I don't think I will ever grow weary of writing and pondering or meditating on the subject of love. There truly is no end to its depth. I find that every day I learn more, I dive deeper into the endless, all-encompassing warmth and reality of the abyss that love is.
When I wake in the morning, I wake to the face of love, kissing me out of grogginess into new light, with coffee in his hand for me. I get to see bright, sunshiney faces in mine that have somehow forgotten all of the strained endings of yesterday, and are exceedingly glad to see me again. As I go about my day, I randomly receive love through texts on my phone, and little lifts in my spirit, knowing my husband, family, or friends are thinking of me fondly. And this gives me strength. What if we came to the very real epiphany that we are a thousand (or more) times more loved even than the strongest of loves experienced here on earth, at all times, every second of each and every day?
Because we are.
By God.
I feel lately like the Grinch, when his heart grows three sizes.... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGSs33DQ1F0
Our hearts are capable of stretching. Of expanding to contain more, and more, and more. LOVE.
Love for people near us, love for the kids our children bring home, love for the neighbor child who drops in 100 times a day, love for the homeless person spewing hateful words as you walk by, love for the family member you simply cannot understand, love for yourself.
We humans are among the most incredible life form there is, period. We are able to do things no other life form can. One of the most amazing things is that we can have passions like nothing else. It may sometimes be fun to compare our passions to that of nature: the unyielding, stormy sea; the wind at work on trees; rainbows in all of their color-displaying glory; waterfalls at full-force; a mother lioness with her baby cub; eagles soaring together in harmony.
But we humans are the only ones that I believe feel this fiercely about others. We were created for this, to love and love well.
Then why do we not wield this weapon of grace and eccentric beauty more proudly and with more purpose? Why do we often sigh and walk in lonely, stewing silence, scrutinizing, sizing up, and generally judging every figure we come across in swift, precisely painful strides of eye-sweepings and casting away those who could be our companions, friends, targets of said fierce love?
I think we do not know, perhaps, the power of this love within us, we are probably often not able to see past the short-sightedness of our own insecurities and self-loathing and fears of rejection in order to love.
So, this is the key: We love not to get love back. We love because we are gifted at it, and it is a skill to be fine-tuned and perfected daily, without fear of failing, because there is tomorrow to learn more, to get up and be filled and to pour out more of this luscious, liquid, cleansing, treasure of love.
If we assess a person that we come across, and immediately, rather than thinking: If I show this person affection or kindness, maybe they will think I'm weird and forward, and they will walk away, creeped out by me, what if we threw away those measly thoughts, and we just loved like Pollyanna loved? I have been thinking about that silly movie a lot lately, mainly her character, because so many of the townspeople were total assholes, and undeserving, of her pure, un-jaded, forthcoming love that she directed on those folks who either laid in bed sick and bitter, or enclosed in their houses behind windows, casting silent stones.
Undeserving...
Aren't all of us undeserving, really, but some of us just disguise it better than others?
When people push us away because they are angry or they seem to hate us, what if we kept coming back, with good intentions, to make sure that that person knew...they deserved love just as much as anyone?
What if we loved without expecting anything, ANYTHING, in return. Simply making it our mission to lift people up with unwarranted smiles, a hug, an actual listening ear, a coffee brought to a friend, flowers to a stranger, cookies to our neighbor?
Okay, okay, I know..... It's uncomfortable, and I am just baby-stepping into this strange, unknown territory of all of this love stuff, because honestly, I have really been held back by MAJOR issues with self-scrutinizing insecurities and fears of rejection. If I tried to be nice to someone, and they were in a bad mood that day and snapped at me, I would recoil for, like, months. Judging them as a jerk and hiding myself away from them so that I didn't have to feel the painful, searing loss of rejection the next time I saw them. But then it occured to me: Be nice again. Try again to smile and be friendly. And you know what? If they are crabby and rude again, try again the next time you see them. I have tried this, very slowly and with apprehension and falling on my hard head many a time, in my life, and I have seen nothing but good results. People want, NEED, to be loved. To feel wanted, listened to, heard, thought of, endeared to, LOVED.
