The Bright Hour: Living Life with Death in the Room

Last night, I stayed up too late finishing Nina Riggs’ memoir The Bright Hour. If you’re not familiar with the book, Nina Riggs was a young mother who was diagnosed with terminal, incurable breast cancer. Her memoir is a potent cocktail of poetry and prose, humor and tragedy, modern anecdotes and centuries-old philosophy. In the book, she vividly describes the tragedy and relief and mystery of dying.

My aunt passed away last December on my birthday. Maybe her death shouldn’t have felt so sudden, but it did. It rocked the community of my family deeply, and we miss her very much.

Her passing wasn’t my first experience with death, but it was my most visceral and impactful thus far. Since then, death has followed me around like a chaotic shadow: bullying me, gnawing at me, dragging me into the darkness, tightening my chest with its insidious grip.   

As a Christian, I know intellectually that death is a Homecoming; that life on earth is just the appetizer; that after death, the designs and desires we intuitively know to be true will be realer than anything we can imagine or dream up.

I understand this.

But in my most vulnerable and human moments – in those moments when the void, the loss, the grief, the fear, are so palpable that I can almost reach out and touch them – in these moments, I forget truth.  In these moments, I remember only my smallness and softness and fragility. 

Maybe you understand: it’s not so much death that I fear, but the fear of losing someone I love.  It’s the impenetrable unknown: the nauseating terror of knowing that tomorrow I could wake up and never hear the delicate, lilting cadence of my mom’s voice; never watch my dad’s kind eyes as he quietly observes; never bear witness to the subtle way my brother directs conversation toward goodness; never see my sister delight in and mother her babies. 

Never laugh with my husband, or snuggle into his chest.

I can’t imagine what Nina Riggs must have experienced: saying goodbye to her mother seemed tragedy enough.  But then to confront the certainty of her own death in tension with the budding, vibrant lives of her children? The cruelty and heartbreak is too much.  And I suppose this is why she had to learn to live her life “with death in the room.”

Living life with death in the room. 

To savor the delicious mundanity of everyday living.  The dirty dishes piled in the sink.  The to-do list endlessly growing.  The way my dad throws his head back, screws up his eyes, and laughs with his whole body. The smell of Scout’s fur at the fluffy spot by her ears.  My mom’s insatiable zest for life, for relationships, for the perfect shade of red lipstick. Janie’s long vowels that slink like syrup between her consonants.

To live life with death in the room.  Or maybe to make friends with it. To invite it into my home as a guest, a gift.  To let death crack me open and show me my aching vulnerability, my soft, human belly, and how fragile we all are.

Thank you, Nina Riggs.

Airports and Self-Care: A Love Letter

My commute to work takes me right past McGhee Tyson Airport. Seeing the large gates and expansive grass has become normal, and its exit off of Alcoa Highway hardly catches my eye anymore. But last week, the sight of a totally unromantic maintenance truck on the grounds made my heart flip, like the butterflies you get in your stomach when you see your crush. 

I travelled through several airports this week to visit one of my best friends.  As I sit waiting in Charlotte on the layover before the final leg of the trip, I feel compelled to write again. 

I've had a long, complicated relationship with airports.  Like a committed friend, they have seen me at my best and worst -- extremes including but not limited to: 

Tears streaming across my face, ugly-crying as I say goodbye to my parents on the cusp of a great adventure.

Wild eyes and a magnet in my chest, pulling me strong towards the promise of my boyfriend's arms.

A nervous middle-schooler, trying my very best to keep from barfing on my brother.

But this time, at the airport, there's no fire of expectancy burning in my belly, no text message tingling at my fingertips, and no phone call to make "just in case something happens." There is no magic or romance at all.

Instead, there is just me.

And I am learning, over and over again, that having "just me" is just enough. That caring for, and protecting, and delighting in this person that God dreamed up doesn't require anyone else's permission or validation. It isn't motivated externally -- for an audition, or a show, or a person, or friends and family -- but motivated instead by the heart of God that bleeds and beats and burns and fights for me. For you.

I see His precision when crafting each strand of hair. 

No quirk left unconsidered. 

No passion or dream sewn in unintentionally.  

Perhaps self-care isn't at all what our culture makes it out to be -- Oprah's trite "goddess-self" rhetoric, and make-up companies' "you're worth it" propaganda all seem to miss the mark.  Perhaps self-care actually requires a great deal of courage: courage to listen to and stand-up for that sacred, small voice that dreams and hopes and intuits.

A New Year's Eve Manifesto: The Artist and the Public

I saw La La Land this afternoon and my emotions are still whirling from its beauty; the film contains all of the elements that make a timeless movie: tragedy, joy, romance, frothy nostalgia, and dynamic characters.  More than that, the movie makes a profound statement about dreamers and creators. At the risk of being too effusive in my praise, I expect that this movie will be an ebenezer for many artists -- a touchstone to return to when rejections take their toll.

