Fighting the urge to tune everything and everyone out...

Christmastime is Here...

It's now officially Christmas. Jesus' "birthday." A time of celebration and quiet thankfulness... Or so we'd all like to think.

While visiting with childhood friends, their father (my old pastor) and one friend's new baby, it struck me how quickly Christmas snuck up on all of us and how fast 2009 has flown past. You see, this will be the family's second Christmas without their mother. It will have been a year and a half since she was killed in a tragic car accident. I still can't believe it.

As we sat there reminiscing about the old times, I couldn't help but glance about the living room at pictures of their mother. Family photos. Graduation pictures. Small momentos of a women who loved/lived/served well. It was bittersweet -- to know that she was gone from this earthly realm and would never meet her grandson or witness anymore milestones in the life of the family she loved so well.

Going about the day (and the week for that matter), my heart and mind have been elsewhere. Distracted. Drifting. In a season when my heart could have been gratefully reflecting on the miraculous, immeasurable divine gift our Savior, I wasted moments in self-indulgence and gluttony in every sense of the word.

I'm short-fused lately. People cannot/will not live up to my expectations. I feel somewhere in-between and as if I stick out like a sore thumb everywhere I go. I am perturbed to put it nicely.

All of this restlessness came full circle today as I watched everyone (including me) run around in a frenzy:
- Watching as my mom battled her guilty conscious at not being able to give anything to our old pastor's family nor to my brother or I (we've been in the habit of not exchanging gifts for a number of years simply because we'd all be broke)

- Attending a Christmas Eve service with the church I'd left, my calloused heart drifted toward cynicism, judgement and impatience.

- Going to a friend's house, I labored to tolerate friends who'd somehow decided that on Christmas Eve it would be fun to get annoyingly loud and piss-drunk playing drinking games to then go and spend the rest of the night berating people (some who weren't even present and many of whom have since left the church).

- Checking in on Facebook, I'm bombarded with statuses about last-minute Christmas shopping or gift-wrapping.

Thinking back on all of this, I can't help but fear how skewed our (my) thoughts (still) are about this all-too-important holiday season.

Lord, please forgive me/us... We know all too well what we do and don't do.

Back to the Future?

I'm realizing again a feeling of transition. Of being in a familiar state of limbo. I don't like it. I don't like me when I'm here. This place of limbo will often have me questioning and doubting everything and everyone. Questions arise within my mind and heart. Do I belong? And, if so, where? Do I matter at all? (In the grand scheme of things, no because Christ, hopefully, matters more in my life.)

It's a heaviness that I'd thought I'd finally unburdened myself of. But, Loneliness, Confusion and Melancholy are stirring up again. I don't like it.

Donner. Party of 8

I'm sitting on the floor of my living room. Bored. Out. of. my. mind. (Oh, did I mention I'm back home for the holidays in Philadelphia?)

Although fortunate to arrive a day ahead of the snowstorm that stranded at least one friend of mine who was hoping to get home, I am now cageed in my childhood home. Have been for the past 3 days actually.

Friends are all miles away, and, when your car is stuck in nearly 20 inches of snow, it's impossible to drive any distance to see them. No matter how much you want to. Not even if they may prove to be the antidote to the Cabin Fever you've suffered for the past 2 days.

My only companionship is Nigel (the laptop), cable television, my brooding brother and my incessantly nagging mother who doesn't seem to know what an "inside voice" is supposed to sound like.

I'm going stir-crazy. Someone help me... Please.

Self Portraits

I'm bone-tired. My feet hurt. My head reels. And I just want to crawl into a ball here on the floor of Fido and sleep by the construction paper fire place. Like a cat. [Maybe bear would be a better choice of words?]

If you care to know, I spent the entire day volunteering at Help-Portrait Nashville.

It was amazing. My mood, however, fluctuated.

Reflecting back on the day, I realize how very thin are the veils of patience and kindness that I profess to wear so proudly. A few people rubbed me the wrong way and my immediate response was frustration, anger and the occasional death stare.

