listening

I read today a chapter in a book about weighing down each moment with thankfulness for that moment and all it contains. Spoken to someone who is always looking towards the next thing (unless I'm dancing) these are near impossible challenges.

I thought of Mary and Martha. Mary is condoned for sitting and listening and abiding. This story was always a bit hard for me to swallow, being a Martha, because I know that people would have complained had there not been food offered... or the house clean... there are these real problems in the physical world that need to be worked out by work. I thought of Jesus' response that only one thing is needed and the implication here is that we feed on him. The Eucharist. And really the problem wasn't that Martha was doing, but that in the doing, she refused to see that she was being fed by Christ.

I though of Jesus' miracles with food. Say Martha hadn't prepared food, would Jesus have whipped food out of thin air? Is this how He works? No, even in feeding the 5,000, it took one boy's mommy working in the early morning, baking him loaves of bread and preparing fish and packing it for him lovingly, and reminding him (perhaps more than once if he was anything like some kids I know) to not forget his lunch. Jesus uses our work.

Isn't that the whole idea in the response of the third recipient of talents? "Sir, I knew that you were a hard man, harvesting where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed, so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. See, you have what is yours." Mat 25:14-30. I wonder if that is how Martha felt? I wonder if that's how I view my work? I wonder if that's why I rush? and worry? and blister under the straps of all that I won't receive as a good gift.

There's a bliss in the work of dance. It takes all of me; my mind, my body, my very soul is bound up in the work and I have no capacity to check the clock while in this motion. Why, why can I not soak in the joy of work in the other areas of my life? As I look today at the tunnel vision that is my future, casseroles and cleaning, babies and bathing, scrounging and subduing: emotions and children and selfishness... why is it so distasteful compared to the consumption of sweat squeezing labor of dance? Why can't my soul realize that in these things I will be feeding on Christ? That when feeding my baby I will be feeding Christ. And have opportunities to meet him in so many ways.

It is so much easier to pay attention to how I'm doing things when I know how it's supposed to feel. It took me 14 years to learn effectively how dancing ought to feel... how long will it take me to learn how spousedom and motherhood ought to feel? Listen Heather! Create conversation with your creator and listen. Hear Him speak to you in all things that are held together in Him, bound up in Him. Listen even for the groaning of all of created things subjected to futility in hope that we might be made free. The groaning of futility is nothing less than the whisper of the promised freedom! Listen! Even if you are never a sitting Mary, listen.

with unveiled faces we reflect...

Even before the service I feel it. Intense purposelessness. Ugh. I'm virtually unsupportive. He needs no support from me. I hide behind needs: use the restroom, find a seat, get Olive settled... he sits next to me and I feel assured. A person to sit with intentionally makes a big difference.

Listening to his mother's introduction is so sweet. His mother struggling through tears to bless her son with a benediction that she's been praying over him for years and is so thankful to see a glimpse of that faith realized. Maternal labor pains never really cease. To see the bloody love of his mother over this man I've just barely started loving is humbling, putting me in perspective. And who am I really? And what is my purpose?

After the service I am met with their impressions of his grace-filled speech. How to respond? None of this is at all because of me, and really I have no part in it. I can agree with what they've said. That's the best I have to offer. No different than these acquaintances of his.

For the last 2.5 years I've been using my daughter as a shield of intentionality to give me purpose and distraction. She is my veil. Well, she doesn't need me now as she bounces around the room with his mother meeting people and begging to be chased. The whole room waits to talk with him and I'm just aware enough of my neediness to not insert myself into the conversations for fear that it would be to meet my own needs and not to encounter these people so eager to discover my beloved's wellbeing.

There are some introductions. Many well meant words of encouragement. I wonder if this relationship will ever feel permanent. I wonder as people who've experienced the temporality of marriage (be it from death or divorce) are introduced to me, his girlfriend if they wonder why I've flown out here. I am not him. I am not a part of him. And I realize that even with my baby, flesh torn out of my flesh, I am not a necessity to her "self".

In the next service there is a blunder. I am introduced over the loud-speaker sounds system as his fiance... oh no, self. Nothing so entwined as that. My finger is naked; my small, insufficient self exposed; and I am just me standing here as I've had to do for 26 years. I don't think that will ever change.

I think I tend to look towards outside circumstances to change the way I view myself. There is this fine balance between not esteeming yourself too highly (for instance being so consumed by how you feel to let it hijack your day), and viewing yourself to lowly. And all of this worries me.

I am in reality ill equipped to be a pastor's wife. How could God's grace make me secure enough to climb over my high plastered walls of self-doubt to bless another's life with love and reassurance? God, show me clearly my "role" because purpose and work are the only coverings under which I feel safe.

Naked Moments

I had a naked moment yesterday. One of those moments when the truth of the situation is so visible, down to it's core. When the outside cover of the activities of our bodies can do nothing to conceal what our soul is struggling through.

