, filled with little dragons and live there happily ever after, because after all, I have a good defense, why should I need to offense?

I guess not.

About a week ago my mum, as an early Christmas present, said she would like give me two tickets to see Les Miserables on Ottawa's Broadway . My stupid principle, which is to never see it until I can see it with someone I love [and as such, there is a very great chance I will never see it], was faltering slightly. I wanted to see it so badly in that moment. But my stupid principle held out and politely refused.

Her next thought was perhaps that I could be engaged by the end of November [when it is playing in Ottawa] and then it would all work out fine. I let her to do her own impossible dreaming and went to go make a cup of tea.

Am learning, again, the importance of loss. The significance of emptiness. Valuing the pain comes easy when we remember what we had and what is now gone. A constant lack. An uncomfortable silence. Something. And then all of a sudden - Nothing. The pain dissipates. The agony subsides. The leftover's eventually do double time to make up for the loss. But the fact remains that we've lost and, well, yeah. We've lost.

Had a conversation with a friend the other day. About materialism and the fact that we are both enamored with it. Materialistic. We are both materialistic. Not materialistic in the normal way, but in a negative way. We both reject things that the world embraces and in a way it has the potential of becoming an idol. Being so idealistic that to accept something against our principles is to fall into a false system of gratification.

On that same note; instant gratification kind of sucks.

But then, so does asceticism.

I stayed up way too late last night reading The Gulag Archipelago by Solzhenitsyn. He didn't originally want to publish that book, if I remember correctly, but was pushed to it by circumstances around him. Yeah. Someone found it or something.

When I was young it was easier to make a point by giving the silent treatment. To ignore the situation seemed an easier way to rid myself of the burden of guilt, which rested heavily on my shoulders. I would go for days at a time, my only words being 'pass the green beans' or 'get out of my room.' Now I see the damage in it, but it's still hard to make myself confront or be confronted with anything. It still seems easier to live with the burden than to dispose of it through confrontation and mis-communication, both of which I hate.

Onward and Upward.

The thing about moving to a small town where the same family owned gas station has run since cars were invented and where everybody knows everybody and if they don't know you, you aren't anybody [Or perhaps if they don't know you, you really are somebody.] is that everybody knows who are you anyway.

I rarely head to my small hometown of four years, mostly because the family owned gas station doesn't sell gas anymore and their food is priced at exorbinent amounts, though the post office is always convenient. But when I do I know that everyone knows who I am, or at least they think they know who I am. Probably none of them know my name, except that I am one of the Ferguson's, but they know which house I live in. They know who's lived there for the past one hundred years and could probably make someone up for the years they've forgotten. They know we're from Pennsylvania and probably wonder what brought us here, but then, so do I. They know that two and a half years ago we made the front page of several newspapers with a picture of an overturned vehicle and the pronouncement of death of one of those 'newcomers' who live in the old bed and breakfast. And I think that no matter how long we've lived here we'll always be someone different.

That's fine with me.

When I begin to doubt the sovereignty of the God I attempt to serve, He begins to assure me in ways I doubted He could. I pray for an increase of faith, and all the while He knows that He's already answered my prayer. The thing is, I pray for faith; that is, I pray for a fresh flow of belief in what I cannot always see. And today He answered me in a tangible way. Something I could not only see, but something I could totally rest knowing it was His answer to a seemingly impossible situation.

I am unprepared at least, ill-prepared at most, for the upcoming season. Jax says, in so many words, that this season will be over shortly. I believe her. Next week I'm starting a new one. Or at least a new one is starting me. But it doesn't make me feel any better about the waning one. So. It's over. What next? What did this season teach me that I can hold on to with fullness, a knowledge that I've grown and grasped and learned and been refined? Humility? Honesty? Humanity? Something? No. They're all things that I'll have to relearn everytime I think myself over that season.

So what did I learn? I guess, from reading over emails to friends and this weblog, that the things I thought I'd overcome and grasped are things that I'm still just processing and deciding.

One thing is for sure.

He knows my name.

I guess that's enough.

Driving to church today and watching the morning come alive was enough to make me comment to Jax, "If I could never live anywhere but here for the rest of my life, I think I could be completely fine with that." A farm at our front, it's red barn gleaming in the sunlight and the palate of colors surrounding it. The cows in the field enjoying the leftover harvest. Dark rain clouds further ahead and chasing us from behind, making the little round circle of sunlight we were in seem all the more perfect. It made me remember a conversation I had with Danica the other day. About beauty and creation. Monet and Picasso. Color and brilliance.