Some of the people were impatient, others ungrateful or pushy. One volunteer completely took advantage of my helpfulness and ran off to hobnob while I tended to my group and hers.

In all of this, I learned (again) how very self-righteous I can be. As I walked around, I felt the Grinch within grumble.

I don't know what to make of this other than the simple truth that I need Jesus. A whole lot. More than you or I could ever know...

Winter Wanderlands

every now and then, it grips me –
this feeling of wanderlust
of wanting.

perhaps these slow, silent winter nights awake within me
a yearning
my soul’s sighing

I wait for you –
(im)patiently
trusting you’ll come near

until then, I’ll rest here
safely amidst these blankets of night;
waiting for you

wherever you are


- 2009|12.10

Fearless?

During my lunch today, I went down to my landlord's office to complain about the lights in my apartment -- the lights that have not been working for TEN STRAIGHT DAYS now! I confidently (and politely) asked for compensation for the month. He told me it was fine to not pay rent until he was sure the electrical problem was fixed.

You might ask why I bother to bring this up. Why this is so noteworthy as to post on this boring blog no one reads. I mention this because, well, had this been a few years ago, I don't think I would have been as bold.

I lacked the gumption I have now (or am learning to have).

I think about how far I've come. This meek little sparrow, so prone to hide in the shadows. I'm reserved still, yes, but... I'm OK with it.

Always have been actually.

I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm... (Not Really)

I'm sitting in my tried and true little neighborhood coffeeshop, Fido, at the coveted table by the outlets. The right leg elevated and resting on a chair to give my injured knee a bit of a reprieve from a day's worth of pounding the pavement and climbing stairs.

It's cold, so cold in here. I'm wondering if the guys in the kitchen are walking around in their skivvies, cranking up the AC so they won't succumb to the heat. You know what they say: "If you can't stand the heat... turn up the AC."

But, as cold as I am, as blue as my fingers and toes are turning and as red as my nose must be, I'd rather sit here in this arctic tundra than go home to a dark apartment and watch more movies.

It's funny, Frank Sinatra was playing on the speakers a short while ago... Crooning some nonsense about how love will keep you warm. Somehow, sitting here in the cold, ill-prepared for an indoor winterfest, I'm highly doubting any amount of lovey-doviness will keep me from hypothermia's doorstep.

My Poor Mother

I’m realizing that I’m actually enjoying singlehood. A little too much perhaps.

I think of friends who suffer unrequited love or disappointment and frustration with the opposite sex; and others, still, who long to be in “a relationship.”

Maybe finding myself living this Bohemian life – taking baths and living with scarcely any furnishings (or cash to remedy that), no TV or internet at the apartment (yet) – has somehow offered me a rare treasure: Solitude.

I’ve always been a bit of a loner – forever just a tad off center and out of the spotlight; marching (or skipping) to my own tune. Quirky. Trying to find humor and lightness wherever I can… knowing that dark days are bound to visit.

There are those who lose themselves in the fairytales of soul mates. and others who daydream, seeking out their idea of “perfection” in this very imperfect world. Some sulk or beat themselves up and wring their tear-soaked hands, sure that Cupid has missed the mark or forgotten them. In all of this clamor and dizziness, I’m finding the comfort of being alone. Knowing that it is only temporary and completely out of my hands like so many other things in my life, I’m enjoying the freedom of being unattached with new freshness.

I realize that for people like me who are prone to give too much of themselves and wear their resources thin, seasons of solitude are necessary. My head spins and my emotional fortitude wane as I think of how much it would take to care for someone the way he deserves (the way I would want for him to be loved and for him to love me) when I am still learning to love and trust these people who surround me now and slowly re-living this most sacred romance with my Savior.

Some envision falling in love to be a fiery storm of heated passion, whirlwinds that sweep you away and lightning strikes that ferociously land without warning. And, all my imagination can conjure are evenings of quiet, summer breezes: warm and inviting. Or of gentle streams that flow into grand rivers and oceans over time cradling two hearts along their placid currents. All I can do is wonder as I wait… a bit more patiently then before.