I have been given a voice and opportunity to speak truth into some of those moments on a regular basis by the virtue of being a teacher. Sometimes though, when I find words I'm met with fear.

We are each so vulnerable. Even when fully "dressed" we work so constantly at convincing everyone (even ourselves) that we're ok. I never want to tread heavily on a naked moment. I never want to use my words to crush. Even if they are words of hope they can be heavy and hard...

Still, there is beauty in seeing things as they really are. So without the back story, as it is not mine to share, let me remember the naked truth.

I tend to muscle through things. There is nothing too hard, just keep your head down and pull at the harness, and get it done. When I walk uphill, I tend to go faster to beat the challenge. I have had to struggle for years to undo bad habits in dance and in life caused by my tendency to muscle my way through things. I look behind me and see I've mowed down a task or phase in life that could have been beautiful and enjoyable because I felt a need to muscle through, to get it done and not complain.


Pointe work is one of those things that requires a ton of resistance to the natural impulse to fight. You have to use gravity to create awareness and turn it into a tool. You have to use even the fatigue of your leg muscles to create bodily awareness and muscle recognition to strengthen the rapid fire and reaction of muscle/brain connection. All of life is a constant gravity and I often get weighed down under it. I feel like I have to fight it and bear down under its weight to muscle through. It turns me in on myself and makes me feel isolated and attacked. But here's the beauty! This same gravity was given as a tool for my use. It makes me aware. It can awaken my senses to my own frailty and the "muscles" I need to focus on using. I have a choice; I can get crushed and contorted by the strain, or I can use it as a tool to climb up on. Oh, let me chose the beautiful way! Let me view all of life and it's many forms of gravity as a ladder to climb up on. That by constant reminding of my weakness I might find strength to abide in His grace.

like grape vines

I had this thought of grape vines the other day. I'd been in conversation with an old friend and I was amazed at how twisted our thinking had become. I thought of the design, and then of where we are in our thinking and how do you speak with someone who's framework is so off design that the words you speak have no frame of reference in their world?

There is a plan. There is a design. We were made to cleave, to grasp, to hold tight, but if we do that with the wrong things, we are hopeless and to be pitied.

I thought of my life, even from it's tender youth. What things did I hold to tightly? Independence, self-sufficiency, responsibility, "wisdom", and work ethic. Now I think all of these are good in their own right, but as a frame for growth? They turned me in on myself. I think there is a balance between assuming that you are someone else's responsibility to fix or satisfy, and assuming that you are self-sufficient. I have been slowly, tire-fully learning that balance.

Every once in a while I inherit a student from another studio or from another art form. These are (usually) a joy to work with but there is always oh-so-much unlearning to do. Gymnasts have to learn to move in fluid "verbs" not positional "nouns". Ice skaters have to learn to stand erect since there is no need to poise for movement on solid ground. The harder are ballet students trained at other studios. There are often habits or even underlying wrong assumptions about technique that have to be addressed and then untrained from the muscle memory. I feel like so much of our life as humans and specifically all of our life being sanctified is about this exact unlearning process. Sometimes it's gentle re-directing of the self, other times it feels more like a hatchet to the core of who you are. It's so easy to doubt the intention of the vine-dresser. "Is this for my good or am I being cut out?" It's easy to feel like the quick has been exposed and there is no way this part of you could ever heal...

Thank God that there is a design! Thank the Father that all the pain, and tearing, and plans and goals torn from grasping hands are all to a more beautiful end. To make us to grow up into Him who is our Head, even Christ Jesus our Lord. And I am fearful. I know that I have grown interwoven with so many wrong things. Things I take for granted as right. I like the plans I make. I know this is going to hurt. Still, I'd rather learn to grow into beauty than to grown further in on myself twisted into contorted forms. And, seeing as I have no other choice, here I am, exposed to the Vine-dresser's hands. Come shape me Aba.

gifts reflecting the giver.

There is this theme that has rumbled in my soul for years. And I encounter it and I consider it and it aggravates me until He tells me to put it away and be still knowing that He is God. Sometimes that is the only answer for the moment but I always hold out hope that I will understand. I want to know Him well enough that it all makes sense.

The idea was prepped by recent reading and then brought into the light by my dear friend Annette. If God is good, then how all this ugly. And there really are a million trite ways to answer this rumble of thunder but can any stand up to the fire when lightning strikes?

I know it has to do with His Justice and Mercy. I understand that the potter has the right to make whatever he wants for whatever purpose or end, but that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I heard a couple days ago about a baby boy. Sovereignly planted in a messed up mom's womb. Carefully tended and sustained. Born to be sexually molested from infancy... And I understand that all have sinned and fallen short of the Glory of God and deserve eternal damnation, but

"7b you hid your face;
I was dismayed.

8 To you, O LORD, I cry,
and to the Lord I plead for mercy:
9 “What profit is there in my death,
if I go down to the pit?
Will the dust praise you?
Will it tell of your faithfulness?
10 Hear, O LORD, and be merciful to me!
O LORD, be my helper!”

