Thunder rolls from over the Saint Lawrence and moves toward my perch on the side porch. She plays the piano inside and I still taste coffee in my mouth. It is nearly July, but you didn't hear it from me, why would you? It's beautiful and I can't say much else about that. I spent last evening with two true blues and, as we strolled from La Casbah to Scoops Ice Cream Stand, I stated quite happily that Potsdam is my favorite place in the world. And it is. I have lived in many places, loved most of them, visited all of them on occasion and always wait for that sense that I am coming home in each one. I never get it save when I come back here.

I'm not sure if it's the same in other parts of our country, but in the summer here our church is suspiciously sparse. Vacations aplenty and people take advantage of getting out of their winter best for five months before hibernation becomes imminent again. I think that logically it would follow that, since vacationers are also in plenty around here, somehow that would make up for the lack, but no, apparently church isn't high on the list of ways to relax. This occurs to me this morning, as I stand in the front row worshiping, surrounded by my family worshiping, surrounded by four (well, who's counting) walls, surrounded by hills of green, surrounded by a county filled with locals, tourists, students, and people who don't know. People who don't know that church is the best place to be anytime. (This from someone who spends forty-three hours a week there.)

The rain has started, the dramatic blue-black clouds rushing furiously, chasing the sun back from where she came. The wind pushes the porch swing in front of me slides from side to side, taunting me with her strength. Leaves fly by my face and goosebumps rise on my arms. I refuse to be so threatened. I was here first.

I am meditating on the Israelites today. And manna. And obedience. And manna. And the worth of six days. And manna. God told Moses that the children were to collect manna every day for six days, and on the sixth day there would be enough manna for the seventh. I'm sure it was an object lesson in Keeping the Sabbath Holy, but here is what sits on my mind today:

I will rain bread and they shall go out and gather a day's portion every day, that I may test them, whether or not they will walk in My instruction. On the sixth day, when they prepare what they bring in, it will be twice as much as they gather daily. Exodus 16.4,5

The thought of God testing me makes me squirm in my white rocker on the side porch. I do not like the image of a God who tests me. I do not like to defend a God who tests people. I do not like to admit that I have been and continue to be tested by my God. But I didn't write the Bible and I didn't create mankind: He who tests us did and is. So there, it's out, God tested them, He tests us. He is not some doe-eyed white robed individual who stretches out his nail scarred hand and let's us write our own gospel.

I am a good student, though, and I know when I'm being tested. I'm sure the Israelites did too, after the third or fourth Sabbath of plenty. It's easier to trust when you know the routine. But while I know the routine, I don't know the end. Trust can't be in the manna arriving on time, it is in the God who says it will be. And God wasn't testing them so he could slap the hands of those who gathered an extra day's portion on the wrong day, He was testing their obedience day by day by day.

Here is my conclusion: we do not carry tomorrow's portion most days, we are collecting today's. But sometimes He instructs us, and we don't know why, to store up, to have a reserve--not because he wouldn't care for us if we found ourselves lacking, but because he wants our obedience. We deposit into the bank lessons, character, and faith, so that on that day when we need it, it is in plenty.

So we gather what we need for today, no more, no less. He instructs when we must gather for tomorrow too. Our only duty is to obey. He tests not because He is a hard schoolmaster, but because He is a wise one.

He sees the storm rolling in before we do.

I put my fingers over my pulse, feeling for signs of something. She says to me tonight that it's just a season of trusting, even if it feels like season of flux. In between. Limbo. Putting so many things on hold, not on purpose, on default. Autopilot. Going through motions, feeling the pulse that says there's life, but knowing that if out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks and fingers write, this heart is running on empty.

It's not that there aren't so many things to fill it. I won't complain--the fuel of this heart is rich and in plenty. It's just that that it's flowing slowly, refilling slowly, emptying slowly.

I stub my toe on fear, catch myself on passivity, and can't right myself again. I hang in mid-air, waiting for what? Something to change. Anything to change. People keep asking. I keep saying I don't know. What else is there to say, I'm not avoiding you, I honestly just don't know.

