This will be a long one, there is much to say:

It seems there have been a lot of apologies falling from these lips recently. This morning yet another had to be issued after a poor reaction to a friend’s statement. A few more were given the other day. They make excuses for me, of course, because they’re my friends and maybe I’m just tired or stressed or moving and trying to sort out all the same things that everyone else sorts out, but doing it with less grace for the everyone else.

I don’t know. But in church this morning, as I tried to take stock of my spirit and my soul, I was found lacking. I searched hard and tried to conjure up a half-hearted smile and an inkling of joy, but all I found was a deep and dry well. And maybe it is because I’m exhausted and a little stressed, but with all the goodness around me you would think I could find joy at least.

The more I find that it’s less that I have, the more I realize it’s because I don’t leave a lot of room for grace in my life. Grace for others, recently, but grace for myself mostly. I hold a standard in front of me like a dangling carrot and when I fail, I fail hard and suddenly hope looks as bleak for everyone else as it feels for me. I’m learning what it means to trust, faith without sight; knowing that better things lie ahead, even without the sight of them in my grasp.

We are, for the most part, moved into our new home. It doesn't feel quite like home yet, a realization I had as I got home too late last night and the frightening feeling of walking from the car to a dark and empty house was a little overwhelming. But this afternoon, after walking in the door and finding things organized and home-like, I begin to feel a little better.

The arrival of three roommates will make everything better I'm sure.

Lined up along the dining room window is my growing collection of house plants. I have a few empty pots waiting for specific things I plan on adding when I come back home from New York. They are friendly, wouldn't you say?

Speaking of New York. Yes, let's speak of it shall we? In less than twenty-four hours I will begin the trek that will end in a farmhouse in Norwood, where the fun will just be beginning. I am bringing home two people; yes two. Why, I'm not sure; the last time I brought someone home with me she decided she liked it up there fine and now every picture and post I see of someone at home, she's right there along with them. Not that I mind, of course. But these fellows have more important things on their mind than considering a move to New York, such as water-skiing, home-cooked meals, used bookstores, and all of my favorite people. So be on your best behavior, you hear? I need them to like you as much as I do. I need you to like them as much as I do too.

But seriously, the thought that I will be home in a few days is a little overwhelming. Not in the way that everything seems overwhelming to me right now, it's a different sort. There are so many, many, many things I want to see and be and do when I'm there and it will be impossible to do them all. I refuse to settle, though, and so please count me in on every excursion--I'll be there.

It's hard to uproot and plant yourself in other soil. I know sometimes it's good and healthy and spread your wings and fly sentimentality, but in reality, it's hard. It's hard to not feel at home here, because of the people, the home, the growing familiarity of this area, and the realization that every photo I see of you at home shows you all growing and changing without me. It makes being here more appealing. But then I remember that I am growing and changing without you too, and it makes me wonder if that's hard for you too.

Home is the place where I practice what I preach. It’s the secret of a green bedroom and a porch swing, places where salvation can be worked through and sufficiency can be found. It’s the place I say I’m from—doesn’t everybody have a place like that? Whether they are native, or a transplant like me, everyone claims some particular place having some hold on them, forcing them to leave their vagabond ways and remember their roots.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten my roots; it’s just that sometimes my roots grow in different soil.

When I was very young and growing up we had gardens full of Hostas, huge, infringing Hostas. Neighbors and friends would come and trade their infant sized zucchini for a piece of our giant plants. They would take them home and plant them in their own gardens and, eventually, we children could play hide and seek under their hostas as well.

I don’t know what it was about those starter plants my mother dug up and gave away; it must have been the roots. But even when planted in different gardens and tended to by different gardeners, they still thrived.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten my roots, it just that sometimes my roots grow in different soil.

My heart is so full sometimes, full like a water balloon on field day. I can't say why exactly, I know it's a combination of a lot of different things. All I do know is that tonight, walking around the block that encircles my home, watching the sun set, hearing the chorus of tree-frogs, and feeling the first breeze in a week of straight heat and humidity, I felt peaceful. I felt peaceful and full of faith.

And maybe it's a culmination of a lot of different circumstances, getting the house, going home in ten days, standing on the verge of something new and scary, praying with two special people tonight, maybe the pocket of faith in me finally has something on which to rest, certain circumstances that make belief a little more palatable.

