Friday, October 25, 2013

"Mass media is weird, because it's "mass" and relationships seem imbalanced, but the reality of Jesus always changes that equation." - Brant Hansen

A different way of looking at the world.

This is how I feel about the internet now. 

However, if you would have asked me a couple years ago, I would have lamented the creation of mass media. I would have told you how I thought it took away from interpersonal relationships. I would have pointed to the studies that say social networking websites made you less satisfied with life, because you only see the glitter of everyone else's life without the garbage and you begin to feel as if everyone has a better life than you. 

When pictures of everyone else's engagements, weddings, and world travels flash across the screen alongside their status about acceptances to graduate school, new jobs, and all the other bright, sparkly things in their life, while you are sitting there single, lonely, and empty - it can cause all the insecurities that are lying dormant to rise to the surface. And in a dark room through a dimly lit laptop screen those gnawing feeling of discontentment and pain will rise up and taste bitter in the back of your throat. 

Clearly facebook and twitter are the bane of the 21st century. If they just vanished we would all be happier and less insecure and jealous. Without them we would all be more satisfied with our lives. Clearly if I didn't see other people happy I would be happier. Right? 

Or maybe not.? Maybe facebook and twitter just expose the discontent that is already sulking around in our hearts? Maybe this has been a problem for humanity across the ages.? 

Reality, Jesus is enough. is enough. is enough. And when I look through a set of eyes that can see the edges of the enormous gift I have been given--it changes things. Sometimes I just need to be reminded.

See, I have started to view the world differently-thanks to so many individuals who have challenged me to look through a different lens. With their lives and their words they have been like an optometrist who flips through the lenses causing the the blur on the screen to become clear.

They have urged me to peel back the veneer of perfection that people display and remember that we all struggle. They remind me I don't know the pain and demons that have screamed and howled at someone and I don't know the story behind every smiling face. I don't know what it has cost them to find the beauty that they now hold.

They have taught me to lean into and see the beauty that surrounds me all the time and rejoice when others find it too. They've shown me that joy comes from the outpouring of a grateful heart and there is much to be grateful for in every moment.

Now I want to see and hear about the beauty you uncover. Show me a picture of the sunset you see, tell me about the love story that is being written for you at this moment, capture in still frames that trip you take to England, shout with glee when you get your dream job, and tell me about how your coffee tasted like grace this morning. 

Snatch the sparkly things in your life and show me because I want to see them too. Post pictures of your lunch and I will be grateful along with you that you have food to savor and enjoy. Find the roses among the thorns, the daisies hiding beneath the wreckage and the lilies that are in every valley.

Bend down, reach up, and find the shiny things that make you smile, they are worth looking for and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Be grateful for the grace.

Blisters

Disclaimer: I don't know if this even makes sense but I am going to say it regardless and hopefully someone out there will be able to follow and trace my twisting thoughts.

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This has been banging around in my head for a week or so but I wasn't exactly sure how to say it, and in actuality I'm still not exactly sure how to say it...so why am I saying it at all? I'm not quite sure of that either...anyways...

I was sitting eating a jazz apple the other day when I noticed hard blisters on my fingers. Blisters that had been brought into being because calluses were taking shape and they weren't particularly pretty.

I'm told this is what happens when you play guitar, cello, violin or any other stringed instrument. The strings, hours of practicing, and friction do their due diligence...and now the tips of my fingers aren't as soft and pretty anymore. They are a little bit more worn, harder, and tougher...but the notes from my violin sound much better now, cleaner and brighter.

I feel like my life has been like that, especially in the last few years. I'm not as soft, naive, and innocent as the lanky barefooted girl that I use to be. My life is messier, I've made lots of big mistakes, I've wandered off the path and found myself in deep ravines many, many times. My heart has a few more cracks as well as a few more holes and my edges have gotten a little rougher. ...but because of all this I think I am able to play brighter notes. The music I play with my life is deeper and more substantial. The notes ring truer after pain just as the gold shines with that much more radiance after the dross has been consumed by the fire.

The light seems brighter because of the darkness. Dawn seems particularly precious after a stormy night.

After you've swallowed a few draughts of despair, you savor sweet hope a little more.

Could the pain, loneliness and heartbreak that we experience cause the notes of our life to ring brighter? Could it really be that He is making all things new?

