When I was fifteen and impressionable a friend said he couldn't understand why a Christian would write a song about clinging to an Old Rugged Cross. I nodded in agreement. I agreed with everything everyone told me then, and besides, clinging to splinters, blood, and iconic indulgences sounded distasteful.

But I've been listening to a song on repeat this past week, and I've been preaching the gospel to myself on repeat this week, and I've been reading a verse on repeat this week, and I've been asking the Lord repeatedly to show me Himself in his death, his life, and his faithfulness this week. And I've been wishing the past few days that I could go back to that friend and disagree with him. That I could say to him that the reminder of that cross had the power to save us when Christ died on it, that it has the power to save us at the moment of confession and repentence, and that that cross has the power to save us all over again every moment of every day.

What can take a dying man and raise him up to life again?
What can heal a wounded soul?
What can make us white as snow?
What can fill the emptiness?
What can mend our brokenness?

Mighty, awesome, wonderful
Is the holy cross
Where the Lamb laid down His life
To lift us from the fall
Mighty is the power of the cross

What restores our faith in God?
What reveals the Father's love?
What can lead the wayward home?
What can melt a heart of stone?
What can free the guilty ones
What can save and overcome?

It appears that I have been duly tagged. And while, along with cells phones, make-up, and allowing my feet to be marginally touched, I have always held in distain such frivolities [until finally succombing], the dearest girl has requested it of me and who am I to refuse her?

Five random facts:

One:. I am a stickler about a budget. I am only on one when I have a steady paycheck, so handling bills for the past year has been frustrating. This weekend will mark the beginning of steady paychecks for the first time in almost a year. I can't wait to pull out my envelope system!

Dos:. I used to hate peanut butter and tomatoes.

Trois:. I lost a paper on my computer that I thought was saved under EfflerIII, but it does not appear to be saved under that title any longer. It is due tomorrow at 12 am. If you find it, let me know. And yes, I already tried Googling my desktop. Google even came up empty handed.

Quattuor:. The Lore of my Life is not a play on any of the following: The LORD of my life; The LOVE of my life; or The Bane of my Existence. It is, however, a play on the following: The Story of my Life. You do the English.

Fünf:. When I was in fifth grade I had blue framed glass with thick lenses. For my school picture that year I wore a large Hawaiian print blue shirt, blue shorts, and blue socks. I tear up any photos left from fifth grade. And I glare at you if you still have one.

There is one more random fact hidden in this list of random facts. If you figure out what it is, I'll think up a random prize and bestow it upon you.

Mail. Mail. Sweet and wonderful mail. I got a letter from him and her and them and, well, yes them and them too. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that box number 33 was stuffed full of mail this morning and that box number 33 belongs to me!

Why in the world are 63% of you still using Internet Explorer? Switch now. You won't regret it. It's nice, like golden retrievers and homemade sweet tea and sleeping in the afternoon. It's easy, like fifth grade math and doing girly push-ups and writing a check. It's better, like the NASB and Black and White photos and your own pillow. And the best part is that it's free, like nothing else in the world. Download now.

Also, my comment section has been temporarily disabled. If you really really really have something to say, say it here. If you don't really have anything to say but want to say it anyway, you can call me, or write me a card, or drop me an email, or think of me and pretend I know. Whatever works for you. They all work for me.

I'm happy. Such intense joy is inside of me that sometimes I catch myself in the middle of a conversation or when I'm supposed to be listening to someone talk and remember that I love the Lord and that's more important. There are distractions, to be sure, but the core thing remains: God is good.

Maybe I'm way off track here, and maybe I'll regret writing this later. I mean, what do I know? I'm only 24 (for another two months. . . ), I've never had what most people call a boyfriend, I've never been what is euphorically called 'in love', and I've never experienced this kind of being loved. I'm pretty much not the person who can offer anything solid about the state of love.