Mostly I don't know because the thought of knowing scares me more than this place of indecision. I circle my prey twenty times before I pounce with surety. I tread water, keeping myself afloat, doing breathing exercises, before I dive with full lungs to the underwater treasure. I remember when I was young, when all the teens around me were memorizing Bible verses and getting water baptized, someone asked my mother if she was worried about the (non-existent) state of my salvation; her reply? "When Lore commits to the Lord, she will do it 210 percent, you'll see." I never forgot that, through all the tumultuous teenage years, through anger, rebellion, fear, and finally curiosity, I knew my lot would be 210 percent.

I banked on it.

So here is what I bank on, here is what I place my hope in, here is where you'll find me someday: His purposes for me are beyond my todays, my tomorrows, and my poor vision; they are bigger than my indecision and fear; they produce more than my greatest dreams and they settle more than my largest debts.

But His purpose for me today is to put my fingers over my pulse, to feel life, and trust that He's building tomorrow from today.

It's the longest day of the year, the orange moon hovering on the horizon and Ben Folds rocking the suburbs. It's early morning, 1am; she sleeps beside me, her hand on my shoulder, he sleeps in the backseat. I am driving.

I confess I cried for more than an hour after getting in the car. I confess I was still wiping tears from my eyes four hours later while they slept. We drive north, to her apartment, and drive more north in the morning. Virginia is far away from home. I feel that acutely.

He squeezed my shoulders and kissed my cheek, "Anytime." he said. "You know that right? Anytime. Our home is your home." I nod my head against his shirt. She says the same when I hug her next, she always does. I am glad for their home, their home gave us Laura and now Laura is married to Tony. We take partial responsibility for that marriage.

I say to a dear one before we make the rounds, saying goodbye, "I used to think that home, Potsdam, was superior, but I've been humbled. It isn't superior, it's just other."

She says to me, before she falls asleep with her hand on my shoulder, "I like that you're crying, that this is hard. It because you love people and I don't know anyone else who loves them like you do." But it's the loving that hurts. Really.

Because we scattered last summer, all of us to different directions and purposes. And I didn't think it would hurt. I knew it would be hard. But hurt? We are grown up, we all. Grown-ups realize that growing up means we make sacrifices and changes. We realize that, we do. But growing up, I am realizing, still surprises me. I am 26 this year, closer to 30 than 18, but I still always feel 18. I still feel like we set our course and it ought to feel like a joy-ride.

But it's not always.

So many times in the past few days I stare at the people around me and am quiet in my heart. I am thankful, so deeply thankful, and I say it. Probably too many times. But I mean it every time. I am thankful.

And I don't understand, honestly, why we're scattered in so many different states. And I don't understand, honestly, why none of us have really found what we had together there. And I don't understand, really, why I never appreciated it as much as I do now. I somehow thought I would escape "the friends you make in college are the friends you have forever" cliche; after all, I was older, I already had a few good friends.

But I didn't escape it.

And as I watched her walk down the aisle and him choke back tears. As he enveloped me in a bear hug and as I caught her glance from across the table. As we laughed and cried and praised and our souls felt rest. As we three joined our voices, singing as they lit the unity candle. As I met two kindred spirits and wished for more time to talk. As he grabbed my hand last night and squeezed. As I lay on her bed, praying out her last night as a single woman and as I joked with a new friend about artists and musicians. As she rubbed the tension from my shoulders and as I smiled the tension from his eyes. As we all converged in three hotel rooms and played the hand game around a pedestal table. As we witnessed the engagement of two of us, a proposal that intentionally included the makeshift family. As I wept in front of each of them, unashamed of my deep love for them all, and as I said "I love you."

As I did all of this, I am thankful that I didn't escape it.

Because, if one is to have friends forever, these are the ones I want.