And who will teach that baby boy to plead with a merciful God?

I always had a hard time watching nature shows. I never wanted the poor baby gazelle to become the lion's food. My brothers would answer me half in mockery over my sensitivity, "would you rather the lion die?". I always voted for the sick, the weak, the underdog. They almost never made it...And God tells us in Job 38:39-41 that he is the one who picks out the week ones; he's on the other team!

I'm reading through a book with my mom about God's gracious gifts. All gifts. All things! And there was the story of an amish mother who's son was killed in a farm accident and their peaceful surrender to God's will. I pushed back with "to them it is grace because they can see God's hand in it and it chases them to Him but what of the family it chases away from God, how is that a good gift?"
To which my mother replied, "does the gift change because of the view of the recipient? Can a good gift, given out of goodness be evil simply because the one to whom it is given is evil?"

And I wonder with Annette if all of those people who find their way into her emergency room broken and bleeding have been given a good gift if only they would receive... but that is a hard word. Mercy. Grace. We don't often equate them with pain and sorrow and memories we wish we could forget.

So I pray for the baby boy who from my standpoint today has no hope, that God would hear and be merciful to him. That even this mire into which he was born would be the stuff of life that chases him to his only rescuer. Oh that all our emptiness and pain and the things we wish we could forget that had been done to us and that we have done would all become grace to us and chase us to the One true lover and renewer of our souls.

Unearthly Sounds

I think now looking back that it was "ok" that came out of her mouth. But then it just sounded like all the guts and emotions of a lifetime spent, slipping from her diaphragm through her mouth. She was reading a text. From my Daddy. She tells me he's sick.

I remember about 4 years ago now she called me and told me he was dying. And I think now, what a funny thing to say because really we all are. There is 100% mortality rate among us son's of Adam and daughter's of Eve. But back then it crushed me to think that this man, this angel from God with whom I had wrestled for years was possibly giving up the fight and leaving... how could this be? And again today I wonder. I wonder if he'll be ok? What will the doctor say. Will we be ok? How could she, my mom, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, ever be ok without him?

It was over a decade ago now that the slow death began. He was unemployed and furiously demolishing the rotting remains of our termite ravaged back deck (so much like the view of his goals and dreams) when the pounds began to melt off of him with no muscle to replace it. Diabetes was the word. This man who loved chocolate milk and doughnut holes, and captain crunch, and pop-tarts would now live on sugar free snacks and well balanced meals with fake carbs beefed up with fiber. And life became tasteless.

God has been gracious. We have all been buoyed up by His hand and have come to know flavor in surprising places. Maybe sugar is still what we think we want, but we've learned that pepper and salt and onion tastes pretty good too. And so we wait. To know, to hear. What is today's word?

It's ironic because just yesterday Mommy read to me about the practice of eucharisteo. And the hard gift that caused all of that to waiver in one woman's life for a moment. And I wonder today if this is our hard gift? And if not this then what and when. And as I wait for my car's oil to be changed I pour out my fears and wonders and thoughts at the feet of my gracious Father. I wonder some times at the size and weight of it all. I feel overwhelmed today by the concerns I carry to Him and I am just one worried about my few. And He cares for us all! And in Him all things hold together. So I will praise Him!

I remember my senior year in high school, Doxology became my favorite song. Pastor John's church caused me to notice it, then I heard it everywhere. Every time I sought an answer that year brimmed full of uncertainty I would sing before and after...

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below, Praise Him above ye heavenly host! Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost!" And as simple as that is it sums it up well.

growing up

"put that in the trash and close the door behind you love" I said from behind the shower curtain. And I listen. And she does. That girl who put her undies on facing the right way all by herself, who almost got her pants on by herself, and who found the armholes in her shirt all by herself. She is a self confirmed "big girl" and I am humbled.

It takes me back to two years ago when I worried about taking a shower. Will she stay asleep? What if she wakes up? What if she rolls over while I'm in the shower and can't role back, will she suffocate? And as I washed away the spilled milk, and spilled sweat, and spilled tears of the last 24 hours God watched her as He always has and always will and that time He chose to sustained her life and breath...

I think of Genevieve and baby Simon cocooned in those sweet first months of stillness and crying and slow days that fly by. Even phone calls seem to overwhelming to achieve and somehow, in two years time, Simon will have miraculously grown and he will be closing doors and throwing things away...

I'm so thankful that memories are preserved without our act of willing it. Sometimes I try to fly so fast that I don't even notice where I am. I'm glad I get to look back and savor anew what perhaps I rushed through for fear of speedy showers and crying babies.

Plagiarism

I wanted to share, or more of catalogue, some of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books. It's a list of things that gave me pause. I wanted to remember that pause and remember how each one made me feel. So here they are.