If you say you don't, you're lying.
SO go. Get out there, and love the ones you got, the ones you don't, strangers, stray cats, mother-in-laws, irritating figures in your life who offended you in the past. Life is too damn short to hold grudges and be petty. Quit it. Go love.
Okay, I'm going to go take my own advice now.
I want to hear reports back. :)
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Friday, September 12, 2014
A Proposal Story
I was thinking last night about mine and Chris's beginning. Sometimes, to remember important things in life, you have to go back to the beginning. Not like living in the past, just recalling the things that first gave you joy and sprung up in your heart like a summer rainfall. (Something I miss, living here in California).
Our engagement didn't begin with flowers, a fancy restaurant, a moonlit walk, or anything well-planned and concocted in Chris's mind. It didn't even begin with a ring.
When he proposed to me, spontaneously in my room with the faded rose wallpaper at my father's house one evening, he sat with me on the edge of my bed, just talking as friends and totally in love, his arm protectively around me. He had his old, worn leather Bible in his other hand, and he opened it to the Psalms. He started to read to me from Psalm 37. When he got to the part that reads, "Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart." He stopped and said that that was what we had found in each other. We had been doing just that: simply delighting in God. Being totally fixed on worshiping God in our lives.
You see, we both had led very messy lives previously. He had gotten a girl pregnant and married her at the age of fifteen, and I was partying hard and living chaotically, in a hellish relationship. We both seemed to be damaged goods, so to speak, until we found Jesus. Our lives transformed drastically when we began to walk that out in our separate lives. I had a child at age nineteen, which changed the course of my life, and he went off to rehab in San Diego.
When we met, things were not perfect. We both had a lot of baggage. Many said we would not last.
But we knew what we had found in each other. A friend, and more than that, surprisingly, a soul mate. It sounds gushy to say that, but it's true.
We just got each other, entirely. We still do.
Right after he read that verse to me, he dropped down to his knee on the wooden floor, and, looking me in the eye, my hands in his, he asked me if I would be his wife. I said yes. There was no ring, he said, we could pick it out together. It was not an important thing to either of us in that moment. When we were talking about that last night, we realized that the object of a ring becomes such a central thing in the beginning of engagement, whether it's due to tradition or symbolism. It becomes the centerpiece sometimes. But we talked about how our love was the centerpiece. It was the thing we glorified and danced around, celebrating, showing off to our friends and family. I had no ring, it was of no matter, until we got one, of course. Don't get me wrong, I was tremendously elated when we did get the ring, and I wore it proudly, and still do. But I am glad that our story is so simple in the beginning that it didn't need any frills or anything added to the simplicity that we were head over heels for each other and that was all we needed, and all we still need.
Our engagement didn't begin with flowers, a fancy restaurant, a moonlit walk, or anything well-planned and concocted in Chris's mind. It didn't even begin with a ring.
When he proposed to me, spontaneously in my room with the faded rose wallpaper at my father's house one evening, he sat with me on the edge of my bed, just talking as friends and totally in love, his arm protectively around me. He had his old, worn leather Bible in his other hand, and he opened it to the Psalms. He started to read to me from Psalm 37. When he got to the part that reads, "Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart." He stopped and said that that was what we had found in each other. We had been doing just that: simply delighting in God. Being totally fixed on worshiping God in our lives.
You see, we both had led very messy lives previously. He had gotten a girl pregnant and married her at the age of fifteen, and I was partying hard and living chaotically, in a hellish relationship. We both seemed to be damaged goods, so to speak, until we found Jesus. Our lives transformed drastically when we began to walk that out in our separate lives. I had a child at age nineteen, which changed the course of my life, and he went off to rehab in San Diego.
When we met, things were not perfect. We both had a lot of baggage. Many said we would not last.
But we knew what we had found in each other. A friend, and more than that, surprisingly, a soul mate. It sounds gushy to say that, but it's true.
