The other night ten or so of us gathered at the 462, clad in cowboy and indian get-up, surrounded by bicycle gears and old tires strung around a room, arbored by a construction paper sign reading "TAKE A BIKE" in green and black. We ate chili, caramel cake, played a few games, listened to a specially built play-list and talked until too late. The occasion?

He was leaving.
Or, more truthfully at this point, he's left.

Last night I watched him pack the treasures the world, the things he'll value most for the next few months, a camelback watersupply, saddlebags filled with daily necessities and a small bible, a letter of recommendation from our pastor, and around eleven I said good-bye. I hugged him and tried not to get too teary, but he doesn't make it easy.

This morning, around six am, from Lucky's Diner in Chattanooga, he pedaled off on only one of the roads he'll travel over the next few months. Destination? California. Journey? Because. Because he's braver, freer, less constrained? No. Because he's determined. Because he's always dreamed of doing it. Because he can.

So, Stephen, goodbye, bon voyage, adeiu, see you later, Take a Bike, but as your world expands and ours stays the same, remember that we're still home too. And we'll see you in a few months.

A composite sketch for your viewing:

We talked, last night, about the Psalms. It is quickly becoming a favorite book of mine, though I am quick to add that I am very much aware of that statement's cliche value. I am learning to care less about cliche and care more about gathering life from every possible source. David was adamantly black and white, he said. But isn't that cool? I said. He was transparent and honest about the things the rest of us pretend aren't issues.

I'm glad too. Because recently there have seemed to be a plethora of issues in my life that need to be addressed. David does a fine job of helping me prioritize.

Our makeshift family continues to thrive and for that I'm thankful. Piece by peace, we take New Testament living to the degree our faith can handle. Sharing food and going from house to house, all things in common, and the things we don't have in common are laid bare on the table and disected. He sets the lonely in families and I'm so thankful for a season of the former if this sort of latter is the blessing that follows.

I am coming home in August. I know. Those of you who are most excited to hear about that probably already know and I didn't get the response I wanted to, but still, aren't you still a little bit excited? The dates aren't completely settled and there's still a little bit of discussion on how long and who, and where to and how.

I have compiled a semi-not-exhaustive list of things to see/be/do when I am home:

Play in the garden.
Eat berries.
Sit on the most perfect side porch ever created.
With the most perfect kind of people ever created.
See a best-friend's enlarged torso and love the child inside.
Go to church every chance I get.
Go to Birchbark, if not for books, at least for nostalgia.
Sit in Ives Park, maybe with Morgan's Ice Cream and a friend or two.
Hug Louissa. A lot.
Love every second of home with every fiber of me.
Say good-bye, because even though my heart will always be there, I will be vague for an indefinite period after August.

Things done, seen, been, gone, and otherwise tasted in the past three weeks of my voluntary silence:

Over the Rhine concert in Asheville, North Carolina--made sweeter by the seeing of Jacqui for the first time in a year.

Twelfth Night-- the Red Clay Theatre. Shakespeare at his best.

Blue Hole [2x] --the infamous Ocoee River never looked so good as it does in these hot humid days.

Fireworks over the Tennessee River in Chattanooga--spectacular, and yes, I know I'm biased by my love for any sort of fire in the sky, but really, my heart hurt they were so good.

The Prairie Home Companion Movie--for all those Garrison Keillor buffs who won't admit it but always wanted to sit in the Fitzgerald Theatre and watch the man work magic with words--this is the next best thing.

Inumerable nights on the front porch--sorting out life, spirituality, fears, hopes, games, guitars, more fears, and the respective arts of melted candle wax and cooking.

I have tasted life in many forms and have yet to find my favorite. I'm coming in to it, though; I can feel it in my soul.

On Thirteenth Street, a road or two over from our own Oak, there is a rectangular haven. Its proper name is Calloway Garden, but I like to call it Mine. One side is a palette of color, hydrangeas and roses, gerber daisies and zinnias. One houses lilac trees, past their blooming season, but still a venerable hedgerow. One side is herbs and spices and vegetables and berries. And the last side is irises and poesies, all in their bigness together. In one corner there is an arbor covered with grape vines and sitting over stone steps. This is where I go to think or pray. Sometimes to think and pray. Sometimes just to listen.

Tonight was a listening time. I hadn't brought my bible, but that's okay, I've been committing some things to memory recently. I need that store when my mind is battling things with such a constancy that my bible would bear the marks of even more constant use and be worn out worse than it already is.

I listened to the God who quells my fears and settles my heart, even without verbalizing answers. I am learning to be content with Him only, realizing that answers come as a result of other people's prayers sometimes, and not only my own. This is a battle with which I am unfamiliar; accustomed, as I am, to wrestling on my own behalf. This is a lesson in learning who the Lord is, apart from me, but His greatness to go on behalf of me.

