The Brave Unfamiliar...Continued

I've been thinking about what it means to face the brave unfamiliar. How does a person who has had only one way of approaching God for most of her life walk away from what she knows? It's not the God I know that I am walking away from. It's those old ways, the nerveous ways, of being in relationship with Him that I want to lay to rest. I've been thinking about how best to do that.

So I have been praying a couple of specific things daily: Holy Spirit, please lead me to truth. Holy Spirit, please reveal to me the love of the Father. Then I say out loud so I can hear myself say it: I rely on you to lead me to truth and I rely on you to reveal the love of the Father to me. I've never said that kind of thing about relying on Him before. I guess that makes it an unfamiliar idea. Ok. Progress.

I've also been thinking about how much fear motivates me. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of losing love and affection. Fear of messing up. Fear of time running out. Fear of my own shame. The list goes on. In my walk with God these past twenty years, fear has been as present and as strong a motivator as love. I hate to admit, but it's true. I studied the Bible for hours every day as a kid because I wanted to know Him more, yes, but also because I wanted to stay on His good side. I traded in relationship for performance. And the thing that kills me is that I knew what I was doing. I have known all along, but I couldn't let go of the fear because I couldn't let go of control because I could never accept that He made me good enough. So I made up my own rules for my own game and I measured my worth by how well I played. And I pushed Him away.

I have had this longing, deep and all-consuming, for as long as I can remember: To know the love of God in freedom and without fear. The problem is that there is only one way to freedom: Truth. And truth doesn't play by my rules.

The truth is fear is a waste of time. I know I've let it waste a lot of mine. Thank God tomorrow is a new day and His mercy will be waiting for me when I wake up.

My Two Favorite Places Besides Belgium

Ever since I was a kid, I have had this dream, a Big Dream, to live in Franklin, Tennessee and Canada. For those of you who have sort of grown used to having me around, you may blame my love of these distant lands on contemporary Christian music and Anne of Green Gables. As a young girl of ten or elven, being the innocent dreamer that I was, I was pretty sure that if I moved to Tennessee, I'd move in next to Amy Grant on one of the neighboring rolling hills of good old Franklin. And I was just as sure that I would be just as spellbound by the Lake of Shining Waters as Anne was on Prince Edward Island (and maybe I'd even meet my Gilbert there, too). So, I set my sights on the great beyond to the East and North. By the time I turned thirteen, I was a goner. My heart had flown away to far off places. My dream was no longer the silly musings a child. Somewhere along the way, it turned into a Plan--The Great Someday. And as for all of this Southern California business, I knew deep down in my soul that, just like Dolly Parton, I was only Travellin' Through.

I know that some of you would like me to take this opportunity to convey that I have grown out of my foolish childhood fancies, but this I cannot do. I have a feeling, a feeling born of a dream, that I was made to roam the roads between Highway 40 and Highway 65 and to breathe in the fresh, Canadian air. Lord willing, The Great Someday will happen...someday. In the meantime, I supppose I will bide my time while lounging at the beach this weekend.

The Brave Unfamiliar

I wish I knew what it was that keeps me nerveous around the God of the universe after so many years. I have walked with Him a long time, but still so often I feel like a shy, timid child desperate for a mother's skirt to hide behind when He is near. My prayers are monologues I continually tweak for the listening pleasure of my audience of One. Sometimes I tire of hearing my own quiet voice in the car praying through my list of items, like rosary beads, each one. I yearn for intimacy and tell Him so when I am feeling brave, but I retreat back into my nerveous familiar as quickly as I can. I guess I'm safe there. My rigid routines are well-established there. I can get along just fine there. Only I wish I didn't have to. Because I believe that the God of the universe is a God of wild and tender love for me. And for you. I believe that He moved Heaven and Earth to get our attention. He gently, kindly shakes our shoulders with images of the Cross, begging us to open our eyes and see. Pleading with us to lay down all of the things we do to try to reach Him and realize that He has already taken care of it. He doesn't need our help. His shed blood needs no reinforcements. I know this is true and yet so often I try to give Him what I think He wants from me. Even when I know He isn't interested in those works of my hands, I offer them to Him anyways because it's what I know. What I know is safe and it keeps Him at arm's length.

