I'm sitting here in The Fields sipping on my early evening shot of decaf coffee. It's silly, I know, my dependence on coffee, but I console myself with the knowledge that it is not the caffeine I'm so desperate for, but the warmth. We got our first snow of the year this week. Inordinately early. The weather watchers predict temperatures in the sixties next week though. She is a fickle mistress, mother earth. And we, her fickle friends, glower under her unseasonable fury. We only like her on her good days.

I'm supposed to be making the pie chart I assigned to the girls in my small group to make. We meet in an hour and we're talking about time. Well, we're talking about self-discipline and order, but it might as well be time. Isn't that our collective excuse for not being orderly or disciplined? We haven't got the time? It's amazing what charts slicing our 24 hours into neat sections of time spent shows us about our self-discipline and orderly lives.

I used to bristle when people would tell me "You'd better take advantage of the time you have now, after you [graduate college/get married/get a job] you'll never have this sort of time again." I still bristle. Because regardless of my life's stage, time is one thing I cannot seem to take advantage of. My life feels in constant disarray. The final sentence of our book study's chapter reads this way: A disordered life speaks loudly of disorder in the soul.

And I know this disorder of which she speaks. It is not the diseased kind, eating away at our flesh. It is the debilitating kind, eating away at our spirit. It is not that I don't make my bed, I do most days. It isn't that my clothing isn't hung up in the closet or my bills aren't paid. It is that there is the constant nag in my mind that my priorities are all upside down, that I fail at putting first things first, that my best is only second best. It is that I feel tired and fried and that my hair bothers me and I can't remember the last time I felt pretty. It is that when people see me they say "You should get to bed early tonight" when sleeping enough isn't really the problem at all.

It is that peace alludes me.

That quiet assurance that I am doing what I see my Father doing and that it is enough.

A friend wrote a poem after my brother Andrew was killed. He titled it "Dayenu." It means, "It would have been enough."

I never forget it. Because there will always be opportunity to add and multiply and shuffle and reorder, but there will not be the opportunity to do over. There is not the opportunity to say "It wasn't enough!" Because it is finished. And it is enough. It has to be enough.

So I am learning. I am. I haven't got it down into the recesses of my soul, but I am pushing it down, deep down. I am learning to say that it is enough, I cannot have done more. Even when maybe I could have. Even when there are always more nips to be nipped and tucks to be tucked--at some point I stand back to admire His handiwork and say: It is enough.

And then put my spirit to rest.

My spaghetti and meatballs were getting cold while everyone else ate, but I needed to breathe. Today in church one of our pastors talked about still water noticeably receiving the pebble, the soul at rest receiving the word, and I shut my eyes, breathing deeply.

There are countless things demanding my attention in my favorite place, and it is easy, so easy to run a marathon every Sunday morning. From the moment I walk in the door until the moment I get in my car to drive to the next Sunday Event there are demands. Did we remember to print that? Do we have enough brochures? Is this Ministry Head happy with how things are progressing? Did I remember to make that phone call? What? You planned what? For when? Nobody told me. Does he have what he needs? Is someone in charge of this? Did I delegate well enough, or am I going to have to be on top of this thing the entire time. I'm not confident enough of my administrative skills. Of my people skills. Of my communication skills. Of my ability to say no. Of myself. Can I pretend that I didn't see you, didn't catch your eye? Because I'm afraid if I catch your eye I'll be getting an earful in a few minutes. Don't look. Don't look. Don't look. Wait, I'd better look, those eyes have tears in them and they're already looking at me. Too late. Sit, nod, pray, get up, go. Go. Go. Go.

And that's just from 9am to 11am.

I'm excited about church growth and our church is growing. But I'm afraid of whiplash and that's all that I seem to feel recently. Wanting to say yes to every need expressed, but feeling awfully unable to even meet any of them.

And my soul is getting the shortest end.

In an effort to give, please, be, go, serve, orchestrate, impress, I've let my soul down. But, which is more, I've let my God down.

