Things that sound somber...

When Joseph's brothers sold him into slavery, they returned to their father with Joseph's robe, dipped in the blood of an animal. And Joseph's father mourned for his son, presuming him dead. He tore his clothes and declared that he would not rest until he could join his son "in the grave." That's right, he declared, insisted even, that there would be no end to his grief other than his own death. He allotted every remaining day to his pain.

When I read this story, this time, I paid more attention to the father than I remember from times before. He reminded me of my own grandpa: a man I tried to encourage for the past year and a half as we both walked on without my dad in our lives. One time, I went to visit Grandpa in a rehabilitation center and the room was filled with a thick despair and fog: a depression so heavy, like running in the sand on an overcast and drizzly day, but wearing a sumo wrestling suit, or something? I can't say I've been so great at metaphorical thinking through my grief. Nothing seems to pinpoint or tame the emotions I feel, or even the lack of emotions: not even poetry. So, maybe it felt more like when someone you love just... dies. Anyhow, in the rehab facility, we sat on the edge of Grandpa's bed, and I finally realized that I have nothing to say. I'd tried. I had always tried; a part of me believed that Dad would want me to lift Grandpa's spirits. That night, I squeezed Grandpa's hand, he squeezed mine harder, and we cried and looked out the window for a good amount of time while the roommate at our backs filled the room with disturbing sounds and disgusting smells. A few times, we laughed about it.

In April of 2016, my dad sent me a text message asking for my "company" in Walla Walla as he filled boxes of his parents' belongings and prepared to bring them home. I hopped on a train and made the trip to be with them; we loaded up over the course of a few days, ate pancakes, and hit the road with the sweetest old couple I knew holding hands in the backseat. I could feel my dad's joy, and I shared it. This was going to be one of the greatest adventures, I thought. I dreamed of coffee mornings and coffee evenings on the regular. I dreamed of "stopping by." I dreamed of Dad being home more often, and on the road less. There were so many dreams. And when Dad slipped away from these dreams only three months later, I fought so hard to keep the dreams alive for him. I wondered where he had wanted to take Grandpa and Grandma, and how I might still be able to get them there. Even without him.

But this is where the past, the present, and even the future come together to reveal things that I am only starting to understand. Things that may sound somber, but feel like peace starting to unfold and work its way through me. So here it is: while I had my heart set on lifting Grandpa's spirits and pulling him through a revised version of our dreams, that was never the way it would have gone. He had his mind set on carrying his pain to the grave, and he had every right to make that choice. He, like Joseph's father, tore his clothes and allotted every remaining day to his pain. Of course, there were laughs in the waiting, but it was waiting: waiting to see what and who would be on the other side, even if sometimes he seemed to fear the idea of heading to the other side himself.

I know I'm different than Grandpa. Losing Dad feels like yesterday, and I'd love to wrap this thing up and live life at lightning speed sometimes just to find out for myself what it's like to join someone you love in the grave. But, I'm different. When Grandpa was my age, for instance, he was marrying Grandma, traveling to America to start a family, a life, and a legacy. He wasn't even the father of the son he lost. And so, my declarations and intentions in the waiting must be different in some ways. I'll have to find a way to keep looking ahead like Dad said when he was sick and dying. But, I'm also learning to accept that some things, even heavy and hurtful things, are not meant to be lifted from our hearts. In other words, I don't want the pain of losing Dad to ever leave me; I don't ever want to think of what we experienced lightly. I just want stronger arms so that I can carry the memories without feeling so ill-equipped... because I think the path ahead of me is going to be a long one: full of adventures I haven't even imagined yet.

Dreams & Rejoicing

The seventy-two returned with joy and said, "Lord, even the demons submit to us in your name." There they are again: even the stupid demons. Jesus replied, "... I have given you authority... to overcome all the power of the enemy... however, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven." (Luke 10:17-20)

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Before my dad ever seemed sick, I started to dream of the ocean. I dreamt of dizzying and crashing waves from the vantage point of a cliff; I dreamt of a wall of water approaching large glass windows of a 30th floor hotel room; and then I started to dream of tidal waves. Sometimes they were tidal pools that would slowly, eerily morph into something larger and more threatening: but these waves would never land. They merely lifted up, on tippy toes, and filled me with terror, as I struggled to perceive a way out or a way to save the ones I loved. I once dreamt that my brothers and I sent Dad out in the waves, knowing it was time to say goodbye: again, I suppose.

After more than a year of these exhausting scenes, and avoiding the beach for fear of their prophetic value (or at least using sarcasm to endure the fear), I had a realization: what if I could end these dreams?

There's not enough blank space below me, or time, to reasonably convey the required history here, but to make it short, I used to be haunted by nightmares. It was a defining feature of my childhood, and an embarrassing feature of my adulthood. It was wrapped up in my journey of faith, so it came and went with my belief in anything immaterial. Until I heard, yes heard (but that's the long version), that I was not alone in my dreams. That God was with me, that He knew, and that He wanted to change things. From that point on, the dream version of me learned to speak the name of Jesus, to sing worship, and to bring light into the darkness. The dream version of me learned to call on the power of the Holy Spirit and to twist the arm of evil. The dream version of me learned that evil is less like a lion, and more like a mouse and learned that awe and fear are reserved for God alone: His goodness, glory, and mercy.

So, the realization was simple: couldn't a wave be told to go away, in the name of Jesus? And while I realized this in waking, I wrote it down. I committed in words that I would give this thing a shot, and I prayed for God to help me out. Within three days (give or take), the dream came with the wave. Within moments of it rising up to terrorize, dream me called on the name of Jesus and watched the wave fall and crash in the opposite direction, spreading out until the flattened horizon could be seen again. But there, off in the distance, an ugly thing rose up from the water's surface: an ugly, dark, spiritual thing.

Now, the dreams are gone.

I remember how ecstatic I felt, and how I experienced this sense of intimacy with my God: my friend and Father. He helped me out. And as juvenile as these words might sound, I thought He was so cool. He made me feel strong in the presence of a "thing" that stole so much peace in my life. This "thing" had returned from my childhood, cloaked in a wave, and God showed up to call it for what it was and put it back into its place: not my life.

Having just read Luke, though, I'm reminded that my rejoicing need not be in this story of the wave, or the story of dreams that used to be. I am praying right now that God would give me the wisdom and peace to rejoice in dreams that await: dreams of my name written in heaven, or our names written in heaven (which sounds even better). What does that even mean to have our names written there? I ask with a sense of wonder, not confusion. I am fine not knowing, yet.

Her spirit returned

Dear Internet,

Today my grandpa died. Grandpa Chris. Dad's dad. He was special to me: smelled like a pipe; reminded me of classy belt buckles; sounded like Denmark and childhood; smiled like Dad; I could go on and on. This last year and a half has been more painful than anything I have ever known. I've done hard things before, but I've never kicked and screamed as much on the inside while doing the simplest of things. I cannot tell you how many pep talks I've given myself in elevator rides on the way to see Grandpa. Seeing Grandpa was always more than seeing him; it was not seeing Dad.