Last week a friend and I sat with our feet in a fountain, long past grounds closing time, and we talked about faith and hearing the Lord. I admitted that this season feels dry. It feels like the Lord talks to everyone but me. And if feels like I'm getting what I asked for --- situations where my faith would be forced to increase. But, when we were done and quiet, with our feet drying on the stone wall, we began to talk about the peace that still lingers. We talked about how even when we don't know if we're hearing the Lord and we don't know if we're walking in perfect obedience, we do know what the peace that passes understanding feels like.

It's unexplicable. It's intangible. It feels like hope and looks less like a vision. It feels hard sometimes, but it feels less because there is the knowledge that He is feeling for us.

It's that sort of peace I have tonight. And I like it.

Okay. I admit it. I set my heart and it was broken. I held the tears at bay, but they still were brewing beneath the surface as I tried to convey that it really was alright.

See, we found a house the other day. Right after I asked for prayers, we found a house. Not just a house, the house. It was a three bedroom house, with a front porch, hardwood floors, two full baths, a huge kitchen, dining room, and living room. It was below, way below our budgeted monthly rent. It was around the corner from school. And it had a porch swing. I was in love. At first sight.

One hitch: the owners only wanted three girls living there, but she would talk to her husband because she liked us so much. Husband said no. We were crestfallen.

A friend and I talked about my propensity toward disappointment the other night. The way I set my heart so intensely on things, circumstances, situations, and dreams, and the way I am utterly crushed when they don't turn out as I expected. I said it's not so much that things don't turn out the way I want them, as much as it is that most of the time I think I've really heard the Lord---and the disappointment is proof that I didn't. It's more my faith that gets shattered and not my dreams. And so my instinct is to no longer hope or to just get used to disappointment.

This morning, though, I'm thinking about hope and plans and futures in the Lord, and I'm going to confess, it's hard. It's hard to get ahold of the Lord without getting ahold of the plans, visioning without envisioning. It's hard to just trust that He is who He says He is, even if we didn't get the house, even if my car keeps breaking down, even if my plans get thwarted, and my heart gets broken. He is still faithful and my only duty is to see his faithfulness more clearly, not define His faithfulness by a tally marked list of Dids and Didn't Dos.

EDIT: No sooner had I pushed publish post and jumped in the shower than my roommate poked her head in the bathroom door. "Lor?" she whispered, "We got the house." And standing there, with water streaming down my face, I added some tears to the mix. The thankful kind. The kind that remind me that with every hurdle in my life there is a spiritual lesson that must be learned before the hurdle can be crossed and blessing brought through.

That perfect house, the one with the hardwood floors and a porch swing. Three bedrooms and well below our affordable budget. That house will be our home in two weeks. Not because we deserve it, but because we decided to make a disappointment into a lesson and He blessed our socks off.

But we'll put 'em back on---those floors are crying out for a good run and slide!

This becomes less of a place to display essays and thoughts and more of a mass email with every post. I hate that, but, like Paul, I do it anyway.

It's beastly hot down here. I'm sure that doesn't come of any surprise to those of you who live in the north and are complaining about the humidity up in New York, but it comes as quite a surprise to me because as abnormal as the humidity is there, I'm convinced that this is quite normal here and I'm the only one who wants to crawl out of my skin several times a day. The whole air-conditioning, a phenomenon to which I'm entirely unaccustomed, has thrown me into quite a tizzy too. I have to carry a sweater everywhere because I'm unsure of whether it will be the Bahamas or the Arctic inside. You can understand my predicament, I'm sure.

Two more weeks until classes finish and for that I'm more grateful than should be demonstrated. Today was my last midterm of the summer and, in two weeks, I take my last final. We will be moving that weekend and then two friends and I will be taking off for home the next day. When exactly we will arrive in or leave good old Potsdam of the Americas is unsure and please don't ask me unless you would like to be met with an onslaught of tears. It will be best to do a lot of smiling and nodding when you see me and try to ignore the puffy eyes and weary soul.

That said, don't worry too much. I'm just tired and a little bit emotional, nothing that a little fresh basil, side porch sitage, and a very long look at my favorite people won't fix. So you can be part of the solution and not the problem, see?

I am learning heaps and bounds about faith--that's really what the previous entry was about. The fact that God looks at me and calls it all good, it floors me. It astounds me and I feel a little overwhelmed at the fact, mostly because I look at me and see mess, disorder, and a complete and utter inability to succeed on the principles that have always worked before. When Isaiah wrote that behold, God was doing a new thing, I am reminded that the reason the Israelites needed a new covenant is because the old one wouldn't work anymore. And everytime I try to use old methods to meet with God or obey Him, all I'm doing is mocking His ability to create. It's what He does best and it's what I want Him to do in me.