We just got each other, entirely. We still do.
Right after he read that verse to me, he dropped down to his knee on the wooden floor, and, looking me in the eye, my hands in his, he asked me if I would be his wife. I said yes. There was no ring, he said, we could pick it out together. It was not an important thing to either of us in that moment. When we were talking about that last night, we realized that the object of a ring becomes such a central thing in the beginning of engagement, whether it's due to tradition or symbolism. It becomes the centerpiece sometimes. But we talked about how our love was the centerpiece. It was the thing we glorified and danced around, celebrating, showing off to our friends and family. I had no ring, it was of no matter, until we got one, of course. Don't get me wrong, I was tremendously elated when we did get the ring, and I wore it proudly, and still do. But I am glad that our story is so simple in the beginning that it didn't need any frills or anything added to the simplicity that we were head over heels for each other and that was all we needed, and all we still need.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Bird Rescue
I think I've mentioned before the active bird life of our current dwelling place. There are many mature trees in our neighborhood, and they house anything from owls, hummingbirds, mockingbirds, to our beloved cooing mourning dove that we wake to each dawn and hear each evening from either our backyard telephone pole, or the lines directly in front of our house. It is a sound both soothing and routine now.
The other evening, the children and I were listening to music in my bedroom while Chris was away at one of his music engagements, when a tap came at the window and a whistle. I opened the shades to find our rough around the edges next door neighbor, Stan. He was wide-eyed and excitedly telling us about a scuffle with our dove (which Harmony, my daughter, has lovingly named Mac) and a red-tailed hawk. I ran out, and found Mac hiding himself within a thorned bush a couple houses away. The hawk waited on the branch of a nearby tree for his moment to swoop down once again and finish the job he had begun on it's prey.
I couldn't let nature take it's course this time. Mac was our friend! I reached into the bush, and took Mac gently out and placed him in a shoe box that I had told Jude to run and get. When I looked down at my hands, there was blood on them.
We brought the shoe box with the wounded dove into our house and I called my mom, the advanced bird-savior expert (ha), I call her Saint Franci of Assisi, because she has the tenderest heart towards nature and animals, and because her name is Franci. She advised to get a dropper, fill it with water and attempt to bring the poor hurt thing out of its shock by giving it water.
We also read that putting some apple cider vinegar in the water can be antibiotic for birds, so later I did that as well. I texted my husband about what had happened, knowing his heart towards creatures of the air as well. There happened to be, at his gig, an animal doctor who, when he read my text aloud to his small crowd, told him to tell me, put the thing back outside because it's cruel to interfere with the circle of life, both to the dove and the hawk. I responded that there was no possible way I could do that, after all, it was MAC!
I peeked at the wound, under Mac's wing, a wound which looked pretty bad to me. I put some Neosporin on it and gently rubbed it in, and wrapped the bird in a cloth. We left him alone to recuperate. Chris got home around 10pm, and the children were in bed by then. We sat on the front porch sipping wine and wondering what to do, discussing if we should try to take him to an emergency vet, or what the animal doctor had said, or what, we did not know. All along, I was praying, and hoping the dove would make a full recovery and not die from shock or the wound.
We put on dove sounds on youtube, wondering if it would encourage the little creature. He looked all about, searching for his mate, and then suddenly! Fluttered up to the tree in our front yard, sat there a moment, and promptly plopped to the grassy ground below. It was crazy! We looked at each other amazed at how it could have been so driven to find its love, even being so hurt.
We finally placed Mac back in the shoe box, open, but gently wrapped in the towel, so if he lived, he could fly easily away without being stuck. We went inside, me crying, at the beauty and sadness of it all, and went to bed.
The next morning, Sunday, I awoke to Chris throwing on clothes, and I was confused as it was his only day to sleep in. "What are you doing, honey?!" I asked. "I got a song in my dream, it was about my dad. I have to... write it down before I lose it." Ahh. I understood his cryptic message perfectly, he gets dreams with songs in them....it is a type of lovely gift he has.
