Sucking on Lemons

I’ve started thinking again. Being sick will do that to you. Being sick for three weeks will especially do that to you. Finally you get sick of the TV, you can’t read because your head hurts too much and writing is something you have to save your energy for research papers and political philosophy essays. After a while, you just sit and look at the ceiling, or maybe get enough gumption off the couch to do the dishes that have stacked in your kitchen sick from being to tired to take care of.

As I did all of these things, I kept wondering back to some of the hard things I have encountered and about being 25 and feeling 40 and about wondering if I would ever get better at being a person and what a shame it would be if I didn’t.

My boyfriend has that amazing ability that I have mentioned before, to say the most profound things in the simplest of ways. Sort of the way Proverbs makes a whole lot of sense, but really hard to implement.

I had been talking to him, lamenting over a broken heart. I cried and told him how much I didn’t understand and asked the inevitable why question. As if no one in the world had never felt what I was feeling and I was the first to ever land on a new beach of pain and injustice. I could hear myself sounding ridiculous, but I am never one to stop and bring logic to the table of emotion, so I just talked and cried and told him he would never understand. I laugh now, but it wasn’t funny in the moment.

I asked him how he could be so okay with people that had hurt him. Now that I think about it, I didn’t really ask him, I sort of threw it at him like an accusation. As if he was somehow the defective one and I was normal for being bitter and angry. He said the same thing he always says, “People are people. They are who they are and I have learned to accept them for what they are. You can’t sweat the small stuff.”

I sort of wanted to throw something at him from 3,000 miles away. I am glad sometimes he can’t see the look on my face at times. I am a little afraid he would see a side of me that I don’t even like. I am sure at that moment I had the classic ‘I just sucked on a lemon’ face. My selfish nature could not easily comprehend the simple truth to what he was saying, or see the wisdom in it. Instead, I just stopped crying and changed the subject. Funny how easily the tears can turn off and on at times, especially when you are suddenly realize there is an answer to the question you didn’t want an answer for.

Later, I was washing dishes, thinking over what he had said and what I had said and what I wanted to be different. I kept thinking how unfair it was that I would always try to seek reconciliation, or how I would apologize to people and they never would back. I was feeling fairly self-righteous in my own desire to become a better person, and thus seek out others to make right the times I had failed. Irony and self-defeat dully noted. It’s no good to ask for forgiveness for the purpose of trying to garner a return sentiment.

I circled the airport of self-pity and had just about pulled up to the gate when I was stopped in my tracks. As He usually does, Jesus moved into the small space I had created (even in and around my narcissism of the moment) and asked me if it would be good enough if He asked for forgiveness on the behalf of those that had done me wrong. He repeated what He said on the cross and simply asked for forgiveness on their behalf. They were unaware of the damage they had done and I wasn’t going to be any happier if they came and told me they were sorry and knew what they had done. It wouldn’t make the pain go away, and it wouldn’t make me want to forgive them anymore, but He knew that and asked for them.

Everything fell into place. Humbled to the enth degree, I realized His cross had been for me, for my ex husband, for my ex best friends, for the people that would do me wrong in the future, for the wrong I would do in the future.

No matter how many times I can come to a realization of the wrong I have done and ask for forgiveness, it will never be complete. There will always be more, something I missed, but the amazing thing? Where I can’t complete, where I fail, where I come up short, His purpose is to step in and complete. He can heal what I didn’t know I wounded out of the selfishness that is me.

The same can go for others as well. Incredibly humbling, but I think just as necessarily, He steps up and takes the place of those that have failed to reconcile what needs to be reconciled and asks on their behalf. He can, more heartfelt than anyone in the universe, begin to undo the damage of imperfection. He is aware of the failings I commit and others have committed against me and He is so grieved over both. He brings freedom through bridging the gap, not only between the Father and me, but Him and me and then others and me as well. His heart says “Love freely, love wholly, love completely and when they fail, when it is crushed, when you fail, come back to me and I will make it right. I will heal and send you out to love again and be hurt again and come back again.”

It’s his reminder that people are people. They are who they are and accepting them is accepting Him. Forgiving them, is acknowledging His sacrifice. There is no ignoring, or excusing just accepting.

My relationships with others may never be perfect, but the most important one I have is with Him. It’s the deepest, the most meaningful, the one that changes me, that saves me, that loves me when I look like I sucked on a lemon. It’s foolish to try to love someone to get them to love you back, it only leads to believing you aren’t worth loving when they fail. But if I can learn to love from His love, to love from a place of freedom, to love because loving is what I am meant to do, and when I don’t, it just hurts more, then maybe it will become less about me, and more about Him and them and everyone else. Then maybe I won’t have to worry about lies swirling about who I am and what I mean to people. Maybe I will start being secure in His love for me and stop worrying about how other people love me or if they even do. At least that’s the hope.

That and I will stop sucking on lemons.

Home is Where the Heart is

I was doing laundry the other night, walking back and forth from the basement in pajamas, no makeup, hair undone. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrors on the elevator walls and was shocked at the look on my own face. It was pained. Strained.

I thought about it as I walked back into my apartment and as I unlocked the door and stepped in, I felt a twinge in my stomach, like I didn't recognize my surroundings. It all came together as I realized I was beginning to no longer feel at home in my own home.

There is an anxiety that exists in the places I have called home. As if I am always waiting to get to the next step, the next place, so I can be at home there. Everything I have built an image of home on, no longer exists anywhere I can rest my head. Community, peace, comfort, stability, the attributes I seek the most have escaped me.

Amidst this, I have found myself in some of the deepest heartache I have ever faced. For weeks I have been swimming in it, refusing to let it pull me down. Today, I could no longer fight. A knife sliced through my heart, breaking it anew. Drowning all day, never have I faced a moment of questing who and what I am so deeply. A divorce could not even shatter me the way I have been broken down in these last few months. I never thought it was possible, but it was.

So as I do when I don't know what to do, I went to the gym. Pain the body to match the soul. On the way back, I turned on worship music. I have been avoiding it lately. It has seemed to be source of failure. All of the work He seemed to have done on my heart in the recent years, and it seems I am no different. What did I do wrong? It's too much to bear burdens and be perfect, so another failure is cast onto the growing mountain.

But still, why not?

So I turned it on, and the first song that came on was titled "Where I belong." It took the full six minutes of the song for it to sink in. I had forgotten everything He had taught me.

It's not about running after Him, it's about turning around. It's not about trying to please Him, it's about assuming He is already happy. At the darkest moment, when I wonder why those I have reached out to have shunned and rejected me, it's about believing that doesn't reflect Him. I have judged God by men and convinced myself if I am unworthy to others, I am unworthy to Him, and my deepest pain has come from that break. I did leave home, I left Him. I trusted Him in the good and He taught me then, but now I have to trust His love is there when loneliness threatens to pull me under. I have to believe that love I encountered is just as real now as when I was on top of the world.

Sometimes the messages are so powerful. They come from a best friend, a husband, a brother... those that you think you are safe with for a moment. The ultimate rejection feels like the ultimate truth and for some reason those messages are so much easier, so much more powerful, so much more frequent than those of the consistent, true, invaluable love of a Savior.

Ironically, the most powerful part of the worship song is when it repeats a phrase from Song of Solomon: "I am my Beloveds and He is mine, so come into Your garden and take delight in me."

Who is saying it to whom? Can I invite Him in to delight in a garden that so many have passed by? Would He delight in me? Will he see beauty when others have seen the overgrowth, the weeds and deemed it ugly and walked away for more fragrant, well-maintained and manicured gardens?

I can only pray that this is part of His path and journey. That this is a time of pain meant for growth. I pray this has a purpose. That I find myself in Him and nothing else, that I learn that I can never earn the love I seek so whole-heartedly. Maybe this is part of the path of letting go of control and value based on action and creating my own outcomes.

Oh sweet Jesus, delight in me. Let me be something You love and cherish just for what I am in this moment, wounded, confused, hurting, jealous, angry, bitter, failing... please find value in me. Find something good, find something worthy in me... and let me see it too. Don't pass my garden on Your way to someone else's. I pray something catches Your eye and You find my hidden treasure I have yet too see. Only You can heal these wounds. I am lost without You. Bring me home....

Value of What?

It's finally about to snow here. The first snow of the year, and maybe the last. The warm nights and days have held on later than usual. Maybe a kind nod to my Californian spoiled roots, or maybe just luck.

The nights come so fast. Before I know it, it's dark. I always laugh a little, turning on my lights at 3:30 in the afternoon. East facing windows, right?

Just like the weather has been avoiding turning cold, I have been avoiding dealing with certain realities that just won't go away. Have you ever been soul tired? The kind of tired that isn't physical, and isn't mental, but its a sort of tired that expresses itself in the form of too much TV and not enough laughter? Its a tired that comes from running around your own mind. A thought pops up you don't want to deal with, so you quick step away, distracting yourself with a shiny object. Then you turn a corner and there's another one, so you retreat somewhere else, finding another distraction, then another, then yet another, until you are spending most of your day avoiding yourself and every thought you can think, forgetting in the first place what you wanted to forget. Quiet is no longer quiet, its judgement, your journal is no longer a friend, tear stained with sympathy, but instead mocks you from the bedside table, reminding you of your failings.