But indulge me, please, for a few moments? I've not talked much about singleness, not written much about it. Truth? I've not even thought about it much until the past few months. I suppose it's because I've been so determined to not desire marriage more than God that I've made the not part my god. Martin Luther said, "Whatever your heart clings to and confides in, that is your god." I've had my share of quibbles concerning singleness. In fact, you may remember this one and this one or this one. You might note the dates as well, all June of this year. I know, I'm so seasoned at this appreciating singleness thing, right?

So I may not have much to offer, but I do have a testimony to shout.

I admit that being single is hard, especially here, where every girl's arm is looped through her boyfriend's, where everyone supposes I'm here to get my M.R.S., and where they all determine that the only way they could convince me to live here permanently is to find me a good man. (Haven't the read O'Connor? Don't they know that a good man is hard to find?) At first I assumed it was hard because of all the commotion around me to find a good man, but the past week I've been thinking about the fact that, really, it's been a lot easier to be single here than it was at home. And since I would never assume that home was responsible for my discontentedness, I'll lay it out clearly: Singleness was hard for me because of the state of my heart.

Or, more clearly, it was the thing my heart clung to and confided in. It was my god. So much so, that I was ignorant of the devil's hold on my entering the fullness of life in Christ. Now, you may all shake your heads knowingly and think to yourself that it will wear off, but I'm not convinced. I'm not convinced because six months ago I began making decisions I never made before. I made decisions to make my sorrow lead to repentance instead of to death (II Corinthians 7.8-11). I began capturing those thoughts which lead to discontentment and secret longings, and fusing the life Christ offers on top of them. Feeling unloved? Read I John. Feeling inferior? Read I Peter. Feeling used? Read Hosea. Feeling uncared for financially? Read Philippians. I began to systematically pinpoint all the feelings that led to my unhappy spirit (and frankly, most of them had to do with being single) and put the face of Christ on my situation.

The result?

The other evening someone asked me if it was hard for me to have been a participant in and now participating in my two best friends' weddings this year. I thought for the briefest second, checked my heart for any signs of dishonesty, smiled, and answered, "I couldn't be happier to be a part of the physical symbol of Christ's love for us, for me. I am more content in my singleness, no, not even my singleness -- my place in Christ's kingdom as a child of God, than I have ever been."

My heart began clinging to and confiding in something entirely different this past year. Instead of clinging to hopes and futures and plans and disappointments, and confiding in my thoughts and journals and wandering lusts of the flesh, I began trusting the Lord for today's provisions. And I find that the more I trust Him with today, the more my future seems secure. And the more my future seems secure, the less I concern myself with being married. And the less I concern myself with being married, the more I concern myself with the things of the Lord (II Corinthians 7.34).

And the more I concern myself with the things of the Lord, the more my joy is made complete.
And He loves to see us smile.

Last night we sat in a pizza parlor, we two. We ate pepperoni pizza, she ate half of my slice, and I ripped the paper from around my straw into a million pieces. A nervous habit, though I wasn't nervous. We talked about the seven deadly sins and things we like to smell. We talked about how hard it's been to break into this culture, but how grateful we are for a suitemate who loves us as much as the people at home do. Then we were a little silent, soaking up the pizza and the companionship. A song we both love came on the radio: Home.

I remember driving somewhere back in New York this past summer. The same song came on the radio and I remember thinking that there are always songs which define seasons of our lives; I expected that one to define the upcoming season of my life. I've always been a homebody, prone to homesickness of the worst kind, and hungry for the things that make me feel like I'm not going anywhere quickly.

But last night, in the pizza parlor, in this town I'm trying to make into a home while missing my real one a lot, when that song came through the speakers I wasn't feeling as lonely for home as I thought I'd be. I'm learning what it meant, five years ago, when Eldon Wilson laid his hands on my shoulders and said: You will be a representative of the King of Kings, an ambassador. Whatever you do, whatever activity you're involved in, you're representing the Kingdom of God. Even ambassadors go from country to country, they're not there as tourists, as immigrants of the land where they are, because when their tour of duty is over, they're going home. Keep the culture of heaven, do not be inculturated, do not become an immigrant to an early kingdom.