Tonight, he is gone, and it's starting to settle in. It settled a bit more as I rested my head on Grandma's shoulder and felt her rest hers on mine, in return. She knows. Through all of the dementia and the silly conversations we seem to have lately, she knows this time. And she shakes her head and wonders how she lost "both," and I wonder too. I just don't have the energy to bring my lips together, expel the breath, and say the same words. Or, is it even energy? I'm not sure what it takes to feel anymore.

I am going to miss what it felt like to have a dad, and to have a dad's dad. I'm going to miss the stories, the simplicity, the love. I don't even want to write down what I'm going to miss right now, because right now, I'm not so much in the mood.

I came home and read my Bible, and it felt comforting and confusing. There's a lot to that, and I'm not going to dig deeply as I write. But, at the end of the eighth chapter of Luke, is it any wonder that the scripture to catch my eye was "... Her spirit returned, and at once she stood up." Yes, this is the dead girl: the one they said not to bother with because it was too late. Jesus walked into the room and her spirit returned to her. Where had it gone? And, how? I don't want your answers, reader. With all due respect... I know you mean well. I know you probably have lovely things to say, and I would like to sit and soak up all of the lovely and believe in it, without ceasing. But Jesus, I'm talking to you tonight. Where had her spirit gone? Where are the spirits of the ones I love?

Imagining this girl's spirit returning feels comforting to me, somehow. To see that she is dead, but there is this part of her very much alive, reminds me that what I saw today is not death but separation. I don't know how all of it works. I just put my hope in Jesus that all of it does work. I put my hope in His voice and power; the One who reunites the spirit with the body and restores life. I want that. I want these three people I love, Dad, Grandpa, and even Grandma, to step out of this flat image on my desk with their smiles and radiant skin, with their beating hearts, with their tender voices, and I want to hear them laughing and telling stories again. I want to eat sheet brownies and sip lemonade out of turquoise glass cups.

Jesus, would you peel back some of the mystery and comfort my family this evening, please? And then, would you add some of the mystery back in and keep drawing us nearer to you... desiring more and more to have a closer look at your beauty? Give me more than belief; give me confidence in You. And Lord, please comfort my sweet grandma, who feels as if she has lost so much (and she has), but who has yet to gain so much, as well. Show her hope and a future. Show her You. 

Withdrawing

"But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed." -Luke 5:16

"Often," it says. While He could have continued teaching and healing more and more people in the crowd, He chose to retreat often. God knows, He had all the power, strength, and energy to spend every second in the midst of those who were hurting... but He didn't. He intentionally set these seconds, minutes, hours, and maybe even days aside. 

Is this about rest, as in the seventh day, or is it a detail that teaches us something else?

Perhaps Jesus meant to teach us about the importance of solitude for cultivating intimacy with God. Perhaps He meant to show us that resting from the masses, stepping aside to lonely places where we can pray, is not something to rush through as a mere necessitated recharge, but rather, rest is part of the work: it's important. And, even in the working, there are these words from God, present as a part of so many declarations throughout the scriptures: "I will." I will do this, and I will do that. Whatever Jesus did not do, while He was off praying, is not worth considering. Because He was doing exactly what He should have been doing; I bet He never felt bad about it or wondered when He might be getting back to work. I bet He knew that God would handle it all.

I don't want to say much more on this, except that I am thinking about withdrawing more often to lonely places where I can pray. Maybe then, I'll have more to share: more wisdom regarding Luke 5:16.

God, help me to withdraw this year, especially. Help me to seek you out in lonely places, and give me words to pray. Guide me in pursuing You, and open my heart up to the right now that matters, no matter tomorrow's demands. 

Even the stupid demons...

Anytime Jesus is in the same place as the devil, or God is in the same place as satan (as in Job), I'm a bit confused, and yet excited, about what-the-what is going on. Confused because it's hard to understand how good and evil can collide in one space, the presence of the former encroached upon by the latter; I struggle at times with the weight of the existential thinking it evokes in me... the "problem of evil" conundrums, etc. But reading it as literature, and adding in faith and hope, I begin to see our God in the presence of evil as a thrilling scene; it's the drama behind every exciting plot, and it's the setting for the war we know we have already won. I can feel the adrenaline rush through me, my heart pounding for Jesus.

In one of these moments in scripture, I noticed something that I haven't noticed as clearly before: something helpful.

Luke 4:10 - "The devil said... 'For it is written'," and then he quoted scripture.
Luke 4:33 - "A man possessed by a demon... cried out... I know who you are: the Holy One of God!"
Luke 4:41 - "...demons came out of many people, shouting, 'You are the Son of God!'"

I have always remembered that "even the demons believe," but to me, this always meant that believing is not the same as worshipping. I took the statement so personally; I only allowed it to convict me and encourage me to move beyond belief. I suppose I never took the time to stop and imagine what it could mean for me as someone who needs to discern, as Jesus did in the wilderness... between voices that appear to be preaching the scriptures, speaking the truth, and even proclaiming His true name, as opposed to voices that are actually powerfully good. Because sometimes, these voices can seem to be saying the same things, and it takes wisdom to know the difference: wisdom that only comes from knowing Jesus. His heart. His motives. His vision. His voice.

Jesus in the wilderness proves that even quoting scripture can be a form of evil. For when the devil encourages Jesus to throw Himself down and call upon the angels, as the scriptures say He is able, He refuses; inches down the page, he provides His own "it is written," clarifying that His purpose is not to show off, or reveal the full power He yields as God, but to "proclaim good news to the poor... freedom for the prisoners... sight for the blind... to set the oppressed free." He knows which words apply, and in what moment, and in what way, when it comes to establishing truth and fulfilling the perfect plans of God. We should learn, therefore, that merely saying "it is written" or "the Bible says," doesn't guarantee that we stand on the side of Him. Even the demons believe; they whisper scriptures in our ears and speak true sentiments in false ways, as they oppose the work of the Spirit. I know this because I've heard their whispers, and right now, I'm ready to say no. What I heard then was wrong. I refuse every single bit of it, and I rest completely in the peace of God that was given as a gift long before I ever heard these weak and pathetic lies about the smallness of God in matters of saving His children. 

God, free me from deception, and I pray the same for any of my friends who need the same freedom tonight. Once again, you are so much stronger, and so much lovelier... and when I fail to see, you never fail to take my eyes and open them wider... to take my ears and open them farther. I hear you, and I am grateful to be yours. 