But maybe that's just me.

The end of the year is coming fast, and I can't help but be reflective over this last year. It's been a crazy time for sure. I have been to an airport, either to fly, or pick up every month, except October. That's right. EVERY month. I packed a suitcase 6 times, not include the return trips. I have gained a few friends, and lost some even closer ones. I have lost 20 pounds, struggling with the fat sister image I always had. I have continued to fall more deeply in love and ultimately realized that imperfection in relationship is just a normal as imperfection in self. Dreams have been fulfilled I didn't even know I had. I have smiled and cried more in this year than ever before in my life.

I spent so much time sitting with Jesus, letting Him explain me, to me, then Him to me, then me again, and back around. At the end of it, I sit here, no farther along, no wiser, no more whole than I was before, in fact, at this moment it feels worse than ever.

When God first really took me to a place of reflection, I fell in love. I fell in love with silence, with Him, with coming to grips with who I am and my past, and everything that made me me. I fell in love with peace.

Then the shit hit the fan. It's really easy to love peace when you are surrounded by it, but the minute I left it, and the real world hit, it was just as I thought it would be, cruel, unkind, unforgiving and unrelenting. The hard part is fighting the battle between truth and lies. See, if anything, this has been a year of contradictions.

It started with such promise. I was being given everything I ever wanted on a silver platter and for once, it seemed that silver platter wasn't fake. There were no strings attached and I it wasn't on loan. I reveled in the message from God, being loved for the sake of love. Having Him shower me with love and the attention I had always craved. Value. I had value for once. What I was, for once, was enough. Nothing more, nothing less, there was value in what I was just for what I was. It was a breath of fresh air. The kind of truth you aren't sure you want to believe, because if it isn't true, it's going to crush you. Absolutely crush you.

Enter stage left: everyone else.

With perfect timing, it seems everything fell apart. One of my best friends and had a falling out, shattering a friendship I thought was unbreakable. It was like my ex-husband all over again: you are not worth me having to admit I am wrong. You are less valuable than this object over here.

In the middle of that, another friendship I thought would never be shaken, started hurting. The same message was coming through: your value is replaceable. Then I looked up and realized, I didn't have any friends left.

Weeks without calls from family members, combined with their requirements for love repeat the same message, over and over again.

To those of you that think I am being over dramatic, my boyfriend tried to plan a a surprise party for me on my 25th birthday. Three people showed up, two were my sister and brother. I didn't know who to feel worse for, me for not having any friends, or him for realizing it too.

Then the nail in the coffin. My sister, brother and boyfriend went out on the town after a birthday dinner on Friday. The more we drank, the more my brother lavished love on my sister. He would hug her and tell her how much he loved her and talk with her. I thought I was being sensitive, but when he actually pushed me out of a hug and started to ignore me... well some things are hard to ignore.

I started to cry. I couldn't help it. My sister knew immediately what was happening, as my boyfriend did, and both tried to do something about it, but there was nothing that could be done. I was crushed. Message received.

I don't blame my brother at all. There is such an age difference, and he never lived with me. He has so much more history with my sister, but over the last few years, I have tried so hard to change that. I admire him and look up to him so much, I have always wanted for him to get to know me as a person. I always felt he saw me as the spoiled one and I know how much he respects my sister for the hard things she has gone through, and I secretly, I guess thats why I have always tried to prove myself to him.

I think in reality, I have been trying to prove myself to everyone, in one way or another. Trying to make everyone see that I have value, place, that I may not be the most beautiful, or the most witty, or the smartest, or the wisest, but I do have something to contribute. If I just had the chance to prove it...

The ultimate question, the ultimate truth between the lies comes in the form of one question: is it them, or is it me?

Pure mathematics and statistics would seem to say the problem lies with me. But I just can't figure out what that is. I keep asking myself, what could I have done to push all of these people away? What is so wrong with me?

I think I have always known that love is fragile. I used to tell my friends all the time how important they were to me, how much I loved them, somehow having that sense of foreboding, knowing it wouldn't last forever. It seems to fall apart so easy. One wrong move, and the whole house disappears. What was my misstep? What about me, is so less special, has so little value, that people can walk away without a second thought? What can I do different to make people want to stick around?

Sometimes it feels like the bone tired feeling may be born of trying to please everyone, in an attempt to please myself. My mother says you can't fear rejection, that its inevitable, and I agree with her, but when it hits so close to home and you find yourself at home on a Friday night, experience seems to dictate the script running through my mind. I have battled the enemy of action not dictating love, but it seems to only have gotten bigger, and smarter. Or, I was just wrong from the start.

Answers refuse to come as sit here hoping for a reality that is bigger than this pain, but nothing comes. Instead, I sit, wishing I could drink, but knowing it would not mix well with my antibiotics.

Lord, I know these things aren't Your fault, and I know You can't control me, or others. And I don't want You to. But I ask for Your patience, Your peace, Your wisdom.... mostly, just Your love to surround me now. I need You so much, and I am sorry I avoid You at times. Please forgive me and show me what I need to see. Show me Your truth.

Multiple Choice

Tonight I had a very interesting position on life posed to me.

See, what I haven't talked about much, which could also explain the reason for my long extended absence, would be my failing grades. I have always been good at tests, but for some reason this semester, I can't muster a sound thought process and it seems I am failing my tests. Failing at multiple choice, within those tests, that is.

For the life of me, I can't respond to multiple choice in a well produced, thought out, adult sort of way. When I see a multiple choice question, the inside of me, the deepest part begins to freak out. Four choices? Really? That's all I have? Oh shit. Are you serious? And there is a RIGHT one? Not even a sort of right one, but a RIGHT one? Oh crap. I'm screwed. It's A right? No way, it has to be B. I mean the ones before that were B and D and C... they wouldn't screw with me that much... right? But A could be right and D could be right.... damn. Why can't I just explain my answer?

See, I used to think I was a pressure player. The one you would call in at the least minute to rescue the game. I was wrong. I am not a pressure player. I way to calculated for that. Damn, not so much. Apparently I am the sideliner that comes in when everyone else is injured or sick.

So tonight, amidst a game of Wii bowling, I had a very interesting conversation. See as I was bitching about my inability to estimate multiple choice, someone very pointedly, to my face, said "Life is multiple choice. And since you have been getting 70%'s... good luck."

I tried to argue. I said, "No way!!!!! Life is an essay, responding to what we have learned." He argued back "No, life is about choices, A, B, C, or D. What will I do RIGHT now."

I had a hard to reacting to that. What do you say? It's the truth. Everyday we are met with decisions that define us based on the moment. Whether it is what I want to admit or not, that is exactly the truth. It's the moment, not the explanation that counts.

But I wasn't settled with that. How can you say that we are just a subject of so few a percent points? So 1 out of 4 are our odds; 25%. Those are my odds that I might make the right choice? Seems a little deterministic. A little too reactionary. Maybe in class, but in life? No way!!! I have worked too hard, found too many paths of righteous and unrighteousness and surpassed the heartache of inability to say that all of it comes down to simple odds!!!! Somewhere in there, I know I listened to a voice, to a spirit that was bigger than mine. Still....

I want so much to be a creator. To sit in the seat of one that deems what is possible or not possible, but I don't. So often I try to create a circumstance of perfection. Like reliving a time that was what I wanted. A place that I liked, a reality that fit me... The creator of the known I always want to sit at the helm of a ship on a sea of memories... or at least romantic realism. But as I wake to reality, I realize, instead, I sit in the seat of those that deem enough. Ironically, at this point and time of my life, I am the one that others have the permission to choose an A, or B or C or.... whatever to define ME as. It's not a garden of Eden that I think of when I close my mind in perfection, it is the imperfect adaptation of someone elses multiple choice.

The truth is, somewhere in between multiple choice and essay is where I exist. Where WE exist. Somewhere between chance and essays is are the lessons is life. Somewhere in between what you want and what you deserve (even as a grade) is what is truth.

I can't explain away every circumstance, but I know He is more than chance. He is more than just throwing caution to the wind on a 25% chance of getting it right. I have partnered with Him to determine my life this far, and I know it can't be just chance, or even my version of an essay right. Some of it, if not only a little, is about me learning from what has been, to know Him better and if not just my choices make it a little more clear and real.

See, someday, if we allow, we become more than circumstance, but still less, than chance. Multiple choice be damned.....

The Bermuda Triangle

I have come into realization of another great paradox that occupies more time in my conscious and subconscious than I would like to admit.

As I continue to struggle with the great concept of what it means to be the fullest expression of me and thus Christ in me, that I can be, a picture of a very different version of myself than is exemplified on a day to day basis exists.

It's like looking in a mirror. Do I really look the way I think I look, or do others see something completely different? Am I the image in the mirror, or the image in my head? And to that extent, which is more real?

The great Bermuda Triangle of thought has been circling my head for a few weeks now. At times, I have found myself almost standing outside my own body watching as I partake in conversations, activities and events that seem to be a product of something other than the truth of who and what I thought I had begun to be introduced to by my Great Creator.