An article, a conversation, and late night reading material puts things on my mind. Last night I am struck again by how feminism has subtlety crept into me. I catch it, like a sweater on a branch, snared by its trap. Suddenly self-aware, femininity aware; desperate for flowered cottons and a quick application of mascara, hoping they will do the trick. Cover up the natural (we are sinful at heart), fast to point the finger (the serpent! he gave it to me!), looking more closely at the juice stained fingers, evidence that the fruit of the season tastes better than God ordained responsibilities.

The writer of Hebrews sandwiches a subtle warning between lauds of faith: [Moses] chose to endure...with the people of God, rather than enjoy sin for a season.

Sin is always in season.

Which is why feminism is a hard trap to avoid. It's in vogue along with the Little White Dress and flowing scarves. It's an easy pit to fall into--we are shown the tree and desire the fruit, forget what God said. And why not? We are women, we desire and are desirable. We lure and are easily lured.

But we weren't designed that way and the fruit wasn't designed to be eaten out of season. We rushed the process and we haven't stopped since that first bite. We think that freedom looks like independence and tastes sweet like sin in the moment. Feminism sneaks in when we grumble about our plot, thinking that another one looks more tillable. It slithers in and guilts us into slumped shoulders over plows we weren't meant to handle.

But we are women, strong pillars and able helpers. We are there to support the structure, not be the demise of it. We are there to be a good thing. (And, unless you are called to singleness, if you are a woman, you are called to be found: being a good thing precludes being a wife.)

But it shouldn't surprise us that out-of-season fruit grows in our manicured gardens, we are living in a fallen world and we are the first to take the bite. And so we are called to prune, to cut the snagging branches, to root out the stubborn weeds, and to deny the offer of what looks to be better in favor of what is.

"Most of those who try to find answers to these questions start at the wrong place. They start with themselves. They ask "Who am I?" "How do I really feel?" and they assume that enough people express their personal opinions in this subject we will somehow arrive at the truth in this matter. . . But this is no way to come to the truth. In order to learn what it means to be a woman, we must start with the One who made her."

Elisabeth Elliot

Website down. Send postcard. And money. No chocolate. Thank you.

This morning I think of the lame man who sat by the Gate of the Temple called Beautiful. I think of a man who knew nothing more than crippled and twisted extremities, and poverty. A man who thought the answer to his impairment was silver and gold. And I think of two men who wouldn't give him what he wanted if they could.

Because what he wanted wasn't even a portion of what God wanted for Him.

I position myself by the rich ones, the ones who enter the temple because they're worthy or they think they are. I set up camp outside the gold and ask for silver because I want to eat, I want to feed on something more than leftovers and spare change. I want a feast before my body wastes from lack of motion and debilitation.

But I haven't thought to ask for more.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, all of humanity knows this. We have grown so accustomed to deferred hopes and heartsickness that we have stopped hoping and we lie in our handicaps.

What was his? What is mine? (What is yours?)

Our handicap, all of us, is that we are debilitated by circumstances and theology and family and pasts and sin and hopes and knowledge. Our handicap is that we do not expect what only God can give.

He wanted what only men could give, alms and loose change. Peter and John gave what only God could give, a hope and a future and healing.

What is our expectation? What is my hope? What have I asked for without prefaces and addendums? Where I have I positioned myself? And from Whom am I asking for handouts?

What is my measure?

I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us.

Ephesians 3:16-20

My measure is more than I'm asking for now.

If you asked me what I've been thinking about I couldn't tell you. I mean I could, but it's all in bullet form. A numerical list of motions throughout my day. Nothing expounded on, nothing explored, nothing of depth. Lots of thankfulness, some fear, a little frustration, learning to take and give and desire joy. Nothing rich, nothing real. But all of this sense of nothingness results in somethingness.

I remember a poem I read once by Rilke, a line that stays in my head:

And you wait, keep waiting for that one thing
which would infinitely enrich your life,
the powerful, uniquely uncommon
the awakening of dormant stones,
depths that would reveal you to yourself.