That's just not good enough anymore. I've been playing in puddles in the mud while He stands off in the distance, where the water meets the shore, waiting for me to join Him. I see Him waiting and hope catches in my throat. Its time I leave behind the nerveous familiar, my mud puddles, go to Him and face the brave unfamiliar.

Love in the Dark

I want to be brave. Brave like the girl who glows love from her face. Who doesn't shy away from new things or new people or things that come up that change her plans and foil her carefully laid schedule. Brave like the girl who opens her arms wide to dissappoinment when it comes because love from the Father's hand is love in any form, even the form that speaks of dying before living. Dying so that the living can come. Sometimes the dying of one or two dreams lay ashes down that form the foundation, the very bottom layer, of suprises too good for guessing. Suprises that eternity keeps secret even thought it knows and is bursting to tell but for the look on the Great Surpriser's face. He sees what the girl cannot and He urges her to hope. He wills her to be brave. Not only because He knows how much she wants to be called by that name, but because He knows that what lies ahead of her will break her heart for love and build it again for love and for love, one must be brave. For now, love is in the waiting and the hoping and the silence. For now, love is in the dark. It will not always be so, but while it is there, so will I be. And He with me.

Here is the Battle Again

Here is the battle again. Here is that old opponent of mine, Hopelessness, with its boxing gloves on in the corner of the ring. Its over there on one side and I'm here on the other, wondering in this brief moment of calm how much longer we'll last. And wondering which one of us will fall first. We've been at it now more rounds than I can count. My face shows the marks of its punches, well-executed and well-positioned. I'm covered with the red stain of dried blood from past rounds and fresh blood from the latest banter back and forth. I look over there to see what damage I've done. Hoping to see some evidence that there is more than my own tenacity (or foolishness) to account for the fact that I'm still standing. Hoping to see signs of defeat on the face of my foe. It catches my eye. For a moment, the two of us are the only ones in the room. The voices around my adversary are silent. The noise of the crowd and the words of the people I have in my corner are muted by the lock of our eyes on each other. Then, with evil lighting up its face like a match when it catches fire, it smirks at me, as if daring me to come back for more. I return the smirk with gritted teeth and clenched fists. This time the fire is mine and it begins to boil beneath the surface of my skin. All of a sudden, I can remember every punch, every jab of every round we've fought. I see them for what they are. Lies. Fears. Perfect pictures of people who have what I want. Doubts about God. Questions about His heart towards me. ls He really all that interested in me? Does He really care about the desires of my heart? Can I really trust Him? Low blows from skilled hands. And just as clearly, I can see the next round and the one after that and the one after that. I can see my battered body, barely standing, staggering back to the center of the ring over and over again, regaining just enough strength in the in between to keep up the fight. What is worse, I can see that sinister smirk always on its face. In all the battles behind us and all the ones we have yet to fight. That taunting, arrogant expression it tried to mask until now, to keep me in the dark. To keep up the facade. But now that I've seen it, I know. I know that for my foe, this battle was never one to win. It was only one to fight. For my foe, the victory came every time I stepped back in to center ring for another round. And here I was thinking that I was getting somewhere. I was just playing into its hand. That smirk gave away my adversary's secret. And it gave me the upper hand. Here is the battle again. But this time it will play out differently. Because here I am, laying down my fighting gloves and walking away. I walk away knowing with certainty that my enemy, that old Hopelessness with a smirk on its face, never stood a chance and never will. Hope is mine. I will take it with me as I go.

Timidity

I think I understand. I live inside of my head the majority of the time. What I mean is that I process, feel, think, look at life, look at myself, look at people, from inside. Introspection. Introversion. It is like I am never fully present in the outside moment. There is always at least a part of me disengaged. I don't yet know how to control this or how to make it a workable system.