Knowing it was happening, feeling the feelings associated with the activity, feeling the criticism residing with each action or inaction, I have been in the continued fight of trying to understand the root, the birth place of the incongruence that creates a breach between me, and... well, me.

When I was back in California over the summer, like the settling of a wet blanket, I could feel the old me falling back into practice as though it had never been shed. With deep frustration and sense of powerlessness, I felt overwhelmed by the subjective power of what I was coming into contact with and unable to fight through it to regain the lost ground of my own personhood.

Knowing this was the case, when I came home to DC, the best I could do was exist enough to remind myself I was back in a place of safety and seclusion. Like a child hiding in the dark, the me I had been working so hard with God to rediscover, or even meet for the first time, I began to coax myself out of hiding. And slowly but surely, moment after moment, little bits began to come back out. The problem is, as always, this rediscovery process is never perfect, easy, or smooth. The real me tends to be skittish and easily thrown back into remission. The question has been, what makes me run and hide? What is my nemesis?

As God is always, in His graciousness, He began to open me up to a new revelation. Slowly, not to scare me, but to ease me into realization, He showed me something I had never seen before. Not surprisingly, it came through interaction with my significant other.

All of the sudden there was nothing he could do that was right. There was nothing he could do that was good enough. Every action had a justification of why it wasn't what it should be, in my mind that it. I created a picture in my mind of what it SHOULD look like rather than what it did look like, and nothing was acceptable besides my version of "right." The hardest part? Everything I thought was "right" was right... in a sense. All the things I thought that needed to be, were good, and fair things to want and need. They weren't crazy, or unrealistic. Nothing is more deceptive than a half truth.

What was the other half, the half that wasn't truth? Well, they may have been good things to want, I wasn't wanting them because they were good, I was wanting them because I was afraid. If things stayed the way they were, those circumstances would require a measure of trust, faith, grace and hope I wasn't sure I could handle. They would require me to put to bed the fears based on the past, and the wounds incurred from others mistakes. It meant that I would have to risk losing love, to secure safety. Sounds much like the battle I have faced learning to trust the Lord. Funny how that happens.

If I gave all those fears, and all of those past wounds up, I would have to give up something else as well. Something I didn't know was there until I heard how powerful the voice was. I would have to give up the little voice that whispered the comparisons of my version of "right" to what the reality of the situation really was. It was the voice that told me I was "right" to hold onto what I feared. It was justifications for well... judgement. It was the voice that held the bar of estimation, the person I claimed to love, had to measure up to. I realized how inconsistent that really was. I can't love him, and judge him at the same time. I can't always hope for him and I, and criticize along the way.

As soon as I realized this, as soon as God was gracious enough to reveal my own double standards, my own personal hell I had created by imprisoning him and myself to a rigorous set of rules he had to live up to, to be worthy of my love, freedom was able to enter. The vision I had of him changed. All of the sudden he wasn't my opposition, he was my partner. He was someone I could believe in and trust, not begrudge my love until his actions were good enough, or what they "should" be. Sort of like the battle I have fought with Jesus, oh since, I don't know, FOREVER. He is never the way I think He should be, but always what I need.

The kicker comes as it always does later on. Not soon after, did the paradigm shift filter down to the level of my own self. If I was that critical of him, how critical was I of myself? More so, to be sure. So afraid of my own ability to destroy, to break, to make critical errors, I have constructed a picture of what I ought to look like, and the ironic thing is, it is the one thing that keeps me from being whatever it is that I am.

There is an old saying: "Better the devil you know, than the one you don't." If I can behaviorally modify the devil in me, that I perceive that is, much better than letting go and running amok with the one I don't. I mean, I can make it work, right? I mean I can MAKE my "right" way work. I know I can. I just messed up a few times along the way is all. I can do it now. Not that I know what the "right" thing or life or me is. I just know it when I get there.

So I impose a set of standards, a set of parameters I should live within. And when I don't act in accordance with them, better to withhold grace from myself and try to do it better next time. Don't talk too much this time. Don't say something stupid again. Stop always interjecting your opinion, no one cares. Lose more weight. Don't eat that. Study more, others do. Be a better girlfriend, love your boyfriend more. Call your friends more often. Stop spending so much money. Tithe more, it's a command. Pray more, you need it.

All good things, right? All things I should strive for, right? But what's that I said before, oh yeah, the most dangerous deception is the one that is half true. When these are based on fear, or measurements for a estimation of good, or lovable, they are just ways for me to criticize myself day after day, moment after moment. No wonder I am so damn scared to come out of hiding, I wouldn't want to be around me either. The devil I know is worse than the one I don't, I am already scared of it.

The other ironic part of this? Jesus has been working the last year of my life to convince me of not only His goodness, but His love and ability to redeem. Everyday He shows me another way He has answered a prayer, been gracious, been abounding in blessing in every stage of my life. He has taken painstaking measures to open my eyes and heart to His real, tangible, life shaping, giving, big, expansive, hopeful, redeeming love. Not just in figment of imagination, but in real, money giving, opportunity giving, 20,000 miles of travel in one year sort of ways. More than ever possible, literally answering prayers I prayed years ago sort of ways. And none of it, not one ounce of it, came predictably, through my construction of the "right" way. I am just blessed. No formulas, no measurements, no reasons why, never earned, never good enough sort of way.

See, I think the image I see in the mirror is wrong. I think it only shows half the real me. There is a side of me He knows intimately that I am still discovering, but I will never really have the chance to meet if I continue to pass judgement. The side that knows no judgement, is the side that lives out of trueness. It lives out of His grace. It's the side that loves recklessly, that sits in peace, that worships with abandon, that isn't critical of every word before and after it leaves my mouth. It isn't judging out of fear and guilt. It's the side that doesn't subject me or others to a double standard of wanting to love, but withholding when it doesn't go the way it "should." It's the side that believes in redemption, lives for His breath, and waits for His words. It's the side that trusts Him and the Him inside of me, and rather than standing outside of me and criticizing others and me, it takes up residence in my heart and mind and lives everyday in fullness.

The image in the mirror I have is a creation I have in my mind, and sadly enough, it will never measure up and will always feel inadequate. But then again, I don't even have the right to judge, so I am not sure why I do.

Better for me to wait to pass judgement until He does. But then again, I guess that means I will be waiting.... well until the judgement day. Why judge now, I can just wait until then. Besides, I am pretty sure I already know how He will judge me then... and who am I to tell Him, He's wrong?

Oh Jesus, sweet, sweet, good Jesus; thank you for your patience with me. It's saintly to be sure, and far outmeasures mine for me, You, or anyone else. Thank you for never existing in my "right" way. It's the scarier path, but the path that leads to more of You. Your words are the keys to my soul, Your revelation the breath that keeps my heart beating. Forgive me for judging things that are not mine to judge. Forgive my critical voice. Please replace it in all of Your graciousness. I need Your voice, Your truth to be my guide. This is a battle I can't wage in me, it must be You. I give myself over to Your strength and truth. I will do my best to live in the truth of Your goodness and the trust in Your answering of my prayers. Lord, heal any wounds my critical side has caused to others. Show me how to live a different way. Change my broken heart. You are the only one who can do this. You are my only hope, and the only hope I need. I love You. Thank You for being God.

Trusting, Hoping, Preserving

I think the hardest thing about relationships is being in one. Form the outside, looking in, who doesn't want to be in one? Someone to kiss on the special holidays, movie lines passed back and forth, and more than anything, someone to hold you when it's raining.

What is forgotten is the reality of being in love. The grit of struggling through the ups and downs... and even knowing what the ups and downs are.

Fear has a strange way of convincing risks aren't risks, they are promises. There is always a fifty-fifty chance, but some times we convince ourself it isn't a possibility of failure, it is a forgone conclusion. The time comes, and all signs point toward a turn around. "Don't go this way. Stupidity lies ahead," they all seem to say. Nothing makes sense, and it doesn't look the way you pictured it, and the other person is standing somewhere ahead asking you to cross the bridge of trust. And all the while, fear has conveniently forgotten to tell you, those sings are in Spanish, someone just told you what they said, but you really don't know.

And as you give fear the control, it takes your hand and gives you a pair of glasses you begin to see the world through... and nothing, nothing is secure anymore. The object of your affection is no longer loving you, they are using you. Their promises are now just excuses. Their struggles prophecies into the future.

Then comes the moment of truth. All of the sudden you see the corner of the tableau of lies the fear has woven, and you stop dead in your tracks.

The fork in the road is clear, but the path is not. Head or heart. What will be the deciding factor? And how to satisfy both? Risk on either side, and the knowledge that it will never be perfect... anywhere... with anyone... ever.

Every bad decision mocks you from the sidelines. Two different wisdoms fight for the stage. One raging, dancing the tango with fear calls you to drop your bags and run the opposite direction. Too hard, too much, too likely to fail. After all, you, being the common denominator, in all of the mistakes till now, are making the decision. Better to use a carbon copy of what worked for someone else. At least it is someone's version of perfection. Maybe it will work for you as well. Better than failing again.