It stays in my head because it feels like me. I'm not waiting to be discovered, I promise, by anyone but me. I've bought into the poet's lie that to my own self be true! And I wait, keeping waiting for that one thing that would reveal me to me. That would make all the mess and order and disorder and life and hope and doubt and death make sense. It's subconscious, I know. If you asked I wouldn't say that. Never would I say that. I'm far too concerned with appearances and Abundant Life to say that. But I think it.

And this is what gets me in trouble.

I read this today from the Gospel of Mark: Take care what you listen to! By your standard of measure it will be measured to you and more will be given besides.

I've been listening to the wrong things. I've been measuring against the wrong things. My expectation is set at half-lifes, thinking I somehow have to build up to the original. God's portion control isn't like that. He wants to give us everything! I hold back, straddle the fence, tout church lingo "If God wills" because I'm afraid He's not. And what if He's not?

How would I know?

So instead I say, I preach, I ask, and I tremble, because What If He Will? What then?

What if my Dim Glass isn't enough to contain even a fraction of Who He Is and What He Does? What if my standard of measuring is one cup and He wants to give me two. Lord, I want two! I want my cup to overflow, but God, let my cup be ever expanding, always increasing, never filling and still overflowing.

And in that immersion of what You give, let me not be revealed to me, but let me reveal others to you.

Then I will be awakened, the dormant stones rolled away, and the surprise of Resurrection be that One Thing forever.

Tonight found the female two thirds of the family at the Village Green where we were marveled by bodies in purple spandex, golden retrievers, and a hundred little children inching as closely as they could to the stage. The spandexed bodies belonged to the members of Galumpha a modern drama dance troupe and wow us they did. And not just with the stunts they pulled with their muscles and extremities--their dazzling smiles put everything else to shame, and that was a tall order. Everything else was worth the wow alone!

One of the delights of living in the Northeast is that hamlets are in plenty and cities are scarcities--thus airports are too. So my yesterday afternoon was spent driving a far piece to Rochester to pick up one of my favorite people and her favorite boy. It was a lovely drive and one I didn't mind in the least. New York is more than some long islands and several million people rushing with cell phones and schedules, but most people don't know that. Allow me to enlighten you: New York is a great grand glorious state centered around a great grand glorious 6 million acres of Green. And, trust me, there was plenty of Green to be seen during my drive yesterday.

There was also a bad case of sore jaw by the time I arrived at home at 1:38am. My dear friend and I try to talk once a week on the phone, but somehow there is still more to say. We haven't lived in the same area for three years, one or the other of us keep moving, but subjects like child-training, holiness, relationships, futures and pasts are enough fodder for opinions and thoughts. We both agreed that we talked more in four hours than either of us had in a long time. It was lovely.

So is her beautiful boy.

One of the conversations we had centered briefly around the fact that she, and a growing number of my peers, are married folk now, parenting children and talking about menu-planning and the best brand of cloth diapers. My life is not so interesting. However (emphasis mine), there is not a shred of jealousy or discontentment in me when I say that. Someone asked me recently how I respond to the dwindling number of single females my age in my general circumference (1). My reply: I don't deal with it!

I count it a blessing that I can head over to one friend's house on Sunday nights and cradle twin boys while watching HGTV. I am thrilled that I am in a position to spend ten hours driving to pick up a friend from the airport. I am available at the drop of a hat to sit at the Little Yellow House with my favorite kids. I spend my days working at my favorite place in the world and during the school semesters I spend my evenings running to meetings and classes and coffee dates and home to sleep and up to my favorite place again.

This isn't to say that I don't feel loneliness, but I know they do too. This isn't to say that I don't feel harried and hurried, but I know they do too. This isn't to say that I don't feel useless and pointless, they sometimes do too. This is to say that it isn't about which season they're in and I'm not, this is about which season I am in and how I'm (finally) choosing to spend it blessing them in theirs.