There are times when I wonder whether giving credit to people for being themselves is called for. After all, why compliment someone on their eye color, they had nothing to do with it. But we do it, and I do it more often then probably I ought; I believe the bible calls that flattery, and me a fool. Though is it flattery when it is an affirmation of character? I just wanted to say something little about some people. I won't name you by name, I think you'll probably know who you are:

You sat beside me and never said a word. You understand silence.

In the car a few days ago. I said I was sorry, that you didn't need to be concerned with the inner workings of my heart. You didn't say "Loree, I understand. I know exactly how you feel. I can help you through this." You
said nothing and gave me another dove bar. But, which is more, you ate another one too. That said to me, hey, I don't understand. I don't have all the words. I can't put a band aid on it, and if I could I wouldn't, but here, lets share a piece of chocolate. You understand the importance not of knowing everything, but of knowing that it's okay to not know everything but to just know one thing; He's sovereign.

Last night. You held my hand and squeezed it at all the right times. You know empathy. You understand not just suffering for the sake of others, but suffering with others.

On the phone two nights ago. I was falling asleep and you wouldn't stop talking. Sounds a little annoying, but I was so grateful that you loved me enough to keep reading to me and laughing at me the whole time. You told me every detail and left out the big parts, because they were understood. 1-2-3. You understand companionship. YOu understand the importance of relational building.

Today I opened a card and you had written all the things that make me cry most in the world in it. I cried. Good tears. You understand the importance of encouragement.

You said something a few days ago that make my eyes smart and the confessed tears began as you walked away. You understand the significance of relinquishing.

You called me last night at midnight to come pick you up, and when everything in me wanted to shake you and ask what in the world you thought you were doing, the first thing you said was 'I'm sorry.' You understand the importance of a lesson learned.

There are more. But those are the ones that come to mind currently. So thanks. Thanks for being the kind of people that I'm constantly called higher by. You stretch me by your actions, and you help grow me up by your love.

Wrestling though things in my mind never ceases to bring about some form of agony. I saw a t-shirt a few weeks ago - Monkey see. Monkey overanalyze. I think the creator and I must have something in common [well us, and a few million other people.]. I wrestle and think and think and wrestle and never come to any conclusions based on either principles or convictions. Mostly it just further frustrates me until I can sit down and think about things logically and in order - which never fails to bring some sense of clarity to my brain. Today's wrestling is almost over.

I think.

I washed dishes today and while doing so looked out over the fields that are iced with a full array of colors. I always think I love autumn the best until it's summer time and then I love summer the most. But today I liked autumn the best.

Willa Cather said, "There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if the had never happened before." She must have known that everyone encounters suffering, love, emptiness, and victory of some kind. And when I put my life story beside those who walk alongside me I find that none of us really know anything different, or experience anything different then that which we all know so well. It really is all about the human condition, a admission of guilt, realization of grace and need for a savior. It's in all the great classics, love stories, biblical accounts and even Java For Dummies. The savior comes in the form of a King David, a knight on a white horse, Jean Valjean, and a knowledge of script. All we have to realize is that we're all in the same position - they should write a new Dummies book. Life For Dummies. It's only three pages containing the following words, "You don't know. YOu can't know. But there is Someone who does know. Trust Him."

I suppose there are always exceptions to the rule, for instance when Aaron was three and we first got the cookstove in the kitchen, he was trained to walk on the far side of the island in the center so as to not be tempted to put his hand on the side. He didn't have to be burned in order to learn. We could simply tell him it was hot and to not touch, the implications were known from that. Benji on the other hand didn't understand 'hot' until he put his hand on it and was burned. There was no need to train him to walk on the other side of island. He knows he can walk on either side, but has learned from experience that a foot or more is a good distance to remain from it.

I don't know which rule is better and if each child is a case by case scenario. Perhaps there will come a child who isn't bothered by the heat and the only way we could keep him away from it is to simply explain there are certain things that just aren't beneficial, no matter how little or largely they affect us in the immediate.

There are a few lines that run continuously through my mind, taking a brief respite once in a while and then beginning again when the coast is clear. They are the lines that have stuck with me since I first heard them, or perhaps first listened to them at age 16, "Surrender don't come natural to me, I'd rather fight You for something I don't really want then to take what you give that I need." It's a line from Hold Me Jesus, which may go down in history, or at least my history, as The Song of The Redeemed. It's humanity wrapped in cellophane, something we can see so clearly and still not touch with our bare hands. If I could just know, just see, just feel, just know for one second that I am so human that no matter how many times I beat my head against so many walls I'll still fall on my knees finally finding release from that which captures me.