Dreams Haunt

Somewhere between my waking and sleeping, I had an eery dream that has left its haunting imprint on my soul all day. It lingers now beside me like a faint ghost of what is/should/may come...

I dreamt about my mother -- she was happy and smiley with her loud, boisterous hyena-like laugh ricocheting off the walls and invading the quiet of my mind.

We were celebrating something and anticipating the arrival of many guests, when... they walked in. The people with whom I'd had a bad falling out months ago as summer entered in. They looked happy to see me. I, although nervous, was happy to see them...

I have no idea why these people continue to find their way into my thoughts or why they chose to make an appearance in my dream (a rarity).

I'm baffled and confused.

I don't know what any of this means...

Hooked on a Feeling...

I've been in a rather chipper mood of late. My bet is that the vibrancy of this Autumn season is waking up parts in me. (Creativity for one. I've been drawing again and have found opportunities to snap photos at a moment's notice.)

However...

In the stillness of the last hours of work (and of Day for that matter), I was suddenly filled with a great sense of worry and fear: In two weeks' time my mom will be going under the knife.

The fear of the Unknown grips me like it did in my youth. Back when my cousins would tell me stories of the Boogey Man and Zombies that would eat my brain.

In all honesty, I don't know what to do or how to shake this feeling. What I do know is that I need off this hook... Pronto!

Moving. Being. Changing.

It’s fall – one of my favorite times of year.

Sitting here at my desk, looking out onto the lake and the geese drifting about, I had a flashback to this time last year when I drove along the Blue Route on my way to visit with EuroRebs.

I remember where my heart was then: Pained and exhausted; broken and helpless; searching for moments to breathe, to be at peace; hopeless and desperate for change; almost too far gone and at my wits end. Frazzled.

Driving along that long lonely stretch of road, I was struck dumb by the fiery leaves of Penn’s Woods. Reds and golds and maroons, greens and browns – colors so vivid that my heart couldn’t help but sigh and appreciate life, however hard it was.

Looking back now, I’m amazed and so deliciously humbled and thankful. That broken, tired, hungry girl I was for so long is slowly maturing, slowly growing into herself and finding the joy, peace and comfort that come when you jump into the fiery fields and gleefully molt the old parts so the new ones might sprout through the debris.

It’s odd though. I just spent a moment in the ladies room teary-eyed, strangely sorrowful that I’m no longer the Annie we all once knew. Like that old pair of ratty jeans or that nearly threadbare but oh-so-cozy sweatshirt you just can’t get rid of, I’m finding it hard to let go of her. To let go of her is to close the chapter on a story that was so familiar and predictable. (I wonder if I’d just become accustomed to pain. How very strange.)

People close to me have discovered - long before I had even realized - that I’ve changed and am not who I once was. They tell me in puzzled fashion how I seem more at peace – happier, lighter and calmer than I was before; that moving to this random city we all knew so little about was actually the best thing for me.

Surprise, surprise!

Surprises Around Every Corner

I’ve had a lot on my mind the last few days. A huge opportunity that I’d never asked for just sort of plopped in my lap on Friday and has been looming on my conscious for a better part of the weekend.

It’s odd when things like this happen because, well… they never happen to me. I’ve never been one for whom things came easily. Everything required some amount of pleading and praying, pain and sacrifice, patience and crossed fingers. But this? It came straight out of the blue, perfectly wrapped in pretty paper, almost too good to be true.

It scares me to realize that, at this stage of my life, nothing is holding me back. I have no huge obligations or responsibilities. Nothing. No one. I am as free as a bird, and it’s terrifying.

Last night I cried in the bathroom, pleading with God to give me some reason to stay here in Nashville.

As weird as it sounds, there are parts of me that want for someone to beg me to stay. (A bit of my romantic side coming through, I suppose.) I want for a gallant knight to come running after me, and, with tears streaming down his face, grab my hand and tell me that his world would end without me near. Sadly… that’s not the case. At all. Hardly.