" 'an hour hence and you will not care. A day hence and you will laugh at it. Don't you remember on earth-there were things too hot to touch with your finger but you could drink them all right? Shame is like that. If you will accept it-if you will drink the cup to the bottom-you will find it very nourishing; but try to do anything else with it and it scalds.' "

" 'Son,' he said, 'ye cannot in your present state understand eternity; when Anodos looked through the door of the Timeless he brought no message back. But ye can get some likeness of it if ye say that both good and evil, when they are full grown, become retrospective. Not only this valley but all their earthly past will have been Heaven to those who are saved. Not only the twilight in that town, but all their life on earth too, will then be seen by the damned to have been Hell. That is what mortals misunderstand. They say of some temporal suffering, "no future bliss can make up for it," not knowing that Heaven, once attained, will work backwards and turn even that agony into a glory. And of some sinful pleasure they say, "Let me have but this and I'll take the consequences": little dreaming how damnation will spread back and back into their past and contaminate the pleasure of the sin. Both processes begin even before death. The good man's past begins to change so that his forgiven sins and remembered sorrows take on the quality of Heaven; the bad man's past already conforms to his badness and is filled only with dreariness. And that is why, at the end of all things, when the sun rises here and the twilight turns to blackness down there, the Blessed will say "We have never lived anywhere except in Heaven," and the Lost, "We were always in Hell." And both will speak truly.' "

" 'The sensualist, I'll allow ye, begins by pursuing a real pleasure, though a small one. His sin is the less. But the time comes on when, though the pleasure becomes less and less and the craving fiercer and fiercer, and though he knows that joy can never come that way, yet her prefers to joy the mere fondling of unappeasable lust and would not have it taken from him. H'd fight to the death to keep it. He'd like well to be able to scratch; but even when he can scratch no more he'd rather itch than not.' "

"Everyone who wishes it does. Never fear. There are only two kinds of people in the end; those who say to God, 'Thy will be done,' and those to whom God says, in the end, 'Thy will be done.' All that are in Hell, choose it. Without that self-choice there could be no Hell. No soul that seriously and constantly desires joy will ever miss it. Those who seek find. To those who knock it is opened."

"The whole difficulty of understanding Hell is that the thing to be understood is so nearly Nothing. But ye'll have had experiences...it begins with a grumbling mood, and yourself still distinct from it; perhaps criticizing it. And yourself, in a dark hour, may will that mood, embrace it. Ye can repent and come out of it again. But there may come a day when you can do that no longer. Then there will be no you left to criticize the mood, nor even to enjoy it, but just the grumble itself going on forever like a machine."

"But the most part seemed to think that the mere fact of having contrived for themselves so much misery gave them a kid of superiority. 'You have led a sheltered life!' they bawled. 'You don't know the seamy side. We'll tell you. We'll give you some hard facts'-as if to tinge Heaven with infernal images and colors had been the only purpose for which they came."

And finally the interaction between Frank, his Tragedian, and the Gracious Woman. Such beautiful pictures reminding me of my sin and the beauty of full repentance to allow transformation of all that has been flooding into all that will be.

Chasing buzzards

"And when birds of prey came down on the carcasses, Abram drove them away."

Doubt and fear. I've been living in this land your brought me to, obeying your commands. I thought I understood a promise, but what I know is that I have no heir and another will inherit. I don't own the land, but am an alien here... How do I know? And God directs. Offer me these things. And so I do. And I wait. And I wait. And I wait.

But God haven't I been waiting enough?! Isn't that what this doubt is about? And you answer my fears by forcing me to do exactly what it is that has been causing my fear? I chase the buzzards off of my offering, that's how long You've made me wait. Finally, as the sun goes down I give up hope of waiting and a deep dark sleep overcomes me.

I (heather) have known this sleep. Praise God it's been years, but I remember the bitter sleep of deep depression; the restless peace that underwhelms when tears have emptied you and there is nothing left for your soul to hope in but an emptying of the heart and mind into sleep. The kind that you wake from not actually refreshed or exhausted, but simply disappointed to find yourself still here.

And it is in this darkness that God assures.

Michael pointed out to me a few months ago that since Abram did fall asleep, only God walked between the halved offerings. The promise hinged only on His faithfulness. The One who does not weary or change. The one of enduring patience to wait until the Amorites inequity is complete and my sin has run it's course and done it's good work (amazing grace that even my sin can be used to do a good work in His economy). It is on Him that the promise relies.

I am uneducated. It seems to me that the promise has to do with geography, and geographically, I'm not concerned with my inheritance... But there are promises that He has made that I wonder at sometimes, as I wildly bat at buzzards consuming my feeble meek offerings; how can they ever come to fruition?! How can this dead branch be grafted into the True Vine? How could this twisted heart bear the true fruit of Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self-Controle? Wholeness? Completion? Perfection?

And those more faithful than I, "not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth." Still waited to receive the new-born realization of their faith. "and all these, though commended through their faith, did not receive what was promised, since God had provided something better for us, that apart from us they should not be made perfect." They died in faithful expectation as a woman waits for labor pains...