"Come out of the ark"

In a world fallen with violence, which doesn't seem too much different than today, God commanded His righteous child Noah to build an ark and preserve creation during a violent flood that would steal the breath of all living things on earth. The scriptures say that once the ark was assembled and the rains started to pour, "God shut him in" (Genesis 7:16). I'm not sure if this meant that Noah was trapped, or not, but I'd never seen God's hand there before, closing the door and protecting His chosen child from what was about to take place.

As I pondered Noah's story, I thought... perhaps it's not too much different than our own, for a storm is coming someday: not of water, but of fire. A storm that was written about in Luke 3, and one that John called "the good news," though I've always had a hard time seeing fire as good. Then again, God's fire doesn't always burn, like in the case of the burning bush. By His fire, He will refine all of creation and restore all things; who knows what will remain untouched. Certainly, we cannot know. We, like Noah, merely step into the ark that is Jesus; we reside in Him through the storm. Unlike Noah, we are are not the only ones with the invite, or perhaps it's best to say, we are all invited: we are all seen by God as worthy of stepping aboard, though none of us is truly worthy: our hearts corrupt with violence since childhood, He says. Nonetheless, God shuts us in as the storm carries on outside, and evil perishes from the ground of the earth.

But the fire recedes, just as the water did, and what will it be like to hear God say, or what was it like for Noah when he heard, "Come out of the ark"?

With his family, and with the pairs of every creature, he filed out and felt the familiar sensation of dust on his toes, and breathed the familiar air. No more violence. No more corruption. Nothing left to fear in this new covenant with God, marked by a vibrant rainbow in the sky. Post-flood earth must have felt like the new Eden to Noah and his family; it must have felt like heaven, for he had been kept alive and given back the earth as the gift it was always made to be from the God who loves us.

Whatever it looked like for Noah, I think that's as close as I can get to imagining heaven. Perhaps even more so than the Garden of Eden, because Adam and Eve never knew what they were living in, but there's something about having been through a fall... something that makes the gift seem so much sweeter. Perhaps because creation drips with mercy now; it spills over with the promise of being restored; it screams of a future without violence... a future that is on the way. I love imagining the sound of God's voice saying, "Come out of the ark." I can see myself standing there, standing here... I'm standing next to Dad, and all of the animals of the earth and every other covenant being is standing with us. I love that I cannot know any of this for sure, but that it feels sweet and mysterious to imagine, and I love that my imaginings are probably barely a sliver of the good things He has in store.

Thank you, Jesus, for opening yourself up in the midst of the storm and shutting us in. You are my refuge and my hiding place; you are the beauty in my life. 

Amateurish Moves

"...Her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger." (Luke 2:7)

I have to start with Christmas Eve, of course. We were gathering that morning when I received a text from a friend with pictures of her newborn, wrapped in cloths and showing off his mommy-daddy features. I've never been much of a queasy baby-freak, but the closer I feel to a friend, the more my heart seems to leap these days at the thought of their hearts multiplying to form new life. All throughout the morning gathering, as Eric and I led the church in singing Christmas worship songs, my eyes could not help but wander to visions of this newborn: imagining that our baby Jesus was as real, and as born, as the little guy on my iPhone. Trying to grasp that our baby Jesus was as real, and as born. 

When I was driving by my mommy-friend's home a handful of days later, I had the sudden thought that I should stop by! It felt so cozy to slip into her front door, to hide out there with our soft voices and the glow of Christmas tree lights and decorations lingering. I lifted her five-day-old child from his rest with a fumbl-y, but confident, wiggle of both my hands and forearms until he was rested against me, warm and secure, and then we laughed about my amateurish moves :)

I wonder about Mary. How did her amateurish hands move when she lifted her newborn son for the first time to not only place him in a manger, but wrap him in cloths? Did she fumble? Did she laugh? Did she tremble as she wondered if what she had to offer was enough? Two more times in Luke 3, the scriptures say that she "pondered them in her heart" or "these things in her heart," and I want to know what was in there: in her heart, that is. I want to know of this treasure she stored up and just more about the woman who moved so quickly from fear to faith in the presence of angels and had the courage to mother Christ.

The previous chapter referred to the "tender mercy of our God," and these reflections give imagery to that mercy, don't they? For the God we rejected in the garden, the God with power to create, and bless, and curse, and redeem us, used His own mighty hands to write a story where the amateurish hands of a woman would hold him in his most vulnerable state: would wrap him, or confine and comfort him. What kind of madness is that? What kind of privilege and love and trust is that? Before we were worthy, He entrusted even Himself to our care.

Thinking back to yesterday, I have to close with this final thought: the creator of humankind allowed humankind to "create" Him. Again, what madness and love...?

God, I thank you that while Genesis 1 and 2 seemed to end so abruptly in the fall of 3, you always planned for Jesus. You always intended to be so near to us, connected to us so closely as in a mother's womb and arms. Even now, your presence resides, quite literally, in our hearts, and how I long to feel the warmth of you there, more and more, like a mother longs to feel her child move... to wonder and to marvel at the miracle of it all. Be near to me, God. Open my eyes to see more of your mercy, and to know more of your story. 

And it was so.

I've always said that it's amazing to think God created something from nothing, when we as creators only have the ability to create something from what already is. This afternoon, however, when I was reflecting on the first two chapters of Genesis... I could see that God, instead, created from within Himself. He was there to create from, which is everything more than nothing. And His paint palette was an array of atoms, perhaps, which He could mix in any way he pleased. And beyond His material means, there was the essence of His artistry, which He used to breathe life and animation into all creatures of the earth, setting His work apart from all other material work. Taking our breath away, by giving us breath in the first place.

Let there be, and it was so. Just like that. We are His dream, and His vision; we are His masterpiece come true. What kind of majestic being could have dreamed up such complexity, such enormity, such beauty, such mystery? Every tiny detail we are, every tiny detail we know and will ever, or never, come to know rested within Him before His very words brought them to be. 

If only I could read chapters 1 and 2 over and over again, forever. They remind me of the wonder of every single thing, and they fill me with an undeterminable amount of admiration and hope that maybe I could take after Him, as His child. I want to look into this world and say, let there be light; I want to feel and know how good it is when I take a step back; I want my heart to be full of His good dreams that come to be; and, I want to rest from it all in a sweet and pleasant sleep that only comes from the deepest security of knowing all is well and lovely in the presence of God. 

God, I praise you for your complexity, your enormity, your beauty, and your mystery. I wonder at who you must be, the artist of all things! I long to be a part of what you dream and what you bring into being by the mere movement of your lips. I thank you for these origins and gifts that you give; I thank you that this story is what we long for, and that you have created a way to bring all creation back together for good. 

For the lazy.

I don't know exactly what I want to write about this evening, but I know I want to write. I penciled in the date in my Little Prince planner: "start blogging again." I picked the date out, March 14th, so that it would line up with the last significant post I made in 2014 when I was reading through the Bible in a year and trying to write nearly every day. That was two years ago. Oops. Try, try again. This time, I think I'll try a little less and see what happens, here and there. 