If this is true, let us be grateful for it all, for at the very root of joy is gratitude and at the bottom of gratitude is a childlike trust in the love of a God who is weaving all these things together for good.

Give thanks for the joy and the sorrow, the bright laughter and the salty tears, for our friends and our enemies, for the victories as well as the defeats, the acceptances as well as the rejections. Because when you start to give thanks for every blasted moment of grace, you begin to realize that every moment is grace.

Let us give thanks for everything that has brought us to this present moment clinging to the knowledge that one day soon we will see in every twist and turn the guiding hand of loving Father.

Fear

Unfortunately in the past there have been times when the fear of not being "good enough" at something has kept me from doing anything. The idea implanted in my head was that I must be perfect at what I do, lest the world and God himself turn away in disgust, indignantly questioning why I attempt to do such preposterous things.

The implanted thought took root and fed on all of my fears. Roots sunk deep into the crevices of my heart and soul, paralyzingly me. Fears of disappointing people. Fears of failure. Fears that everyone will actually begin to believe I am certifiably crazy.

Pride is so much easier to feed than humility.

I forget about grace. I forget about weaknesses being strengths and strengths being weaknesses. I forget about Moses telling God that He had chosen the wrong man. I forget about the fact it is not and has never been about me.

I don't need so much to be taught as I need to be reminded.

Reminded that most of the God uses my imperfections and failings, that He uses all of me even the brokenness...dare I say especially the brokenness.

I may say the wrong thing, I may do the wrong thing, I may stumble over words, my grammar and typos may be scattered liberally through-out everything I write. It may be horrible writing-but it can still be used. Two small copper coins were not too insignificant to go unnoticed, so maybe you and I aren't either.

Maybe redemption is really too good not to be true.

Thank you all for reminding me.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Media.

"Mass media is weird, because it's "mass" and relationships seem imbalanced, but the reality of Jesus always changes that equation." - Brant Hansen

A different way of looking at the world.

This is how I feel about the internet now.

However, if you would have asked me a couple years ago, I would have lamented the creation of mass media. I would have told you how I thought it took away from interpersonal relationships. I would have pointed to the studies that say social networking websites made you less satisfied with life, because you only see the glitter of everyone else's life without the garbage and you begin to feel as if everyone has a better life than you.

When pictures of everyone else's engagements, weddings, and world travels flash across the screen alongside their status about acceptances to graduate school, new jobs, and all the other bright, sparkly things in their life, while you are sitting there single, lonely, and empty - it can cause all the insecurities that are lying dormant to rise to the surface. And in a dark room through a dimly lit laptop screen those gnawing feeling of discontentment and pain will rise up and taste bitter in the back of your throat.

Clearly facebook and twitter are the bane of the 21st century. If they just vanished we would all be happier and less insecure and jealous. Without them we would all be more satisfied with our lives. Clearly if I didn't see other people happy I would be happier. Right?

Or maybe not.? Maybe facebook and twitter just expose the discontent that is already sulking around in our hearts? Maybe this has been a problem for humanity across the ages.?

Reality, Jesus is enough. is enough. is enough. And when I look through a set of eyes that can see the edges of the enormous gift I have been given--it changes things.

See, I have started to view the world differently-thanks to so many individuals who have challenged me to look through a different lens. With their lives and their words they have been like an optometrist who flips through the lenses causing the the blur on the screen to become clear.

They have urged me to peel back the veneer of perfection that people display and remember that we all struggle. They remind me I don't know the pain and demons that have screamed and howled at someone and I don't know the story behind every smiling face.

They have taught me to lean into and see the beauty that surrounds me all the time and rejoice when others find it too. They've shown me that joy comes from the outpouring of a grateful heart and there is much to be grateful for in every moment.

So now I want to see and hear about the beauty you uncover. Show me a picture of the sunset you see, tell me about the love story that is being written for you at this moment, capture in still frames that trip you take to England, shout with glee when you get your dream job, and tell me about how your coffee tasted like grace this morning.

Snatch the sparkly things in your life and show me because I want to see them too. Bend down, reach up, and find the shiny things that make you smile, they are worth looking for.



