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.