Yeah. I failed again.

I've just read a tribute to the writer of this song. I think, and this is just a thought, that he had a grasp on something that the rest of us struggle with our entire lives; not ever really knowing that the lesson and the final release comes in not struggling, but surrendering.

Fear and Trepidation. Yeah.

In all honesty, my name is not Loree. Of course it pronounced that way. L-O-R-E-E, long E. But on my birth certificate, social security card, drivers license, newly acquired passport, library card and all other manner of official looking stuff my name on paper is L-O-R-E. That's right folks.

Sum people [pun intended, as it is a very small sum] call me Lor as an easy nickname. It is a humbling process for me to accept that as a possible nickname as I have always rejected being called exactly as my name was spelled. Mostly because my name is Lore, long e, but it looks like Lore, silent e. I, in my desire to have things right, insisted on being called Lore, long e. Until very, very recently I have still insisted on the long e being included, but I am coming to see that it is less a concern as it was before. People know my name and if they wish to shorten it to the easier 'Lor' I don't think I'll be the one to stop them.

Lord help me bite my tongue.

The funny, ironic thing in all of this is that the people who know me well are those who shorten it to 'Lor', but they're not the only ones. People who don't know me at all, also shorten it to 'Lor' because they don't know they're shortening it, they think that's how it really is.

You could perhaps understand my dilemma. If, of course, there was a dilemma.

Mostly I'm just a stickler about my name.

Robert Frost said, "You can be a little ungrammatical if you come from the right part of the country." I think he must have known how hard it was to move from someplace he'd lived all his life to another place where the word 'with' shouldn't end a sentence. A kindred spirit is hard to find. I just wish he had written the rules concerning prepositions. . .

In the meantime, please continue to correct my horrible grammar.

There are things that you grow up surrounded by, like the colors your mum uses to decorate, a plant that has raced you since infancy to see who can grow faster, a quilt that your gramma crocheted when you were three, Little House On the Prairie, ever changing school pictures, or a copper tea kettle. For me it has been the framed Fraktur art that has grown in number since Sean was born the 1970's. The first one records my parents marriage, the second Seans birth, then mine, Danny's, Drew's and so on. There are nine in all. I suppose if we all get married mum will make one for each of our unions until there is no longer any room on the mustard colored wall in the living room. Or perhaps she won't.

There is one that I am specifically wondering about recently.

While sorting through the scrap paper box I found this, written by Drew's best friend three days after Drew's death. I have been looking for a hard copy of it since our computer crashed shortly after May of 2000 and I lost all of the email correspondence during that crucial time in our lives. I am overjoyed to have found it again and even if it's just for therapeutic sake, I'd like to type it all out and show you a little of the missing puzzle piece in my life.

"Andrew David Ferguson was a very good friend of mine, and I feel like I've been torn in pieces over the last few days, heartbroken because of the violent tragedy, and heartsick because my crazy schedule wouldn't allow me to make it up to the memorial service yesterday. There's something inside of me that won't give me rest until I make some kind of small tribute to the young man who Jesus was in such a hurry to have for Himself. So, for all those who wish they knew Andrew better, and to those who were with him every day. . . . with your permission. . . this is how the rest of us remember him.

Grief tends to exaggerate ones memories, and it wouldn't be to any credit to anyone if I simply said what I felt - that Drew was essentially flawless. I don't want to do that.

But no one who knew him at all would call it an exaggeration to say that -- this was no ordinary 14 year old.

This was a gem. We had here a really special guy. If you don't know already, let me tell you that his family is about the best family you'd ever want to be friends with. And that Drew was pretty much the best of the best.

Now, mind you, he was no intellectual powerhouse, and he had no record breaking talents and skills, that we know of, and he was not known for great feats of strength or great strength of feet. He was no the life of the party and he was not the sensitive soul who always had just the right word in every situation. Not our Andrew. In that sense, yeah, he was pretty ordinary.

But Drew was good. He was a good kid though and through. It wasn't goodness of any certain kind that happened to be agreeable to me. Just plain, down home good. It was unemphatic. it didn't hit you in the face. Is it not so?