I remember falling asleep in the days before Olive's birth in my half empty bed. Gentle Braxton Hicks waiting to become true excruciating labor. And all of my heart welcoming that pain. Then within the labor process even, the fear of insufficiency or inability as you wait for your body to do the involuntary work that will allow you to finally participate in the agony of bringing forth life. And I remember praying in the throws of inescapable pain that I was not yet allowed to assist or participate in that God would somehow be glorified in this work. And the months to follow of chasing the buzzards off my offering. And now in the toddler years as I chase the buzzards away from my fearful obedience hoping that God will meet my offering and make it something worth noting...

And always in the depths of my sleep, when I have stopped watching for a sign He comes.

Not even half way

It's 2:30 on a Thursday. Most of my work still lay before me and I'm already tired. This was a red-letter day as a parent.

I read today that in the 40 years that the Israelites wandered in the desert their feet were never swollen. (Deuteronomy 8:4). I made a 3 stop shopping trip with Olive today and my feet are already swollen. What's worse is my heart is swollen...

I have known for years that I would rather marry a man poor and have the blessing of working through hard times together. I have known that it's better to wander in the wilderness being so visibly sustained by the hand of God as to feed, cloth, and keep swelling at bay as to know without a doubt that He is my provider than to live in the land of plenty in danger of forgetting the hand of God. And yet, here I am in my own wilderness of parenting and I want out.

The first stop was a success; minimal whining about wanting to look at those toys or play with that thing. On to Target. First real break-down of the day = the shopping cart. Olive has decided she is a walking shopper these days which for one item shopping lists is ok, but for our Target tour just isn't going to work. I gave her her options, sit up front or in back. She started whining and crying. New options; get a spank and sit up front or in back or fix your attitude and sit in front or in back... still the tears. So, back to the car we went. Now when she realizes that I'm not bluffing there is a sudden heightening in the moral compass of my two year old. "I'll obey!" "I have a good attitude!" "don't spank me!!!" By now we're getting looks as we head through the parking lot to my car. Inside. Struggle to get her to sit still long enough to talk to her about why we're here back in the car... done, and done and attitude effectively adjusted we make it through Target without more fuss until we exit the building. She never wants to leave anywhere but home.

Final stop, the mall. Why I thought the mall would be best for last I don't know, sure it was arranged in a logical driving pattern but really? A mall at the end? Right. Again with the independent walking shopper thing. This time it was a one stop deal so, ok. Got what we came for, exit our store and she makes a beeline for the fountain. Ok, I'm a gracious mom, we can have a few detours so that Olive can enjoy this trip too. Look at the Easter bunny photo area (those things are still creepy). Ok, time to go. And she takes off at a run... And I have to say, I'm still calm and collected and not actually angry. I recover my devious 2 year old and again place perimeters on this trip: stay with me or I have to carry you. Ok mama... then disobedience.

Now to you and me we know what to expect but for some reason she still thinks I say things I don't mean. I carry her to the car as she starts screaming. Now beyond the embarrassment of the ruckus is the humiliation of the looks of people with raised eye brows as if I'm beating my child... and this is just the part where I'm carrying her! We make it back to the car. Have another chat about that's not ok blah blah blah. Buckle her into her seat and get headed home. She realizes we're headed home and that's when the real screaming starts... oh man! I'm now in an active state of prayer in an attempt to control my blood pressure so I don't have an aneurism and kill us both in a car wreck before we make it home.

Home. Unload the car-still fairly self controlled. Unload my daughter who is now hitting me. We probably spent 20 minutes in our room doing rounds of her confessing that she was yucky but didn't want to apologize. She told me I had to apologize because I was mean. To tell you the truth, I know that somewhere in the middle of our bedroom "discussion" I was mean. I don't really know what to do with her when she gets to that freaking out hitting kicking screaming state and it makes me want to exert my control by restricting her... by using my strength to overcome hers, but that's not how hearts are won.

In the end she was won by my sorrow. I prayed for us; for our yucky hearts. Our hearts that have no hope but in the new life of Christ. And seeing my tears she sobered. Finally she did apologize and we were restored. But man do I have swollen feet (of the heart that is)!

Abide in Me and I in you- Lord I want to believe, help thou my unbelief!

repetition

"Lift the front of your hips and drop your tail over the balls of your feet", "hips!" "balls of your feet!!"

This is pretty much the extent of what I say during barre of my ballet 2 classes right now. I say it over and over for the 30-45 minutes that make up barre. I get tired of saying it and weary of saying it. I try to come up with new ways of saying it so that it might make more sense or finally break thru the teen-age fog of bodily awareness into an actual practice of continually checking placement and weight distribution on an individual, personal level....

My life is a lot about repeating right now. Olivia asks "why" often and about the same things often. You'd think as a person who has wanted to be a mommy all my life and has wanted to teach and instruct all of my life that I would be thrilled to find my life engulfed in endless "lessons" in why and how. I in fact find myself impatient most of the time.