The other part of it is that I am one of those timid types. Whether from childhood or from the way i'm wired, I have taken the one-down approach with myself in relation to everyone else and God for as long as I can remember. I am in my head all the time and in my head there is a critic. I want to be proud of myself. I want to be free. But this is not going to happen as long I let the critic remain.

In writing, I feel this desperate need to pull from the deepest place and produce something from there. This is the only honest way. I can never seem to do it, though. I think its because the honesty has to go through the filter of the critic before it comes out.

So as long as I let the critic remain, I will be unable to produce honest writing, I will never be proud of myself, never content with who I am or satisfied with where I am. Unless I change my default from timidity to something more in line with the truth, I will probably not see very much change in the way that I do life. I will not see much change in the way that I relate to people or God and certainly not in the way that I live and breathe in my own skin.

At the same time, I find myself in a bit of a predicament in a practical, tangible sort of way. I thought my life, at this point, would be about marriage and babies and the things that coincide with marriage and babies like house-cleaning and cooking and doctors appointments and visits to the in-laws. But, as it turns out, I was wrong. And I forgot to make a contingency plan. So here I am, wondering what to do now. Not proud of myself, except that I play the drums in a band. I am always in my head and I am always at war with myself in my head. These circumstances don't help. Its probably for the best that I'm not married with babies yet, because I would have assumed that they would have silenced the critic and they wouldn't have. This critic is in me. It is mine. And it is mine to send packing.

I don't know what to do next. There is the external what do I do and the internal what do I do. And unfortunately niether of them are flashing a solution to me in bright lights. I think sometimes its ok not to know. Sometimes not knowing can be what is best for us because it makes us dependent on the One who knows. But that dependence can turn into a cop-out in lazy hands, too.

This is what I know. Timidity is what makes me so anxious. Its what keeps me from trusting God. Whether or not I forget all about this five minutes from now or tomorrow or next week, this is the truth. Timidity keeps me in the confines of a child needing permission before love. It keeps me ever wrestling the giant that won't ever go away. Because the giant is me.

The Bible

Lately, I have been in some sort of funk. A rough spot. I could try to explain, but I can't make sense of it, even to myself. It is unfamiliar and unpleasant and I have been unfamiliar and unpleasant in it. Hopefully it will go away soon.

Because of the funk, or maybe to defy it, I have been spending a lot of time memorizing Scripture. I used to do this a lot when I was younger, but haven't as much in recent years. I'm making my way through Psalm 119 because it is all about God's word. The law of the Lord. Longing for it. Needing it. Walking in its ways. I figure if I get this Word and keep it inside of my head, then it will trickle down to the rest of me and I will be ok. In Psalm 1, David talks about how the person who delights in the law of the Lord is like a tree planted by rivers of water. And in Jeremiah 17, there is another tree analogy. It says a man who trusts and hopes in the Lord will be like a tree planted by rivers of water that spreads out its roots by the river. It isn't afraid of heat or anxious about drought because it is so connected to the river. I want to be like that tree. I want my roots to be in Him and in His Word so that I will be grounded, not fragile. Those roots will make this funk trivial.

I first stumbled upon those verses in Jeremiah (17:7,8) a couple of years ago. They made a mark on me. I started the lines below then. I guess its sort of a prayer.

A Tree By the River

Make me like a tree by the river
whose leaves of green will ever grow
make me like a tree by the river
who finds its strength in the river's flow

Make me like a tree by the river
who fears no loneliness or shame
make me like a tree by the river
who calls itself by the river's name

Make me like a tree by the river
who worries not about its need
make me like a tree by the river
whose roots reach down to the river's deep

Make me like a tree by the river
that stands strong in drought, wind, and rain
make me like a tree by the river
whose life began when the river came

Make me like a tree by the river
who knows from where it's glory comes
make me like a tree by the river
who shows the world what the river's done

Prayer

I have struggled with prayer for as long as I have been a pray-er. Every day, thousands of days, I have prayed and trudged through the minutes until the amen. I used to pray with worship music as my backdrop. I would pray and pace the for floor every day and most of the time I think I enjoyed it because the music helped me to feel close to God and it helped to sort of stir the passion for the subjects of my prayers. For the past several years, I have ceased with the accompaniment and more often than not, I start my day, after having spent a brief chunk of time with God, more dry and frustrated than when I woke up. Last week, as I was parking my car at work, I had a thought that I think may solve 20 years worth of problems. It's so simple.