On Sunday night, I was about seven days behind in my Bible reading plan and trying to catch up, but also trying to slow down in case God might show me something that I was really struggling to see in Numbers (I think I'm in Numbers, at least). I was agitated. The truth is that I've been reading the Old Testament at the beginning of almost every year for I don't even want to admit to how many years. The desperation for the New Testament should have been enough to get me to August or September, but no. My life is a blur: the kind of blur produced by a thrilling, yet frightening and sometimes sickening, roller coaster ride that you feel pressured to stand in line for but that you are kind of glad you did stand in line for when the adrenaline is running through you at the end. Is that dramatic? :)

Again, I was agitated. It's difficult to like God when all you read are the first few books of the Bible over and over each year. Genesis is like magic for me, but then so much of it feels really questionable from there besides a bit of poetry that I can cherry-pick along the way, excellent scenery, and the thought of Moses's face sparkling. I was thinking about this Old Testament stuff the other day, wondering if I'll read through the entire Bible again after I finally get through it once. The thought of it reminded me of deep cleaning and how I despise the idea that I will have to do the same task over and over for the rest of my life because it keeps getting undone. Stupid memory. 

I think I'm supposed to believe that the Bible is not like my kitchen floor, though. Unlike my kitchen floor, the Bible can be new each time I open it. Of course, someone somewhere might argue that their kitchen floor is new each time, too, and if that makes a person feel better, then so be it. 

The point is that the Bible has been new to me this year (even though I had completely forgotten until just now when I wrote that)... like when I was reading in Exodus about Pharaoh enslaving God's people and working them harder, expecting them to do more with less and then calling them lazy whenever they cried out that the work was too much to bear. I was reading this story and obsessing over the familiarity of it all: "do more with less!" In education, and I'm sure all throughout the workplaces of this nation, this phrase plays on like the broken record. I used to think it was something to be proud of, and I'd challenge myself to see if I could pull it off: this more with less trick. These days, I'm feeling more and more that I am one with the Israelites: exhausted and unable to meet my quota.

I didn't realize this is what I would be writing about, but sure!... because I do have something really important to share about this Exodus story. When I was able to see the pages differently, I realized that the word "lazy" had been tumbling around in my heart and mind for some time. I have a list at work that seems to grow longer each day no matter how much I give, and I bet you do too. I keep telling myself that I am going to come in one day and blow that list up, knock it out of the park, demolish it, completely obliterate it and take back my work day for the dreams I've always dreamed my job would be. The reality, however, is that the list always wins. At some point, I became overwhelmed by the list and started listening to the quiet whisper inside saying, lazy. I'm clearly too slow. Too distracted. Too average. A foolish waster of energy and time. Lazy. 

Pharaoh was wrong about the Israelites, though, and God had a different plan for them: a plan for them to work hard, building and refining his temple, but also for them to worship. God did not design His people to be slaves; He designed them to be free to work and worship, as if work and worship were one in the same. So, he delivered them from Egypt! Do you know what this means for us as children of this God of the Old Testament? Well, I'm not entirely sure, but I'll admit that when I was putting all of this together in my mind, there was this sweet sense of intimacy that I experienced when I thought I could hear Him saying, I will deliver you from slavery. He actually wants to. 

I fully believe I am doing the work God has designed me to do, but I also believe that I am blindly working for Pharaoh at times: when I call myself lazy, when I allow perfectionism to destroy my self-confidence, when I am so focused on production and quotas that I refuse to worship with my work, and when I am too afraid or overwhelmed to take time off and rest. I think you know exactly what I mean. We don't need to get out of Egypt, necessarily; we need to start working for the One who makes our souls come alive, instead. 

I told Eric that reading the Old Testament made it difficult for me to like God. He told me that I should take a break from it for a bit, so I did. I wrote this, and then I saw this small thread of continuity between Father and Son, and my heart felt light again. 

Every blog needs a picture, so here's a picture of a lizard slave who lives at the college where I teach. He actually escaped shortly after this picture was taken :) only to be captured again. 

Where am I?

In April of this year, I fell behind on my New Year's resolution to read the Bible in a single year. I haven't caught up since, though I've hit the "catch me up" button on my iPhone a couple of times. You can't say I didn't warn you, though. Remember the "I will fail" post? And remember how I can be so prideful? It was inevitable, wasn't it? :)

So, I've been somewhat afraid to write. But then I got to thinking: where are you? I'm starting to sense that I'm probably not the only one who wanders down a trail, and then another one, and then another, and sits down to rest for a while, and forgets the way back, and feels overwhelmed by the effort it would take to get there anyway.

Work on the left, this blog on the right... I think I'll stay right where I am. 

But that's not the story, exactly.

Because I've been getting my work done. And, I've been trying my best to make time for the ones I love. It's just that I haven't been flipping through silky pages of wisdom, lately. In fact, I've been reading only fragments of scripture, quickly, out of context, and lightly understood. It's been nauseating. And, I feel as if I've lost all memory of what I was learning in January, February, and March.

Let me admit: there's something heart-wrenching that takes place when I move my eyes away from the Word of God and allow myself to function undisciplined in the rhythms of each day. Something numbing. So even though I'm often bothered by the idea of writing you at times (seriously, you dramatic blog, you), I'm grateful for the space that you provide. Your blank pages, encouraging me to engage with the Spirit of God once again, to pick up the book, to whisper a prayer, to listen, and to fumble through to some kind of sense.

So, where am I?

I'm with Eric and Harvard, at the beach, cuddling, sipping tea, watching children fall down in the wind, dogs prance on the sand, and waves crash in the distance. It's freezing here. It's peaceful, and it's renewing. And I can't help but smile and feel unworthy. Honestly. Because Jesus doesn't skip a beat with me. March is like yesterday, and I can feel His presence as quickly as I desire it. His mercy, as real and as powerful as the ocean before me.

I'm with Him, even when I'm lost. 

Where is Jesus?

I wonder what God expects me to feel as I read through the Old Testament. I'm postured with open palms and waiting for Him to take these things inside of me, these images that flash against my eyelids as they are closed in prayer, and to make sense of them. To help me out when I'm bothered by Moses, and I don't know if I can trust everything that he says, and I don't know if I believe that every time he says "The Lord says" it really captures what the Lord said, in that moment, in that place. Because isn't he just as flawed as any of us? And I wouldn't want anyone reading the words that I attribute to God in my own life as if they were truly His, without seeking Him for themselves. But I wouldn't want to overlook what "The Lord says" if He really said it either, and I mean no disrespect, and I desire to fear the Lord.

Moses would stone me to death for most of that, I'm sure. Moses, the man who seemed so grand at first, and then so violent, so degrading, so whiny, so mighty, so wicked, so wise, and so dominating. I really like Moses; I'm filled with respect for him, and I'm so thankful for the words he penned! It's just up. And, then it's down. With me.