The other wisdom holds the hand of chance of a lifetime... maybe. The oxymoron of a love so deep and safe, so real and strong, so full of promise, yet so hard, so difficult, so requiring of everything you think you don't have to give... most of all trust. Faith. Hope in someone else. Someone that may not deserve your trust, faith, and hope, yet is asking it all the same. Strikingly familiar is the story of a Good Hope, that loved when it was not yet loved in return. Unmovable, this love does not allow you to manipulate it, to fit it to you, no, you have to fit yourself to it. You must mold to the shape it requires, and for once, you can't make it work. All the struggles, all the questions, all the pushes and pulls refuse to adjust its form to your liking, your comfort, your security.

So instead, you sit at the fork, the relationship requiring from you for the first time, rather than you requiring from it. A strange juncture of power sits in your lap. You can't control the outcome, but you can control whether it has a chance. The problem is, what it requires... you don't know how to give.

I Corinthians, though over quoted, makes more sense than you would like to admit. "Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves."

No promises before it of "When it is right," or "If it looks like this..." or even "If they have a good record trustworthiness..." No. Nothing like that. And I guess it makes sense, since no one will ever be loved if we only choose to love those worthy, but still, it comforts your heart none to hear these things as you stare down the fork in the road.

This is what they forget to tell you when you fall in love. One day, it gets hard. And one day, it will ask you for the one thing you don't want to give. And one day you will have to have the faith to keep going, when everything tells you to run. And no, it's not stupidity; actually that is love. That is precisely what it is. Believing the absolute best about the person you love, even when you don't.

See, the best in that person isn't determined by whether or not you believe in it. It just is. And sometimes the hardest part is trusting them when they say they love you. Trusting them that it means more than words, Hallmark cards or flowers on your birthday, but that to them, when their time comes, and they have to risk what is required of them... that they will as well.

I guess you could say that loving them is risking that they will love you back. So as you roll the dice and step out onto the path that requires of you, you stare into the heavens and ask for the heart you don't have. The heart that protects, trusts... hopes.... preserves.

Old Dogs

Adjusting and readjusting is never an easy task.

As I sit at home, in the quiet of my apartment, my cat curled up next to me breathing softly, I take a glance around and feel a juxtaposition I wasn't expecting.

For some reason, this home no longer has the same sense of deep safety and comfort it once did. Not sure why, I gloomily take in my surroundings. Pictures hang on the wall of memories from what seem like a lifetime ago. A person I don't recognize inhabits the frames with friends and family that only know the 2 dimensional version and are still struggling with the nondimensional version that now exists.

Apparently, so am I.

The precipice I walked off of recently has landed me on what feels like a hard surface. Not dead, and not hurting too much, but enough of a bump on my ass from the fall to wonder why I stepped off in the first place.

It had appeared all signs this way, all arrows pointing this direction, and all lights green. So why the sudden halt when I hit what feels like a big fat smack of reality?

I wish I knew.

All I know is this season has not been a fun one. Over and over again it has seemed that it is a strange time of reconciliation and redemption mixed with potent loss and confrontation. And let's me honest, I would rather be passive aggressive than confrontational any day. That takes much less courage.

What I don't get is, why the sharp contrasts, why the all signs go then what feels like slamming into a brick wall at supersonic speeds?

As I sit here and ponder, the only real answer I get is... none. Which usually means the same thing it has always meant. Wait. Rely. Trust. Think on all things lovely about Him.

This sucks.

Not that I don't trust, but it always seems as I have to wait, rely and trust, I move restlessly and whimper the way a dog does when you tell him to sit as you are holding a treat and he can see it. I keep shape shifting and grumbling and throwing myself around freaking out trying to figure out what I should do, wrestling with the pain of the situations and create a good outcome of what seems to be destitution.

After everything I have been through, I still think I am better at creating resolutions than the most creative Person I know.

I guess old dogs have a hard time learning new tricks.

The Responsibility of blessings

There is a little known fact about blessings.... they always come with responsibility.

I have spent a long time asking for blessings. Asking for things I thought I wanted. Be it financial, relational, spiritual, I always wanted blessing. Good things to ask for and not always with a totally selfish heart, they are things God wants to give. They are the things that make life more abundant, deeper, more real. People to love, money to handle, opportunities to take, less than mundane, they are part of the journey of a good God.

What I didn't know was how much they would require of me.

Like a child, I asked Dad for things all of the time, and like the Good Father He is, He waited to deliver. Knowing me better than I know myself, He said no most of the time, that is until now.

Now I am faced with blessings that show me the generosity of His heart. They come like gifts in pretty bows and I am so overjoyed to have them, but like any gift, most things require something in return... like time, or energy, or more money for maintenance. And then along with those requirements, since nothing is ever void with the Lord, those responsibilities seem to wrap themselves right back around into lessons and struggle.

Nothing... is ever... simple.

Just like my walk with God, I want my blessings boxed. I want them the way I want them. The way I envision them when I am praying. Easy, fun, and all about me. But life wouldn't be any fun if that were the case, so no, they end up rather than being about me, about Him and me, and those around me and me.

Opportunities require a choice, and once you get past the choice, you have to handle the outcome. The responsibility of the possibility is the hardest part. Do you give half of yourself and protect what little pride you have left, or do you throw all of yourself into the opportunity and on a wing and a prayer hope it was the right choice.

Money breeds the need to be wise. Knowing that the more there is, the more responsibility you have with it, sometimes I wish I were bill-less, money-less and lived on a barter system. My track record is not good. Really though I have stopped asking for money, now I ask for anything but money.

Relationships need heart. They don't just require choice and wisdom, they require the one thing I fear risking the most... my heart. And the damndest things about relationships, you think you have given your heart once, only to realize it is totally a daily act... and it only gets worse and deeper the more time and the more the relationship grows. Bits of fears I don't share until I have to, bits of my heart I hold onto for safe keeping until I know it is safe... here's the kicker though, you never know you are safe, and fears don't go away, even when you talk about them.

Blessings also have a sneaky way of turning into curses. It's a fine line, but every once in a while it will fall to the side of curse, and the hardest part is turning back around, looking at Jesus in the face and saying "Okay, this so didn't turn out how I thought it was going to. What now?" And if He looks you right back in the face and says, follow through... the responsibility to handle it with grace and dignity is a responsibility based on a backwards blessing.

I guess I now understand why David never asked for blessings. He just asked to be remembered. Fair enough.

Damn impetuous youth.

Lord remember Your servant. I ask not for blessing, but instead You stretch out Your hand in Your will. May I have the grace to see the blessing in Your will and in the responsibility. Give me what I can handle, not what I ask for.

Living the Resurrection

The older I have gotten and the more I have allowed myself to struggle through this thing we call salvation... the more I have found a world of grey rather than the expected distinction of black and white and part of me can't help but wonder if that was the purpose all along.

The other night, out of a deep love of my boyfriend and against my deep hate of the super sci-fi, I succumb to his puppy dog eyes and watched the newest Harry Potter. As we sat watching, there was a scene where one of the characters used his "magic" to clean a room that had been destroyed and dirtied. With a sweep of his wand and a few moments of whirlwind, wordlessly everything was put back in place, lamps were fixed and lit, tears were mended and right was restored. The room was returned to peace and comfort easily as the inhabitants did nothing but watch and wait.

The scene intrigued me. Not out of cheap entertainment for a few laughs and childish moments of wishing we could all clean our rooms the same way, but for a different reason; one I hadn't quiet put together yet.

Then the other day I was thinking about our decisions, our choices and their consequences. I was thinking about the "I wishes" and "If only's" of life and all the regrets that come with trauma's brought on by a world in hurt and suffering. But as I thought about them, I also thought about all that I was thankful for and all that God had brought to my doorstep. The blessings I now know because of all those regrets and all of those memories I sometimes wish I didn't have to fight.

I thought about how all the good in my life I have now would not have been possible without those bad choices, those mistakes, those so called wrong paths. I thought about how the last three years of my life have been much like the scene in the movie as my life has been restored. Without even knowing it, slowly but surely everything has been righted, turned back and in most cases been better than they could have been otherwise. As if I wrecked a Toyota to be given an Acura. At times I wonder at the wisdom of entrusting the blessings to me, but then I realize those blessing reveal more about the character of the Giver rather than my character, or it's deficiencies.

Suddenly I have lifted my head and I see more beauty than I ever have. I see Him newly, I see life newly and I see hope as a source of comfort rather than the thorn it once felt like. All of the times I have been forgotten, used, abused... all of the times I have reached to the wrong hand for support, the times I have been irresponsible with time, love, affection or just naive and stupid for the sake of youth and ignorance... those have all been stepping stones to something better, something more than I ever thought was possible.

And as this was being done, as all of this was being righted and blessed and resurrected, it happened not as I asked for it, but instead as I was struggling, pressing, arguing, doubting and cursing the heavens in frustration, pain and confusion. I knew timing was everything, but to hope, to desire, to want Him and His heart hurt too much after what felt like years of rejection. Those years helping lead me to those supposed mistakes and bad choices. As I was pounding on the doors of heaven and was hearing nothing but a quiet "Not yet. Soon, but not yet," my back was turned to the perfection He was creating.