I was reminded yesterday of Jesus patience. I think often I listen to the disciples responses and think they must've had the IQ of a 2 year old because they really didn't get what seems so obvious to us now. I mean, come on!

The story of Mary Magdalene at the tomb. She'd waited all Sabbath doing I can't even imagine what... it was unlawful for her to dress her savior's body on the Sabbath so she waited. I can't even imagine how long that day must have felt. Then she gets to the tomb before it's even light the next day and he's gone. I was sort of curious to see exactly how many times Jesus had predicted his crucifixion and resurrection, so I did a little research today. I decided to stay consistent to only look at John's account since that's the one that talks about Mary Magdalene and then of the disciple's unbelief when she tells them that he is gone from the tomb. Turns out there are at least 11 times Jesus foretells his death and subsequent ascension (John 8:28; 10:17; 12:7, 23-36; 13:31-35; 14:2, 18-19; 16:4b-11, 16-20, and 28; and 17:11). And these are only the times when it's fairly clear what he's talking about. Now to be fair to Mary, she wasn't present for most of these, so she's at least a little off the hook right? lol. Still, I think if I'd been Jesus, when I appeared in that upper room where they were all hiding out shaking in their boots I would've done some serious eye rolling and palming my forehead and "oh my gosh!!! I told you...". But no. He just loves them and re-assures them, giving them His Spirit.

Ugh! And I feel I have some right to be frustrated because I have to repeat colors with Olive? Or potty training lessons? Or placement corrections in class? Of what worth are those things compared to Christ's repetition? Oh for patience and humility. Oh! to be like Christ in his death and resurrection... and so to love repetition.

Monday

There's something wonderful about a Monday. And, that statement is funny too because I used to hate Mondays. But this week Monday represents the opening of a new, and hopeful, and full of possibility week.

There was a storm this weekend. There was also an inner storm this weekend. They have both done their good work and left the world more beautiful for their time spent here.

Isn't it amazing how clean the air is after a good rain? How blue the sky seems when the wind has blown all the clouds away. How sweet affection and friendship is when discord has previously set you momentarily at odds.

And then storms don't come out of nowhere do they? They are generally seasonal, and connected to the important work of growing and nurturing, watering and flourishing. It would do me well to remember this fact. I might be more encouraged by storms in my life when they hit me.

On a less flowery note, I am struggling with the idea of enforcing my will. I know how to do it in a class-room, and that is for a very limited space of time for a specific reason, but somehow it seems too selfish when it's me forcing my will upon my daughter. I know only too well that my will is usually informed by my selfish desires. I want her to get dressed in under 30 minutes. I want her to eat in under an hour. I want her to take a nap when I put her down so that I don't have to awaken a dragon to get to work on time... These are things I want to make my life easier and more enjoyable. I like efficiency. I like organization. I am frustrated with my 2 year old dominated world. I understand that it's important for her to learn that the world revolves around the sun not around Olivia, it's important that she does eat and does get a nap, but I often feel selfish insisting it be done on my timeline... It's hard for me to evaluate if I am looking to the good of Olivia or if I'm looking to my fleshly desires. Pray for me.

And now, to soak in some more of my Monday. :)

Symphonic

Imagine the different sections of an orchestra. Sometimes they all play, sometimes certain sections are featured and the others support, sometimes they are discordant to make us ache for the forthcoming resolve when the harmony brings such relief... my life of late has been a soft melody gently floating between the different orchestral areas and smoothly passing off from one to another. This weekend marked a climax where they all played passionately and with full force and to tell you the truth I didn't enjoy it.... don't get me wrong, my weekend was great. All the circumstances were well orchestrated, but there was a stirring in my soul that I had to address and it was humbling and tiring.

The first layer I suppose would have to be my new beau Michael. I have been so enjoying getting to know him more and all the wonderful things that come with getting to know and grow affection for a good man. How could this be a bad thing you ask? Only in this, as we drove home all dressed up and decked out in our finest after a perfect day at the Gala we'd been to, I realized that right now he still saw me like this. I am in his eyes still at my finest, on my best behavior, and I have chemicals on my side working full time to create a smoke and mirrors effect on his brain and mine... but one of these days will he look over and wonder what he ever saw in me? Will he see the constant noise that rules in my brain and feel that it's just not worth it? How long before he sees the real me, the one that years ago I became exhausted of living with, and beg out?

This symphonic movement is overlapped by my past. I am walking with a friend down a road in her life that I have been down in my past. I am so thankful that the Lord is using my ugly past to bring hope, strength, and gospel truth to one so dear. I am encouraged that I may possibly be able to encourage her and keep her from walking out lengths of the road that I did tread. While there is such hope here, I am also humbled to realize that I am weak. But for the strength of His applied grace to me I would be there again in an instant.

And back to the first layer answering this unsteady melody. Michael asked a question about my past as I was involved in a church while living in sin....I felt defensive and didn't want to explore why, but eventually did...