Monday, October 21, 2013

If we could only see the glory that is contained within the people around us and if only we could see that deep down we are craving and yearning for the same thing. We are all are chasing something to fill the empty God sized hole that sits in the center of our chests.

From the well dressed business man who is attempting to use success as an anesthetic down to the man sleeping by the gutter who has tried to fill his empty places with alcohol and amnesia--we all long for something to fill us up.

We all long for rest, affirmation and love. We all want to hear and believe that we are enough and loved just as we are at this moment. Even if it seems to good to be true we all ache for it.
Today was like a rest and reset day for me. The past two weeks have been incredibly full, full of good things but still so full that I needed to slow down and process everything that had happened. So I spent the day in curled up in a t-shirt and shorts, reading, eating, playing violin and writing.

I went on a walk this evening, it was cool enough to wear a hoodie and clear enough that I could see the stars. I wandered around under the sky and thought about life, love, and happiness.

And this is what was running through my head.

I am a both girl.

I enjoy wearing dresses, skirts, and make-up on occasion but I also revel in donning basketball shorts, ginormous t-shirts and fuzzy hoodies. I enjoy the laughter and fellowship with all my dear people but I also covet my alone time spent curled up in the corner of the couch. I appreciate walking into houses that are nicely kept but I also enjoy walking into houses that have so much life contained within that it's caused some to spill over the edge taking the form of spilled juice on the counter, toys strewn about the floor and laughter ringing out in every corner.

I love warm sunshine but I also love cold, clear nights when the stars seem to lean in just a little bit closer. Spring is my favorite because everything is new but every year fall bewitches me with her brilliant colors. I love open fields where it looks like the world goes on forever but the woods will always be my true home. Clear blue skies make me happy, however, furious raging thunder heads fill me with wonder as well. Eating the colors of the rainbow in fruits and vegetables is delightful but warm cinnamon rolls and cheesecake also remind me of grace. Old hymns sung with beauty and reverence are my favorite but even so, worship songs sung with passion make me want to throw my hands in the air and grin because I can see King David dancing to them. Good literature is wonderful to dig into and chew on but sometimes savoring a well written ice-cream novel is just what I need to remember why I love to read.

Laughter is a beautiful thing but sometimes I need tears to wash the dirt off of my eyes and heart.

There is wonder to be found everywhere my dear friends. It hides in plain sight, in every leaf, rock, tree, and person. There is glory all around if we could just take a moment and pray for the eyes to see it.

Dear October,

Dear October,

Thank you for coming. I have been eagerly anticipating your arrival since the beginning of Summer. When May sent me invitations to join you on back to back weekends at Cure and Hutchmoot less than a week apart I didn't quite know what to do with myself. Stuff like this doesn't happen to me. It happens to other people but not me. Until....it did. and dear October I am still sitting here trying to wrap my head around it.

April 28th I asked people to give money to Cure for my birthday. I was terrified that no one would give and I would be sitting there looking like a crazy fool. I nearly deleted my request a dozen times but then I threw it out there, then went and hid under a blanket. Two days later on May 1st, I got an email from the director of partner relations at Cure asking if we could grab coffee sometime to talk about Cure. He had no idea what I had requested for my birthday. Three weeks later on May 20th I found myself sitting across from him at the Panera in Concord sharing conversation about how he and his wife had been youth pastors prior to him working for Cure and our mutual love for Jesus, the Church, and books.  Then I sat listening to him explain Cure a little bit more and tell story after story, after story, about child after child, after child and the healing that followed their brokenness thanks to Cure. I fell in love with Cure a little bit more. We talked for a solid three hours with the promise to keep in touch.

Four days later on May 24th, you would have found me sitting in my car dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open as I stared at a pamphlet I had just opened, asking me to come to an all expense paid weekend in Baltimore to learn more about Cure. Later that night I remember sitting on the edge of my parents bed telling my mother how excited I was and about how I knew why God didn't let me get into Hutchmoot earlier that year--I said, "He knew I would get this opportunity and knew I couldn't handle two back to back weekends." I kind of think now God was smirking at my attempt to figure Him out.