Then, one day, the door opened. But instead of showing me what He had done, He just sat in the doorway with me. Not speaking often, but just waiting as I stopped thrashing around. As the peace came and the trust followed and I quit asking questions because He was near, I began to see His face and heart. Amazed by what I found there I no longer cared about anything else. And then, when the time was really right, He turned me around... and I saw it. I saw what He had done and the reality came crashing in. His heart has always been good, His hand has always been there, but the journey... the journey is the goal, not the result.

His death and resurrection had a purpose far larger than I had been taught. It had been a release of more than death, it had been the release of hope into a broken world. It was the restoring effect that swept the room clean, turning everything back to right.

Living in the resurrection has more consequences than the defeat of sin... that's just mercy. The grace... the grace has much, much more in store. The grace is the key to heavens gate. Mercy would keep us in purgatory, somewhere in between heaven and hell balancing sin against good deeds. Mercy takes us from the depths to the terrestrial. It says "careful with those bad decisions, they have consequences." The grace that comes with the resurrection, that is what opens the gates of heaven and crosses the great divide to exist on earth before we ultimately go home. Grace is what speaks the language of abundance. Its the gift of righting what has been destroyed without lifting a finger. The grace is His chance to show off how great and good and grand and big and creative He really is. What good is mercy without grace? What good is a magician without an audience and can God be God without someone or some people to perform His goodness on? Where's the fun in that?

So what does this mean for me? Well, it sure does blur the lines between God's will and my mistakes. There is no purpose for redemption without something to redeem. If this is true what mistake, what sin, what death, what wrong decision has any power other than to allow God a chance to be just what He is... God?

Maybe it isn't about watching every step and worrying about every sin, but what if... what if it is about being so focused on knowing His heart and knowing Him, that nothing else matters? What if it was more about banking every decision on the goodness of His heart instead of the goodness hand. What if it was more about trusting Him to direct the journey rather than being worried about missing a step, or making a wrong one, or messing it up with sin or a bad decision? What if those bad decisions, missteps, mistakes or wrong choices are the death that comes before the resurrection? What if those are not closed doors, but open doors that lead to a path of miracles based on a Jesus that is more concerned with teaching through blessing than punishment? Could it be so good, so wonderful as that? After everything I have been through, after the rescue I have seen, after the blessings I know, after the hope I have encountered when I was on the brink of death of heart... I say yes. I KNOW it's a yes.

Freedom has come. Slowly but surely. Not in the known, but in the unknown. Freedom has come in the journey and adventure of not knowing what He has up His sleeve, but knowing it is going to be one hell of a journey watching and waiting. The freedom is in knowing He is more creative than I am. Freedom is knowing He is smarter and always more right than I am. Freedom is knowing I can trust His heart for me and it isn't dependent on my actions. Freedom is knowing His will is more powerful than my screw-ups. Freedom is knowing I can surrender to Him and it and be swept over by the power of it. It's living without fear because no matter what, He is in control. It's believing Him when He says "I love you more than I hate sin and I won't ever, ever let anything separate me from you. I am on your side, always and forever." It's knowing we aren't adversaries, but we are teammates, partners.

When I don't know what to do, I do everything, then wait and see what He does. When I don't hear, I do nothing. I wait for the tugs on my heart and trust the mind He gave me and the Spirit inside me to hear Him.

Living the resurrection is not trying to be righteous and worrying about whether or not I am doing things "right." Living the resurrection is laughing when He does something so outrageous you know it was meant just to put a smile on your face. It's living today and letting tomorrow be resurrected tomorrow. It's waiting with patience and hope while He mischievously redeems that which has not been redeemed yet. It's waiting with expectation to see what miracle He wants to preform next. Living in the resurrection is that beautiful moment of looking at something that seems so dead and impossible, then turning around, looking Him in the face and saying "I can't wait to see how You bring this back to life. I have no idea how you are going to do it, and it might not be today, or in a year and I still may have to grieve until I see the results, but I am still freaking stoked to see what You do with it. Have fun."

Lord, You are so good, and even as I write these things, still I see places in my life that are yet to be fully redeemed, fully set right, but now... now I can't wait to see what You are going to do. I see the places that seem impossible to make beautiful, the fears not yet broken, the wounds not yet healed, but now, now I trust You so much with them. Your blessings have taught me your outrageous and wonderful heart. Your love is more than I have ever deserved, but all that I have ever wanted and needed. As I search for that, I know, I know You are going to continue this journey with me, redeeming me and my life all the way. You are the most amazing thing I could never imagine. Thank You for being my God.

What Happens...

What happens when you realize home is no longer home?

I have always had this innate inertia pushing me along. As if there was a rope tied around my waist, dragging me along just a step faster than I can move. Tripping and stumbling, I have allowed it to pull me, at times relying on the rope itself for balance and strength, other times wondering who or what was responsible for the tugging and struggling against the forces of my nature. It has been a journey of laughing with the ups and struggling against the downs, knowing all the while I had chosen to be pulled, but fearing what the rope really means.

At times the rope looked like questioning, doubting frustrations and a deep need to understand. Other times it has been hope, promise and adventure. And yet again it has appeared as mistakes, rescue and second chances. As I have been guided and challenged by the rope, that has been such a source of frustration and pleasure, I have found myself in places ranging from deep darkness to standing on bridges of unparalleled beauty. In those dark places cursing the nature of the rope and others hesitantly thankful for the strong tug to never settle.

At this moment, that rope, that incessant need to move, to understand, to fight against... anything and everything, feels a sort of noose and lifeline in one. Having lead me to a precipice, deep cavern in front of me, the rope stretches out into the distance, fading into empty space with no understanding of where it ends. I struggle to see the something familiar in the distance, but my feet keep slipping on the lose rocks threatening to send me hurling over before the rope has begun its pull again. Having not yet decided if I fully trust the rope, I lean back slightly, hesitating under the biggest unknown I have yet seen. "Uhh.... okay.... Not sure about this one."

Looking around restlessly as I wait for, what I am not sure of, reality dawns. This is what happens when home no longer looks like home. Like an old pair of shoes, comfortable and worn in, I loved my home, but out of a curiosity I began talking them off and trading them for other, new shoes. A new pair of Ferregamo's for nights out on the town, a new pair of Nike's for the gym. A pair of Ugg's for the snow, and sandals for the beach.

The more I wore different shoes chosen by the constant tug of the rope, the more I found the old ones didn't travel so well. The shoes I had grown up with didn't seem to travel well. And now, coming home again, I tried on those same pair of shoes, wearing them around for a few days only to find now they gave blisters, hurt my knees, and my feet had changed too much to fit them the same way they had before. I had gotten older, but the shoes had not.

When I first began to step out and follow the rope where it would lead, home was always a thought of safety and comfort. A place where I knew the patterns, the people and life was simple and comfortable. Summer nights and fall days held promise of a predictable life, if all else failed and the rope was too demanding, or I just couldn't accomplish what the rope wanted. Never phrased that way in my thought life, family and friends were as a good a reason as any to return to that which doesn't demand courage.

But as I return now and my shoes and old patterns no longer fit, a California sunset is no longer the best sunset in the world, and suburbia just doesn't hold the same luster it once did. So I find myself barefoot, struggling with the small amount of rope I have been given, slipping on rocks, unable to rely on the comfort of home to soothe my uncourageous heart. I search the horizon even harder for a glimpse of something familiar, something to trust in, something to reach for.

Instead, systematically, the Maker of the rope, has taken away every comfort I have known, every dream I thought I had, and every goal I was reaching for that left me with a sense of security and purpose. Every future I could imagine no longer exists and instead all I have is a list of "don't wants" with no comparative list of "wants."

The same rope that has lead me across continents and oceans, that has found ten's of thousands of dollars in education, lead me away from love, has lead me to love and now leads me to a new a amazing vision of a God I only dreamed existed. The catch is, now that rope is no longer a rope, but a thread that runs along my core in complete conflict with everything I have known. Unable to be satisfied now, having shed everything... I am an empty page with a story yet to be created, and that... that is the greatest fear of all. I have been given the next ten months... after that... no promises. In fact, really, no home.

Too little, too late?

Lately I have felt something new and fairly unexpected... the knowledge of my own fear. 

Five weeks into a 6 weeks stay in Paris, I am just getting my feet wet. My fears have kept me exploring what could have been an experience of real development, instead I spent it wrapped in the warm comfort of the known... whether I liked it or not. And to my own detriment, too little, too late I have discovered it. 

There is a whole world out there I have feared. Feared for what reason I am not sure of yet, but I have. Failure has never stopped me, I do it often enough. Looking stupid usually does not frighten me, I own my own stupidity usually. The problem is, the fear of the unknown... I guess. 

Somewhere in the in between of hating commitment, but not wanting to escape what I know, I have found myself in too many ruts. Ruts of the seen before. The enemy you know is less frightful than the enemy you don't, right? Or wrong?

Walking the streets of Paris tonight with a new friend and one I should have paid much more attention to a few weeks ago, I regret the mistakes immaturity still produce. The whole world at my finger tips, and I choose what I can understand... still. Years after finding that at the end of a rainbow I painted, was a fake pot of gold and Kansas, I still fear the paranormal for myself. 

How sad that is to say... how many wasted days, weeks, years... opportunities? 