Again, I wonder what God expects me to feel: wants me to feel when these words begin running through the mazes of my mind, meeting dead ends, colliding with gray matter, becoming exhausted as they find themselves carving out the same paths and never reaching the end.

Today, I'll say that I don't trust what the scriptures say all the time; I do, however, trust the Spirit to guide me through them, but that takes time. And in time, I trust that God will rest on my heart and my mind, and that I'll find something more true, a treasure more precious, than I could have ever found without being honest about what is between us. Without recognizing the tension in my heart and just telling Him it's there!

With palms open, I'm thinking... God, where is Jesus? 

Where is Jesus when the Israelites start cutting animal throats, draining out their blood, and presenting them as burnt sacrifices, with their pleasing aromas, to the Lord? Where is Jesus when the Israelites learn that there are many sins that require them to stone their people, men and women, to death: to purge the evil from among them? Where is Jesus when the Israelites head into battle, and their enemies are conquered, and they must return to ensure that all of the people--man, woman, and child--are completely annihilated?

God, I miss Jesus. Here in these ancient words. Where is He?

I miss the part of you who became the lamb and walked, willingly, brutally, to the cross where you suffered to die for us all. I miss Jesus who, when faced with a woman who was about to be stoned, challenged the crowd to examine their own hearts until every single one of them walked away, aware of their own sins. Jesus, you stood there alone. You could have cast the first stone. You could have purged the evil from among you. But you took no pleasure in the option of death, and you healed her instead, and you commanded her to live! 

Where is that part of you in the era of Moses? 

I know that I'm supposed to see Him there, and that others do. It's just up. And, then it's down. With me. And all I can say, today, is that I'm learning to be desperate for Jesus. To crave Him with all of my being. Because my mind desires His company when faced with these moral riddles, and my heart is easily disgusted with the bloodshed. I don't want to put God on trial; I want to know Him. I long for a deeper relationship with Him. I hope it's possible that these feelings in my gut are a sign of His mark upon my being, His humanity and forgiveness, and His grace within me.

I'm reading the Old Testament, crying out, where is Jesus? I am grateful, through it all, that He is within me.

Things that add up.

The sun came out today, and I needed it, and I soaked it up, and I smiled, and I made the most of it for as long as it lasted. Early in the day, as I was walking across campus, I ran into my dad. After I went back to my office, I realized how often I fail to cherish the little things, so I called him up and we were able to carve out 30 minutes for an on-campus lunch. I told him about my friends whose dads had died this week, somewhat unexpectedly; I told him that I was glad I could sit and eat with him, even if we had to cut it short.

My mom texted a bit later, and my family planned to meet for dinner, and I have a lot of work to do, but if I were to have declined the invite, I would have missed the chance to go on a walk with my precious niece, picking dandelions, hanging upside down, kicking a ball around the yard, pretending to be a horse, and climbing on fire hydrants. 

I would have missed out on Jade's pretty eyes: her heart-melting teeny smile.

And air-drumming with Jude.

The sun went down, and I'm home now. I'm sitting with Eric, ready for bed. We've finished talking about my most recent adventures through the Old Testament, and the truth is that I'm feeling a bit deflated, or confused (more on that later). But as I pasted these pictures into my blog, I was reminded that God is good. 

Not everything adds up, but enough things do. 

Let God be amazing.

I've been silent on the Internet for weeks, but that doesn't mean my mind has been quiet, or that I haven't been writing. In fact, I started drafting this blog post over a week ago, though it failed to come together until this past weekend.

(rewind)

I turned off my alarm and leaned forward, with a wordless mind. And there was a void there to be filled, just as there is every morning. How would I start this day? What would be the opener? Then, I heard this:

Let God be amazing.

It was clear, and it made sense. Instead of me. Because I had spent the weekend forcing myself to rest and to accept who I was and what my limits were, and this meant that I was “unprepared” for Monday: at least in my own perfectionist kind of way. To think that the pressure was off this morning was the motivation I needed to be filled with joy, to put one foot in front of the other, to move myself toward what He had in store for me—with hope. If I show up, and if I step aside, He will be amazing; I will be amazed.

A few steps later, I was standing in front of the mirror, multi-tasking eyeliner and the Bible on my iPhone, and I cringed in fear, and dread, and skepticism, as I read “Leviticus” on the screen. But I heard it again:  

Let God be amazing. Instead of me. In Leviticus.

In the burning bush. (Which is Exodus, I know, but stay with me). 

And these words meant so much to me, so immediately, because this story of God's had been bothering me. I had been wondering about how I might feel if the God of the universe were to reveal Himself to me as a gathering of flames illuminating a bush in the night. I had been imagining myself, unimpressed, underwhelmed, and unable to discern Him as the God of goodness. And yet, frightened. I know that most of that is the point, but I still think it’s an odd depiction of God that doesn’t quite line up with the Him I am coming to know. These are the kinds of little details that derail my mind—that choke and suffocate me, though I press on.

I confessed these things to Eric, and he remained as calm and composed as usual. He said that if I had been there, if I had seen the flames recede and the bush unharmed, that I would have been in awe of God and that it would make sense. I'm thinking about that now, realizing that God is so unknown to me. God is like a flame that does not turn a thing to ashes, yet fiercely burns and flickers and illuminates all the same.

Eric reminds me that there is a difference between revelation that brings me closer to God, and revelation that is arrogant. Because when I don't get it, I insist that I should. And I play the fool so often, limiting His wonder by believing that my capacity to perceive and proclaim it through a broken, skeptical lens (that has yet, if ever, to see the fullness of His wonder) will be what defines Him in this world. I am not responsible for making God seem amazing in the midst of these messy Old Testament texts. 

Let God be amazing.

I say it over and over, sighing sighs of relief and imagining myself shrinking in His ever increasing presence. 

But yesterday it felt as if He broke through me, and into me, and made His place in my heart and my soul anew, and I bet my skin could have sparkled as Moses’ did when the Lord passed before Him: "the Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger and abounding in love and faithfulness" (Exodus 34:6). It was that moment when I determined to let God be amazing in me, as well. Because God never asked me to shrink, but rather to become translucent so that His light and His presence would be known. 

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." 

-Marianne Williamson

Disappearing

I've had a lot of students drop my classes over the last few weeks. Just disappear. I understand that life happens, and I never take this personally, but I often wonder and worry about what might be going on in their lives that would take them away, and I sincerely hope they are okay. To be completely honest, I feel for them and any shame they might feel about not being able to finish; I've been there, and I know the pressure of college and life, and I know what it feels like to walk away before the quarter ends.