As I shared the news with friends here, there was this small sliver of hope that someone would express their deep heartache at the thought of me leaving so soon after arriving. But, that hasn’t really been the case. Instead, they have been... supportive. [gasp!] One friend was even as bold as to advise me to run after any and every opportunity that this life may throw at you. You can always come back is what he said. But, I can’t chase the wind like he does or jump headfirst into the rabbit hole. The fear of dying, of failing, of getting lost in the shuffle is enough to have me running for safety.

It’s so strange that this comes now. Now, that I’m finding my footing. Now, that I’m learning to enjoy my life here. Now, that I’m falling in love with my church and these friends who’ve etched out little niches in this tiny heart of mine.

And, I have to ask in all honesty, Why now, God? After three years of waiting and watching Him open doors to come here… Why… now? I’ve only been here six months. A blip in the radar. A mere paragraph’s worth in what I thought would be a chapter of my life. I feel as if the story, in many ways, has yet to fully unfold.

It's true, I can always come back. But... to what? Who knows how the sands of time will mark us (me) or how distance will loosen heartstrings? I already feel the strain of change in my relationships with the people back home in Philly. And Nashville, I am afraid, is just as transient a city as Philadelphia. As hard as I may try to keep in the loop, it's inevitable that phone calls and emails will be missed or spread apart as I live my life and you live yours.

I honestly don't know what (or to whom) I'd be returning.

I think of my friend Cameron and the tough decisions he needed to make when he was preparing to leave for the Peace Corps. He'll be away for two more years, and I wonder at the anxiety he felt as he realized that life would continue without him here, that he (this city and everyone else for that matter) would be different.

Reason would tell me that I should take the opportunity and run with it, gain all the experience I can, tuck it under my belt and head back here or onward to some other city. Caution tells me to tread softly – that to leave this position I’ve now had for a mere 4 months would be professional suicide. It tells me that I need to stay at least a year, gain experience, investigate and search out opportunities to work with the existing refugee populations and use these resources to the best of my abilities. And Faith tells me that either decision will be for His glory in the end. There are no mistakes in the grand story of Grace, after all.

It’s all too confusing. And, I’m having mild panic attacks. Daily.

#TruThursday (on Friday... Oops) aka If You Ever Wondered Why...

There is a brilliantly talented guy here in Nashville, a photographer by the name of Jeremy Cowart. In an effort to connect to people, he's started a little Twitter project called "TruThursday." The concept is that every Thursday he'll share things about himself he's normally not so open to share. Some funny, some embarassing, others defacing.

Because I don't Twitter, I wasn't sure how I would contribute to this "#TruThursday" concept. Instead of caving and getting a Twitter account, I decided to make a Note on FB. Below is my contribution:


[Here's my attempt at it. Untagged. If you stumble upon it, then, so be it... If not, then it will sit in this void]



I've been staring at the full moon the past couple of days in a sort of wanderlust mixed with the faintest of melancholy.

Tonight as I "ran", Sleeping At Last's "Keep No Score" playing on trusty, old Engelbert Humperdink (aka iPod), the perfume of wet Earth and fresh laundry wafting through the night air, I felt my heart begin to tear. Memories I hid deep within taunted me as they forced themselves up to the surface and flooded my eyes.

I thought of my dad and my heart broke. Again.

It's been a dozen years since the divorce. Half that since I last heard his voice or saw his aging face.

As I think of him, I am filled with a longing, with a deep sense of... emptiness.

Running through the darkness, the memories soured within. Like bile, my body heaved unsuccessfully to rid itself of them.

If I am to be utterly honest -- and if I really allow Truth to illumine my heart and reveal its hidden parts -- you would see that I am quite scared and find it terrifying to trust others at times. I am prone to fears of abandonment and rejection, of being unloved. Unloveable. Forgotten.

For the past few years, I have consciously let people see all this brokenness (well, at least the parts I allow them to see). I've unwrapped these broken wings and hoped for gentle hands to take care in handling them (me). However emotionally risqué and draining, letting people in has been cathartic. Ironically, though, the fear is rising up again...