I'm learning what it means to be so consumed with the Kingdom of heaven, with the culture of heaven, with the permanency of Heaven, that this worldly kingdom has little value to me. I'm learning what it wonderful thing it is to know that the center of God's will for my life is what I see around me, in me, through me.

Girl and her house

Nepal photos are finally developed! See them here.

My heart overflows with a good theme. I address my verses to the King. My tongue is the pen of a ready writer. Psalm 45.1

I cannot even begin to tell you how wonderful it is to write uncensored. While a student at Potsdam State I was felt like the devil on my shoulder was constantly whispering "edit edit edit" in my ear whenever I interspersed the slightest hint of the gospel in my papers. My last three papers there were on Flannery O'Connor [a decidedly saved author], the Will Hayes code for cinematic pictures [wherein I used the Ten Commandments as an example of a law which cannot be kept fully, but is necessary nonetheless], and a short fiction project on the civil rights movement -- all three were uncensored, partly because I knew I was leaving, but mostly because I'd finally gotten brave enough to whisper the word Christ to my professors. It paid off; I got a 4.0 on all three.

Here I can write about anything I please. Anything! Imagine that! And I take pleasure in it. But this morning I read in Psalms how David addressed his verses to the King, but it was his tongue that was the pen of a ready writer. My lesson for this season, since I now have the freedom to write what I please, is to be sure that my tongue is doing more talking and less resting.

God help me speak the truth in love; help me speak the truth, but God let it be in love.

A friend and I talked today over a chocolate-cappuccino muffin and a crossword puzzle. We talked about those things, vices really, which hold us back from fully entering into those who we're called to be. We talked about the things which haunt us and hinder us from living life completely focused on the Lord. We talked about the difficulty of surrendering and the joy at relinquishing, but how that joy isn't enough to push us to surrendering all the more quickly. It only looks easy from hindsight.

I've made a few monuments in my life, piles of sins that look like relationships, music, character, habits, and books. I've piled the stones of "look what God has done" and I've stood on that pile and known Christ more with each addition. But sometimes I have to take one stone out of that erected pillar and dust it off. I have to remember what the problem was and remember how good the Lord is to me. I have to testify again of my own aversion to its absence in my life and how it's as tasteless to me now as the stone I'm holding. Sometimes that testimony hurts. Maybe it hurts because it's a shameful past, or a recent one; maybe it hurts because it's transparency and seeing through things means really seeing it all.

I shared something painful last Sunday with some girls at my church. I confessed something that few knew and it felt good to let them know. Not because I felt its pressing need to be told, but because those monumental pillars in our lives are testimonies of the cleansing power in transparency and, which is more, the testimony of God's full goodness to us.

I took some of those stones out today and I'll probably take out a few more in the next couple years -- opportunities to share are many and my calling is no less than to tell.

Oh that You would rend the heavens and come down, that the mountains might quake at Your presence. . . when You did awesome things which we did not expect. You came down and the mountains quaked at Your presence. . . You meet him who rejoices in doing righteousness, who remembers You in Your ways! Isaiah 64.1,3,5

I'm sure that the stack of books to my right ought to be a priority right now. The Song of Roland and Utopia ought to be far more interesting than the bible on my lap. But they're not.

I'm reading in Hebrews. Chapter one, verse 3. And He is the radience of His glory and the exact representation of His nature, and upholds ALL things by the word of His power.

I love that. I am so attracted to the radience of things and the imitation of other things and swayed by the frailty of my humanity -- but He is the opposite of them all. He is the exact representation of His nature.

I look around me at the things which capture my insistant love of the world and find that they're all imitative forms of God in some way or another. That book I love? Only because it makes me love discipleship. The family I love? Filling the hole in my life. A new friend? Only because I see Jesus. My camera? Because it stills the good moments and helps me to recall them instantly. Everything is crying out to be noticed for its goodness when nothing truly can be good except Him.

I am freshly challenged to find His nature in Him instead of in things which simply represent Him.