Or put a garden for me on Thirteenth Street, two streets over from our own Oak.

There are things, quiet friends, which cannot be voiced. Cannot hardly be heard. Things with which, in the hushed silence of our souls, we wrestle , overcome, fear and exult; and when we're done, and the thing is seen only in hindsight, we are grateful for the season and look forward to the future.

But until that time, we wrestle in silence, knowing that our labor is not in vain. He hears everything that is hard to say anyway.

I've been busy. I know, that's no excuse, but it's the truth and that might be better than any excuse. It doesn't mean I haven't been thinking and it doesn't mean I haven't been processing. There's been a lot to process and not a lot of time in which to do it. I found myself with an extra twenty minutes today, though, a small pocket with no distractions but the Psalms, which are my comfort in moments of discomfort.

Psalm 50 is the one of choice today, and He is faithful to speak quickly to one who doesn't make enough time for him to speak more slowly:

Gather my godly ones to Me, those who have made a covenant with Me by sacrifice. . . . He who offers a sacrifice of thanksgiving honors Me; and to him who orders his way aright I shall show the salvation of God.

So I am comforted by the fact that through our sacrifices, through godly living and principled paths, we make covenants with the Lord. We say, by the very act of relinquishing hold and watching plans and hopes and fears and life smolder into ashes and faith, that we trust Him to make everything right. I am watching those things, years of acting in faith and sacrificing, come to a slow and deliberate pinnacle--the perfecting of my character and the purposes He's planned for me.

But, which is more, I am also understanding the great sacrifice He made in order to build covenant with me. And no matter how much I sacrfice, or how much I try instead of trust, or try to trust, that second covenant is the kind that doesn't fail in light of my shortcomings. He has shown to us His salvation---and for that, I'm thankful because sometimes there isn't anything left of me to sacrifice and all I have is Him.

It seems that in any creative circuit the words "Make it New" resound off every proverbial wall--the challenge is to take the old and reinvent it with fresh intuition and creativity. The problem is that, especially in the [ambiguous] post-modern age, everything old has been done and everything new reeks of the old in such a way that the only things that don't are only gross imitations of skewed reality.

In order to do something really and truly new, something already really and truly new has to be shaped into something creative. In laymen's terms: take a Walmart flyer to build a sculpture of something never before sculpted--first, though, find something never before sculpted. It's a challenge.

In my creative writing class the past few weeks that has been my challenge---finding a story that has never been told and telling it with some amount of creativity and excellence, a daunting task. And, though my professor and classmates were happy with my writing, I found myself at the conclusion of every piece dissatisfied with the outcome. It either resembled my favorite authors too much, or it wasn't a convincing story, or it didn't say exactly what I wanted it to say, or it wasn't new. It didn't follow the criteria for real art.

Sometimes I feel like my life is art and the challenge is to make certain that every old spiritual battle is not old, but newness worked over. Lessons I feel like I've learned so many times before rear themselves in front of me and I feel in the company of a multitude of sins and everything's been done before. Haven't I already worked through this? Shouldn't I be over this? Why am I suddenly dealing with this again?

So new things, yeah, but really old things. The temptation is to deal with the old things the same way I've always dealt with them; the knowledge, though, is that old methods won't work with these things because these new battles only have a hint of oldness in them. It's the hint that is tempting to fixate on and that is the real battle.

Old-new things: Distraction, fear, faith, doubt, analysis. In short, this world.

The only thing that gives me hope is that one day there will be a new world, a new kingdom, and a new age, and all of these things will pass away and behold all things will be made new by the master artist.

We laughed and did a little bit of crying too, and closed with a prayer. I told her I was going to work on my portfolio, but I'm a little distracted by the Lord. She sent me an email this morning in which she said this, "I figured her answer would eventually just come down to Jesus. Beautiful, sufficient Jesus."

I had a conversation the other night with a friend about the foundations of life, and another conversation with two friends Sunday evening about the sovereignty of God. I guess, when it's all said and done, and theology becomes life through the veil, Jesus is the only thing we see clearly. I'm learning that more and more. My answers to the hard questions of life become less how to work through them, how to practically apply principles, how to stare down adversity, and more how to keep my eyes on Jesus.

And maybe that's a big, giant cop-out, and perhaps I'm simplifying my Christianity because of a lack of faith in theology to answer the dichotomies of life, or it could be that I'm just tired of inconsistancy in my life due to misunderstanding the Lord. All I know is this--

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.
Hebrews 1.3

The author of Hebrews knew one thing about the Lord, and consistantly reminds their readers all the way through the book---when practices and principles fail, and we falter along with them, the answer comes down to Jesus. Beautiful, sufficient Jesus.