When I spent a long time with Drew, usually on car trips, I felt like there was some kind of hope that I could be good AND enjoy life; some real reason I could be ordinary and average AND very special and helpful and a unique blessing. Nothing earth shattering; he made me enjoy being good, mostly because he obviously did. And I felt a little rebuked for the selfish little habits I indulged in and the flimsy excuses I made for them.

He was a friend. I'm sure there were people he didn't like, but I couldn't imagine who. Sometimes when Drew would describe one of his friends I'd wonder how he could stand to be in the same county with them. He must be as lousy as they? But I knew he wasn't. And then I'd feel faintly ashamed for being outshone in friendship by this 'ordinary' boy. How could he overlook faults like that?

He was pleasant. Yes, I'm sure he got angry his share of times at his share of circumstances. But his ordinary demeanor made you smile. When anyone would reasonably expect him to answer sharply or be nasty, he would say something sensible, reasonable and often humorous. Now maybe I just fell in love with him because his quiet cheerfulness caught just when I was at one of the lowest points in my life. But I expect that I'm not the only one who got snagged by that.

I suppose Andrew could have been corrupted. He was human. But what I saw - what challenged me - was a settled intention to be good, to be helpful, kind, pleasant, friendly, obedient. No, you didn't worry about Drew 'turning out alright.'

And yes, the fellow was not sinless. There were times he said and did the wrong things. But the pattern of his life made those mistakes forgettable. One didn't seriously consider that Drew might do or say something wrong, or nasty or damaging. I again fear no exaggeration: Any parent could feel confident and proud to have Andrew as a friend for their child.
Or themselves for that matter!

I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Drew sometimes had self pity. I'm made of dust myself, after all. But I never saw him express it in my presence, except as a joke. And really, from all we know about him, can you imagine him seriously feeling sorry for himself. What a joke! He wouldn't play the role of the noble martyr like so many children do so well. he did his duty and took what came to him.
And he was genuine. Now, you'd have to know some insincere, fake people to really value this, but Andrew was all himself. Nothing put on, nothing pretentious, nothing coy. You got what you saw. I'm obsessed with comparing myself with other people and wondering what they might think of me. Andrew, as before, was always a gentle rebuke for such silliness.

I couldn't get enough of him. How anyone could be so ordinary and so extraordinary, and so unemphatically!

I could go on, but I'm probably stretching my credibility the way it is. . . .

Now, a lot of this we can attribute to his upbringing, and in the end of course all good comes from God. I'm not praising him for the sake of praising him. He doesn't need it. But when we grieve (not for Drew, but for those who have to wait a little longer) and then determine what the impact of his life (what little God thought we need to have) will not be wasted or forgotten or run into the sands, we need to have a clear idea of just what that impact was.

And, you know, perhaps I got it all wrong. I haven't known him THAT long. Perhaps I'm all wet on this.
But I doubt it. You who know him best, I think, will reply that I haven't told the half. You could tell us lots more great things about and you will, I'm sure, because good things are what we always tended to remember about Andrew, was it not so?

And even if no, that's MY testimony and I hope it's an encouragement to you to know that at least this much about him was obvious to nearly everyone he contacted.

Because for me, the impact of his life is of all that I said, and of not just enjoying it, but of making me check out myself again. And the grief is that I didn't recognize it sooner, that I didn't take better advantage, and that it's over.

When a tragedy like this happens, we get all confused emotionally and mentally. All our feelings and our thoughts get jumbled and incoherent.

Our mind wants to know What happened, How did it, How could it have been avoided, What do we do Right Now, and other such questions, which are usually quickly answered. But when they fade away, the leave one big question which we never know the answer to:

WHY?

Oh, I don't mean 'what caused it?' I mean 'for what purpose?'

I find that getting one's thoughts down in an organized way clears way a lo of the mental confusion, and writing something like this does help.

But the big question still remains.

And we can't think of some facile answers right away, and hollow answers a little later, and workable answers still later. Facile:God needs him more than we do. Hollow: Look at the suffering he would have to endure if he were still here. Workable:Here's the things we needed to learn on our own, without depending on Drew.

But ultimately, the only real answer is, God is in control, and whatever God wanted Drew here for, he, at least, is satisfied that Andrew accomplished it. It doesn't really 'answer' the question, but ultimately it's the only viable response.

Along with that there are feelings that I can't even put into words. Words like 'grief' or 'sorrow' sounds so little when you're faced with the Real Thing.