Blessed be your name
In the land that is plentiful
Where the streams of abundance flow
Blessed be your name

Blessed be your name
When I'm found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be your name

Every blessing you pour out,
I turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say...
Blessed be the name of the Lord

Blessed be your name
When the sun's shining down on me
When the world's all as it should be
Blessed be your name

Blessed be your name
On the road marked with suffering
Oh, There's pain in the offering
Blessed be your name

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Well Blessed be your name

A Couple of Flowers in My Life's Bouquet:

A few years ago a wedding, not mine, ushered me into a season of unforgettable proportions. There were so many many flowers at that wedding, flowers and butterflies and volcanoes looming in the distance. One of those flowers made its way into my possession, where I carefully horded its fragile damp petals until they became brittle and permanently shaped. It was thrown out one day accidentally a few days before I left that season. I wish I still had it.

Joshua, Aaron, and I took a walk on Hardscrabble Road, where I had my first apartment. They picked Queen Anne's Lace and Black-Eyed Susans and Buttercups, shoving them into a haphazard boyish bouquet and granting me the pleasure of its beauty. I have my favorite photos from that afternoon, black and white, still and perfect. I dried the flowers and kept them by my bed until the dust gathered on their petals made me sneeze.

A single yellow rose, plucked from a funeral spray that sat in memory of my brother. I trimmed the end, until it was a short stem and small round ball, looking more like a dum-dum pop than a rose.

A pressed violet, handed to me by someone I won't mention and someone who probably never thought twice about the gift or the receiver. But I have. Many times.

A word from the Lord through Andrew Eastman a year ago: You feel like a flower, all the petals have fallen down around you. You feel like all of your gifts are used up, dried up, blown away. You feel like a stem waving in the wind and purposeless. But I say to you this, that you will bloom again. The fragrance that you will impart will be more blessed, more perfect, and more beautiful than anything your former petals could give. You will bloom again.

A pressed orchid, from one of the lai's our Nepal team received in Bhim's daughter church. There was no money for fans, for clothes, for food, for proper housing, but there was money for the flowers which welcomed these foreigners into their meeting place.

A carnation I saw, but didn't take. It was placed on top of Christopher's casket. It was yellow. It was the only bright spot in a solemn moment. I knew he would have tried to find the bright spot and so I noticed it for him.

Today I was thinking about some of the flowers in my life. Things that have made memories more meaningful, more memorious. My life bouquet is fairly empty, pretty skimpy, they've all been dried up or pressed between the pages of a book, but the memories haven't faded. They're all still there. Pink, yellow, and a little dusty sometimes.

“Sown in weakness, raised in power.” I Corinthians 15.43

A ghoulish mask, a Superman t-shirt, a Jesus for The Champion, and the most individual laugh a person could imagine – the things we’ll remember about Chris. A passionate zeal, an intense prophetic gifting, and a personality prone to the melancholy – the things that touched us through Chris. He rode the roller coaster of all idealists and stooped to the lowliest in their moment of need. He acted with thought and the purposefulness of a disciple, earnest in his desire to submit to God above man. He loved the Lord, his family, his friends, his cars, and his dog – in that order.

We will not forget the memories, and we’ll wish he were there for the new ones to come. We will forget sometimes that he is gone, sure that we heard his voice in the hallway or his step on the porch. His youngest brother will grow up and we will all remark how much he looks like his older brother. His friends will feel the lack, his family will regroup, and we will all miss those outstretched arms on Sunday morning, front of the church, left side. He is gone now and all that is left are the memories and the angst. But, which is more, we have the hope of glory.

He was sown in a weakness that touches each human soul, but will be raised in the power that is the blessing of those who follow Christ wholeheartedly. His body housed the internal struggle that plagues every man, woman, and child: the wrestling of the human nature with the Holy Spirit. But his soul housed the King of Kings and the Prince of Peace. The thing that we long to remember most, and God help us in those moments of weakness and doubt and anger we call grief, is that Christopher Moulton knew the Lord.

He walked with the Lord. He interceded for the church, the family, his generation, and his own weaknesses. He was sown in a weakness we may not fully grasp, but this we know, and in this we hope, “In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed…Thanks be to God who gives us the victory.”