I don't pray so that I can feel close to God. I pray because the Bible says to pray. I don't pray so that I can feel connected to Him. I pray to be obedient. I have looked at prayer as a chance to have an emotional encounter with God. The better and stronger the emotion, the more validated would be the closeness of my relationship with Him. I do think that God wants to have close and intimate relationship with us, and I'm sure there are times when that intimacy will be expressed through strong feelings, but I bet our obedience matters more to Him than our emotion.

Sometimes, the feelings may follow the prayers. Probably, they won't more than they do. This takes some pressure off. I don't need to create times of intimate connection with God every day, at least not in the way that I have been trying to. My job is to pray with an obedient and humble heart. That is all. If the close feelings come, great. If they don't, they don't. My relationship with God will not be so fragile as to fall apart in the dry or quiet days. I guess I have been going about this all wrong for most of my life. How did I miss something that was right in front of me?

Sadness

When I look at my life, and the girl at center stage, I see sadness there. I see a kid who carried a heavy load and who hoped, like all kids do, in spite of it. Eventually, the weight of the load grew too heavy for the weight of the hope and one of them had to go. Sadly, it was hope that dropped to the ground as she went on her way. As proof of the heaviness that won, she didn't even notice when hope was gone. This girl didn't always make the best choices. She preferred to walk alone as much as she could. She developed the habit of hiding her face, her feelings, and her deepest, truest self from everyone, even from herself. For years, she went on this way and she opened her heart to only two things: the pages that she wrote on and the music that she played. They knew her when she wept. They were there when she was lost. They offered friendship that was safe and comfort without cost. So she wrote and she wrote and she played and she played. The music gave hope and the pages, escape. They made her load lighter, but they could never remove it. It wasn't their job. What she really needed was something that scared her. Something she feared would make the weight of the load too heavy for her and what would she do then? How would she manage? She had found a way that seemed to work. She felt joy and hope sometimes and hardly even noticed the bricks on her back anymore. That old Truth would come and make her face the sorrow of her heart. It would tell her she was meant to stand straighter, not burdened as she was. It would tell her she was made to be brave and free and loved. It would ruin everything. So she pushed away what frightened her and she convinced herself that her way was the best way. She was wrong. What she really needed was honesty and truth from her head to her toes. From the light in her eyes to the marrow in her bones. She needed them because they would have made room for hope. They would have told her its ok to be sad. And then the sadness would have passed. And in its place, somewhere deeper than the weight of the load could reach, would have been hope that lasts. She thought she knew what was best, but she was wrong. The sadness snuck in and it latched on. Now the girl is a woman and she's fighting for a way to be free. I know she's going to find a way, because finding it is everything.

The Sun Comes Up in Riverside

Some nights its a hit or a miss. So far, this one has been a miss. Its 5:45am right now and I have yet to sleep a minute. Not for lack of trying. I have imagined myself asleep, willed myself to sleep, tried to trick myself into sleeping. No such luck. This night comes to me a few days post-wisdom teeth removal surgery, which afforded me the opportunity of being at the mercy first of my dentist and nitris oxide, then of swollen cheeks and pain pills. Throw in some heart matters of deep magnitude and exhaustion down to my bones, and there you have my story of late.

There is a quote from a book I read several years ago that really kind of hit me square in the face when I read it and it has been in the back of my mind all this time. I've been thinking about it lately. Its by Andrew Murray from a book called Waiting on God.

"He stirs up your nest. He disappoints your hope. He brings down your confidence. He makes you fear and tremble, as all your strength fails and you feel utterly weary and helpless. And all the while, He is spreading His strong wings for you to rest your weakness on and offering His everlasting Creator-strength to work in you. And all He asks is that you sink down in your weariness and wait on Him. Allow Him in His Jehovah strength to carry you as you ride upon the wings of His omnipotence."