As I let a new set of people in and give way to this life unfolding in Nashville, I am nervous. [Truth be told, there have already been some here who have not taken heed to my pleas to be gentle and patient and who have instead trampled my heart to the ground.]

All this I confess to say that I am angry with my "dad". Still. Even now. 12 years later. [I thought I was passed it all.]

This man who was ordained (charged) by Heaven itself to protect and steer me bailed when things became difficult. LONG before the divorce. Just when I was growing into me, into my skin (into a woman), he was checking out emotionally. [Parenthood just wasn't as fun as he'd thought, I suppose.]

This person who was to show me how a man should treat me and what one of godly, God-fearing integrity looked like, didn't. Instead he was absent at best; angry and burdened by us at worst.

I was supposed to be the apple of his eye. He was supposed to tell me that I was his princess. That I am beautiful. That only the luckiest, most special of men would be worthy of me. But, he didn't and never has.

Most days I can repress these fears and thoughts. Most days I am able to laugh and love and live. But, every once in a while, I find a way back to this Trail of Tears. And when I do, it's a struggle to remind myself of the Truth. That...

I.
AM.
LOVED.


Deeply and wholly and intimately.

There is One who painstakingly and thoughtfully, penned every part of my story and weaved every inch of this tapestry that is my life. There exist pages in this book He's written in me that are stained with tears of joy and heartache, others He's dog-eared and bookmarked as important life-changing moments in my life He'd like to keep record of (for my sake).

I want to be thankful for it all, honestly, I do... But... it's a hard pill to swallow sometimes when there's a full moon on the horizon and you're body is retching to let go of the pain.

Elmer Fudd-isms (or Just Plain Duck Hunting)

It’s That Time of Year Again: Duck Hunting Season (Not Really)


My office looks out onto a lake/wildlife preserve just outside of downtown Nashville. It’s really a pristine and relaxing view to be able to look out upon. All day ducks, geese and heron placidly drift through the water.

Within this gaggle of geese and paddling of ducks, you’ll find a peculiar specimen: an odd looking water bird. I am told he belongs to some weird species of duck that is much larger than his mallard brothers. He is possibly the ugliest thing you could see -- a mugwort breed of duck and buzzard with a bleach white head and red patches above his eyes.

In ways he reminds me a lot of myself. Like him I often feel quite awkward, a bit out of place, swimming about in the pond with the rest, but at my own pace and in my own little world. I mostly feel like this as I try to figure out this man-woman, duck hunt called “dating.”

It’s a strange phenomenon, this whole mating ritual. Guys strut about town, their feathers out in display for all to see. (Here in Nashville they take on the plumage of tattoos, emo-wear, low-cut V-necks and band-age) The girls do their share of primping, corseting, curling, and painting themselves as well.

Then, there’s me.

On good days I feel presentable (at most) and hope my character (however marred and in need of editing) would make up for my deficiencies. But, like that water-buzzard, I feel strangely out of place. Different. Following from a distance. Observing. Watching (and waiting) for a sign of interest. (A mating call, if you will.)

I realize more and more why so many of us are still single, still searching, still out in the fields with our whistles waiting for someone to take notice. We’re all stuck in our heads. In our ideals. In our daydreams of what “perfection” looks like.

More and more, I feel as if time is buffing out the things that were so precisely carved out of my own Pygmalion creation. I’m learning that the heart -- a man’s character and beliefs -- his integrity and passions are more attuned to how this heart is moved. Looks matter, yes, but the heart (of a man) is what I’m hoping to understand, to hold, to cherish. All the rest is just peacock plumage - pretty packaging that fades and wears and, more often than not, distracts from what is inside.

May(Be) December Romance

You might tire of me,
Because our December sun is setting;
I’m not who I used to be...
["Brothers On a Hotel Bed", Death Cab For Cutie]

Recently, I’ve held strongly to a posture of vulnerability. Of trusting and entrusting. It’s scary to be this open though, especially for people like me who are held together with fraying ropes. To allow others to see the brokenness and the refuse of life you’re so apt to sweep under a rug or stuff in a closet to forget about is... horrifyingly terrifying.