Initially, there's that confusion of incompatible feelings: of insuffiency, helplessness, and a shock that leave you lightheaded with uncertainty, as if all the rules had suddenly changed. Cars talk. Pigs fly and good children get killed in the middle of an ordinary day. But these things fade away and leave just one continual, uninterrupted day and night feeling:

Pain.

And talking, crying, reading, sleeping, working, getting help and support, doing other things, - these things all help in clea
ring away some of the emotional confusion, I've found.

But the big tyrant is still there.

We are all frail creatures you and I. Pain ebbs and flows because we're made of dust. We make it work and learn to live with it."

So that's it. As I read over this, when the grief has all but disappeared [Can I say that without seeming heartless?], I find that Michael's grief didn't exaggerate Drews Character, as he was so afraid that it would.

But the one question Michael thought would remain unanswerable was the question Why? I hope that question has been answered by now. I can't help but see anything but good come of it. True there was/is pain, but the pain is only a bridge to learning greater suffering. I want that. I want that so that I can learn to appreciate the things and times where we fall so hard and blame so much and still find that all along it is all part of the refining process. And the end result is always His glory.

I am home. Home being the place I reside, not always the place my heart resides. But in the absence of a place for it to rest elsewhere, it vacations here. This is not to say I am not completely happy here, but tonight at the supper table I am reminded that this is not my permanent place of rest. Aaron sits on my lap and says to mom, "She won't leave ever again right?" Mum replies, "Ask her." He looks at me, without voicing the question, his green eyes do the talking. Any time before I would answer in the negative. Of course I won't ever leave again. This is my home. Yet something is different. I know that I will leave again. I know that this isn't my home, my final heart's haven any longer. I say no. And he wonders why. But I can't answer him because I don't even know why.

In order, the first things I did when I came home this afternoon and discovered an empty house - Put Calvin Jones [solo pianist] Unchartered Waters on very loudly in the living room, made a pot of green tea, dusted and vacuumed the living room, dining room and kitchen, looked at recently developed pictures set on the table, made ziti's and sauce, and talked to Jax on the phone [twice =)]. I typically am tired after returning home from a trip, not today. Maybe tomorrow. Probably not. This tells me I am learning to cope with my homebody syndrome with a bit more maturity.

I still haven't taken my bags upstairs to my room.

I very briefly saw Danny on his way down to Watertown with his boss. He stopped in to see me and change his clothes before going down. I am intensely jealous of his curly hair. He is the only one who has inherited it from my maternal grandmother and now that he is growing his hair out it is becoming more and more obvious. I love it. I think, as he walks through the door, that I am more intensely proud of him than I am intensely jealous of him. This is a good thing. He, with his vivacious spirit and outgoing personality has always stood in the forefront and been the one sibling I wanted to be more like, and now I find, finally, that I am most pleased with him simply as my [big] little brother and no longer as my idolized competition. Relief. I love him.

Just got off the phone with D[ancia]. More relief. My dislike of phone conversations diminish when I talk to someone I love. Still ever grateful for familiarity.

Benjamin has turned into a little boy and no longer a little baby somewhere in the past few months. Perhaps it was the constancy in seeing him that kept me from seeing it, but now that I haven't seen him in so long and now finally coming to know him again it's glaringly obvious. He says uh-oh and ow, yes and no, please, not thank-you. He carried around a framed picture of Sarah and I for the past week mum said. He knows how to play jokes on me now and finds humor in things that previously escaped his intelligence. I love this age.

I suppose there is always a new turn to every good thing, and this new turn is taking me places I didn’t think I’d go. Somehow the place of remaining interested in the things that formerly caught my attention has been left somewhere in the past and I find myself gripped with new things – new things that still have the taste of old things, probably because no new battles have entered, the old ones just haven’t yet been won.

I went on my second walk of the tour today; the first being last weekend in Baltimore through a graveyard, at midnight. Today’s down a road in the Catskill mountains, cold and still warm in my navy sweatshirt. I watched the leaves fall to the ground and thought of my comment a few months ago about feeling like a maple leaf in autumn, tossed and turned in every direction and finally landing on the ground with no purpose in sight. I said I’d reattach myself to the tree, but somehow that has proved harder than originally thought. My only plan of redemption at this point is to become something useful while still lying low. I say to Derek on the way home tonight when asked how I was that I feel like my major lesson on this tour has been validation. Needing man’s approval to somehow be useful in the Kingdom has been my overcast for too long. I wish to break free and somehow the little citadel that rests between my moments of height is enough to crash whatever purpose I thought I had down to the ground. Perhaps it my daily cross, the one that keeps me humble. But I don’t feel humble, I don’t even feel on my way to it.