For me, all of this is about coming to the end of myself and my grasp at control. Its about relying on God more than I rely on myself. This kind of thing doesn't come easily to me. Never has, but I'm determined to learn. I'm determined not to stay in this old self-reliant fortress any longer, where no one can reach me. Sleepless nights are out of my control. Pain in my mouth is out of my control. Knowing how things will end is out of my control. There is a special kind of freedom that comes with letting your hands hang limp and looking to God with more questions than answers, more sadness than hope. This is an honest place to be. And what better chance to really see the strength of God come through for me, than when my reserves are depleted? The Bible says in my weakness, He is strong. I think I'd like to take Him up on the offer.

Fighting Words

I've got my fighting gloves on, folks. Me against the mattresses. Me against 27 years of being afraid and being afraid and trying really hard not to be afraid...and being afraid again.

I feel it - the fear - slithering across my skin like a giant snake, weaving in and out and around until I can hardly stand beneath the weight of it. Crippling, paralyzing, fear, going in for the kill. I hate it. I hate it enough to do something about it.

But why would this time be different from any other time, all those millions of times, that I resolved to trust God and succeeded for about 10 minutes before pushing Him away again? (I am trying to come up with a really great answer to this question.)

Maybe I just gave up too quickly and too easily. Going to the mattresses is about not taking no for an answer. It's about putting on the fiercest fighting face you've got. It's about going after the thing you want so hard that either you win it or you die trying. I can do that. I will do that.

I will trust and not be afraid. These are my fighting words.

Self-Sufficiency = Torment

"Who walks in darkness and has no light?
Let him trust in the name of the Lord
And rely upon his God.
Look, all you who kindle a fire,
Who encircle yourselves with sparks:
Walk in the light of your fire
And in the sparks you have kindled--
This you shall have from My hand:
You shall lie down in torment."
Isaiah 50:10,11

I have been encircling myself with sparks lately. For the past twenty years or so. Against my better judgement, like a compulsion, I labor over the sticks, rubbing them together, hoping for friction, until my hands are blistered and bleeding and I can barely keep at it a minute longer. Then I start to see some smoke rise. I did it. Then I do it again and again and again until I am safely inside the light of my own fire. The only problem is once I'm inside it, I'm inside it alone.

This has been a rough week for me, a dark week. Two hospitals in seven days. One for me, one for my sister. A brithday that didn't quite go as planned. Anxieties. Pain. Lots of unsettledness. So, I have done what I do best. I've rubbed those sticks together. I've tried to stay in control. I've done all I could to make myself feel safe. For me, what that means is pulling in and shutting down. I push Him away.

Everybody walks in darkness every once in awhile. When we do, we have two choices. One, we can trust in the name of the Lord and rely upon our God. Or two, we can do our best to take care of ourselves on our own, apart from Him, walking in the light of our own fire. When you look at it that way, seems like it should be an easy choice.

For as long as I can remember, the greatest longing of my heart has been to have unbroken intimacy with God. And for as long as I can remember, it has eluded me. I think I'm beginning to understand that the only thing standing in the way of that is me. And my circle of self-sufficient fire.

215 N

I was driving to work this morning. Praying. Thinking about what it means to trust God, really trust Him. I realized so clearly, more clearly than ever before, that we don't trust God because He promises not to let us hurt. We don't trust Him because He protects us from bad things happening. Death. Disappointed hopes. Heartache. Flat tires. Restlessness of heart and mind. He doesn't promise us life without pain and He doesn't always make the ache go away. He doesn't always break the silence. And He lets us wiggle and squirm inside our skin from time to time.

But just as clearly as I realized all of this, I knew. I knew with the kind of knowing that lands somewhere too deep for words. And something happened--something I've been waiting for for a long, long time and I didn't even know it.

My heart settled on Him.

That is my final answer. The end of my story, or just the beginning. I feel sort of free. Strange. Like the pieces just fell into place. In a moment, on the freeway, my heart settled on Him and peace came.