As I lay there waiting to hear for the dove to coo or not, Harmony came into my room and asked about "Birdie"..."Is birdie okay?" "I don't know, but we can't disturb daddy to see right now. Let's look out the blinds." So, right as I opened the blinds, we saw an amazing sight! One dove was flying from the direction of the tree, the other the telephone pole, and they met in the air, and flew on top of each other for a moment, and landed. Harmony and I looked at each other in awe, then I flew out to the living room, half doubting what I'd seen, and wondering if there was some slim chance that there were more than just Mac and his mate in this neighborhood. I walked slowly up to the shoe box, which had the cloth poking all about, and I couldn't tell if there was anything in it or not."Please let it be empty." I prayed. I pulled back the cloth, and sure enough..empty! Chris came up behind me and with moist eyes, we said,"That's a miracle." He was so hurt! And there he was, above us, with his mate, cooing his tranquil sound. We stood mesmerized.
It just all seemed so symbolic somehow. The hawk, representing war. The dove, standing for peace. Driven by love. And life, all winning. It was too much for these green, tender hearts to bear without tears and sighs of awe.
Chris's song lyrics intertwine the story of the dove with the injured wing, and rising from darkness into light and life.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am for such an amazingly artistic and sensitive musician I happened to fall into love with, and am living my life with! It's all, just, almost too much goodness to bear. The lines have truly fallen for us in pleasant places. Psalm 16
The other evening, the children and I were listening to music in my bedroom while Chris was away at one of his music engagements, when a tap came at the window and a whistle. I opened the shades to find our rough around the edges next door neighbor, Stan. He was wide-eyed and excitedly telling us about a scuffle with our dove (which Harmony, my daughter, has lovingly named Mac) and a red-tailed hawk. I ran out, and found Mac hiding himself within a thorned bush a couple houses away. The hawk waited on the branch of a nearby tree for his moment to swoop down once again and finish the job he had begun on it's prey.
I couldn't let nature take it's course this time. Mac was our friend! I reached into the bush, and took Mac gently out and placed him in a shoe box that I had told Jude to run and get. When I looked down at my hands, there was blood on them.
We brought the shoe box with the wounded dove into our house and I called my mom, the advanced bird-savior expert (ha), I call her Saint Franci of Assisi, because she has the tenderest heart towards nature and animals, and because her name is Franci. She advised to get a dropper, fill it with water and attempt to bring the poor hurt thing out of its shock by giving it water.
We also read that putting some apple cider vinegar in the water can be antibiotic for birds, so later I did that as well. I texted my husband about what had happened, knowing his heart towards creatures of the air as well. There happened to be, at his gig, an animal doctor who, when he read my text aloud to his small crowd, told him to tell me, put the thing back outside because it's cruel to interfere with the circle of life, both to the dove and the hawk. I responded that there was no possible way I could do that, after all, it was MAC!
I peeked at the wound, under Mac's wing, a wound which looked pretty bad to me. I put some Neosporin on it and gently rubbed it in, and wrapped the bird in a cloth. We left him alone to recuperate. Chris got home around 10pm, and the children were in bed by then. We sat on the front porch sipping wine and wondering what to do, discussing if we should try to take him to an emergency vet, or what the animal doctor had said, or what, we did not know. All along, I was praying, and hoping the dove would make a full recovery and not die from shock or the wound.
We put on dove sounds on youtube, wondering if it would encourage the little creature. He looked all about, searching for his mate, and then suddenly! Fluttered up to the tree in our front yard, sat there a moment, and promptly plopped to the grassy ground below. It was crazy! We looked at each other amazed at how it could have been so driven to find its love, even being so hurt.
We finally placed Mac back in the shoe box, open, but gently wrapped in the towel, so if he lived, he could fly easily away without being stuck. We went inside, me crying, at the beauty and sadness of it all, and went to bed.