If you haven't had the chance to see it, I won't reveal any important plot elements.  But to provide context: the movie portrays two artists who believe deeply in what they have to offer the world, despite feeling that no one hears their distinct voice.  There was a moment in the film in which Emma Stone's character, Mia, eavesdrops on her audience as they leave her performance. They say nasty things about her skills as an actress. "Don't quit your day-job." She crumples backstage, defeated after pouring so much of herself into work that was so ill-received.

She took their comments personally.

There's an idea floating around that seems to be the steady diet of most artists I know: it's not personal. When your work or sound or aesthetic or interpretation isn't well-received, it's nothing against you. Because it's just work; it's not personal. The audience or judge or public or editor has every right to express their opinions, no matter how degrading or belittling.

But I just don't buy it. I may be wrong, but I believe that any art that's worth a damn is going to be deeply personal. Regardless of what you're calling into existence, if it's honest and authentic, then it's personal. Any claim otherwise seems to me to be a cowardly attempt to protect egos from the harsh reality of rejection.

So what am I suggesting? That all artists are fragile, insecure butterflies? That the public should coddle and stroke them, and make sure to never tell them the truth that their work just stinks and they should consider a different career?
And what then for the artists? Are the artists allowed to indulge in sensitivity and prize it above listening to friends and family's suggestions? Are they to interpret critique as a personal affront, rather than an opportunity to grow? Should they expect everyone to love everything they do, and if not, dismiss them as tasteless pigs?

Absolutely not. But I want to offer some thoughts, from the perspective of both the artist and the public. Because haven't we all been both? Sensitive and crippled with self-doubt, or critical, cowardly, and dismissive?

For the Artist

Can we acknowledge that the nature of our work is personal? That it demands that we be offended and rejected? Can we allow ourselves to be hurt? And then, after grieving, can we go back to the easel or the studio or the piano or the keyboard, and keep loving the work enough to birth something new again? Can we be brave enough to continue to create the work that burns in us, even when we suspect that no one hears or cares?

For the Public

Can we attempt to take on a new posture when approaching art? Instead of demanding that art entertain, or satisfy, or excite, can we allow the work to speak for itself without our judgement?  Imagine what it must be like for someone to come into your office or home and dismiss your career as tiresome or ugly or pointless, just because they don't understand it. Can we take the time to get to know the art or artist as a friend, rather than as a consumer?

State Troopers and Greasy Hair: An Encounter with Compassion

I spent Thanksgiving in Nashville helping my sister and brother-in-law with their four infants and one-year-old toddler.  Getting to spend time with them was amazing; but, as I'm sure you can imagine, five days with five kiddos under two-years-old means all-hands-on-deck, all the time -- particularly during the hustle and bustle of the holiday season.  By the time I left Nashville late Saturday evening, it had been since Tuesday since I washed my hair - and Thursday since I'd brushed it. I was stinky and sleepy and eager to be home before my church gig in the morning.

Sinking deep into the recesses of Taylor Swift's 1989 album, I surfaced briefly to notice a state trooper nestled in his hiding place, ready to pounce. Moments later, I was parked on the side of the interstate with a flashlight pointed at my face. You guessed it: I was speeding. And not just casually speeding -- but traffic school, reckless driving speeding.

Determined to make him understand why I had been so irresponsible (but mostly determined to get out of trouble), I frantically shared a piece of my story in a rush of verbal vomit -- where I was coming from and where I was going.  I was perhaps too forthright, unabashedly asking him to let me off the hook.  He said no, but that he would go easy on me.  He was kind and curious, and he took his job seriously; he wanted to see my license, registration, and proof of insurance. Defeated and pumped dry of my reserve of charm and energy, I rummaged through my glove compartment only to remember that I took my registration and proof of insurance out of my car last week and forgot to return it. Things were only looking more bleak as I muttered that my documents were in my apartment.

When he came back to my window, I was munching on sour gummy worms, awaiting my verdict in a puddle of annoyance and exhaustion. In my mind's eye, I can only imagine what this stranger saw: a mouthy woman with crazy eyes, greasy hair, and snacks strewn across her passenger seat. A silly girl with silly excuses, ready to tell him how to do his job. The verdict was surprising indeed: because I didn't have my registration or proof of insurance, he was able to issue me a nonmoving violation and a warning. Confused by his lenience - I asked him to repeat himself, which he did graciously. I sputtered out a shaky, tearful thank you and drove away. Slowly.

And so, reader, why do I share this story with you? Perhaps I share because I drank too much coffee and my head won't quiet down until I write my thoughts out. Or perhaps this blog has become a friend of mine that bears witness to my journey. Or perhaps because I'm a sensitive artist who attaches too much meaning to isolated, inconsequential events.