Lessons Learned

I should have known. Ground turkey that has a green tint and smells slightly minty should probably be thrown out instead of added to spaghetti sauce. I really should have known this after eating a little of that spaghetti for lunch yesterday and having, how do i say it...an unpleasant experience...at Target, 30 minutes later. Without giving you more detail than you want to know (believe me), I'll just say that the aforementioned incident involved me, the Target ladies' room, and a customer in the Target ladies' room chuckling these words to a fellow hand-washer as I listened from behind closed stall: "I can hardly wait to get out of here." I definitely should have known better than to decide to eat some more spaghetti last night for dinner, just to be absolutely sure I knew what the culprit was. Well, I can safely say that I am sure now and rest assured that spaghetti met its rightful demise a little while ago when I shoved it down the garbage disposal. I should have known better, but instead, I learned my lesson the hard way. So what is the moral of this story, you ask? Don't eat bad meat. Especially not repeatedly.

A Settled Heart

Maybe there will come a time when all the jumbled, awkward pieces will fall into perfect place. Questions will be answered or forgotten in a Better Knowing. Peace will fill the corners of our minds. Hearts will be settled, deeply. I have a feeling that I'm not the only one to long for this.

My heart is not settled. Not yet. Most of the time, especially lately, there is mostly striving and frustration there. Restlessness. Big restlessness. Someone shared an idea with me recently. My loose restating of it is this: it is when we fumble our unanswered questions and jumbled pieces in hands that can't seem to grip that we are most Vulnerable to the Lover of our souls. Isn't that what we really need the most? To be vulnerable to Him? We want a formula to follow and success to boast. He wants us stripped of the sufficiencies we carry, dependant on Him and the way that He loves us. We want to offer Him polished plans and capable hands. He just wants us, weary and spent if necessary, in need of Him and only Him.

I have never been as restless with life as I am now. I have also never been more aware of my need of Him. Maybe I'm not in such a bad place after all.

Time

The minutes pass so quickly once the sun comes up. So quickly that I have to frantically gather them all in my arms until I am full of them. Some will spill over onto the ground and if I'm not careful I will step on a few and waste them by the clumsy weight of my body on my feet. The minutes that don't spill over will remain within my focused grasp and I will not let them out of my sight if I can help it. I will not lose anymore than I have to. Then, I will distribute them into their respective slots. I will count them over and over and over again just to make sure they are still there. I will juggle them, begrudge them, love them. I will worry over them as I watch them diminish and with them, my firm grip will fade. Then I will sleep and gather strength for the next day's ration.

Paradigm Shift

The other day I came across this line in a book that talked about how a man, whose wife had Alzheimer's, responded to the reality that God might choose not to answer his prayers for her healing. This is what he said: “If He doesn't, then somehow this suffering is useful for a good purpose I can't see. And when I pray that those purposes will be accomplished in her life and mine, I'm confident He'll answer that prayer. Of that I have no doubt.” I put a star next to those words on the page. Sometimes, I feel panic when I look at the picture of my life as it is now held against the picture I had antipated, hoped for, planned on. In those moments, I let fear paralyze me. And fear, when it has taken root, turns to despair and I am cut off from God by my own hand. Those moments don't last long, but they are enough to make me take notice of the state of my heart. Do I believe that God is good? Yes. Do I believe that He loves me? Yes. Well then maybe I am going about this all wrong. I keep on thinking about my plans and my dreams and my timeline, my purposes and desires. What if what really matters is that God work out His purposes for my life? And what if He is doing that right now? If I say that I trust Him, that means believing He is working all things together for good whether I have the dream or not. It means not letting my fulfilled desires or answered prayers be the measure of His goodness towards me. His ways are higher than mine and sometimes, they're past finding out. But they are always, always good and full of love. My prayer is that God will fulfill His purposes for my life His way, not mine. And that I'll trust Him with all my heart in the process.

Good Days Ahead

According to the calendar, Fall began on Wendesday of last week. Not so says Shawna. According to my calendar, Fall started today, on this the first day of October, ceremoniously ushered in by my deliciously symbolic Pumpkin Spice frappaccino from my friend and yours (don't deny it) yes, Starbucks.