The next morning, Sunday, I awoke to Chris throwing on clothes, and I was confused as it was his only day to sleep in. "What are you doing, honey?!" I asked. "I got a song in my dream, it was about my dad. I have to... write it down before I lose it." Ahh. I understood his cryptic message perfectly, he gets dreams with songs in them....it is a type of lovely gift he has.
As I lay there waiting to hear for the dove to coo or not, Harmony came into my room and asked about "Birdie"..."Is birdie okay?" "I don't know, but we can't disturb daddy to see right now. Let's look out the blinds." So, right as I opened the blinds, we saw an amazing sight! One dove was flying from the direction of the tree, the other the telephone pole, and they met in the air, and flew on top of each other for a moment, and landed. Harmony and I looked at each other in awe, then I flew out to the living room, half doubting what I'd seen, and wondering if there was some slim chance that there were more than just Mac and his mate in this neighborhood. I walked slowly up to the shoe box, which had the cloth poking all about, and I couldn't tell if there was anything in it or not."Please let it be empty." I prayed. I pulled back the cloth, and sure enough..empty! Chris came up behind me and with moist eyes, we said,"That's a miracle." He was so hurt! And there he was, above us, with his mate, cooing his tranquil sound. We stood mesmerized.
It just all seemed so symbolic somehow. The hawk, representing war. The dove, standing for peace. Driven by love. And life, all winning. It was too much for these green, tender hearts to bear without tears and sighs of awe.
Chris's song lyrics intertwine the story of the dove with the injured wing, and rising from darkness into light and life.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am for such an amazingly artistic and sensitive musician I happened to fall into love with, and am living my life with! It's all, just, almost too much goodness to bear. The lines have truly fallen for us in pleasant places. Psalm 16
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Bed
The bed symbolizes a place of nurturing, a place where dreams are hatched and good things are able to thrive. It's a place where things flourish and we pour into richly. It can even be a sanctuary.
It's a place of sanctification, or where dark motives lie. We can tenderly partake of intimacy there, or we can tap into the lusts of our depraved minds. We can rest, or we can toss and turn.
The mind either spirals down into a soft slumber or spins into a whirling dervish of thoughts we cannot seem to turn off. Minds that spew accusations of previous affairs or carelessly uttered words; Hurt and things we could have done instead.
My mind goes down a staircase when I lie my head on cushioned pillow, one of the unfolding of events from my day, my life, my hidden self. Who I truly am is exposed to me and the undulating cover of night. Visions, pictures, voices, all heard with sharper clarity, in the curve of the mattress and shield of quilt.
Many a day spent toiling or attempting to figure out my next move was calculated effortlessly under a ceiling sheathed by stars and crescent moon hovering just outside my window. It is where peace can fall on our hearts like veils of satin on closed lids or where the poisoned daggers of wrongs done and secrets withheld can pierce painfully.
It is my opinion that dreams can be quite meaningful and telling of what we are experiencing internally as well as externally. They can refresh, excite, inspire or petrify. In the dark, with the dim glow of streetlights illuminating shadows on the walls, our imaginations are at their finest. But also, the silence that surrounds us is a potential birthing place of magical imagery. Clarity stems from the river of REM.
I am not a slothful person by trait, I do not spend longer hours than necessary under bed sheets lazing about, but when I am there, in the solace of my bed, next to my quietly snoozing soul mate, I fully soak in the sweetness of all that dances around me. Especially the prayers sent up into galaxies beyond our own, being inevitably listened to by angels' ears and a thoughtful god.
The bed is a place of poetry, written in the forgetful pages of my subconscious but engraved on the essence of who I am and what I do. It's where meditation can be most astutely applied in the recesses of my mind.
Garden Bed: A place where one plants their seeds, waters, weeds, prunes, gathers the growth and feasts. Digging hands like shovels into dark, fertile soil. Therapy in the green vitality of life.
Marriage Bed: A sacred place of intimacy, rest, and tranquility. Where one lays solitary repose, or entangles limbs and hearts with somebody.
It's a place of sanctification, or where dark motives lie. We can tenderly partake of intimacy there, or we can tap into the lusts of our depraved minds. We can rest, or we can toss and turn.