Tonight, Eric and I were stocking up on fruits and vegetables when I saw one of the missing students sitting at a table. Before I could fully determine how to respond, my excitement took over and nudged me across the room to ask how she had been, and what had happened, to make sure she was okay, and to encourage her to start again when, or if, she feels it's the right time. "I've disappeared before, too," I told her. "I'm just glad to see that you are well." I wished her the best as we left, and I carried her burdens on my heart, thanking God for the people He brings into my life. People to pray for. People to care for. Each and every student and person that my job introduces me to, and all of the challenges I know they are facing. Right now. Even as I write this. 

As I left the grocery store, I decided that the blog I had been drafting all week--the one I planned to post tonight--would have to wait. Because I realized that so many students in my classes have been disappearing, and I have been disappearing, too. 

I've been buried underneath grading. 

I've been desperate for every moment with Eric. 

I've been making excuses, and puzzling over cosmic riddles, and organizing, and resting. 

And why is that I, that we, come to feel so guilty about all of this? As if God has a grade-book. As if he has been taking attendance, and counting up points, and evaluating me, and as if my financial aid is going to run out until I'm stuck funding this entire relationship on my own. 

When we disappear, when we fail to set aside the time to remain engaged, to attend, to do our work, to reach out to Him, I imagine that God misses us, above all things. Sincerely. I imagine He thinks of us, and He remains close, and He desires for us to not necessarily "return," but to turn and face Him where He has been all along. And when we do this, there is no time for apologizing. I say this because it seemed that when I started to apologize to God, today, for setting Him aside and getting wrapped up in the frenzy of my world, that He was quick to interrupt and proclaim: Come here. I love you! Turn off that music. 

I turned the dial down until it beeped, and I drove home from work listening to the hum of the Beetle. 

It only took about thirty minutes until I could feel His nearness again. In the clouds ahead, I could see His face--the face of a King--emerging and descending from heaven like sun beams and rain falling from a peach and pale blue sky. His eyes were fixed on mine, and the drumming of His rain drops awakened me from complacency. 

Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy. Absolutely meaningless without You. 

Rest

When you skip two "days of rest," what do you get in return? 

For me, it's a list of priorities that starts to read more like a web than a list, and a deafness in my ears that prevents me from hearing His voice: knowing what to do first, or just, in general, what to do. This morning, I kept hearing, Do what you think you shouldn't. 

Make juice.

Stretch.

Take a nap.

Boil an artichoke.

Watch a movie. 

Write a blog, slowly, peacefully, with your eyes looking past the computer screen at the leaves shaking under heavy rain, the washing that I've brought upon creation today, the weather I've made to keep you inside, soothed by the white noise of My power. 

I stayed in bed after waking, and I finished reading Exodus. The ending was hard for me, and I found myself detaching, skimming, wishing it was over, and skipping days. I was agitated by the instructions the Lord gave to Moses and His people because they felt too parallel to the work that I had to do this week: the on and ons of details and chores and busyness, busyness, busyness. 

Here I am, stuck to the web that is my commitments, desperate for God to turn it into a list of things that I can check off one by one, and I'm reading His voice on the page, His voice commanding every little detail of the work for the Tabernacle, and I'm jealous of His meticulous instruction given to this ancient people. I'm desperate for Him to tell me what to do, meticulously. All the while, I realize He told me chapters prior, to take a break, and I've been ignoring that. I've been starting each day with a naive sense of my own strength.

After a week of chewing on this, I can finally feel my heart ripping open, and I am ready to repent. For my obsession with success, and my concern with the opinion of others. My incessant pursuit for praise and my unwillingness to be still, for even a moment. I know I should concern myself with His approval alone, and this is something that I have never found to be easy. 

There I am again, stuck to the web of my commitments with my hands and feet unable to pull away. And I'm trapped and vulnerable, but I also feel light and suspended like laying in a hammock, swaying back and forth. 

So, I close my eyes. 

Rest a while. 

Trust in Him to fill me up and set me free, in time. To take away my shame. 

Because He told me once, as we were running along the beach and playing in the sand, that I could build the biggest, most fantastic sandcastle, but that He could not love me any more than He already does. There is less to work for in this world than I often times acknowledge, and there is so much more to enjoy. His presence. His beauty. Passing in front of me every second of the day. Too often, unnoticed. 

I will never breathe the same.

I'm falling behind on blogging, but I'm catching up on grading, and I'm still breathing :) You win some, you lose some, right?

On Friday, I ended my time at the first ever Washington State Sustainability Conference, and I was so relieved to check out of my hotel and attend the final day of workshops without anxiety looming over me: the fear of sleeping another night alone in the unfamiliar hotel room, on an unfamiliar street, in an unfamiliar city. My time at the conference was challenging for reasons I did not plan for, but most importantly, it was inspiring, and I learned a little bit about how to breathe. 

The lesson began on Thursday, when our opening speakers humbly approached the microphone with quiet voices, asking us to be thankful, to show gratitude to mother earth. Imagine, they prompted, all of the processes, systems, pieces, relationships she constitutes; breathe in slowly, and out slowly, and remember her for all she does to create oxygen for us to breathe. Give back, they urged, and they continued on to remind us that we all share the same air. The gift of air. The gift of now: a time to be alive, to breathe, and to do what is meant for us in this moment.

I spent the time with my eyes closed, thanking God for my fragile life. Thanking Him for speaking to me that morning, through anyone, at anytime, as He had been telling me He would do in weeks prior. As I was praying, I realized so clearly that my breath is not to be wasted: that it will come and go. Its repetition, its daily presence, its miraculous life-giving power should remind me that I can do more than merely breathe while I am here. That His plans for me extend beyond survival. 

Later in the day, in a workshop, we were asked to clear our laps, to remove our lenses, to silence our cell phones, and place our feet flat on the floor. To breathe in slowly, and out slowly. To focus only on the feeling of air passing through our nostrils, and to conquer all wandering thoughts and distractions as we narrow our focus, hone in on the sensation of air passing through. Sit up straight and breathe in slowly, and out slowly. Because it is calming, because it cultivates attentiveness, and because it opens up the mind for reflection and contemplation.

I'll admit: I twitched. My back hurt. My stomach groaned. But all the while, I breathed, and something about that impressed me: whether I could focus on it, or not. Whether I could calm myself to enjoy it, or not. Because I knew that, no matter my efforts and ability to be still, the God of Peace was as with me as the air that filled my lungs, and that made me smile as I failed.    

In another workshop, the speaker projected images of extinct species on the board at the front of the room. Close your eyes, she invited. Breathe in slowly, breathe out slowly. She said that the air we breathe is air that these animals used to breathe, but will never breathe again. She told us in a soft voice to accept that. To be thankful for them. And to be thankful for all of the animals that are still here, who breathe the same air, and who so desperately need us to defend them. To consider them. I quieted my heart and felt compelled to ask God for forgiveness.

By the end of the conference, I was oddly aware of all the breaths I had breathed and the theme that had unfolded, mostly in the background of the day's highlighted moments. I opened my journal to read a daily scripture, and the words on the page couldn't have been sweeter:

"Breathe Me in with each breath."