Or perhaps I share this story because 2016 seems to have been hard on everyone.  For some, the year has ached, like an irritation that is difficult to name but impossible to ignore.  For others -- and for those who are close to me -- 2016 exhausted, terrified, stretched, and stunned. And still for more, 2016 has been soggy and dripping with grief and disappointment.  Regardless of where you land on this spectrum or what experiences you are coming from: life may be hard right now.

And so I offer you this story because, for whatever reason, a stranger showed me compassion and it changed something in me. He softened a hardness that I hadn't yet named, and pierced through callouses that I wasn't aware had formed. Grace, incisive and bitter-tasting, left me raw, soft, and grateful.

Perhaps 2017 can be marked by this: you and me, neighbor-to-neighbor, seeing each other - no agenda, no end-gaining - just being present and offering compassion.

Lent: Closing Thoughts on (Not) Dating

You know it's been awhile since you've been on a date when the twenty-year-old librarian says you are "very attractive" and you get all flushed and stumble over yourself awkwardly.  But Lent's forty days are over and so is my fast from dating! If you're just tuning in, I'd suggest starting at the beginning -- this will make much more sense that way. 

Here are some closing thoughts about what this full, rich Lenten season was like for me.

Dating Detox

In the same way that sometimes your body needs to detox, I needed a cleanse from dating.  It was time to take a step back, gather my thoughts, and take inventory of my heart and its many drives and motivations. 

I must admit -- it has been such a relief to not date.  I actually enjoyed it.  Silencing that urge to flirt has been wonderful, and I can be more authentic with guys now. I like who I am when I'm just enjoying someone's company, instead of scanning through check-lists to determine someone's eligibility. 

What's more, I've come to realize how many people I love.  Closing off the option to date has opened my eyes to all the beautiful, blossoming friendships around me.  It's given me a new appreciation for this community, my church, coworkers, and family. These past forty days was worth it just for that!

While I've honestly enjoyed Lent, I would be lying if I said that this "dating detox" made me totally content in my singleness and that now I am completely free from any desire to date.  That just isn't true, and I doubt that it will ever be.  But "freedom from the desire" was never really what I was after.  Instead, I hoped to gain a new perspective on my desires; to see God as He truly is: a Giver of good gifts, who will never withhold any good thing from His children.  I think God has shown up in beautiful ways this Lent to remind of just that. 

And while the thought of dying alone with eleven cats, frizzy hair, and broccoli stuck between my front teeth still sort of terrifies me, I'm choosing to remember what is true: No amount of cats, or broccoli, nor singleness or divorce, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (My own spin on Romans 8:38-39.)

The Beauty of the Present

In His fascinating and unexpected ways, God has used this Lenten season to remind me of how fleeting and fragile life is. Despite illusions of control and our plans for tomorrow, all we are ever guaranteed is this present moment.  It's hard to live into that fully when you're constantly waiting and searching for a different, "better" life. God has been asking me to lay down my expectations of what life "should" be, and come alive -- where I am, as the woman I am, in this totally unique moment.

And what a gift this present moment is, if only we have the eyes to see it; to look at life through the lens of a child -- not jaded, or tired, or irritated that things didn't go our way. But with a soft belly, tall spine, and open hands, ready to receive the mysteries of life as they come -- trusting in the kind and gracious heart of our Father.

Lent: Not Where But Who

When $h!t hits the fan, many times the first question for believers is "God, where are you?"

This question seems valid, right? If God is as involved and present with us as He claims to be, then where is He when life falls apart? 

But the thing about God is that He isn't tame. And we can't demand that He reveal Himself on our terms, in our timetable, in this life.  We see this over and over again in Scripture -- God refuses to justify Himself to us.  When Job finally cracks and demands answers, God responds with a bit of tough love in Job 38-41:

"Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind and said:

'Who is this that darkens counsel without knowledge?

Dress for action like a man;

I will question you, and you make it known to me.

Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?

Tell me, if you have understanding.

Who determined the measurements -- surely you know!

....

Will you even put me in the wrong?

Will you condemn me that you may be in the right?'"

This is a hard truth. We want answers; and if we're going to go through hard times, we at least want a good reason for it. But often God refuses to provide that.

Perhaps it's because, if He gave us the answers that we seek, we'd stop realizing how much we need Him -- day in, day out, every breath we take.  I know I would and do.  When life is easy, I'm not as needy, because I often feel that I have the answers. But answers are so easy -- and they don't do much in the way of building character.  

Instead of answers, God offers us a different gift: faith.

But faith is a squirmy thing -- I think that it is a gift, much the way our bodies are gifts. I'm grateful to have a body that works well and functions properly.  But I also have to exercise it, to cultivate it, feed it good food, and care for it so that it can be strong.  I think faith is a gift in a similar way -- we have to practice it, exercise it, and push it. 