The mind either spirals down into a soft slumber or spins into a whirling dervish of thoughts we cannot seem to turn off. Minds that spew accusations of previous affairs or carelessly uttered words; Hurt and things we could have done instead.
My mind goes down a staircase when I lie my head on cushioned pillow, one of the unfolding of events from my day, my life, my hidden self. Who I truly am is exposed to me and the undulating cover of night. Visions, pictures, voices, all heard with sharper clarity, in the curve of the mattress and shield of quilt.
Many a day spent toiling or attempting to figure out my next move was calculated effortlessly under a ceiling sheathed by stars and crescent moon hovering just outside my window. It is where peace can fall on our hearts like veils of satin on closed lids or where the poisoned daggers of wrongs done and secrets withheld can pierce painfully.
It is my opinion that dreams can be quite meaningful and telling of what we are experiencing internally as well as externally. They can refresh, excite, inspire or petrify. In the dark, with the dim glow of streetlights illuminating shadows on the walls, our imaginations are at their finest. But also, the silence that surrounds us is a potential birthing place of magical imagery. Clarity stems from the river of REM.
I am not a slothful person by trait, I do not spend longer hours than necessary under bed sheets lazing about, but when I am there, in the solace of my bed, next to my quietly snoozing soul mate, I fully soak in the sweetness of all that dances around me. Especially the prayers sent up into galaxies beyond our own, being inevitably listened to by angels' ears and a thoughtful god.
The bed is a place of poetry, written in the forgetful pages of my subconscious but engraved on the essence of who I am and what I do. It's where meditation can be most astutely applied in the recesses of my mind.
Garden Bed: A place where one plants their seeds, waters, weeds, prunes, gathers the growth and feasts. Digging hands like shovels into dark, fertile soil. Therapy in the green vitality of life.
Marriage Bed: A sacred place of intimacy, rest, and tranquility. Where one lays solitary repose, or entangles limbs and hearts with somebody.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Monday, June 9, 2014
Hiding Place
I just finished reading The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom once again, and it never ceases to jar me from whatever downcast state I found myself in circumstantially to thankfulness. I especially admire Betsi. She is so faithfully constant in persevering through the direst of situations in prayer and joy throughout their journey. In the end of her life on earth, God crowns her with a beautiful mask of pleasantry on her face. If you haven't read it, I admonish you to do so, because it is so very inspiring. It is a story of divine intervention, survival, and eventual forgiveness towards her offenders on Corrie's behalf. It's amazing, gritty, soul-wrenching, and turns my eyes towards the intricate care God takes for us in our fallen world.
Maybe some people wouldn't see it that way.
I have been surrounded lately by people who are jaded and have lost their faith. Some days, it certainly wears on me and causes my mind to question and to doubt His goodness.
And then I remember: Things are not always as they seem. One day we will see clearly, but now we see as in a mirror, clouded perceptions of reality. My questions are then, in some way, thwarted by my faith. I choose to believe in God's ultimate goodness and I trust that He is going to transform every sorrow into beauty in His way, and I am looking forward to that, while being refined by my difficulties here, which are temporary, thankfully.
Faith is weird. It seems backwards to the scientific eye and the mind of "reason". Though I may be looked upon in my childlike faith as ridiculous or imaginative, I would not exchange this gift for anything. I know it in my core to be truth. And it gives me so much delight! I have seen a day filled with angst and swirling with trouble turn to absolute peace in the blink of an eye with prayer. I have seen and felt the atmosphere around me go from chaos to order after I have offered it all to God in surrender and petition. I have seen it and so I know it. I could not be convinced, no matter how tight the argument, to walk away from the faith I have found to be my foundation and hope.
"In this world you will have trouble, but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world." John 16:33
Though we walk a darkened path, He is with us.
Though we lose a child and have no idea why this could have happened, He is with us.
Though we get cancer, or illnesses that keep us in the recesses of shadowy rooms, He is with us.
In our suffering, He is with us.