Breathe Me in: in times of gratitude, distraction, grief, anxiety, exhaustion, and fear. Be reliant upon Me. Be aware of me in all things, Amber. I couldn't escape it. I kept breathing, and I realized that I will never breathe the same. Because He generously provides every single breath, and He gives His Spirit as readily as the air I breathe. He is standing so close to me now that I can almost imagine we share the same air.

On my final night in the hotel, I was reading from the Bible, continuing on with the year's plan, and I read about Moses parting the waters and traveling through the Red Sea, and how God protected His people from their enemies, saying, "I will pursue, I will overtake them." Moses said of God in return, "But you blew with your breath, and the sea covered them" (Exodus 15:9-10). There I was in the unfamiliar hotel room, on the unfamiliar street, in the unfamiliar city, and I could imagine the breath of God moving with force in all directions away from me, putting my enemies to rest, sending them away for good. That same fierce breath then passed lightly over me: over the embers of my faintly, faithful heart to enliven a small flame or fire within. I "need only be still," You say: to breathe in, and breathe out. 

Ugh. Life as a Girl.

I felt like a big girl, driving away in the company car, with the passenger seat empty, the company card in my pocket. I had my map app set to go, and a plan to pass through Seattle early enough to miss the traffic, and the parade, and every other bit of the crazed post-Superbowl frenzy.

It was probably two hours into the drive when my phone started to die and the gas dial began to dip. I stopped at a Starbucks, bummed that I wouldn't make it to Bellingham while the sun was still up. My phone charger barely made the connection to kick start my battery, and when I drove across the intersection to fill up the gas tank, I struggled with the key and the cap for a while. I struggled in the cold, and grew frustrated, wishing frantically that someone else was there with me. I was standing on a foreign street fixated on the sound of five lanes of strangers' cars whizzing past me. I felt inadequate, and helpless, and stupid, and alone.

Anxiety was on the rise...

As the sun set, I neared the exit. And by the time I pulled into the "check-in" lane, the sky was black. Two things, God; I just need two things. First, I hoped, discriminatingly, that there would be a young woman behind the counter to greet me. Instead, I was met by a man. He checked me in as expected, but I couldn't shut down the panic I felt over certain questions like, "One or two?" "One," I replied, regretting my honesty instantly: regretting my fear, as well.

He turned on the heat in my room, showed me the bus stop, pointed me to a parking spot, and offered to help me with my bags. I declined the offer, on the basis that I had only one bag; his daughter, 24, travelled with 3 over-sized suitcases, he said.

The room was warm, clean, empty. I shut the door, and there went the second thing. I was hoping for a chain: no chain. Not even a chair in the room tall enough to wedge between myself and the big bad world. Not even a gun in my suitcase, because I left it at home. And, not even courage. Not an ounce of it. Only a wild imagination plagued by a lifetime of fears, too much CNN, the realities for women across the globe, and the realization that this would be the first night of my life spent alone in a hotel room away from home.

Ugh.

Sometimes, I hate being a girl.

I don't want to dramatize this post. Nothing bad has happened to me, and it's likely I'll drive myself home on Friday night grateful for the opportunity I had to be here. Quickly forgetting the personal trials I faced, yet feeling guilty about how my fears demonized the strangers around me. But, I have to say it again: my fear, however childish, is still rooted in a reality for women everywhere, around the world. And if I can make anything worthy of this moment, I'd ask you to please pray for these women: stolen and abused. Pray for our world. A world in which daughters are not safe, and sons are often feared. Pray that daughters would be brave and smart, despite the world we live in, and pray that sons would grow up to respect women and treat them with sweetness because of the world we live in. That these young men might become generous protectors. Not the bodyguard kind, but the kind who commit themselves to compassion, and who desire freedom from fear for the ones they love.

The kind who are willing to spend most of the night with her, on Facetime, just to make her feel less alone. To help her sleep. To help encourage her to have hope for the morning, even though her fear is irrational. Even though it's time to grow up.

I asked Jesus to join me tonight. To take a seat, please. And I really believe He is with me, but in more ways than one. Because He gave me Eric, too. And while Eric is on the line, working on his computer while I work on mine too, I know that God is up to something. Two posts ago, I found myself repeating these lines from one of my favorite songs: "There was nothing to fear, nothing to doubt." I'm getting there. He's getting me there.

Father, forgive me for my fear. Forgive me that I do not see things Your way. Take fear away from me, and give me Your eyes of wisdom. Your heart. Your strength. Your courage. Your protection. Thank you, again and again, for Eric. 

Shut Everything Down

I've had one of those days where your tasks drag you along. Seriously, every punch of a key is a test of my patience because I am over words. Especially the ones that have to be documented, revised, edited, published, uploaded, and dispersed. And especially the ones that have to be read, attentively: emails, essays, blogs. It seems I can't work fast enough, as the list in front of me continues to grow.

But this reminds me of something I've been trying to write down for a while now. A realization, a belief you could say, that has centered me before in times of despair and exhaustion:

It's the understanding that God does not want to be at the top of my priority list;
he wants to be in all of my priorities. 

It's hard to fully grasp the meaning of this. So often it seems as if I'm forced to shut the book, close down the app, walk away, and when I do, it feels like I leave Him behind. Like I put Him on hold, try to hurry through my chores, and feel frustrated when I find myself with little or no time to return. Most hours of my day require my mind to be filled with the words of others: to consider them, fully. How can I even speak a word of my own? How can I hear you in the midst of all of the noise and chaos of a busy life?

I know how healthy it can be to shut everything down and make time for silence.

But I refuse to believe that God requires this in order to speak, or in order for me to realize and feel the power of His presence. I think He is waiting for me to ask Him, instead, to join me in the most mundane, wild, routine, shocking moments of my life. I think He wants me to acknowledge Him as a necessary part of every moment; not an alternative to my moments. To see that any conversation, with anyone, is an opportunity to speak with Him, to hear from Him, to see Him, and to know Him.

I'm trying to learn all of this, and I meant what I said the other day about not being willing to trade my time, my relationships, for the ability to check things off "the list." But the truth is: the lesson is painful. How long until I hand it over? My chores? My weaknesses? My pride? 

How long will it take me to see the world, my life, as Yours: no seams between my time with You and my time awake or asleep?

Thank God, love is patient :)

And, love is kind. 

Breach (a different kind of post)

Today, my iPhone told me to read something different. Thank you, Bible app. You are kind :) 

Yes, I read the Bible on an iPhone. Don't judge!

Since I am taking a break from the Book of Exodus, I thought it might be fun to publish something out of the ordinary for me. A different piece of writing. A piece that I am still working on. 