And now the sections play together echoing and answering and I am broken. Even today, even while I am dwelling in the richness of His grace I know that if it were up to me I would stray again "prone to wander Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love...." This is why He is insane to love me and why Michael would be insane to stay.

And who will save me from myself? The fearful reality that no battle is ever won-and-done. That we are never safe even once saved. And so let me chose wisely the foods I choose to feast on, actively choosing to cloth myself in the Gospel every second of every day so that I might not be paralyzed by my fear of failure or betrayal, but rather proclaim gladly His salvation. "Here's my heart Lord, take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above"

restraint

I have a two year old. Any of you who have ever had one, or taught one, or even baby-sat one know that you ought to pity me. Life is a constant battle with a two year old. Some battles are over character, these are exhausting, but not frightening (a two year old's version of un-virtuous is undesirable and unenjoyable but not horrific).

Other battles have stronger immediate consequences... for instance the last time I visited Portland I went to breakfast with a dear friend and her significant other. It was this cool place where you chose your pancake components and then cooked your own pancakes on a hot electrical griddle inlaid in the table. I knew that this was a high risk activity with an Olivia, but decided she was old enough to follow my directions. I warned her about the "hot, hot, owie" that would happen if she touched it. "no no" and such. The one second I turn my head to place my order with the waitress Olivia reaches out to the very center of the hot plate and plants a full open palm right down. She is of course immediately "repentant" and deeply grieved. I felt horrible. I had failed to do my job. I had laid down the law and she had run right against it to her own detriment.

There are more and more of these sorts of situations encountered by us daily now. The strange temptation to run out into the street, run away from me in a store, and other frightening desires often lead us into full out "wars". She becomes irate that I won't indulge her in her desire for liberation and works herself into a frenzy of self pity and woe. I often have to physically restrain her to control her irrational and frantic desire to express her dissatisfaction with my law for her. She hates being restrained.... HATES IT. If I so much as hold down her hands to keep her from hitting me or herself she yells bloody murder as if I were beating her or twisting her arm behind her... Finally, eventually, whether because she calms herself, because I transition from restraint to embrace, or because I leave her in a crib or other safe-haven to work out the remainder of her fit, she does calm down and we are able have an actual, productive understanding of why her actions as a whole were not okay. I hope that some day these will lead to an appreciation of the rules I've laid down, but only God knows.

I think of one of these situations of restraint and tantrum when I read Galatians 3:23-26. captive, imprisoned, guardian are all words that make me think of my relationship to Olive. And what a hope! That in the end it is for the truest liberation! Sonship (or daughter-ship I guess as the case were) without a necessary guardian thru and by faith. Putting on Christ, putting on His mind, His heart, knowing His will because I know Him... my hope is in getting there. I'm so thankful that He is more patient with me than I am with Olive. I often fight His restraint... So thankful for His justification of me in Christ.

Resistance

I've been thinking about resistance lately. It is unavoidable in life; it's a reality of our physicality, and our emotion and intellect. I commented to a friend a couple of days ago that I've noticed about myself that if I have a strong negative reaction to some idea, it's usually because there is some truth to it that I resist accepting; resistance. I love truths that I come across teaching dance that resonate with where my heart is walking and where Christ is changing me.

I have been working with a group of pre/early teens for a bit over a year now. I regularly encourage these girls to create their own resistance. Fight yourself. Create dynamics within yourself by fighting your natural inclination to give in to the forces at work on your body. You see, in dance you encounter the resistance that physics presents to every body. Gravity and friction create entropy, the winding down, the natural resistance that our bodies hit when we tell our legs to lift above head level or our legs to carry our bodies in a jump through the air. We encounter Newton's first law of motion every time we nearly run into the wall once we've finally worked up enough momentum to actually get our bodies to fly successfully through the air. Even in the most basic of ballet steps done at the very beginning of class, the plie, gravity dictates that going down is much easier than coming back up. With all of these cases a basic fight is required. Naturally, we use our easiest, most accessible tools, butt and quads. While you can get through it all this way you will end up horribly imbalanced and eventually injured. An over-development of the quads will give you knee problems and as the quad group pulls on your iliopsoas it will casue back pain, which will be contributed to by your overdeveloped gluteous maximus (aka butt). Ideal is not natural. Healthy is not natural. Balanced is most un-natural...

This need for resistance within our dancing bodies is but an echo of my need for resistance in the heart. There are forces at work on me which necessitate and indeed demand resistance from me. The most obvious is my two year old daughter (or almost any other human interaction in the right context). Daily I meet a battle where I must resist in some way or another; do I opt for the way of least resistance and risk my emotional malformation by using the tools most natural or easily accessed by me? Do I rely on my anger as a "muscle" to empower my correction of Olive? Or even as I am resisting her force against me do I resist even within myself to use those small, easily-overlooked "muscles" of the heart that can relax and balance the natural reaction... I will be formed, will I chose the right degree of dynamic? Then is the added mystery. Only by the Holy Spirit's work as teacher and corrector can I hope to find and then use those small muscles. I cannot ignore or balance my natural reactions by myself because let's be honest, suppression is not balance either; It's not by not using my quads that balance happens, but by finding the right muscles to counter with... aah, for balance.