Don't get me wrong, I haven't always felt this way; and I am not so naive as to think I'll always feel it so keenly--but today I do, and yesterday, and I purpose to act it tomorrow, even if I don't feel it.

That's what Willing and Ordering is all about.

I knew I would grow lazy because of my recent trend in posting the mundane, and I have. I have been sitting here trying desperately to come up with something more thought provoking than a one-sided conversation about the weather and your health, and I'm coming up dry.

But as a peace offering I'll give you at least this:

I am recently challenged by one reoccurring thought: Have I grown so accustomed to asking for God's best that I wouldn't know God's best if it sat on the front porch and split peas with me? I think I have. I am struck again by the fact that God doesn't just want our pious meager sacrifices, He wants our hearts. He wants us to be able to say that we stood firm, but we knew when brokenness and contrition were the order of the day.

I stand firm. I am resolute. I lock my jaw and my convictions and God help anyone who dares challenge them. I remember the times when I was so much like the wave tossed to and fro, and so desperate to just be radical for the Kingdom of Heaven. And I don't know how it happened, but now I find myself on the other side of that leap and desperate for a bit of pliability in my spirit. God, give me flexibility and joy in the process!

I am at the Little Yellow House with the kiddies I love so much. I don't babysit, honestly, so don't consider this advertising. But tonight when the Daddy of the house called and asked if I could come over for a few hours while he watched the Mama of the house and her sisters do a sister act in town, how could I say no? We read stories and played games by no other rules than the ones we made up and now they are mumbling themselves to sleep in the bedroom upstairs. I love them.

I am still looking for an apartment despite the complaints from the Mama of my house that she doesn't want me to leave. She has grown far too dependent on me and my crazy moods, and I think the only way we can break this is for me to move, and quickly! This morning, on a lazy Saturday morning, we sat in the family room and just talked for two hours, at the end of which she declared "But do you have to move? I know you need to, but do you have to?" To which I reply, "Something's gotta give."

The real reason I have to move is because we two have a robust addiction to Scrabble and can't go a day without playing it. And even when we do go a day without it, we still make words in our heads. And even further than that, we count up how much words we use during the day are worth. Futile -- 8. Utility --10. Lurking --12. This madness must stop!

This week reminds me of one of the things I loved about Tennessee: the heat. I was on the phone with a friend tonight and I said to him "I think where I live is just about the prettiest place on the planet!" and it is. Truly, I believe that. We get the fullest of four seasons, there's water, mountains, fields, pretty downtowns, and skies that regularly rival anything I've ever seen. But heat is something we are not accustomed to--so this week of sticky, hot humidity is being cherished by yours truly.

I love it.

On a related note: Tonight, while I am here, my dear family is out on the boats and other water apparatus at Norwood Lake. I love the water. I love the water. I love the water! Some people are picky about the dipping place of choice, only chlorinated pools for some or fresh waterfalls for others; wide, open lakes for some or the ocean for others. I care not. Honestly. My favorite thing about summer is the water.

This summer is my first summer in many years where I won't be lifeguarding. I'm turning over a new leaf! Offices painted with Silence and printers that run out of ink! Staff meetings and PDF files! Uncomfortable desk chairs and phone calls galore! The most water I'll see on a regular basis are the water-cooler jugs stacked in the closet. Oh well.

"I honestly have nothing creative to say" I say. She doesn't respond; we call it ignoring. She ignores me.

But I will say:

That I love the weather we're having around here. A few people have been grumbling about all the thunderstorms we're having, but you know, I don't mind. It's warm, a little unseasonably humid, hence the thunder and lightening, but I like it. It was one of the things I loved most about Tennessee--the intermittent rain and sun. And so even though the forecast is predicting no end in sight, I'm happy. We get peeks of the sun and it's warm; that's good enough for me.

That I love my job. I still get furrowed brows from people when they find out I have two degrees and I work at my church putting neither to good use, but really, trust me, I love my job. I think this today in our staff meeting. I think it later with a pretty girl at one desk and a funny guy at another desk and me at the third desk. I think it again half-way through my day when I sit back in my chair and let the breeze from our six foot windows brush across my face. I think it one last time when I lock our office door and peek in the window at Silence.