On May 28th I sent the registration for Cure and was followed on Twitter by an author named Helena. (Side note: I knew I would love Helena's book because on her website she had quotes from Lewis, Chesterton, Tolkien, and Buechner)

On May 29th I got an email from Pete Peterson that contained the words, "We've just had one spot open up for Hutchmoot 2013, please let me know ASAP." I thought about it for all of thirty seconds before I sent a reply saying that I would love to attend. And the only reason I hesitated for even thirty seconds was because of hotel cost. But I knew deep down in my bones that I couldn't miss this opportunity so I dove in.

June 1st I looked at hotels, almost booked one but decided I needed to wait and the following day, June 2nd Helena my new author friend said that she wished I wasn't in North Carolina because she thought we might be kindred spirits, so I mentioned I was going to be in Nashville for Hutchmoot, thinking that we could grab coffee on my way in or out of town so I could meet her. She then said, "If you don't have a place to stay you can totally stay here!"

Public Service announcement: Don't offer Ming something unless you really mean it, because there is a good chance she will take you up on it if she really likes you. So don't invite her to do lunch or to visit you unless you are prepared for her to actually do it. 

I waited two days to gain the courage and then told Helena I would love to if she was being serious (all while praying that she didn't think I was completely insane for taking her up on her offer that may have been a joke) and her being the amazing person she is-she said she was serious and just like that I had a place to stay.

And then October you came and magic happened.

And I just sitting here kind of dumbfounded wondering when my life became like a story that is so crazy I couldn't have made it up in my head.

Imagine.

Imagine for a moment you're the widow with the two mites. 

How you would feel walking up to the treasury with two small copper coins grasped tightly in your sweaty palm. Would you feel invisible? Would you wonder what the point is, why you even bothered to come? As men with rings on every finger pass by you with bags so full of coins they are ripping at the seams, do you hope that the floor opens up so you can drop down into a hole. 

People must think you are crazy, they must be wondering what you are doing here. You begin to replay the voices of your family who told you that they think what you plan to do is asinine. They remind you that you are a widow: poor, alone, and what you give will not make a difference here-for you will never make a difference. And suddenly in a flash of indecision you believe them.
 
Words are fired into the holes of your heart. Destitute. Forgotten. Abandoned. Broken. 

A wave of despair threatens to overwhelm you, pull you under, and the bravery you felt when you first made the decision has all but seeped from you into the stone floors that you find yourself standing on. You desperately wish you could turn around, go home, and forget this foolhardy errand. But somehow your feet find their way all the way to the front of the treasury and with a burst of courage, your hand opens and you toss the two warm, small, copper coins into the pile. 

You turn quickly to leave and you see sitting across the room, a Rabbi. He is looking at you, no, not just looking but seeing you. And for the first time in years you don't feel invisible, but seen. He does not look tame, but His eyes are kind, He smiles at you and you feel love seep deep into your soul. He calls and a dozen men scurry over and lean in closely to hear Him. You see Him point at you and smile. And at that moment-it is enough.
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I am not the most talented person in the world. I am not the smartest. I am not the most gifted. I am not the best writer, I am not the best weaver of words. I don't have a huge sphere of influence.

And I don't have bags that are threatening to burst because they are so full of coins. 

But I do have two coins, one life, and a handful of words. 

May I have the courage to toss them into the treasury, may I be brave enough to open my hand and let them drop. And may I more than anything else in the world desire that smile.



Saturday, October 19, 2013

Dinner.

I felt awkward at dinner tonight.

I didn't know any one at my table, I didn't know what to do with my hands, and I was sure I would use the wrong fork for the salad.

Then the small little lady to my left started to talk and my love of a good story overcame my awkwardness when one of the lines that dropped out of her mouth was, "I lived in London during World War II." My curiosity was piqued and I began to ask her questions.

She began to tell me about how she was born in Ireland in 1936 and her father was a British soldier stationed in India. Her brother died from cholera at nineteen when she was three and that's why they moved back to London. She recalled watching a hole being dug in the backyard, corrugated metal being dragged over it, wondering what it was for, and she remembers the moment when she discovered the reason-the first air strike came, they ran hid in the dirt hole and bombs dropped.

She remembers climbing into a train, leaving her mother behind and going into the country. And I inquired, "Like Lewis wrote about in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe?" She responded, "Exactly like that." 

She told of going to Canada after the war and her father dying shortly afterwards. She remember meeting her husband and the children they had. Then she remembered being found by Jesus when she was forty and how He chased her down. She said, "They have called Him the hound of heaven and I am so thankful He hounded and hunted me down."