Conquered fears have come, I have to say. Fears of loneliness, loss, hurt... and others I can't page at the moment, but now, now comes the one that I can't fully grasp. Like a slippery bar of soap, as soon as I grab ahold too tight, it escapes me again. I lose the comprehension. 

Everyday my teachers look me straight in the face and say "Tu compris?" Half the time I have to say "Je ne compri pas." (Or however you conjugate it.) Right now I feel like God is staring me in the face asking "Tu compris?" and I have to say "Je ne compri pas... help." 

But as I am grasping what fear can steal, be it weeks in Paris, years to a bad relationship, a heart to the unworthy... I have to ask the question, is it too little, too late? 

What has been wasted is gone. I can't get it back. As much as I would pray, the clock on the wall mocks me with it's indignation, refusing to turn back for a second try. There are no do-overs and I feel every minute that I have wasted on fear like a thick cloth of muslin stealing my fresh air. 

But... but, there is something in me that wonders, just slightly wonders, if the purpose that is preached every Sunday has fingers that reach into reality of the here and now. A fledgling hope rebirths as I think about what has been redeemed and I let my mind wander down the path of possible redemption to come. 

Too good to be true are the blessings having been returned to me in the last few brief years of my life, and the collision of what could be combined with the lessons learned bring a fragile yet real sense of anticipation for the future. Could it be? 

Maybe the clocks can't be turned back, but in a Kingdom of another world, where efficiency comes in the form of double, triple and quadruple lessons, purposes and effects, I wonder if though it took me a fanciful trip to another country to start to understand, where ever I return to may have just as much promise if I can harness the lessons and realizations I have reveled in. Can it be that there is so much purpose, that though I did not make every moment of this trip what it can be, redemption can come in a different form, just as grand and just as promising? 

Only in a place where there is goodness and hope and everything lovely is that possible... but lucky me, I know the Owner of that place. 

All the passage that claim a hope in Him I begin to understand. Redemption from the cross can be redemption in the reality of this moment. Wasted days and moments and opportunities to the false idols of fear and anxiety can be turned to a golden hue of a full and abundant life. the lesson I guess is that my life isn't just dependent on me, but on the path He has for me. 

Now the job is not to condemn myself for the past, but to hope in His future. And yet that is what is in direct conflict to my fear of the unknown... stepping into the black only to hope in a path you can't see. Lessons plus promises equal a need to trust. 

I believe Lord, help my unbelief... and thank you for a redemption that got off the cross and rose from the grave.   

Ten Things I Love About Paris

Paris is a lot of things. Diverse, stuck up, friendly, impatient, slow paced and incredibly crowded. Pretty much like any other large city on the planet. But in between the metro and home, you can find some of what people have praised Paris for, and a few shockers as well.

I love that on a Sunday afternoon in July, it is 80 degrees when the sun is shining and 70 when the clouds cover as they pass over you. I love that there is grass everywhere. I love that you can find a park that has statues older than some cities in California. I love that that same park becomes a weekend getaway to everyone from families to bikini beauties soaking in the rays and hoards of elderly sitting on park benches not saying a word, but watching everything with decided interest. 

I love that the color of the buildings is impossible to duplicate. I love that the trees are big and full grown and everywhere. I love that you see more fathers with their children than mothers, and more couples than singles. I love that the middle aged still hold hands and sit on benches with their head in their lovers lap. I love that married couples still flirt on the metro. I love that every French child is dressed better than I am.

I love that people aren't afraid to sit still here. There is a lack of nervous energy, the need to move. Instead it is a need to be in the moment. I love that the favorite past time of Parisians on a Sunday afternoon is to have a picnic with five or six of their closest friends and a few bottles of wine. 

I love that even though this is one of the most international cities in the world, their is a fight to hold the culture, and it produces the famed Parisian snobbery, but the smiles produced when you genuinely try to speak french and they laugh at you. I love that you can sit at a table for hours and no one rushes you out. 

I love that every woman isn't obsessed with her body, but instead is obsessed with fashion. I love that the men dress better than I do. I love that you will never see a middle aged woman without a beautiful pair of shoes on... never sandals, never casual, just chic. 

I love the sky. For some reason, the clouds feel closer here. They are always perfectly formed and feel as though you could gather them in your hand and place them behind your head to rest and it would be the best sleep of your life. I love that there is always a breeze and it seems to push the clouds faster. 

I love the joggers. Always in what seem to be the most uncomfortable clothing ever, they push on faces sweaty never wondering who is watching. 

I love the old men. They stare and they stare and they stare. And after a while you realize, they stare because they have earned the right to, and you no longer question it. They sit with their beers or coffee and laugh with their friends until a woman walks by... then they immediately stop, point her out, stare and then go back to laughing. It's as though they are appreciating and degrading at the same time... and you just have to love it. 

I love the ice cream. Good lord, it is amazing. No preservatives, no added anything, just cream and ice and a pure flavor. I love that no one eats it in a bowl except for foreigners and you never feel stupid eating it from a cone. And I love that they 17 year serving it to you is always sweating, always frustrated and always speaks better english than I do french. 

I love that everywhere you look is a picture. Be it beautiful or a story, there is still a picture everywhere. The couple holding hands, the gaggle of girls shopping, the old women walking hand in hand. It's always there.

I love that the dogs walk themselves. They are perfectly trained. I have no idea how. It is a conundrum to me. It's as though even the dogs think they are superior so they train themselves... and you know what? I'll give it to 'em.

I love that they rest. There is a time to play, there is a time to rest and there is a time to work. Granted their time to work is always in question, which does not lend itself to being the most productive country, but hey, at least they have patience. 

There are so many more things, so many more little things you see that you love. The ways of life, the interactions, the community they are intertwined in. A life is not complete without community here. It's something to behold. It's a lesson to learn. 

Somewhere in between the French and the American way, making a great blend of efficiency and life, but I haven't found it yet. What I have found is the desire to at least try though. Moet Chandon is famous for it's perfect blending of white wines for it's champagne, but by trial and error they found this. I guess that's what it will be for me. Trial and error. But as the french say... C'est la vie. 

Nights in Paris

Every once in a while a moment comes along that is so shocking it takes you a moment to catch up with it. Tonight was one of those moments for me. 

I have come to realize that part of my unwillingness to settle into Parisian life has not been the cities fault, but my own. Not that this is much of a shock, but still, it always shocks me when I am the fault... needless to say I am shocked often. 

But back to my main point: reasons for my inability to join the city in it's comfort of self. Mostly? I guess because for the first, I don't know, five weeks, I didn't own it. It was foreign and so was I, and that was that. 

But tonight, tonight I tried something different. Instead of being in a group of what is foreign here, I became someone wanting to know the city for themselves... alone. I took the metro, got off at a station I had yet to encounter, and walked. I walked for a while. I didn't listen to music, I didn't take pictures, I just walked and listened. 

And on a Friday night, in any country, some things are always the same. The energy of the youth is almost frenzied, first and second and third dates are easy to spot, the working find their weekend selves relaxing with lazy smiles full of anticipation of a weekend full of good weather and plenty to do besides work. 

The hot week finally broke and a beautiful breeze swept across Paris and you could feel the entire city breathe a collective sigh of content. Finally every thing was c'est pas grave... not that big of a deal. Beautiful weather, jazz on street corners, love in the air... good moods all around and amazing gelato to go with it. 

So I joined the crowd near Il St. Louis and listened to the music while enjoying an ice cream that ended more on my face than in my mouth. I was a walking joke, even to myself. But it was okay, spirits were high and I didn't need to take myself seriously. So many languages surrounded me, what's one more english speaker? Besides, being apart of a crowd and being allowed to not only partake, but watch is one of my favorite things. A participator and an observer... the two positions are not separable. 

I had been wanting to watch a good sunset for a while and knew we were due with all of the moisture in the air and the summer sun setting so slowly. So I staked my claim on a spot on a bridge and sat. 

The sun cast a warm glow, warming to the point of perfect heat against the same cool breeze. I sat there for about 30 minutes soaking it in. For the first time I finally found my peace in Paris. Not a thought stirred, not a worry mounted, just a few moments of unencumbered bliss. Until...

"Bon soir madamoiselle..." 

He looked italien but was for sure french. Not a good sign. I put back on my Paris face and turned away. He would not be dissuaded, so after a few moments of polite and purposefully even worse french... I walked quickly away. Back to for a new spot.

Just as everything is in Paris though, another view and another perfect spot opened up before me like a gift from above... come to think of it, it probably was. I turned a corner and the brilliant sunset I had wanted took my breathe away. Literally. I cried. It was so beautiful. I couldn't believe it. I grabbed my camera and my phone camera. My second gift came in the form of free internet... I got to call the love of my life and sorta share it with him. It wasn't perfect, but it was perfect for me. 

God met me again tonight. Not in the ways that I always think He will, but in His special ways. Like me going out to dinner tonight the only one alone in the restaurant and still have unshakable peace and comfort... and joy. Even when the waiter brought my drink with a sparkler in it. Oh yeah. A sparkler... a big freaking streaking sparkler that said "Hey look at the lonely American." It was hysterical. Even he had to laugh as I sat there waiting for it to go out as half the restaurant stared at me. Later he asked for my phone number. Frenchmen, got to love 'em. If she's alone... go in for the kill. It was hysterical, you could tell he was probably 18 working on his rico suave skills. I felt like a cougar and I wasn't even looking for him. Ugh. I am getting old.