The sermon today is on the perfection of Christ. He who knew no sin, took mine because I'm not good enough. Even though all I've ever wanted to be is just good enough. Not perfect. Not stellar. Not a phenom of strength and constancy. Just good enough. But I'm finding that, moral fiber aside, nothing I do is good enough.

I need Him. Every day. And especially on Sundays.

There's a standing question in my mind recently. While I drive to work listening to this song on repeat. While I read this book. While I list the people I admire, trust, believe, and don't. While I put my best foot forward and always feel ten feet behind.

Who can I trust?

I used to trust in people, but they disappointed. Whether because I expected more than they could deliver, or because other people are depraved too, not just me, I don't know. But I stopped. Partly because I got tired of disappointment. Partly because the list of trusted people felt smaller and smaller until I stopped trusting even the most trustworthy because what if they failed too? I couldn't handle it.

So I started trusting myself. But that's a known failure. Cloistering feelings under bedsheets and pillows, behind sad eyes, and a tired soul. I couldn't handle it myself because I couldn't handle myself. My morning glance in the mirror lasts seconds because I don't like that person and I certainly don't trust them either. That person is a robot, a machine, or a veritable monster. I have to force my muscles to relax, remember what feeling feels like, and still I fail my expectations every single day. I can't do this either. So who do I trust?

I make mental lists, naming people and disqualifying them in the same synapse. Friends, authorities, peers. All too busy, too human, too young, too stupid, or far too good for the likes of this meltdown. It's not that people don't ask "How are you?" and it's not that I don't want to open my mouth and let it all spill, all the confusing mess that isn't really a mess at all, just life smashed too tightly to breathe.

The fear of disappointment stands bigger than the fear of never sharing what's inside.

So, the song says Nobody's Got it All Together, but it sure looks like they do. And the pastor-author confesses that the best way to get real is to be real, but how do you be real when you're afraid that being real just means you're a Big Fat Doubting Thomas, and who likes him anyway?

And I know the answer is Jesus. I do. I know that. But sometimes I need Jesus in the flesh. And maybe I am Thomas. Maybe I do need to stick my hands through His side. And I know that we're not supposed to mire in this stuff. I know the Bible verses. I know the principles. I know the answers. I don't need answers here. I need to trust someone.

A real live person.
A friend.

I have seen the darkness of my heart
And found a love that’s shown me it’s too hard
To walk through life and not let down my guard
What good is it to say “Please Savior come”
If there is nothing you need rescue from
Life is something no one has a corner on
Jill Phillips

Warning: Political Blog

You might be tired of hearing about this. I am too. I don't know how to stop it, but like Doug Wilson said the other day, "America is about to take off our collective shirt, because a rod is for the back of fools."

So yeah. This close to the election, I've been torn, confused, voting third party, not voting at all, okay, fine, voting for the "lesser of two evils" (but what if he's not?), okay third party, okay I'll write in "Jesus."

All I know, folks, is that there are millions of votes missing in this election. Kids who didn't have a chance to grow up. So accuse me of whatever you want, just, for God's sake, think before you vote. Not your own values, not America's, not even the values you want your kids to have. Valiant, but not good enough. God's word offers the only values worth fighting for:

Therefore as surely as I live, declares the Sovereign LORD, I will give you over to bloodshed and it will pursue you. Since you did not hate bloodshed, bloodshed will pursue you. Ezekie l35.6

The point is, Roe v Wade cannot be overturned by a president. Which is why, in the past decade, it hasn't been overturned. It has to be a Supreme Court decision that gets the ball moving. Did you know this? So before we point our collective finger at the Bush Administration for not doing anything but stick the proverbial finger in the plug hole for the past eight years, let's remember that in the next four years there will be probably three Supreme Court Judges appointed. THIS is the big deal, folks. Not who carries the presidential seal, not who flies Air Force One, and not who we'll be pointing our collective finger at for the next presidential term.