I love Fall. It is my favorite season. I love it especially in St. Louis and in Tulsa where the leaves are the shades of fall: reds, oranges, greens and yellows. Where you know its October because your sweaters and thick socks surface from their summer hibernation. Where there is the hope, or dread if you are so inclined, of imminent snow in the air. Nights last longer. Days get shorter. Coffee shops grow to feel more like home by the day.

Maybe that's why i went to a coffee shop on my lunch break today. I'm not in the Midwest anymore. The trees stay mostly green here. The air stays mostly mild. Snow is the stuff you pack on the roof of your car when you're driving down the mountain, before it melts off and blows away on the freeway. But change is unavoidable and that's ok. And so many of the things that made Fall so great over there in those other places will make it great here too. Sure, I probably would have ordered a hot Pumpkin Spice latte instead of a cold Pumpkin Spice frappaccino if i still lived in Tulsa, but the fact is that I ordered one, of course making today the first official day of Fall, Southern California style. Ushered in by the taste of my favorite season and the anticipation of good days ahead.

Parking Lot Thoughts

I don't know about you, but I opened my front door this morning to an unfamiliar world of cold and fog. It was a welcome change. The calm white chill in the air whispered forgotten words to me with its stillness: all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well in the hands of God.

I don't know about you, but I desperately needed some perspective this morning. I needed Truth to pierce between my bone and marrow, between my circumstances and reality. I needed to see what is really going on here. It didn't happen right away. In fact, it wasn't until later in the morning when I was walking through parking lots, of all things, that I started thinking.

This is what came of it:

1. Hope in God
2. Don't Complain
3. Be thankful for little things
4. Believe truth, not feelings
5. Remember loving is never a bad idea

Sometimes simplicity is best. It can help to clear away the fog, so to speak.

(I should mention, the calm white chill bore a striking resemblance to Julian of Norwich.)

Turn to Face Him

This one's from my vault. More self-talk. Verbose and mostly un-edited.

Sometimes things don't turn out the way we thought they would, or the way we hoped they would. And when the reality sets in, or stares you in the face with the immediacy of a punch or a cup of cold water, as is the case more often than not, dissappointment inevitably follows. That is normal. Sometimes, when you offer a hidden, tender part of yourself, a part that has never seen the light of day, and it is not loved, the experience goes beyond the realm of dissappointment and takes you instead into the lonely barren wasteland of all your insecurities and all the things you are afraid of and all of the reasons why you were right when you told yourself never to offer that part of you. Here is where hope is lost, dropped from your hands, stomped into the ground and left to rot because you are doing what you should have done in the first place—walking away. Dissappointment. Despair. These are the dark nights of the soul. They are forces that are the hardest to fight and there is nothing we need to fight more than these. We can start with a simple, straighforward truth, break the ice a little: I am not abandoned. Maybe I feel abandoned by one million people and things, maybe I have been, but there is One who has not abandoned me and He makes it impossible for me to join the Abandoned Club. And once the ice has cracked a little, stack truth upon truth. This one may take some time: I am loved. That is about the last thing you want to tell yourself when you are in the thick of dissappointment and despair. In fact, if you could, you would take the very word 'love' and hurl it with all your strength into oblivion. But love will not be hurled. It will come at you and come at you and come at you until you are so sick of its relentlessness that you throw yourself upon it for relief. And this is not a bad idea, but why not save some time and begin to believe the truth of love now, in the dark night. How, you ask? It is not as difficult as you may think. In fact, the answer lies in four little words. Ready? Turn to face Him. That's all. Turn to face Him. He is good and He is kind and He is where hope comes from. Turn to face Him and He will be there, facing you. You will find that it is impossible to stare equally at the face of Love and the face of DissappointmentandDespair at the same time. Only one face will have you. He will not shove dissappointment and despair aside and demand your attention because He is not the shoving kind. But He will keep your gaze if you give Him a chance. Turn to face Him. All it takes is a moment. And that moment is the difference between a dark night of the soul and a dark night in perfect, unbroken love. And with love like that, the darkness pales in comparison.