But as the night wrapped up and I went to meet my friends and I was surrounded by a gaggle of 20 year old boys looking for 20 year old girls I could not help but laugh at the sexual rituals that don't change from continent to continent. Of course one approached me and asked if I was meeting friends. Then he asked if I was married. Apparently I look married. Ha! I think more like I looked like his older sister that was married. But after a few moments of banter and assurances that I had plenty of beautiful good looking friends that were his age, he told me my french was pretty good for only being here 5 weeks and that he thought I would pick it up quickly. Now that was the best compliment I have gotten in weeks. 

As I sat on the metro on the way home, I smiled all the way. Not on purpose, but the kind of smile that comes from a deep place of connection with Someone that transcends state lines. Someone that showed me a part of a city I hadn't seen before and kept me company all night. The sort of Someone that I had one of the best dates with I have had in months. The sorta Someone that gives me the reason I breathe... and a great night to boot. 

Paris is no longer foreign. Now it's another place I have found myself in. 

I wonder where I will find me next. 

City of Lights

Sitting on my balcony tonight, watching the sun set and the moon brighten, I watched Paris pass by on the street below me. 

The street lights came on and the haze of the stormy days brightened everything. 

It was magnificent. 

If I had been an artist, I would have painted it, if I had been a poet, I would have lyricized about it, but I am neither, and thus would have inadequately portrayed the images that have been indelibly printed on my mind, hopefully for a lifetime. 

The best I can do, is try to describe it, as foolhardy as that sounds, I have to try.

The place I am staying is in a quieter part of Paris. The more suburban, family friendly, more appropriately higher priced area. Thus, it has a sense of tranquility about it. There is a quiet that descends with the sun, even at a late hour. My balcony extends down and around the entire floor and corner of the building. So meandering around, I watched. 

The weather has been stormy here. Thundering without rain, hazy and brilliant at others. The air has been heavy with moisture turing a 75 degree day into a scorcher and the metros into a hot bed of personal heat and angst. It's also tourists season and the terminals are a cacophony of languages, strollers and fanny packs. It's almost laughable, so much so that a fellow passenger and I shared a sigh and smile at the heat and tourists, and their eventual convergence onto our shared train ride home at rush hour. 

So as the sun began to descend and a cool breeze swept away the remaining rain and humidity of the day, I carried my wine out to enjoy the moment of outdoor bliss. But as I sat down, I was more taken aback by the interchange of light and light. Earthly light mingling with heavenly light as one took the reins from the other for the evening. 

The last remaining wisps of clouds drew themselves long and thin as if to heave a sigh of relief at no longer carrying their burden of rain that had already fallen for the day. The sliver of moon picked up it's brightness, seeming to smile at its turn to shine down, second fiddle to the star of the sun. The sky turned from a lazy blue to a lurid green cohabitating with the newly lit street lights and their golden haze. Slower than you would assume, inky blackness took over, waiting as long as possible to allow citizens to find their way home, or the the cafe situated directly below me. 

Down the street, the architecture blended perfectly with the scene. No higher than 6 stories, black iron balcony's and turn of the 19th century finery flow from one complex to the next, nodding their reluctant approval to the store fronts below. Gilded windows, shining a few family lights out added to the warmth of the aged buildings, bringing to life their character and stately structures. 

Trees lining the streets speak quietly to themselves as the breeze that has brought a coolness to the day kicks up their leaves. Full and green, they bring a lushes green to the now murky blue and purple sky breaking up the scene yet flowing perfectly. 

The chatter of the cafe below comes to life as patrons settle in for their Friday night rituals of three hour meals and the favored cigarette, wine and peanuts that I have come to find everywhere. Laughter mingles pleasantly with clanking silverware and the mopeds constantly zooming from one area to the next. Even the children passing by with their parents feel the calm of the moment with smiles and giggles. 

The cement beneath my feet is still warm from the afternoon sun, having soaked it up for hours evoking memories of childhood, summer late nights and sidewalk games. The smells of the city have been washed away leaving the aromas of coffee, cigarettes and clean are to mingle perfectly parisian. 

And as the evening continues to give way to the City of Lights, I hear myself sigh with it. For a moment all is peaceful, all is calm. Tomorrow with bring another day of sites, sidewalk wrestling and bad french attempts, but for right now, this is my favorite Paris. The one that doesn't know it is being watched. 

The Language of Change

Language is an interesting thing. Someone can speak the same language with the same dialect, the same inflections, and communication can be utterly lost and at other times, different grammar structures, different words, different inflections can be used, but communication can come easier, more freely, and more complete than the latter. 

Being in a country where I am lost, all of the time, I am beginning to see the parallel to my life where I am supposed to not be lost, or at least have an idea of where I am going. I am beginning to realize, I have been speaking a different language my entire life. As though I am from Britain or Australia, where I should be understood, but there are just enough words that have different meanings, different contexts that leave me utterly misunderstood, and worse yet, at times, offending others.  

And all the time, I have thought I was the strange one, the one that couldn't match heart with words. I was the one in the wrong, asking the wrong questions, saying the wrong thing. Misunderstood constantly, it has been a message of taboo, and being an outsider. Just on the fringe. Trying so hard at times to compare wounds, or express my own desires to be met with curious looks, frustrations and even at times harsh words of criticisms leading to a conclusion of my own inadequacy. The heart completely ignored, the wisdom painfully gained, worth little as it is not viewed as worthy given my different dialect. And at times I yelled louder and slower, as if to speak to the deaf and not those that just didn't comprehend. 

Then there were the moments of grace that only heaven could know were so needed. A look of acceptance and understanding, or better yet, appreciation. A word or phrase spoken in recognition of a heart that desired, more than anything else to be recognized for what it was instead of what it had been assigned. In those moments, my walls broke. Falling so easily under the gentle words of someone that seemed, for one moment, to see the heart, and to accept it. 

So I bent. I molded. I broke what could be broken to fit an image that would be acceptable. I took the group mentality and laughed with everyone... at myself. I encouraged though I lacked encouragement, I gave ear, though few gave ear to a language they didn't understand... and who would, or could? And after a while, I believed the looks, the criticisms, the graceless interactions. We are not worth what we can not provide. The lesson crept into everything, guarding my heart from more wounding, that seemed inevitable. A slip of the tongue would occur, a slip of the hand... and even the place on the fringe would be jeopardized and that was a risk I didn't want to take. Especially when acceptance only comes through right actions and words. 

At times I thought my language was understood, so I poured out, only to find I was wrong again. Something had been lost in translation, and again, I was misunderstood, heart connection gone. Walls back up.

Then something changed. I got it. When you have got nothing, you have nothing to lose anyways. Walking a fine line and all the work it entails means nothing when you are receiving nothing in return. Loneliness is not the absence of people, it is the absence of acceptance and if I already know that, what is there to fear?

Marrying the wrong man? I won't come. Divorcing the wrong man? I can't know you. Too melancholy? Get over it. Too hurting from a divorce? I don't want your friendship. Asking too many questions and still struggling? Maybe there is something wrong with you. Can't be what I want... then I don't want you. Messages heard loud and clear. 

The language I have been speaking, somehow, has lead to my demise. Guards upon guards have been needed, constantly watching every word, checking for offense, for acceptance, gauging and re-gauging every moment to make sure I was still at least on the fringe. 

Now comes the challenge. Too tired, too angry and too frustrated with faux friendships and communities lacking the grace needed for growth, the desire to bend and mold has broken. Another layer of skin has been shed, and this one is one of the most painful yet. More isolated than ever in a place where I can barely get by, the lack of understanding here is expected and part of daily life, at home, it is no longer. Finally wrapping my mind around the truth that I am not as lacking as I allowed myself to believe, nor am I as inadequate, or strange, or crazy... or whatever, I no longer want relationships based on that belief. Based on those patterns that I admittedly created. 

Dark is the road ahead. Cautiously I wonder what it will look like to walk down when I am on the same continent with those that have known a different sort of relationship with me. Accessible by phone... though I am not sure that would really matter since much contact with supposedly close friends (and family for that matter) has been little to nil. I will make exceptions for a few precious people that have birthed a new level of friendship and life that has been used by God to reveal these lessons in a gentle and amazing way. Friendships based on new patters, and a common language. 

But still I wonder, how dark will this get? Sitting on the metro with people refusing to meet eye contact, walking the streets of Paris alone, I can't help but think it can't get any worse, but one never knows. This path feels so heretical, so wrong, to shed what you have always known as good, but I can't deny the peace that flows in as I struggle through old beliefs. The comfort is, the language I speak is not from me, but is innate in my being, woven in by my Creator. As I feel Him sit down next to me, placing His hands on my chest, over my heart whispering words that only mean something to be, I hear more clearly than any spoken word I have ever encountered His powerful and perfect Heavenly tongue circling around me. A language I finally understand...