And I loved her. And you will all be pleased to know-I used all the right utensils.

Snapshots

Snapshots.

Met a physical therapist who is from Huntersville, NC in Baltimore at the Cure conference. Found out she works at Northeast! This is insanity. And she has now been added to my long list of the PT people that I love.

Late this afternoon while crossing the walkway that led to the inner harbor, I happened upon some young college aged boys who stood leaning against the railing with cigarettes hanging out of their lips snapping pictures of themselves. They tried in vain to look nonchalant as I passed, but I tossed my eyebrows up and threw a mirthful grin at them. They smiled sheepishly and muttered something under their breath about taking selfies before they scattered and scampered away in the opposite direction.

Sitting in a dark room that was lit only by the light coming from the glass of a dolphin tank and watching them glide and dance. Realizing for the millionth time that I could totally live near an ocean.
Lunch with a nurse anesthetist who is going to Ethiopia and Uganda this summer (and she invited me along).

Dinner with a couple who carried a Marshalls bag to the table and upon my inquiring if they found what they needed, the husband replied, "Shoes and underwear for our thirteen year old, he wears them out so quick," his wife quickly added, "He means that he wears out the shoes!" And her husband retorted, "And the underwear too!" She just looked up to the heavens and shook her head. I liked them immediately and knew we would all get along splendidly. He kept me entertained all through dinner and then I found out that she is a cardiac thoracic nurse who works in the CVRU and we got along beautifully.

Leaning forward with elbows on the table across from an orthopedic surgeon who spent five years in Ethiopia doing surgeries on children with clubbed feet listening to him tell stories of how many miracles he witnessed and all the doors that God opened. He said that some of the tribes in that area who use to persecute Christian missionaries now welcome them and say, "If you are friends of Cure you are friends of ours." Healing changes lives.

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It's amazing how much different life looks when I walk around with my eyes open. I don't do it every day, but I am thankful for what I see on the days that I do.

And seriously, I swear I know and I get to meet the coolest people. Thank you all for being awesome.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

I Wish I Could Paint

I wish I could paint.

One of my patient's today was a little elderly lady who had soft gray hair that lay in short disheveled waves and eyes the color of a rainy day in May. When she smiled a dimple blossomed on her right cheek and the crinkles around her eyes gave her comfortable laugh a kind of credence. When she spoke, she called everyone, "Honey," and her southern accent was so thick I swear I could almost smell the sun ripening peaches. I am sure that she is full of good stories. I perched on the chair next to her, told her jokes and asked her questions just to hear her talk and laugh.

 I wish I could paint.

See, I want to paint a picture of her sitting in an adirondack rocking chair on the creaky front porch. The porch is attached to a house painted deep blue and I want to paint the dazzling pink azaleas that are in front of it. I want to place a beading glass of filled with ice and amber colored sweet tea in her left hand and a book in the right. I want to paint that laughter in her eyes, I want to tint her cheeks the perfect creamy translucent pink and reveal the dimple that is just northwest of her smile.

I wish I could paint, but I can't. And this is frustrating me to no end.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Tonight...

Tonight after work I donned shorts, a hoodie and walked outside. I walked barefoot on the asphalt, obsidian rock pulled roughly at my feet as I wandered through the dark streets of my parents neighborhood under a veil of velvet clouds covering the night sky. I inhaled a deep breath of air that was on the brink of being cold and tinted with the essence of a bonfire. I shivered, smiled, and pulled my hoodie a little tighter around my chest.

My mind meandered aimlessly through a garden of pretty thoughts and my heart was so full of fun that it seemed to slosh and spill over the edge with every step I took.

There is only one thing to do when life seems this beautiful and terrifyingly expansive. I glanced down the street, saw there was no one around, and I took off to the maple tree. I climbed, sequestered myself up among the branches, and wrapped my arms around the trunk. Rough bark pulled at my cheek as I looked up into the sky and at that moment the stars peeked through the clouds just so they could laugh delightedly with me.

I sat up there, a little closer to the sky for quite a while before I clambered down, ran inside, and ate a sandwich slathered with peanut butter and jelly.

Oh, my Father is awfully fond of me.