You're not voting for a man in this election, you're voting for (or against) millions of lives of babies.

Randy Alcorn, a man who has committed his life to the Pro-Life cause, wrote the best bit of blog writing I've read this year. I mean that. I share what I read liberally, but this is something I'm not just sharing: I'm imploring you to read it.

So, is the candidate’s stand on the issue of shedding innocent blood important enough to disqualify him as a candidate? Yes. While a single issue can’t qualify a candidate, it can disqualify him. In my opinion, this issue clearly disqualifies Barack Obama, just as it disqualified Republican Rudy Giuliani.

I don’t think someone is a good candidate just because he is prolife But he cannot be a good candidate unless he is prolife. Personally, if he is committed to legalized child-killing, as a matter of conscience I must vote against him.

Read the rest of the article.

I won't let go until you bless me. Some translations say "I won't let go unless you bless me." But I am being optimistic. These are times for optimism. So we pray "I won't let go until you bless me" like Jacob did, wrestling with a dislocated hipbone and a nameless man in the night.

I wrestle with namelessness. I wrestle with a weakness. I wrestle with God, refusing to rest. Wrestle: to twist; I twist His words, His plans, His meaning, His intention. I manipulate until something, anything feels less painful than the last position. I refuse to cry Uncle! or call out Abba! I am wrestling with intention.

And He knocks my bones into dislocation. He moves things that feel right so that they are wrong. I protest. But He is God? He knows better?

He changes my name, I walk with a limp, I do not see the blessing. A name? This? This is the blessing that you give me when I have already stolen the birthright of my brother? I have already stolen a name and still you give me another? Who am I? Jacob, the thief? Esau, the fraud? Israel, the victorious?

But Who Are You?

I walk with a limp, my future walks with a limp, we will all walk with a limp, we will not eat the meat of the hipbone--this is our sacrifice and this is our Ebenezer. The scar of evening wrestling, the badge of victory, the mark of humility, the memento of the overcomer.

So my run is not speedy, my walk is impeded, and my name is still Victory: he who came through.

And, later, "you will know My Name. I'll tell you Myself."

'Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue,

Or touch the hollow of my thigh:

Though every sinew be unstrung,

Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly;

Wrestling I will not let Thee go,

Till I thy name, thy nature know.

charles wesley

We worked our way to the center of the pomegranate. Small red jewels bursting against our taste buds, spitting seeds behind us. We worked our way to the center. Open hearts, peeling back the hardened skin, pulling red jewels, tasting the good. Spinning them around our mouths, chewing on truths and spitting out the things that crowd, filling the corners with unnecessary bulk. We breathe. We pray. We work through. We forget. We be.

I don't know how I let it go this far. I don't know how long the bulk has been building. I don't know why. I planned to get away this weekend and get answers to the questions I've been asking. I didn't get answers. I only got more questions. But at least this time they're clear questions.

I ran away, that's the truth. I am not the spontaneous sort. I can be, if I am trying to impress or convince someone. But spontaneity does not impress or convince me, so I am not. But last week all of the simmering things boiled, all of the itchy things opened, and all of the patience I've procured didn't suffice. I didn't even cry--I was that spent; I didn't have tears in me. So I left.

I landed in a place that has always been in my heart, regardless of how many times I've tried to fill that space with like things. Nothing's the same. I drove late into the night and landed in a tent beside my golden friend on the grounds of the wilderness camp where we've found so much over the past decade. I ran away and determined to be silent, to not be a leader, to not be inquisitive and friendly, to not be myself all weekend.

Because I recently hate my self.

Paul, in Romans, talks about the thing he hates to do and finds himself doing. We, sitting on an orange blanket and in a hammock, talked about it too. I felt pegged. Me. It was me Paul was talking about. Only I don't just hate the things I do, I hate the self doing them. Apathy. Discontentment. Hunger. Loneliness. Fear. Insecurity. Weakness. Sorrow. Things that make my weakness weaker. I say this to my golden friend. She nods. She was never that impressed with me anyway.