An American Cliche in Paris - Part Quatre

While walking down the Seine today, bag and camera in hand, one of my new found friends inquired into the status of my journal. She had started one for herself and had already recorded the fun, exhausted, trauma oriented and down right ridiculous outings we had stumbled upon. So in light of her wisdom, I thought a catch up for the record might be useful in the coming months as an indicator of has done's and has not done's.

I would like to go chronologically, but my brain doesn't work that way. Unfortunately, when referring to the past tense, I reserve on the ability to relate activities to overall thematic experiences. Hence: 

Days 1-4, Titled: "Bad shoes, bad taste and bad bed's."

I arrived in Paris with a good three hours of waiting in the airport for signs of American life. Not bad since I have done many a layover in my jet-lagged log. After a considerable amount of time, the others began to trickle in and eventually we made our way to the hotel. After lugging my luggage (that I proudly announced I only had one bag, not including the fact that it was 85 lbs) we arrived at our hotel which I promptly found out was a room the size of my kitchen in DC. If only I had known this was an omen. 

After two days of "activities" including touring our area, touring the area of our school, two orientations, the Eiffel Tour and adventures in finding out what "hashe" in french means, my feet hurt, I rudely found out what little french I knew, was dumb struck by the Eiffel Tour at night, was wind-whipped by it during the day and found the one gay area in Paris. It was insane to say the least. 

Finally upon arriving at my home-stay, I found a room twice the size (in living and in ceiling height), with a balcony, keys and family that promised I was "free to come and go" as I pleased. After being invited to her castle in the south of France, and given the option of staying here for the entire month of August since she would be gone, I immediately fell in love and in hope. 

The next day found another down and up on the roller coaster of culture shock... a trip to Versailles. There is no way to wrap this day up more than to say, after four hours of walking around a palace that is known as one of the biggest in the world, our "tour guide" kept asking "why are you American's always hungry?" Our group had mistakenly assumed that lunch would fall somewhere in between 11am and 6pm. Silly us. But not to be deterred, Larry and Mo (our tour guide and his BFF), snapped the whip every time we sat down until we lost a student (from a group of 12) and promptly staged a sit in until we found her. As fate would have it (and a lack of cell phones for fear of roaming charges), we left the Palace with no trace of her and Larry (the tour guide) stating it wasn't that big of a deal. Hmmm... Well at least the grounds were beautiful.

Days 5-8 have been titled "Getting acquainted with Paris"

After three days of more walking and less food that felt slightly akin to the Chinese death march, I decided to butcher enough French to get a pizza to go. Ordering the right kind I immediately offended the waiter in which I waited an extra 15 minutes and paid en extra 10 Euro. I love France. Pizza and bottle of wine in hand, I rang in the next days with a bottle of vino and a lot of cheese. Under eating be damned.

Starting school was another transition from which I was unprepared in the sense of practicality. Why is it that culture shock was not even in my mind from day one? I guess I thought 6 weeks wasn't enough time, but maybe it isn't enough time in one sense, but in another, like having to create a routine and actually DO homework never really entered my romance soaked mind of Paris. This was supposed to be all fun and games right? Not school work and tests. Wrong again. As wrong as the assumption that 45 minutes would be enough time to get to school, and that I would be able to do it without getting lost on the Paris metros. 

Well, as it goes, after numerous attempts at transitioning, the double and triple metro change-overs become another symbol of how making the harder for "difficult" decision is always the right one... right? Walking around Paris in heels at 11:30 at night lost, is not my idea of cultural transition, but hey, at least the next night found me in Leonard Skynard tee-shirt and fake vans at a feux-American bar playing hard-core beer pong. Now THIS I could do. A win and a loss later, my newly formed friendships had found a new local hangout... and a slight hangover on a Wednesday morning. At least school wasn't until 2:00, which I promptly arrived at 2:15 since I once again am a master of the Parisian metro system. 

The following days are what I would like to title "We're Not in Kansas Anymore."

Culture shock and the symptoms hit everyone differently and never with the same out comes. Some cry, some hide, some dow both... me? I turn into a doomsdayer with veracity attacking everything from my wardrobe to my hair to my weight... so basically an incredible sense of insecurity accompanied by an incredible case of "I miss my boyfriend." 

As the shock of arrival wore off and the newfound sense of "This is home for now..." settled in, the reality of no longer being home came with it. Hard to swallow, especially when you are basically by-coastal anyhow. Where is home becomes a weird question to answer. But a 24 hour fever down, tourism quenched and appreciation for cheap middle eastern food acquired, the practicality of the time and place is now settling in. 

Longing for home still settles in that deep down place, but not so overwhelmingly that the exploration of the 4th, 5th and 6th arrodisimonts of Paris did not hold a charm and promise of future luster calm to come. 

Though not detailed, the over all lessons of the latest and greatest in adventures are still to come, with many told... and untold stories to be paired. 

Goodbye's

7,000 Miles away, home makes more sense. 

In the last few years, I have mastered the practice of goodbye. Planes, trains and automobiles have taken me places to try new things. The move of geography by force rather than choice to obtain something not offered in a previous location. Be education, experience, freedom, or language, the choice of goodbye has always been geographical, and unforgiving in it's requirements. This is how I have known my goodbyes. This is how I have known the harder choice, the harder decision for the gamble on a better result. 

I have left lovers...

The first goodbye is always the hardest, and yet, the easiest. Instead of choosing goodbye, goodbye chose me with a good swift kick in the ass. With the subtly of a bull in a China shop, reluctantly, goodbye was more of the only answer rather than a choice. Ahhh, the wisdom of youth, as I have said before. Take away my options, and I still have a hard time choosing. 

But eventually, I smartened up and packed up, making one of the hardest, yet best decisions I have ever made... or not made. The risk of never loving again was much better, and much safer, than staying with the known enemy in the bedroom.

Then I said goodbye to geography...   

Though in the beginning, I did my best to take as much of the geography with me as I could. Trucks full of belongings, animals, people occasionally... anything to make my new home feel like the old. More than just physical baggage was represented. A new life blended with the old... what was it that Jesus said about old wine in new wine skins? Yeah, I found that out the hard way, $2,000 worth of hard way in the form of shipping costs. Oh the cost of learning.

But reluctantly, those ties gave away, and the baggage has gotten progressively better. Three large bags on the way home for Christmas, two for Spring Break and eventually, one for 7 weeks in Paris. The geography no longer holds my heart, and I have allowed myself to fall in love with new places and people and things in spite of my loyalty to a past that has rarely been loyal to me. Slowly acclimating to different ways of life, different goals and different desires, the future begins to have more attraction then the past and the goodbyes bigger, and more extreme - lessons in humility through idiotic exchanges of cultural missteps (and that was just DC) free of charge. 

But what happens, when goodbye becomes not a geographical move, but one of the heart? As the goodbyes have changed, their nuances have as well. From glaring as the lights off the Eiffel Tower, to the most subtle, in new ways of growth. The trouble is, the more subtle and less obvious, the more difficult and... almost more painful. 

These are the goodbyes of the heart. The ones you didn't know existed until they become inevitable. The crossroads not of life choices, but life pursuits. Heart pursuits guide life, not only by the extreme choices of work, school, lovers and geography, but the small everyday maneuvers that determine the direction of a life far more powerful than the forks in the road. Those daily choices are the river shaping the rocks. They come so fast and so easily, and yet before you know it, you wake up and are 49 years old wondering how you got there. 

The river is powerful though. It rushes with great speed, making it far too easy to let it take you away rather not knowing the direction, or caring for that matter. The patterns worn in by the river become difficult to distinguish between desire and fate. 

But as soon as the goodbyes previously made sink in and have their effect, geographies and new loves collide with the old, leaving the inability to mix worlds. All of the sudden the sound of the river is no longer comforting, but instead frightening and all too familiar. Old loyalties, paths, and patterns are unsatisfying, but goodbye doesn't seem right. How do you say goodbye to something that has been all you have ever known?

Whether it be a goal, a dream, a home, a friend... these are things I had once defined myself by. The collidascope I had determined my choices through. Right, wrong, or indifferent, it is what I have known, and now, now... saying goodbye to something that is ethereal, and ambiguous, and sometimes all to real, standing next me, seems counter intuitive. But just because they are what I have always known, doesn't make them good, or right, or acceptable. 

As I change, those things - people, places, or things - that can't change with me either chafe with the river to the point of bleeding, or more goodbyes have to come. The risk is once again, how do you say goodbye to one dream without another to lean on, or one home, when another is yet to be found, or worse yet... a friend, when they are so few and far between? Do I accept the present enemy hoping I won't find a worse one around the corner, or do I meet another challenge with another goodbye?

But as I look back at all of the goodbyes I have met so far, something dawns on me: I have always been met with a hello. It hasn't always been the greeting I have wanted, and it hasn't always been immediately following the goodbye, but there has always been one, and it has always been better than what I left behind. 

I can't determine my future, but I can determine in whom I trust with it. I don't fear loneliness as I once did, and I don't fear the unknown as badly as I have, what I fear is allowing all that once was to determine the rest of my life because I was afraid to say goodbye again. If the all that had known before, doesn't know me now, than maybe it never it did, and maybe that... that is why I have to say goodbye to it. And full circle I come, back to allowing Him to tell me who and what I am rather than a past and present I accepted because it was all I had known.