How do we exercise it? I don't really know.  But perhaps the start of it is by asking a different question.  Rather than: "God, where are you?", we can ask "God, who are you?" As unsatisfying as it is to not have answers, I think that's what it means to follow God humbly.  Instead of looking to answers to provide comfort or peace, He asks us to look to Him, personally, face-to-face. 

Lent: Hard Phone Calls

Yesterday I got one of those phone calls that knocks the breath out of you and leaves you feeling very, very small.  Even in the best case scenario, this situation is just going to be hard; and the worst case scenario is unthinkable. The content of the conversation isn't mine to share, but suffice it to say, my people and I are very scared and sad. So forgive me, reader.  This post is more for me than it is for you.

It's amazing how quickly life can change, and my perspective along with it.  I have so many expectations of how my life should look -- health, comfort, family, "normalcy."  But when life pops the air out of my balloon, suddenly I realize how much I take for granted. And how much I believe is in my control.

Our post-Enlightenment society has taught us that our lives are our own, that our time is our own. I buy this 100%. But today as I was driving, this verse echoed in my brain:

To live is Christ.

My life isn't my own, my time isn't my own. To live is Christ. 

Lent: Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

I've been pussy-footing around this post for awhile now, too afraid to write it but too afraid not to write it.  Sex is a sensitive subject, and there's a lot of shame wrapped up in it.  So as I am writing this post, I want to claim for you and me that while we were still enemies of God, He fought to save us (Romans 5:10). And that "where sin increased, grace abounded all the more." (Rom. 5:20) So here we go...

In talking with single friends, sex (or lack there of) is often the first, and most pressing, issue that comes up.

"I mean, I have needs, ok?!"

Yeah, me too.  Our bodies want sex. It's just the way it is, I guess. What's more: sexual pleasure is lauded in our culture as the ultimate pleasure.  Without it, I've often believed the lie that I'm not totally living.

In our hook-up culture, the idea of purity or virginity becomes a little bit muddied, too.  Lines get crossed, exceptions are made, and boundaries become less about honoring God with our bodies and more about how far we can push them without feeling guilty later.

In some ways, it's been a mercy that the opportunity to have sex hasn't presented itself to me in awhile. If I'm honest, I don't know if I could resist a sexual relationship with someone I loved right now. Particularly because I've been doubting God's goodness in my singleness, it would be so easy to just give in and go my own way. I wish I could say that delighting God gives me the greatest delight, but unfortunately, where this is concerned, it's just not true. But I can certainly pray to that end.

I recently saw a book in the Christian section of McKay's entitled Sexless in the City: A Memoir of Reluctant Chastity. What a breath of fresh air to see someone being real about how choosing not to have sex can kind of just suck sometimes.

But I have to admit, I'm not really making "waiting" an easier on myself. Without going into the nitty gritty details, I'm not exactly shielding my eyes or mind from things that I know cause me to... ahem... burn?  Rick Warren says that a little sin is like being a little pregnant: it shows itself eventually.  And that's proven true for me in my thought-life, unfortunately.  It seems that the Bible is right again: Actions lead where our thoughts have first paved the way.

And while Scripture doesn't draw a hardline about what kind of foreplay is okay, Jesus is pretty clear that our minds and hearts are to be kept pure.  His words in Matthew 5 are crystal clear and always convicting...

If this is a struggle for you the way it is for me, I encourage you to check out this article that a friend sent me a few years back.  Churchill is honest and direct in ways that I'm a little too sheepish to be, examining deeper motivation behind sexual fantasy, and looking at practical steps to help.

Lent: Joey Feek

Time has been tight these days -- trying to finish up graduate school strong, preparing my recital (March 21st at 6:00 PM!), and working on putting up an opera in mid-April.  Stillness and rest are hard to come by, and so words haven't been coming freely.

But I just found out about the death of singer Joey Feek.  My brain won't quiet down about her story or her remarkable bravery to live even as she was dying.  So I thought it might be time to write again.

No matter how you slice it, life is disappointing.

I feel a little guilty writing that.  I'll quote Larry Crabb all day, but owning that truth myself feels a bit wrong, like I should qualify it with, "But there's so much to be thankful for!" or "But it could always be worse!"  Yes, those qualifications are true and there's certainly a time and place for them.  Wisdom seems to involve a playful balance of perspective, humor, and gratitude.  Always gratitude.

But I think we all know, way deep in our gut, that we aren't made for death.  And not just death in the physical sense, but also the death of relationships or dreams. And yet, here we are -- caught in the tension of God's "already-not-yet Kingdom," expected to live abundantly in the face of death and disappointment.

Scripture and nature suggest God loves to work in patterns of resurrection.  Over and over again, life emerges from death. God's pursuit of us is Redemptive:  We were once dead, and now we are alive.

