good

What's going on inside your head Lor? She questions me, as we drive through the warm rainy night. An evening of wandering, never really belonging, and we're headed to the place we can call home.

I'm leaving. That's what going on inside my head. I'm leaving in one month for a country I've never been to from a place I've never wandered far for long from.

It's suddenly overwhelming to me; This last step off the plank, into the depths of waters, into the unknown and into the frightening frailty that is anything new. The knowledge that nothing will ever be the same rests on my shoulder, whispering sweet nothings in my ear. She asks me if I'm excited [that seems to be the question of late], and my answer is the same as always: I don't know. I don't know if it is apprehension or excitement which is my cloak. I don't know if the shadow which covers me is from fear or from certain hardships I foresee.

I don't know what's going on inside this head of mine, friend. I just don't know.

I liked it better when I felt things acutely. Somewhere along the way I've stopped feeling and begun functioning. Stopped knowing and just believed whatever it is I'm told. I liked it better when things and passions and interests and dreams were my motivation and not just the desire to do the right thing, whatever the cost. It was easier to think and easier to do everything without pausing to consider the ramifications.

Shallow perhaps. Purposeless certainly. But the rewards were daily, the satisfaction of being passionate and having the identity as such was satisfying. There was something distinctly proud and yet reservedly outcast permeating my whole mindset--now there is just me. This is me trying to do the right thing. And here is me messing up. Oh, look, here's one of me messing up again, surprise, surprise.

Somehow, the more we know about Christ, who He is, and what implications that has on our lives as Christians, the more sacrifice there is of those things we have previously taken for granted as an acceptable lifestyle. The tension to want to know more, to hear His voice more clearly and to Know Christ, in the way Paul spoke to the Philippians about, and the tension to just be good and whole and that's it is tight and it hurts.

Sometimes I just want to be good. And that's it. Just good.

common

I argued with Him all the way home. Out loud. Anger and sorrow accompanying the will to do what’s right, even when the tendency to do what’s wrong is so much more natural to the flesh in me. Wishing and wanting the carrot dangling in front of me, yet still willing to look beyond the temptation to settle for the good, and see eternity—even when it is blurry at best.

It is a common argument, but one which was much more commonplace this summer and one which I thought was ironed out and put on the back burner: the want for a home and house, lamps and oil paintings on the walls, pine planks for the floors and love for the warmth. A simple family, one who pushes away the distractions in hopes for a life solely focused on Him and His will. Only it is His will for others, just not for me.

Why God? I argue. Why take my dreams and call them good to my face? Why not say they are rubbish instead, I think I could forsake rubbish, but I find it harder to walk away from things you call good.

And when, finally, I shut up, He answers,
Good enough for others, not for you.

more

We’re talking about death, I tell him over the phone.

And we were. Sitting there, we two, hashing out life and how it all leads to death. A sickly sensation that this isn’t it—emphasis on this. An exaggerated arm sweep of all the eyes can see and all the mind can imagine, including everything and excluding nothing. All the loneliness, all the flesh, all the dreams and aspirations for me, me, ME, are all flushed, as it were, down the proverbial drain of yesterday.

Gratefulness accompanies though. A sincere thankfulness for the opportunity there is to know Christ and make Him known, even if it means a little less for me. Frankly, I’m a little less than pleased with the more that used to be.

things

I know you'll be disappointed in me, but sometimes I give in to the temptation to dwell on that which I think I want and wish I needed. You know the sort of stuff, peaches and red mailboxes. Black and white photography and Pottery Barn rugs. Vegetable gardens and porch swings. Things which, in some ways, represent simplicity to me. Things that I think home is defined by.

I say to a friend that I am learning that all of those dreams, all of those hopes and empty desires, are finally looking like the rubbish Paul called them. They're looking like them, but they're still retaining the stink of everything I want. The closer I come to leaving all of this, all of this blessing and all of this life, the more tension I feel to stay. The paradox is knowing I won't. Temptation is easier to run from when you read the end of the story and I have.

One man's trash is another man's treasure and this earthen vessel holds more garbage than I can stand sometimes.

I say she is one of my favorite worshippers. Her voice hungers after something/Someone in a dry and thirsty land. I long to worship You, not just words and deeds, but a pure sacrifice her voice speaks to music. A beautiful thing.

Confronted daily with my need to change. My flesh screams and my mind protests. My vision is blurred and my step falters. My character is faulty and my determination to do better always falls short. I am frustrated when my response to hearing sin gloated over and boasted of is anger. My head rears in righteous indignation: You can't do that! Asceticism rules my person, a pride filled arrogance to abstain from things I will not touch and things I will call sacrificed to idols. A Pharisetical snubbery of all things unclean.

And He lays prostrate in heaven and cries. His eyes shut, not even glimpsing the unrighteousness we feast our eyes on. He bows at His father's throne and begs for our souls, turning his back on us only for an instant and still never lessening his love for us. Bearing all the burdens of our sin, made to bear the burdens of the tax collectors, the prostitutes, the Pharisees and the saints all equally.

Turn my eyes to the High King of Heaven; He who knew no sin; He who became sin; He who runs to meet the sinner and gives the finest robe to the dirtiest pauper. He who looks at me and you equally.

High king of heaven
My victory won
May I reach heaven's joy
Oh bright heaven's sun
Heart of my own heart
Whatever befall
Still be my vision
Oh Ruler of all

treasures

It looked like that scene from Fiddler on The Roof, at the end, when the people of Anetevka are walking away from their home, clutching their few belongings in cold fingers.