And there are days. There are days when it seems to be easy, where nothing feels tight or inhibited, where it seems to flow through and from me. As easily as breathing, I can find my balance in pase or in correcting Olive. Then, for no apparent reason, I wake up the next morning feeling tight and cannot for the life of me find my center. And there is no formula! We are organic, unique, and changing beings within and without. There is no set regiment for centering your body or your heart. I am thankful for the teachers in my life who call my attention to my imbalance and encourage and question my resistance of choice.

Graaaaaandpa!

This blog has been rolling around in my head as a vague feeling for more than a month now. I met a wonderful man named Ben at my church recently and our first real conversation started to put words to it; nothing that we talked about, just the way we talked. He reminded me of my grandpa. I thought how funny it was that I know virtually nothing about Ben, but just talking to him, hearing him make light of himself, and speak lovingly and reverently and longingly about his recently laid to rest wife.... it made me feel I know him. It made me love him and made me love my grandpa more.

This thread of thought about "knowing" someone tangled with the idea of babies, which tangled with the idea of Emmanuel. I love looking at pictures of Olive when she was just born. I remember the feeling when my midwife laid her on my stomach and I thought, "no, I don't know you. I love you, just moved virtual mountains for you, would live and would die for you but I don't know you". I think it's amazing now that I know her a little better for the two years we've spent together, shaping and re-shaping each other, that I can look back at those pictures and see HER, all that she is now, in those little eyes and little restless helpless hands. Then, think about Jesus, Emmanuel, God made flesh so we could come and know.

I have always wondered at Jesus statement that we ought to come to Him as little children (Luke 18:17). What does a child know or understand? Does that mean that we should be simple? Does that mean we should take things for granted? I think of my Grandpa. I remember sitting in the front room of their house watching him to see if he had woken up from his nap yet. My Grandpa is a VERY early to rise type and so used to take a nap right after work. If we were there when this nap happened I always itched for him to wake up. I remember peeking around the corner to see if he was up and then happily joining him on the couch as he shook of the groggies. I liked playing with his lion head slippers :) I knew my grandpa then. I loved my grandpa then. I knew that he was there for me, he was dependable, he loved me, and valued and could take care of me. I knew very little back then about why my grandpa was who he was, or even a list of personality traits or preferences... but because I loved him then I have grown to know him more since then. I think this is what it's like with Christ. I think the same confidence I had in knowing my grandpa when I was 5 is the same confidence I can approach Christ with now, being just grown up enough to realize that I don't know much about Him, but not at all doubting that I know Him. And I am thankful for the Graaaaandpa's and the Ben's in this world that let me get to know them, and then know them more, and pray that this widening of knowledge would be reflective of my widening of the knowledge of Christ in my life.

re-birth

I am being joined to a church body this weekend. In the preparatory process, I talked with the pastor about what the church believed and what I believed to make sure it was a good fit and that there was no flippancy or ignorance in the matter. I was then interviewed by two of the church elders to confirm and acknowledge my sincerity in faith and consistency of belief. I was asked by one of the Elders if I'd been born again. Now, I know where this phrase comes from, John 3:1-21 tells the story of pharisee named Nicodemus who came secretly (to avoid being judged and criticized by his fellow pharisees) to ask Jesus what was the deal... Jesus responds that unless he is born again he can't possibly see the kingdom of heaven. Of course there's more but you can read it yourself.

The question caught me off guard for a few reasons, not the least of these being that the phrase "born again" is not largely used in modern day reformed theology. I was just sort of unsure how to respond and so echoed what Paul so perfectly states in Romans 7:4-6 that I am constantly at war with myself and that war is evidence that I am being renewed, sanctified, redeemed, that I have received the spirit who's work it is to work out my rebirth. Not that I have yet attained, but am seeking after.

I have been shocked by some quick responses of others in the affirmative that, "Yes I have been born again. Jesus says you must and so yes". I am fearful of this response. I hold back such a quick affirmation for fear of being the rich young man described in Matthew 19:16-22. He so confidently responds that yes, he has kept the law perfectly from his youth, God gave the rules, he said yes... then Jesus breaks it down to show him that he can't have possibly kept the rules, he's far too selfish.

I have not loved the Lord God with all my heart, soul, and mind, and because of that truth, I can say that I have not love my neighbor as myself. Have I been born again? yes, in a thousand moments, where my thoughts were illumined by the Spirit, where my actions were redeemed by the Truth. Yet, I am not yet the second Adam. I cling to the hope that one day we will be made like Him for we shall see Him as he is, and I believe that THAT will be our full, total, and complete re-birth. Then we shall see the kingdom of God. And even now this work is being done. I quickly affirm that I am involved in a mystery, but Lord, let me be slow to answer that I know anything other than the fact that you are God and you are Good.