Whether we see it or not, we are alive now. He has redeemed us and continues to redeem us now. Maybe all we are aware of in this life are glimpses of His redemptive work: His fingerprints here, a melody there.  Perhaps He asks that these glimpses be enough for us, and that we trust Him even when life doesn't quite make sense.

"So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.  For this light and momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen.  For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal."  1 Corinthians 4:16-18

Lent: Repentance, Jesus, and the Ring

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I'm reading Larry Crabb's Inside Out.  I wanted to share with you some really rich passages about what it means to repent, and how repentance changes the way we relate to God and others.  Crabb looks at Hosea 14:1-3 for instruction:

"The key to all change is returning to God.  Christ defined eternal life as knowing God (John 17:3), and by His atoning death made it possible for sinful people to be restored to relationship with God. Growth in the Christian life means coming to know God better.  Every effort to change must involve at its core a shift in direction away from dependence on one's own resource for life to dependence on God..." p. 211

"So many of our efforts to change have a hidden but definite agenda.  The motivation to work on our life is usually sustained by the hope that difficult circumstances will improve and painful feelings will go away... True repentance, on the other hand, is energized by the hope of knowing and worshipping God more richly." p. 212

Repentance is hard.  Even when I understand it correctly, I don't particularly like it.  It feels like work, or performance, or striving.  But it seems to me that, if we are to take Crabb's reading of Scripture seriously, repentance isn't really about trying harder. It's about leaning into God more closely, asking Him to be more to us and in us.  If our lives are to be lived in dependence on God, can we rely on Him for a repentant spirit, too?

Mark Upton from Hope Community Church says, "Repentance is not running away from sin, but running into Jesus."  I love that image.  He also talks about repentance looking like this scene from Lord of the Rings.

Lent: Harry and Sally and the Gang

Tonight, my pastor spoke to us about the value of spiritual friendships.  The sermon was so good to hear -- his words both healed and challenged me regarding my understanding of friendships.  I feel uncomfortable going into detail about what he said, because sometimes things can get warped and distorted.  If you want to hear more, you can listen to the sermon here when it gets posted (probably tomorrow).

But I do want to share something that he brought up that has been on my mind recently.  He challenged us as a church community to learn how to have non-sexualized friendships between men and women.  If in Christ we have a new family of brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers, how can we relate to people of the opposite sex intimately while still maintaining healthy boundaries?

I've always been one of those people who thought like Harry in When Harry Met Sally: men and women can't ever be truly friends.  It's too messy. One person will always look to the other to satisfy an emotional need that goes beyond friendship.  One will always want more than the other, even if it isn't communicated explicitly.  Then, as soon as one person begins a romantic relationship, the friendship disintegrates.

But I've been giving this some more thought lately, especially since dating has been off the table during Lent.  Are my convictions about platonic male/female relationships really convictions? Or are they fears?  Am I reticent to get too close to men because I'm trying to love God and love others?  Or because I'm trying to protect myself (or others) from potential rejection or romantic implications? 

If it's true that, "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus," (Galatians 3:28) then how is God asking me to lay down my selfish agenda or fears in favor of unity in the Body of Christ?  How can I approach Christian men as brothers rather than potential husbands?

I've been labelling the guys I know and meet as either Dateable or Not Dateable.  In a sense, I've been objectifying men for what they can offer me romantically the same way that some men objectify women for what they can offer them sexually.

Pretty messed up, huh?

More later. Happy Sunday, friends.

Lent: Soon

I've been thinking and praying about what to write about today.  I'm learning a lot during this Lenten season, but I'm having a hard time putting purposeful words down.

So I'd like to share with you a beautiful moment from this morning.  I heard from a pastor that I haven't spoken to in years.  I owe so much to this former mentor -- his wisdom, intuition, and honesty.  He shaped and encouraged me in more ways than I can count, and in more ways than he knows.  His email was brief and kind -- but signed with, "Heaven soon."

Heaven soon.

Even seeing it now -- hours later, out of context, and typed out by my own hands -- I feel a wave of emotion and gratitude.  Soon, the wholeness and the intimacy we were designed for.  Soon, new eyes to see and new ears to hear.  Soon, hearts made new and right.  Soon, every fleeting whisper of eternity we have been chasing in this world will burst forth into glorious song.  Soon, heaven.

These words were like a sweet balm for me this morning -- filling me with hope and courage to move forward into the world with love.

"If you read history you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were precisely those who thought most of the next. It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this." - C.S. Lewis

Lent: Daydreaming (cont.)

I heard from Frank again today.  If you don't know who Frank is, check out this post about him.

In an email, he reminded me of something so perfect -- that our lives are meant for God's renown and not our own. Worshipping God with our lives creates tension and frustration, because as self-centered humans, we "love the shit out of [ourselves]."