It’s a gamble every day. A high stakes game. And, yes, sometimes we’ll tilt or go bust. Sometimes people will take advantage of us, hurt us and run off with the part of our hearts we’ve been so happy to share.

BUT…

If I (we) am to grow into a more loving, honest, grateful person, I need to proceed with abandon (as hard as it is).

I’m terrified. Really terrified. Scared-cat-on-a-tin-roof-during-a-lightning-storm terrified. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart, romantically speaking. And, in all honesty, I’ve done such a bang up job of building a wall of disinterest and “friendliness”, remaining in these daydreams with all their overly-romantic Jane Austen-esque ideals , I’m afraid I don’t know how to steer through the stormy seas of romance.

* * * * *

A dear friend and I once shared how we were always stuck in the most-hated “friend zone”— she for one reason and me for another. But, I realize she is, in ways, more apt to navigate these waters than I. I am much too scared to even take a step forward. I straddle the line - one foot in the rocky boat with all its promises of love and warm embraces (and possible heartbreak, tears and pain) and the other foot planted firmly on the dock of singleness that I’ve grown so accustomed to. Suffice it to say, I am a land-lover... apparently.

To be honest, I don’t even know what it would feel like to be the object of someone else’s affections. To be counted beautiful, not “pretty.” To be thought captivating and enchanting, not odd or strange or weird. To know that a man would want to (would choose to) know me… and love me. For me. Not because of my talents or my "it" factor, but... Just. For. Me.

It’s so much easier to play in the waters of friendship. But, I’m finding my heart pulling me towards the unknown depths a lot more these days. The currents of time are pushing me out farther and farther from the shore without my knowledge, without my consent.

I guess we can say that our little Annibelle is growing up.

How terrifying.

Morning Glories

Today, for no reason at all and without my phone’s prompting, I woke up. Early.

As I lay in bed, half-groggy, half-alert, the sun slowly rising to greet the day, I began to daydream:

Of hopes and dreams and future things.
Of love and marriage,
Of horses and carriages
Of hands to hold
and sweet kisses on foreheads

I dreamt about what could be and smiled in eager anticipation.

Then, reality struck me in the head and I awoke to the day, showered and drove to work.

Such is the story for this morning glory.

Departures

Last night a couple friends and I gathered at a small, historic theater here in Nashville called the Belcourt. It’s a captivating place, which drowns you in a sort of nostalgia of the senses. The smell and sights of old wood, of screens flanked by ornate draperies and gilded carvings cause you to feel as though you are about to experience something other-worldly, something void of time or reality in a way. And, yet, the quirky rotation of artwork in the foyer brings you to moments of giddiness as you realize how very ironic it all is. The old and the new converging like they do here? It's Nashville epitomized.

I had been waiting to see Departures for a few weeks and had convinced these friends of mine to join me. But, out of an odd turn of events and scheduling conflicts, the gang of many became a small party of three.

We purchased our tickets and headed into the theater, purposely missing the previews for Jeff’s fear that we’d be sucked back into the belly of the whale that is the Belcourt and find ourselves here again for the next consecutive weeks to follow. [I snuck a peek at one of the previews and am now obsessed with watching an upcoming French film the title and viewing schedule I have no inkling of an idea about. I confess: I have an addiction… My name is Annie and I love movies.]

I was ill-prepared for the movie. It struck chords and unearthed things in me I had thought I’d tucked away so neatly, so deeply, that I would be unmoved by what we were about to experience.

I was so very wrong!

The unassuming movie about a young man’s struggle with losing one passion and finding another was captivating. His unresolved familial issues, however, undid me. I wasn’t expecting a movie about a mortician’s assistant to move me so, to rip apart the poorly stitched tears in my heart, but it did.

I thought of my father.

Like the main character, I often find myself forgetting his face. It’s been more years than I can remember since my brother or I have heard from him. The only pictures I have lie hidden in a box back home in Philadelphia where most of my memories reside.

He is, in many ways, a lifetime away.