From My Journal

(I wrote this not long ago...inside a dark night.)

There are a lot of things i don't know.

These are some things i do know.

I have to go to my job tomorrow.
There is a reason why i am there.
God is taking care of me.
I am not a wife.
I am not a mother.
I am not a songwriter.
He has me in His hands.
Reading more books won't make me better.
Being productive won't make me more worthy.
Practicing the drums more won't earn me validation.
I belong to Him.
Because He has set His love upon me.
I don't need answers.
I don't need change.
I don't need to make Him proud of me.
I need Him.

These Aggrivated Days

When I feel discombobulated, out of control, frightened of indefinite sameness...i find it hard to write. Lately I've felt this way and i've had a tough go of it. To divulge more would only end in spotlighting the glass half empty side of myself. The truth is that's only part of me, not all of me. So, until I can wrap my arms around and settle this untamed beast that is the workings of my inner world, I will pull from the archives and post clarity of days gone by. Recycled writing soon to follow.

10/30/89--8/31/09

I am going to a memorial service today. Jonathan David Storll Welch. Jon Jon. Jonafin. Johnnykins (i don't think he liked that one). Killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. We met 19 years ago. He was six months old, learning to crawl. I was seven, and Kimberly and I were hopelessly devoted from that day on. It's easier for me to write about God or writing or my own interpersonal troubles than it is to write about this. I can't control this and I can't hide from it. There is no resolution or clever last line. Just messy grief spilling out of all of us who love him. He is gone and we are brokenhearted. We woke up this morning with the heaviness of knowing we have to say goodbye today. We don't want to, but we have to.

What Is Really Going On Here

I'm coming to face the ways I push away Love.
One day at a time.
One bout of anxiety at a time.
Every day brings a choice:
Trust or Control.
Trust that believes God is good and He is taking care of me, or
Control that keeps Him from getting too close and makes me feel almost safe.
It never lasts, that feeling.
It goes away and I keep trying to get it back.
Accomplish something else, clean something else, eat something else, buy something else, write something else, pray something else.
These are my attempts to keep everything from falling apart.
But what I'm really doing,
What is really going on here is that I'm pushing away Love.
Love isn't afraid of running out of time.
Love isn't afraid that everything will fall apart.
And neither would I be if only I would
Trust instead of Control.
I will not try to get this right.
That would be counter-productive.
This is what I will do:
Take a deep breath, let my hands hang limp, and say nothing.
Just face Love tonight.

This is from my archives. March 7th, 2009. At the time, I was writing at least 300 words per day because I was reading Bird by Bird and Anne Lamott said it was a good idea.

I will try to make this the best three words I have ever written. I will write and not stop until I am finished for today. No backspaces. No edits. No rewrites. Only my fluid thoughts on paper. Digital paper. I will write about why I write. Last night, on the 10 freeway heading west, I imagined being in Anne Lamott's writing class. What I would say in answer to her question, “Why do you want to write, Shawna?” At first I told her and the class, who were all, by the way, very impressed with me by end of my speech, that I write because of the mystery that never grows old. When I write I feel like I am endlessly trying to solve an unsolveable mystery and it doesn't matter that it won't be solved because the joy is in the trying. The seeking. The peeling away of the layers. As long as the mystery remains unsolved, I have reason to write. Each time I have a go at it, I go further up and further in and yet there is always, always still further to go.

Then I got home and realized all that stuff about mystery is fluff and nonsense. I was looking through some old photo albums and I landed on the real reason why I sit here at my screen or with my pen and journal in hand. It is because here, I can look any way I want to look. Here, I can show a different face, a different look behind the eyes than the one I see in those pictures. That girl was stuck and she was lost, stumbling to find her way and failing to choose love time after time after time. These pages are true snapshots and they are the real heart of me, not the one with crooked teeth and unshaped eyebrows. These are a reflection of who I am with make-up off and a big sigh of release, trust, finally. I would fill photo albums with my three hundred words if I could.