But I was, I admit. Because wrapped up in all those horrible things is a singular most horrible thing: pride. And this I hate the most.

A conversation two weeks ago ruminates in my head daily: the yoke of Matthew 11, the one that is supposed to be easy, is actually also supposed to be fitting. Realization dawns on me during that conversation--I live my life overcompensating for the yoke that doesn't fit. I bought it one size too big, or maybe more. I say my friend that I think that I expect that God expects me to build His kingdom by moving ten tables, but what if He's only made me to move eight? What if I am not working out of my excess because I'm constantly working to my capacity? What if I think more of me than God does?

What if all the people I feel like I'm failing aren't failed at all; what if I'm the one who's failed?

These are the questions I leave my weekend with. I drive and think on the way home, through mountains and mountains and colors and moons and brilliant sunsets. There are the question I roll around. These are the limitations I am content to wear, if it only means that my cup will run over in time.

But I won't stop asking.

This is the sixth sentence I've begun tonight. I've deleted each after reading it through, disgusted with my phrasing, my creativity, and my subject matter. I am my harshest critic.

It is peak around here. That's local speak for the first two weeks of October when there is enough chill to turn leaves quickly and brightly, and enough warmth to throw on a cardigan and call it a coat. Potsdam is alive with academia, kayaking and amateur photographers. It is fall and it is in full swing. I love it.

A few days ago my favorite co-worker and I were staring at each other from across the office. We do this pretty often, and not because we are each other's favorite co-worker, but because we often don't really know what to say and staring helps us to feel like we understand what the other isn't really saying.

On this occasion, though, the subject not at hand was actually the fact that both of us don't say anything. Or, more pointedly, we are master evaders. We have so well learned the art of the five-question-rule (1. What's your name? 2. Where are you from? 3. What are you studying? 4. Do you have a home church? 5. Tell me something else about yourself.), we have mastered the There You Are mentality (instead of the Here I Am mentality. (Which are you?)), and we know absolutely everything there is to know about any thirty given people at any point.

They, however, know nothing about us. And perhaps it's because they haven't asked. Perhaps. But more likely it's because we haven't offered.

It's hard, when you expect vulnerability and honesty from other people, to be content with offering nothing in return. I am trying to figure this out with my favorite co-worker. The good news, though, is that during the times we are not staring, we are actually talking quite a bit. It is good to be known.

The other night I got home late from work and a boy we love was about to offer some thanks for the veritable feast on the table. I sat on the piano bench behind him and bowed my head, peeking only a little bit to see who was joining us this time for dinner.

It was his prayer, though, that shut my eyes again tightly, earnestly, restfully. He said one thing and it has stuck in my head, making its way down to my heart, nicking the places that grow accustomed to sameness and everyday. He said:

"Make this night different than all the other nights."

I remembered being young and having parents who explored ideas and thoughts and read wild tales and encouraged us to learn and learn and learn. I remembered holidays where we would do the Protestant thing before we would head over to the Catholic thing, and one year where we did the Jewish thing. I remembered reading through Four Questions that every good Jewish child knows. And I remembered the one that signals the beginning of them all:

"Why is this night different from all the other nights?"

The hurried gathering of belongings, the meager meal, the knowledge that slavery would soon be a thing of the past and that uncertainty would be the bread of tomorrow, these things are different. These things say that something new is about to happen: we don't know what, but something.

So the past few days I've been asking for that perspective: why, God, is this day different from all the other days? What, God, makes this season different than all the other seasons? What, God, are you about to do? What unexpected but long awaited thing is worth my scarce meal, my packed belongings, and my hope?

What thing are you doing now?

Thus says the LORD who makes a way through the sea and a path through the mighty waters, who brings forth the chariot and the horse, the army and the mighty man... "Do not call to mind the former things or ponder things of the past. Behold, I will do something new, now it will spring forth; will you not be aware of it?"