His off-color delivery of profound wisdom cracks me up.  But, as always, he's so incisive and direct.  If we're brutally honest with ourselves, most of the choices we make (no matter how seemingly pure and selfless) are tangled up and tainted by us loving the shit out of ourselves.

So I got to thinking about yesterday's post and my tendency to pine.  My heart seems bent toward it -- a pattern I've maintained for years of romanticizing and dwelling on a relationship with someone who isn't part of my life anymore.  And so the question occurred to me: what's in it for me? 

What does my self-serving, self-preserving flesh glean from pining over these "former lovers"?

I think, strangely enough, living in those memories makes me feel loved and noticed.  I remember the way he looked at me, the way it felt to be pursued and cared for. The way it felt to belong to someone.

This is problematic in a couple of ways. First, why has my life become about me feeling loved? If being Christ-like means being others-centered, shouldn't my life (and thought-life) be focused on loving others well rather than garnering love and attention for myself?

But, beneath that, there seems to be a bigger problem: I'm looking to these memories to fill a void.

Deep within us, there's this desperate, nagging need to be fully known and fully loved.  Historically, we have gone to great lengths to satisfy this need on our own, believing we can assuage these longings with food, or money, or sex, or youth, or love.

But God has met those needs already.  He already knows and loves us completely -- deeper than anyone else ever has or ever could.

So, in my daydreams, I'm looking over Jesus' shoulder.  Rather than depending on Jesus' wild and relentless love to satisfy my desperate thirst, I'm trusting other lovers that will never, ever satisfy.

This reminds me of lyrics from Derek Webb's "Wedding Dress":
Cause I am so easily satisfied
By the call of lovers so less wild
That I would take a little cash
Over your very flesh and blood.

Lent: Daydreaming

When I was a little girl, I always looked forward to long car trips with my dad.  We would choose a CD from his eclectic collection, pop it in, and listen in silence.  My dad and I both have this affinity for daydreaming.  In a family of chatty-kathies, we are the quirky ones -- content to be alone with our thoughts for hours on end.  During these long car rides, he would let me drift off into my daydreams, and I would let him do the same.

Giving up dating has been pretty easy thus far - and a bit of a relief.  It's one less thing for me to worry about, and I have more time and energy to enjoy other relationships. But have I really given up dating? If integrity is who we are when no one is looking, then what does it mean to have integrity in my thought-life?

As I said in the beginning, I don't want this blog to be about unloading my dirty secrets; but confession and transparency bring people together.  One person owns up to something, and suddenly another says, "Wait, really? You too? I thought I was the only one." So I want to confess to you that, if you were privy to the romance going on inside my head, you would have no idea that I had given up dating for Lent.  I might not be dating out in the world, but in my heart and my mind, I'm still very much tied up and taken.

Tim Keller says, "The things you daydream about in your spare time are ultimately the things you serve."

Ouch.

So, as my friend Jessie says, I think God has His finger on something with me.  Maybe more than just a finger, though.  He's pulling on me with both hands, trying to loosen my grip on a relationship I've been clinging to.  But mostly, I think He's trying to free me -- and I'm stubbornly fighting Him tooth and nail.

Like the Ghost on the train in C.S. Lewis' Great Divorce, I'm trying to keep my "Red Lizard of Lust." I've been treasuring up memories and would-be's, tucking them away, separate from God.  I'm too afraid to offer them up because of how much I have to lose. After all, friends, following Jesus is costly; and this relationship is one that I've prized for awhile.  Mark Upton at Hope Community Church says, "The feel of faith is death, but the fruit of faith is joy." I think I'm in the death phase right now and it totally blows.

But, as I'm writing this, I hear God inviting me into a new place with Him.  If God is big enough to handle us at our worst, to see our brokenness but still chase after us, then He must see this part of me and say, "Open up the windows! Let me breathe fresh air into the dark places of your heart. Invite me into this space: show me the memories and daydreams.  Lay them at my feet, and let me grieve them with you."

I'm reminded of a verse from the hymn, "Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy:"

Come, ye weary, heavy-laden,
Lost and ruined by the Fall;
If you tarry till you're better,
You will never come at all.

Lent: Perfect Through Suffering

A wonderful thing about writing this blog has been having friends reach out to describe their own experiences with singleness.  Thank you, thank you, thank you for lending me your eyes and insights. It takes courage, and it gives me courage, too.

In reconnecting with an old friend this past week, she offered a unique perspective: singleness after divorce and the tragedy of a broken marriage. In our conversation, I found myself doing all the things I said I wouldn't do during Lent: I was trying to fix her grief, trying to bolster her perception of herself, trying to shake the sadness out of her by offering helpful articles or pithy encouragement.

And I just hate that.