Breach

I hated the ocean. I loathed its massive, breaking sounds that drew me to the borders between rushing water and wet, dark brown sand. In this place, I would wonder—feet barely following the other, and carrying my empty mind along. The ocean reminded me of the vastness of all that is, of the unknown. And being faced with it, felt like looking at myself and seeing only a deceptive surface. Felt like madness. A shell here and there. A creature spread out, unidentifiable. Living, dying matter, but always the in and out of the tide. Always the noise like the inside of a seashell, and the memories of stealing them from the beach and taking them home, where as a child I would tuck my ear inside with dreams that I might escape my landlocked world.

The oceans here are covered with a thick, yet sheer curtain of wet and cloudy gray sky. I remember reading that early settlers risked their lives in these fogs of the Northwest, as their boats would break against hidden cliffs. They would snap. Cave. Crush the adventurers within. When the fog shows up, I am the captain—blind, anxious to reach the shore, but filled with visions of snapping, cracking, and drowning—dying before I ever get the chance to press my toes into the fine sands, or breathe the air of majestic trees. I am standing on the beach with a pit in my stomach, while my friends, who are sick to their stomachs with taffy and caramel corn, tired from bumper cars, snicker at me from afar. My hood is up over my head. My eyes are on my feet. My head is somewhere else.

But now, something is different.

As the icy water rushes over the tops of my pale feet, red polish glimmers in a white sun. I can feel the cold invigorate my body from the ground up, and a piercing energy ignites the dreams that are dormant in my mind. My sails are up. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, and I am ready to dive into a new pace. I can stand there, with my eyes opened or closed, and it doesn’t matter. Through it all, I can see whales racing to the surface and pulling themselves out of the water into the cool air where their bodies are light for a moment, before they smash back into the depths of the sea. They are always moving. And they know something that I don’t. It is a something that I used to fear—that I was afraid I would not want to know, or would never understand. But now I see myself further out than the borders between rushing water and wet, dark brown sand; I see myself as a speck in the midst of blue, and up close, on the leather canvas of a sailboat. A thin epidermis separates my world from the world of the whales, and I am laying on my stomach full of butterflies with my head over the edge, face down, eyes staring into the white foam that flows from the edges of the platoons on both sides. I’m waiting for a breach of truth; without it, I am dreaming of what it might be. And that alone keeps me at peace while I am here, at the mercy of the wind.

Nothing to fear. Nothing to doubt.

I'm thinking of V for Vendetta. The image of Natalie Portman with a shaved head, clothed in a sheet-like garment, standing in the rain and lightning, standing on the balcony, with her palms held up in an outburst of rage and release and receipt and freedom. I'm looking down at the notes in front of me. There on the page are plans for my next design project. The lyrics from Radiohead's "Pyramid Song":

There was nothing to fear, nothing to doubt.

The pieces were not intended to go together, but they do. 

And they seem to go together with the Book of Job, too. 

And with me. With my story. 

There was nothing to fear, nothing to doubt. 

If you haven't seen V for Vendetta, stop reading. I'm about to give away the ending, and it's just too good to spoil when you should be watching it instead. The story of Evie and V is challenging. Evie confesses that she is not like her parents were. She is not brave. And V befriends her, then captures her, tortures her, manipulates her, and breaks her down until she faces her greatest fear: death. In the end, she walks out of her prison cell and into V's home. Deceived. Torn. Unafraid. Freed. There was nothing to fear, nothing to doubt. It's hard to know whether to hate V, or to thank him: hard for Evie and hard for us. But we like the person that Evie has become. We crave to feel as she feels. There is a rumbling in our hearts that awakens to the idea, the possibility, that we could be freed. And in the end, she makes her peace with V. She completes his work, even. She loves him. And all of this fulfills the plan. 

It might be dangerous to compare this story to Job's, but don't get too excited. Don't get too nervous or offended. This is just me learning, experimenting, and playing connect the dots to see what happens.

In Job's story, Satan is the capturer, the torturer, the manipulator, and the one who breaks Job down. And God is the one who teaches Job to face his greatest fears in order to free him, and this is why Job cries out in wisdom, "When He has tested me, I will come forth as gold" (Job 23:10). Yet, God is also the one who gives Satan permission: who points Job out, even. And how many of us have, therefore, placed the blame on God for the capturing, torturing, manipulating, and devastating of Job? I know I have. The first three chapters of Job paint a picture of God as a Father who stands back and offers up His "righteous" child as a subject for Satan's temptations and havoc (read that again and tell me why we wouldn't expect that of God, given what we know about Him in the New Testament). But I'll continue. This image of God in the book of Job is far more conflicting than that of V. Because He is God, and not a comic book character. And Job is a man, not a role that can be filled. Job is like us. 

What we determine, what we feel, in response to the Book of Job is essential to our relationship with God. It will define everything. Because in the Book of Job we are warned that "man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward" (Job 5:7). And when trouble comes, will we hate Him, or will we love Him? Will we trust Him? Will we blame Him? 

But most importantly, if V is responsible for the torture and liberation of Evie, who is responsible, between God and Satan, for the torture and liberation of Job? For the suffering and salvation of us all?

Let me pause here to tell you the truth. That I had a plan about what to write. It's sitting in front of me now, and it doesn't look anything like this. Half way through my drafting about V, I broke down. I read what I wrote, and I was genuinely panicked. Who is responsible, between God and Satan, for the torture and liberation of Job? For the suffering and salvation of us all?

I know this debate. I know these conversations. I generally want nothing to do with them, at least not publicly, and I tried as hard as I could not to get into this, but how can I read the book of Job and ignore the one thing that I believe God is trying to make clear?! That God is very, very separate from Satan. That He spares the righteous, just as He has always done: just as He did with Noah and with Lot. But Satan, he torments the righteous. He does not win, by the way. He is weak. He is pathetic. His only hope for victory exists in the chance that we might confuse the evil of Satan with the righteousness of God, as Job and his friends did, and as I so easily do. That we might not know how to feel about God and Satan because we see them as V: a single, foreign, masked, confusion of a character. Where does one end and the other begin?

As much as I have hated the tone of these arguments, and as much as I can sense lies and ugliness on both sides, and as far above them as I would like to be, tonight, I feel like God is calling out to me and asking me to be brave. He is asking me to face these questions because I need you to know, He says. I need you to know the truth about Me. 

I've protested before. I've said that I am fine either way. But I know that I can no longer say these things because I was given this picture of Eric, accused of a crime: I was sitting face to face with him and he wanted me to know that he was innocent. I refused to hear his story. I told him that I loved him no matter what, that it was fine either way. He sank deeply into his chair and his heart was crushed before my eyes. He wanted to be known, but I would not listen to him.

God is relational. He is my Father. And He wants to be known. I have no idea what this will mean months from now, but tonight I am filled with hope that He will reveal Himself to me, and reveal Himself to me, and reveal Himself to me until I have nothing to fear, and nothing to doubt.