We are trying to find a new house. Unfortunately, Cleveland's historical district's housing ordinances coupled with our price range coupled with proximity issues has made this whole house searching for thing more of a pain than anything else. So if you are reading this and you feel like praying for us, that would be great. We need three bedrooms, within walking distance from school, and under $1000 a month total--tall orders, but God's pretty tall I hear.

Seeing the autumn foliage, the winter wonderland, and the newness of spring. The wickedness of heathens and the joy of baptism. A sparrow that falls and numbered hairs on a head, the texture and the color. Dipping His head to check on the inhabitant of a box on Thirteenth Street and the heart of a ruler in his kingdom. Broken at the sight of sin and joyous at the sight of repentance, the creation of man and the inevitability of the fall. The angels sleeping with humans and lion laying with the lamb. The vinegar given to His Son and the water turned into wine. And the heart of every man filled with wickedness and need, pride and faith, hope and doubt. And me.

And God said, "It is good."

I believe the psychological term is phlegmatic. The technical term is reticent to change. The reality is stubborn and the long-term effect is a constant reminder of my humanity.

All seem to be the defining coinages for what this season is turning out to be for me. I attempt to say that I'm learning a lot, but if the definition of learning is acquiring new information, then all I've been doing is regurgitating the same lessons on which I've been chewing for six years: trust, faith, perseverance, and hope.

And not trusting in any man, nor making flesh my strength, and letting my heart turn from the Lord. Because, doing so, I will not see prosperity when it comes, but I will live in the wilderness. But how much blessing will be there if I trust in the Lord and He is my trust. I will be like a tree planted by the water, extending my roots to a stream, and I will not fear when the heat comes, but keep bearing green leaves and fruit.
Jeremiah 17.5-8 (my head's version).

It's becoming a constant to me, this trust issue. Because no matter how much my personality tends to the stubborn and frightened side of the quartered personality chart, God doesn't change and He can be just as alive and present to me as He is to anyone else. In fact, I can prosper in this season, even when the heat seems thickest and the stream is hard to come by. All I need to do is extend my roots, change their direction, change the source of their strength; be a little less stubborn and a lot more seeing.

We thought to begin the end of the evening with a patriotic movie. Patriot and In America were quickly ruled out, though, in favor of Pirates of the Caribbean, where we learn that plundering and feckering are the patriotics acts of the sea.

I am at home now, though, sitting in what has become my favorite place in my small earth: our front porch. All around me the sky lights up with colors and the sounds of legality echo off of every wall and fence. Where I come from the only people who are allowed to play with colored fire are license holders in the art---here children are trained in the art and art is made accessible on every corner.

I am thinking of fourths in the past. I say that Easter is my favorite holiday, and it is, but it is the Fourth of July that causes adrenalin to rise within me. Memories of parades, red, white, and blue snow cones in downtown Quakertown, sitting on the hill behind the library watching fireworks with my family, even the hours of traffic in which we waited before finding ourselves back on a real road, all of it surges within me and I remember.

There will be no lies here today; no pretty petitions for understanding or accolades. I'm lonely for home. Not the heaven sort---the Potsdam sort. The family sort. I'm lonely for the three birthdays my family celebrates this week. And I'm lonely for family with whom to share this, my second favorite holiday. Because I'm coming to realize that traditions and hope and glory and freedom, it all changes; piracy was once taboo and now we glorify it, fireworks are illegal in one state and childplay in another. Things change and we change along with them, even if it seems that they change too quickly, or too radically, for us to keep up with them.

It's not the change that gets to me, though, it's the bursts of colored fire in the sky and I'm sitting on my front porch alone.

Gratefulness envelopes me. I think sometimes that I should not know the kind of joy that resides in me, that I don't deserve that contentedness, that peace, that boldness to ask whatever I want and the faith that presumes itself worthy of being answered. But it is there nonetheless.

I've been thinking about what to write, and really, nothing comes to mind. I've been meditating on some scripture, reading some poetry, rereading some Annie Dillard and E.B. White, and all of it is inspiring, but none of it helps me to forumulate the exact words for the exact feeling. A writer's worst nightmare, and yet, I'm perfectly okay because even without the right words to describe the feeling, the feeling doesn't go away. My job is to preserve and communicate and something tells me that this stuff inside of me can neither be preserved nor communicated, only experienced.

And so I do.