Lately, I have been reminded of his absence. I look back to recent pictures I’ve taken with friends here and see him in me - the way his eyes would scrunch, the way deep furrows would appear around his mouth whenever he smiled. These things, these and his hands, are all I have of him now. And I stare in a sort of disbelief, a sort of bewilderment that numbs me to the core.

A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet…

I think of him on occasion. Of all the things he’s missed out on and will miss out on because of the foolish decisions he’s made. Birthdays. Weddings. Births. Grandchildren. Great-Grandchildren. And, it grieves me.

On bad days, I would rather erase him from my life (memory) completely, days when I hate even the sound of my surname. A name that has proven to bring much delight and pages of puns for some friends of mine. [I don’t mind, really, as they can (on occasion) be quite amusing.]

Sure, there are days I find myself daydreaming of the day when I will take on another’s (name) and it brings a sigh of bittersweet relief… momentarily. Yet, these three little letters (C, H and O) are my only connection to him. And, to finally let them go?

I can’t even begin to imagine the loss.

SHE

Yesterday, while at my wit's end at having spent over 4 hours driving all over town in a failed attempt to finally, legally, become a Tennesseean, I met her. In the heat of the day and in the fogginess of exhaustion, the eyes of my heart found this unassuming old woman aimlessly walking about a parking lot full of luxury cars, across from the ritzy stores of the Green Hills mall.

She reminded me of the face of a famous Dorothea Lange photo -- the same forlorn and distant gaze of hopelessness in her eyes. The same leathery face, weathered from the sun and years of a hard life, now etched on the slate of my memory.

There was a distinct heaviness about her, a shroud of shame almost. As we walked towards Starbucks, her slow, pained steps broke my heart. I glanced down at her feet squeezed into canvas sneakers much too small and knew they revealed more than I was privy to -- a confession that it had been days since she'd last known rest. I was sure she was hungry, but she refused everything I offered, only asking for money to "go home." Her words still echo in the recesses of my mind.

There are so many like her these days. My sinful heart's initial reaction is to look away, to pretend that this is not a reality when I know it is. The piles of cases and letters and stories at work can testify to the fact that for many, survival is a moment by moment ordeal. These faceless stories are reminders that nothing is guaranteed.


(Well, almost nothing.)

Time to Play Ketchup (er, CATCH UP)

First things first: I must apologize for my MIA status here in posting anything new. Fortunately for me (and perhaps all of you) no one reads this.

..........

A friend once said that she'd love to blog, but can never find the time to do so. She was too busy living/managing life. I guess it's a good thing that I've been in absentia for nearly two months then...


In the 6 or 7 weeks I've been "gone" life has indeed gotten in the way. Like a rushing, unpredictable wind, the gamut of the human experience has blown in and out of this quiet life of mine. Death and life, love and heartache, the ugliness of (my own) sinfulness, sickness and health, loss and (true) gain have all found their way here.

Friendships have been tested and some have fallen apart, crumbling into pieces so small I don't think they'll ever be forged together again. Thankfully, though, as is always the case when you are under the watchful, attentive eye of someONE so loving and faithful, I am (still) OK. Better even. Stronger despite the sadness that lingers. In losing one thing, I've gained much more... much better.

..........

Tonight I read through an old conversation I had with a once-friend-now-stranger. A two-hour dialogue about faith and the hope we find when things go so poorly and life (and love) seem to be against us. It's been nearly two months since I've spoken with him and we have made every effort to pretend the other is invisible, which proves much more difficult than I realized when you've allowed someone to enter in and see the mess that is your life and hope that same person will proceed with caution and, yes, appreciation of this heart you've let so few hold.

..........

There is an old Arabian proverb humbly hung on a wall in my office. In the five months I've been there, it's the first time these eyes so accustomed to seeing the details of life have found it. I read the sweet, honest prose and smiled:

A friend is one to whom
one may pour out all the contents of one's heart,
Chaff and grain together;
knowing that the gentlest of hands will take and sift it,
keep what is worth keeping,
And, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away