My black shoes cracked the brittle frosted grass as I stepped across the field on my way to church, my bag in one hand and nothing in the other. I could see my breath in the early morning air and I kept my head down, blocking the wind with my wool collar. The scene began as I looked up and saw a few morning comers getting out of their cars and carrying their possessions into the building: a guitar, a coffee mug, a folder and a child. Worldly possessions, things precious to their identity and things precious to their peace of mind. I looked down and saw that I looked no different, my bible, my notebook, my journal and my pilot precise pen stuffed in a scuffed black bag.

Things which give me peace of mind.
Things which distract my mind back from the things which really matter.

The earth is hard
The treasure fine.

I have to dig deeper in order to find the pearl of greatest price. The challenge to grow up more, to refine my character and to watch my steps is ever pressing. I find that I dwell on one thing completely and forget the most important thing; The thing Mary chose: Listening and hearing the voice of the Lord.

I wrote a month ago, after driving away from the home of my childhood, So I drive, looking at the sunset over my left shoulder, leaving behind more than I ever have before and less than ever expected. My foot eases on the gas pedal, I'll take this road slowly, it takes a little getting used to.

I wrote that thinking that it would hurt and I would have to prepare myself for the hurt, brace myself against the pain and protect myself from the certain persecution. I wrote that doubting the word I had previously hidden so carefully in my heart: This will not happen, I will have faith and see it through. I wrote that forgetting all the things I had faked my way through, believing with fierce determination, that if only I said it enough I would eventually have successfully lied to myself.

I find that this week I'm done faking my way through. I'm done pretending it will all be alright and I'm done lying and calling it faith. If I can't proclaim the things I want to see happen, I will claim the things I know to be truth: He is Lord and He will rise. He stomped on the enemy and threw a successful stone at a giant. He shut mouths of lions and He turned dry bones into flesh. He walked on a lake and fed a lot of people from one basket. He taught mere men to pray and humbly accepted His death on a cross.

The earth is hard and the treasure fine, but I think I'm getting close to seeing it. I think.

considering

The house rests, somewhat quiet. That Thing You Do plays in one background and Coldplay in the other. But most are gone and so I sit here and sip tea, content to be almost alone and almost quiet.

A conversation with a young friend today helped me realize two things: My patterns are watched and in many ways emulated, and if it is selfishness which motivates me instead of grace - there will be no fruit as a result.

I like to stay home. I don't have many friends and I'd just rather be home. Me too, my mind echoed. Me too, my heart empathized. Me too, my mouth said. But there's more, dear one, there's something I'm learning and I hope it doesn't take you as long as it's taking me.

Jesus didn't have many friends and I think Paul's personality might have been a little rash for social graces. Moses wandered around the wilderness, followed by bodies but rarely hearts and Elijah found solace in a stone cave. It took the gross discomfort of a fish's belly to bring Jonah to his senses and Peter was indeed the only one to step off the boat. All the important spiritual awakenings happened in utter aloneness; by being in a place where all else faded and where even whispers could be heard and understood clearly.

Being alone and liking it has it's advantages, but when it's all said and done friend, relationship is where we are stretched and grown. Jesus left the garden of Gethsemene and Peter had miracles to do. You will bloom and you will blossom and at night you will still fold and sleep. That is the beauty of it all.

Consider the lilies: there is more than simply clothes covering them, there's the glory of the Lord.

selfrighteousness

My whole self is tired. Physical strength fails me and spiritual strength is waning. I see truth and know it sets free, but isn’t this prison of liberty somehow more satisfying? Isn’t there the gloating pride which sneers its distaining look in the other direction: I am walking in grace and my steps are sanctified. All the while knowing that neither death nor life separates me from Him, but disobedience might, and will, unless I right my head and face my heart in another direction. Quicken the spirit inside of me who longs to do the right things not for the good reasons, but for the goal I have fixed my eyes on.

To face eternity and look, unwavering, in that direction; to let the bounds of conscience, religion and self-righteousness loose; to set my feet upon the rock which will not be moved, even when my spirit falters and my step slows; to give and die.

That is the whole duty of man. That is the whole duty of me. I was not created to have a realization of grace and goodness, only to string along a line of unsuspecting followers who suddenly find themselves in deeper than they thought and can only point the finger at me. I don’t want to be followed if that’s the case. I don’t want anyone to look and see the blackness of my heart – even if it is covered by a pretty cloak of righteousness. I don’t want to be seen falling down and I don’t want to be known as a mistake. I want to know grace and the fullness thereof and, somehow, I want to look death in the eyes and say "Me first. What next?"

backward

Reading today: Hebrews 11 verses 15 and 16, And indeed if they had been thinking of that country from which they went out, they would have had opportunity to return, but as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; for He has prepared a city for them.

And suddenly the past doesn't seem so serene any longer. I've held it up against the present, comparing the two and finding nothing comparable at all. Two completely different things and even the past looks just as unappealing as the present. A new and better country sounds like the only thing to look forward to, something altogether different from anything I've known before. I pray for things to go back to the way they used to be, only to find that, like Oswald Chambers said, Growth in grace is not measured by the fact that you have not gone back, but that you have had insight into where you are spiritually. That is, we will fail and things might always look the same as they do now, but if I have insight into where I am spiritually, if my soul is tuned in to the glory of Him and the sacrifice of life, than I am further along than before.

And that's somehow, right now, worth it.

He came to see me tonight. Sat at the kitchen table while I made him pasta with garlic sauce. He said it was the best thing he'd eaten in a while, but said later it was the only thing he'd eaten in a while. I put my arm around his waist and laid my head against his chest. His heart beat against my ear and I liked it so much.