The very things that make me feel complete, happy, purposed, on my way up are the things that come falling to the ground when God sees a root of pride in my life. Daily. I prayed a stupid prayer almost two and a half years ago, “God, take away everything, every single thing that keeps me from being founded on You. Break me.” Within two weeks He had done quite a good job of convincing me of the importance of meaning my prayers. With my little self-created world crashing down around me I cried out to Him, begging Him to show me something, anything that would give me some reason to keep loving Him, to keep serving Him. His answer was simple and straightforward, “You haven’t yet learned what it means to Love Me, to serve Me.” I prayed the same prayer a few weeks ago, in a moment of strength, knowing I could deal with whatever He threw my way this time, and I find that I still haven’t learned yet what it means to love Him, to serve Him.

I say to someone the other night, “Have you ever just known that something new is just around the corner, that something you haven’t even yet imagined is there, within your grasp?” They know the feeling too. I felt it last January and while nothing huge has happened in my life, it’s the small things that amount to one big thing. I feel that way again. Like I am stepping over a threshold and am a little unsure of where that doorway takes me, but still wanting to know.

I had an Italian Water Ice the other night. You may think what you will, but THIS is one of the top ten favorite things to have known in life. Northern New York has yet to even discover the treasure. Thank goodness at least they’ve learned the art of Chai, where would we be otherwise?

I am reminded of how grateful I am for the people that surround me and help make me see the lacks in my life by showing their own so clearly. In moments of weakness, revealed tenderness and honesty comes across and I cannot help but love them more. I always think that if I come across weak or naïve that people will love me less and see me less worthy to be counted among their friends, but it is those who show their weakness to me that I find that I am most honored to even know. Could it be the same for them? I am blessed to know a few. Six at most. One at least. Thanks for loving me enough to humble yourself and show me your lacks – your insufficiencies. It makes me love you more. It makes me see my need.

My feet are cold.

I have cried these past few days. Tears which oughtn’t be cried, and ones which only reflect so much clearer in the faithless puddle of my soul. It’s not that I’m individual and/or the one only one whom is confronted with the things that test us and make us grow, it’s just that I’m finding my faith, or lack therefore of, is being put to the test and failing miserably. And that hurts my pride.

Pride is the only thing, really, that keeps me from growth in grace.

Realizing my greatest weaknesses and hardest falls are centric on pride is a startling wake up call to the block which causes me to stumble more often then is thought norm for a Christian. I compare my growth to those around me and only see them as far ahead as the hare and me straggling behind at the pace of the turtle; and sometimes even more oblivious. The thing which I know is supposed to be the mark of true salvation, a recognition of guilt, a need for a savior, and realization of grace is the very thing which holds me back more often than not.

I’m being honest here. Blatantly so. Surprised? You shouldn’t be.

So I’ve cried. Mostly from feeling sorry, whether for myself or for situations beyond my meager control [oxymoron], I’ve wallowed in pain, wishing desperately for some sort of release and finding no joy in anything unless I force myself. Heart. Soul. Mind. Strength. It’s taking strength.

And I’m still so happy. So happy. So content, knowing that my growth is contingent on my relationship with Christ, not the way I feel about Him, but my direct relationship as a daughter to Him. Which means I grow. I grow on purpose or I grow by default. The fact is, I grow.

Still missing people desperately. I know you think that’s funny. That I, introvert and anti-social butterfly, miss people so much that when Friday comes along I will be the first one up at 5.30 am to leave for Baltimore where I will see one of said person I miss. But I do. I cannot and will not complain about our team. We are having a blast and have a million and five stories and fun times which include vegans, ugly people, “dashboard confessions,” loud music, rebukes and Fredrick Church’s home. It’s been fun and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Really. But do you know the feeling, the familiarity that accompanies comfortable silence? The reminder that words will never amount to anything more than just that, words. I miss that.

I think I just miss normality. Should I get used to this?

The people we are staying with, who are absolute dears, own a black lab who has fallen in love with me. At least somebody has.

I just wish he wasn’t so hairy. Maybe then I could get over the fact that I hate dogs.

I have not reconsidered AT ALL my ‘no cell phone’ rant. In fact, I find that the only thing they could possibly have any future with me could perhaps be Brick Attack, but this is stretching it.