In our temptations and sins, and fallings away, and strayings, He is with us.
When we are lonely, He is with us.
When we feel abandoned by every earthly friend and family member, He is nearer than our own breath and simply a whispered prayer away from taking away all of the mourning if we will simply allow Him entrance.
I say this because I have experienced His touch in the midst of sorrow, His peace calming the storm raging inside of me. It is magic. It is a miracle. I believe because I see my life, my testimony of what was, to what is.
I was broken, I was dark, I was angry and hateful and selfish. I was all that mattered. Now, God willing, I place my needs last. This may be some strong power of the will, or, as I believe, it may be God's intervention in my life.
I was addicted, I was afraid to be alone with my thoughts, and empty.
Now I am free, I am confident in my God, and peaceful in my mind, and full of His vigor and joy for life. I have been given so many things I thought I'd never had, nor wanted (children, husband, quietude).
God is my hiding place. An ever-accessible refuge for body, mind, soul, heart.
And we know that, through testimony such as Corrie ten Boom's, He doesn't leave us no matter what.
He is not daunted by our doubts and questions. My children are full of curiosity and tough questions that I sometimes cannot answer. I don't shun them or shush them, but I try to wrestle out the answers with them, how much more does God long to answer our hard questions, and give us the faith to see past the things that seem impossible.
Maybe some people wouldn't see it that way.
I have been surrounded lately by people who are jaded and have lost their faith. Some days, it certainly wears on me and causes my mind to question and to doubt His goodness.
And then I remember: Things are not always as they seem. One day we will see clearly, but now we see as in a mirror, clouded perceptions of reality. My questions are then, in some way, thwarted by my faith. I choose to believe in God's ultimate goodness and I trust that He is going to transform every sorrow into beauty in His way, and I am looking forward to that, while being refined by my difficulties here, which are temporary, thankfully.
Faith is weird. It seems backwards to the scientific eye and the mind of "reason". Though I may be looked upon in my childlike faith as ridiculous or imaginative, I would not exchange this gift for anything. I know it in my core to be truth. And it gives me so much delight! I have seen a day filled with angst and swirling with trouble turn to absolute peace in the blink of an eye with prayer. I have seen and felt the atmosphere around me go from chaos to order after I have offered it all to God in surrender and petition. I have seen it and so I know it. I could not be convinced, no matter how tight the argument, to walk away from the faith I have found to be my foundation and hope.
"In this world you will have trouble, but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world." John 16:33
Though we walk a darkened path, He is with us.
Though we lose a child and have no idea why this could have happened, He is with us.
Though we get cancer, or illnesses that keep us in the recesses of shadowy rooms, He is with us.
In our suffering, He is with us.
In our temptations and sins, and fallings away, and strayings, He is with us.
When we are lonely, He is with us.
When we feel abandoned by every earthly friend and family member, He is nearer than our own breath and simply a whispered prayer away from taking away all of the mourning if we will simply allow Him entrance.
I say this because I have experienced His touch in the midst of sorrow, His peace calming the storm raging inside of me. It is magic. It is a miracle. I believe because I see my life, my testimony of what was, to what is.
I was broken, I was dark, I was angry and hateful and selfish. I was all that mattered. Now, God willing, I place my needs last. This may be some strong power of the will, or, as I believe, it may be God's intervention in my life.
I was addicted, I was afraid to be alone with my thoughts, and empty.
Now I am free, I am confident in my God, and peaceful in my mind, and full of His vigor and joy for life. I have been given so many things I thought I'd never had, nor wanted (children, husband, quietude).
God is my hiding place. An ever-accessible refuge for body, mind, soul, heart.
And we know that, through testimony such as Corrie ten Boom's, He doesn't leave us no matter what.
He is not daunted by our doubts and questions. My children are full of curiosity and tough questions that I sometimes cannot answer. I don't shun them or shush them, but I try to wrestle out the answers with them, how much more does God long to answer our hard questions, and give us the faith to see past the things that seem impossible.
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