I wish I had had the courage to sit with her in her disappointment and fear - to face it bravely rather than offering answers and bandaids.  More than that, I wish I had gotten out of the way and listened to the voice of the Spirit rather than my own.

So much of my journey toward maturity has been learning to get off the throne of my life. To stop living for my own glory, worshipping and enjoying God instead.  Because of this, I have this fascination with John the Baptist.  First, I'm pretty convinced we would be, like, best friends.  We're both a little weird; we both have loud mouths that can sometimes get us in trouble; and we're both okay to be on the outskirts of society, just doing our thing, eating bugs and stuff.

But more than that, I truly admire him - he lived this life of self-forgetfulness, telling everyone about the Promised One who was coming.  With an easy confidence, John the Baptist describes how excited he is about Jesus,

"A person cannot receive one thing unless it is given him from heaven. You yourselves bear me witness, that I said, 'I am not the Christ, but I have been sent before him.'  The one who has the bride is the bridegroom.  The friend of the bridegroom who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly at the bridegroom's voice.  Therefore this joy of mine is now complete.  He must increase, but I must decrease."  John 3:27-30

What a cool image.  I want that kind of heart, that easily forgets my own ego and need to be right or perfect. I want the kind of heart that allows Jesus to increase because of how beautiful and wonderful and mysterious He is.

So in talking with my grieving friend, what was driving my pithy responses to her sadness? I think I honestly felt like she needed me.  Her grieving, questioning, and confusion were wrong - and she needed me to help her snap out of it.  But that's just not true.

If I want John the Baptist's words to be the song of my heart, then allowing Christ to increase means that I can't be afraid of suffering - mine or anyone else's.  If Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, was made perfect through suffering (Hebrews 2:10), then how can I expect to be His follower without also allowing suffering to shape my character?

I've been reading parts of Larry Crabb's Inside Out lately. I love this:

"Ever since God expelled Adam and Eve from the garden, we have lived in an unnatural environment, a world in which we were not designed to live.  We were built to enjoy a garden without weeds, relationships without friction, fellowship without distance.  But something is wrong, and we know it, both within our world and within ourselves.  Deep inside, we sense we're out of the nest, always ending the day in a motel room, never at home.  When we're honest, we see we handle our discomfort by keeping our distance from people, responding more to our fears than to another's desires for love."

Lent: The Last Five Years

Tonight I went to see The Last Five Years at the Theater Knoxville Downtown. If you aren't familiar with the show, check out the film version on Netflix.

The story takes us through the all the seasons of Cathy and Jamie's romantic relationship - from infatuation to infidelity to divorce.  The only catch to the plot is that their experiences are told separately and out of time.  At the beginning, Cathy is mourning the loss of their marriage while Jamie is experiencing the first flutters of new love. The two share only one scene together: their wedding.

I know sometimes I can be a bit sappy. But, y'all, this scene -- the music, the lyrics, the concept -- it's all just so moving.  I wish I could take you in the theater with me to see and hear it, because taken out of context it loses its power. But I want to share some of my favorite lyrics to the song and you can listen to it here:

I don't know why people run

I don't know why things fall through

I don't know how anybody survives in this life without someone like you.

I could protect and preserve

I could say no and goodbye

But why, Jamie, why?

I want to be your wife

I want to bear your child

I want to die knowing I had a long full life in your arms

That I can do...

So sweet, right?

But when looked at within the context of the show, is it as moving? Are Cathy's words quite as lovely in light of the way things end between them?  Do the great, deep, tragic love stories in our own lives lose their sheen once the curtain drops?

I'm 26-years-old and have been dating for awhile.  Over the years, I've collected some baggage - romance luggage, if you will. Fortunately, my luggage is filled with some exquisite treasures; people and experiences that I never want to forget.  But loving is a vulnerable enterprise.  When you open the windows to let in fresh air, you also run the risk of letting in bugs and other unwelcome visitors. 

This isn't a finished story yet; we're not finished stories yet either. And perhaps that's what is most painful about this one life we've been given - it's confusing and can't be wrapped neatly in a pretty box.  I read this recently in an interview with Mark Upton and it was earth-shattering for me:

"I'm learning that life and Jesus are mysteries to be explored not problems to be solved. Since we're in the middle of divine narrative that isn't over yet our lives don't really read like novels.  They read like chapters in a novel - closer to poetry than prose. Subsequently growing our divine intuition in the face of doubt is more important than pursuing intellectual certainty since certainty is unattainable while something is in motion."

Lent: Sleepy Wednesdays

I don't have much to say about Lent today - or much to say about anything. Actually, I could probably wax poetic about my bed for several stanzas. 