I never think those thoughts about a piece of paper with my name and two degrees on it. Never.

That there have been many, many, many times when I've been sad to seemingly be the last one to [fill in the blank] in my circle of friends. But recently I am so thankful that they've walked through the seasons in which I find myself currently. Today one called while she was on a walk with her beautiful boy and after only a few jumbled words out of my mouth she knew--she knew--exactly what to say. Most of the time I'm that person for other people, but I'm thankful when a few get to be that for me. I'm thankful to be last this time.

That after a four week "Can I do it? Yes I can!" from coffee, I realized that I am not actually addicted to coffee. I honestly like the flavor and that's really it. I did it! I went four weeks without it! I can do it again! Dare me! I can! But really, one of my favorite times of the day is waking up and drinking a cup while everyone around me drinks theirs too. So I'm drinking it again. But I sneak in a day or two here and there where I don't, just to make sure that I can.

And I can!

That my car battery has died every day this week. Now, I have a very good little car, plus it's a sage green Honda so that makes it better than good--that makes it best. People have their theories about why jumper cables are my recent best friends, but here's my theory: it's rained every day this week and I am very, very good about driving with my lights on in the rain. However, I am not very good at remembering to turn them off. What say you of this theory? I don't know if it's true and the problem is, I don't even remember to test it by intentionally leaving my lights on.

Do you know I'm just kidding?

That I really don't have anything creative to say, just information. That's all.

Today I spent the day in Silence. Many words were exchanged (trust me, plenty of words), but in Silence just the same.

Our office has been shrouded in green marble paper with an atlasesque border almost since we inhabited our property on Rt. 310. In any case, since day one of our employment there, we've vowed to change that ambient fixture. A few days ago we chose our color and today we brushed, rolled, and rebrushed it on blank walls.

The color is called Silence. And we like that.

This evening a crashing thunderstorm shook the house while we sat on armchairs and chatted about our day. We went exploring for a rainbow the moment the sun made the drops on the screens glisten and we found one behind the house. We are happy to make the rainbow the object of exploration and care little about pots of gold at the end. Our riches are found in wet toes spread in green grass and dark blue-grey horizons.

There is one bridge into the town where I work. Many rivers flow through this large county and, consequently, many bridges. But into this particular little town, only one bridge spans. This bridge closed this past week for "at least two years," which is what we are told by those who enjoy being mysterious (though I guarantee it's because they are in as much mystery as we are). Because of this the commute to and from work, and to any other little hamlet around Saint Lawrence County, is made several miles longer.

I confess, I'm one of the raucous few who roll my eyes every time someone talks about "The Bridge Being Out." It's true.

But driving home on the detour, the navy clouds gathering behind me and the clear blue and white billows in front of me, I slowly drive down the hill--because small in front of me are the breathtaking Adirondack Mountains--blue and green peaks making up the majority of New York State. And I am thankful that my path looks different from this vantage point.

In a few weeks I am headed down the Virginia where the Makeshift Family is reuniting for the marriage of our very own Laura Knopp and Tony Avnaim. Who'd a thunk? That's all I know to ask. Because when we all first converged we were a different lot. Different people heading different directions. Sure, we added some and lost some, but we once we did converge, we mostly stayed the same.

A couple of them are getting married to each other this year and that's so exciting you see. I think sometimes we get stuck in ruts when it comes to our social structures and it pains us to see anything change; like the game of Jenga, we pull out an integral piece and wait for the whole thing to crumble.

But the older I get and the more relationships I build (and therefore have more opportunity to disappoint and be disappointed), the more I realize that the dynamics we once had might never be the same, but why would we want them to be? When we can add and make them better?

So I'm excited to see the Fam together for a long weekend, but more than that, I'm excited to see two of them joined in covenant--a future and a hope. A testimony of three apartments and how they grew.