Rather than try and squeeze something out of this sleepy-head, I want to share Singled Out for Good by Paige Benton Brown with you. It's beautiful and powerful. You should check it out - here are some snippets:

"Accepting singleness, whether temporary or permanent, does not hinge on speculation about answers God has not given to our list of whys, but rather on celebration of the life he has given. I am not single because I am too spiritually unstable to possibly deserve a husband, nor because I am too spiritually mature to possibly need one. I am single because God is so abundantly good to me, because this is his best for me. It is a cosmic impossibility that anything could be better for me right now than being single. The psalmists confirm that I should not want, I shall not want, because no good thing will God withhold from me."

"The only time folks talk about human covenants is in premarital counseling. How anemic. If our God is a covenantal God then all of our relationships are covenantal. The gospel is not about how much I love God (I typically love him very little); it is about how much God loves me. My relationships are not about how much friends should love me, they are about how much I get to love them. No single should ever expect relational impoverishment by virtue of being single. We should covenant to love people—to initiate, to serve, to commit."

"Let's face it: singleness is not an inherently inferior state of affairs.... But I want to be married. I pray to that end every day. I may meet someone and walk down the aisle in the next couple of years because God is so good to me. I may never have another date and die an old maid at ninety-three because God is so good to me. Not my will but his be done. Until then I am claiming as my theme verse, 'If any man would come after me, let him...'"

Lent: Getting Unstuck

Today my car, Oscar, got stuck in the mud.

It was the end of the day and steadily raining, and the cars in the parking lot were thinning out. There I was, trying to maneuver my car out of a bank, spraying mud everywhere, and looking like a complete dingbat.  At one point, I got out of my car and attempted to push it up the bank myself. Surprisingly, my brawny frame and brute strength couldn't manage the job.

Around this time, two large guys pulled up near me in the parking lot.  THEY WERE THERE TO HELP ME!  When they approached me in the rain with eager - if amused - expressions, I could've probably planted two giant wet ones right on their mouths. But I didn't, which was probably for the best and more hygienic.

With the help of some fortuitously placed cat litter in the trunk of my car (ahem), we managed to rescue Oscar from the mud bank of doom.  I drove off, effusively spouting out "thank you so much oh my gosh thanks but seriously thanks a lot for real" from my window.

So here's what I've learned from this: I'm needy. I need help. Hell, somedays I can't even make it out of the parking lot on my own.  And I'd venture to guess that you need help, too.

Our culture urges women to identify primarily as self-reliant, independent, and tough-as-nails. Inherently, we are those things. I mean, if birthing children ain't tough, then I don't know what is.

But can this modern, self-reliant woman also be weak? In our strength, are we still allowed to receive help? Is there room for us to be both, to live in that tension?  Sometimes, I don't think so.  Perhaps this is just me, but it seems that in order to be the "right kind of woman," I must lie about weakness or tenderness; instead, silencing longings in my heart and steeling them with sarcasm.  

I don't know exactly what I think of this, or how it relates to (not) dating. But I think it probably does.  More later. <3

Lent: Prosperity Gospel

Last night I read an amazing article by Kate Bowler about the Prosperity Gospel.  Not only was it informative and moving, but it was so deeply convicting.  Bowler, having just been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer, describes the bitter taste of the Prosperity Gospel in light of this most recent tragedy.  Her cancer diagnosis derails not only her life, but also the lives of her husband and young toddler. 

With a profound clarity that we receive most often in pain, she notes,

"The prosperity gospel has taken a religion based on the contemplation of a dying man and stripped it of its call to surrender all. Perhaps worse, it has replaced Christian faith with the most painful forms of certainty. The movement has perfected a rarefied form of America’s addiction to self-rule, which denies much of our humanity: our fragile bodies, our finitude, our need to stare down our deaths (at least once in a while) and be filled with dread and wonder. At some point, we must say to ourselves, I’m going to need to let go."

The Prosperity Gospel has replaced faith with certainty.

Oh, certainty - the sweet comfort of knowing.  The easy predictability of a "vending machine god"-- you put in your coins and out pops a bag of peanut M&Ms.  How often do I worship that god, and then am disillusioned or disappointed when He doesn't fulfill His end of the bargain?

Reader, I pray that we will be secure enough in the Gospel of Grace to weigh both the blessings and tragedies of this life as circumstances: not as rewards or punishments. I pray that we can trust fully in the work of the Cross; that we can rest in the truth that God's wrath was poured out on the Innocent One. Because of Jesus, we are free to live and love and serve God as children - not as debtors. Hallelujah, what a Savior!

Lent: Valentine's Day

Confession: I love Valentine's Day. And I wanna celebrate it.

So rather than write a lengthy blog post today, I'd like to share this poem with you. It's an English translation of a poem from Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God.

It's a prayer for me and you as we pilgrim together during Lent.  I pray that we can quiet the halls of our hearts to hear God's still, small voice.

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth --
it's she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it's you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.

I,17