Monday, October 14, 2013

I am a Writer

This will probably be deleted/hidden shortly.

One can only be expected to be so brave in a week and my bravery is about expired. Edit: I won't delete this, solely because I love Jennifer Peterson and Barbara Lane that much.

 I am a writer ...and this is one of the hardest things in the world for me to say.

I'd never said it out loud until yesterday at the last day of Hutchmoot and even then I choked on the words as they were whispered in the ear of someone who I knew would understand.

And right now I am terrified of throwing it out there. I want to take crumple this up, toss it into the trash, and never look back. I want to ignore the feeling that pushes me to write this, I want to place this urge into a box and place it on an unmarked shelf, never to be found again.

There is something about letting the words lose into the world that terrifies me and I don't completely understand why, all I know is I want to be a coward. But I am going to try and be brave and hopefully the try will turn to brave.

 People have told me, "You're a beautiful writer," and I have stammered back, "I'm not a writer, I'm just messing around with words." For I am sure that writers are people who write with beautiful prose and never doubt their gift. They know deep down that they were made to weave and spin those marks on paper and the words obey them. I on the other hand am wracked with insecurities. I feel like a five year old child with a pencil grasped in her chubby hand, tongue out in concentration trying to capture a brilliant sunset with black and crooked lines.

So, I belittle the words that I have been given and I to climb into a box, close my eyes, and I hide. I compare myself to other writers whom I admire and I know that I fall so far short. Fear crawls in the hole that comparison and insecurity has opened and voices whisper to me, reminding me of all the lack that is mine. Someone else can say it better and more eloquently than I-so why try?

At times they whisper and other times they shout but always they say, "You am not good enough, intelligent enough, and wise enough to be a writer," and I believe it. Like a fish I swallow the lie like a hook and am reeled up onto the beach gasping for breath.

 But I am going swimming back into the ocean of grace thanks to all the loving people who insisted on speaking louder than the voices this weekend. I denied and said I was fine, they insisted. They dragged me struggling off of the beach and they tossed me back into the sea. Because of them am going to dive deep and rest in who I really am.

 Truth: I am Ming, I am not as beautiful and eloquent as all of the other writers I know-but I still have my own words. I will never write a book or publish anything but I have words. I do not write for anything other than the joy that I find in the act of weaving, spinning, and stitching words together and that is okay. I may not be able to turn a prose and capture an audience but I still have a story that has been given me.

 I have something that no one else does and that is; I am Ming. I have warts, bruises, scars, and freckles that are all my own and they will be where I write from. Others may be able to say it better than I, but they cannot say it exactly like I can--for I am me.

And I'm going to hold onto that with faith that it's true even when I don't believe it.

(deep breath)

I am Ming,

 I read books like they are essential for life and I am friends with all of the flavors of the wind. I am an idealist and I can be bossy.

I long for things to be redeemed and made right, starting with myself.

I am a nurse, I am a fan of watermelon and laughter, and I am an overthinker. I apologize far more than necessary and I am stubborn from time to time.

I am deeply loved more than I ever dared to hope and my Father is awfully fond of me.

I desire more than anything to live each moment I've been given well and I am a writer, for I love the craft of stitching words into sentences. And I am going to trust that I am here for a reason if I don't see or understand why, for my God is weaving a beautiful epic story using everything, even this small dark thread that is my life.

What is Hutchmoot?

What is Hutchmoot?

If I got a book for every time I have been asked this question - it would be wonderful, because I would have to start stacking books on my staircase again.

To try and describe the wonder that Hutchmoot is and contains, is daunting. It seems much like I am shooting for the moon in trying to answer this question, but nonetheless I intend to try my hand at it and do my best, for even if I miss - at least I have a chance of landing among the stars.

Attempting to describe and capture Hutchmoot fully is in part impossible, because what you see and experience depends on where you are and the perspective you have at the time. Many people may take a snapshot of an ancient, massive tree and while each picture captures one view of the tree, each will be different depending on the angle and perspective of the person who pushes the button on the camera. Each small square of a picture is indeed a piece of the tree, but it cannot accurately capture the whole complete essence of the tree itself.

But sometimes there are things that are worth photographing, so I will try and snap my picture here.

(deep breath, exhale)

“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn't safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.” 
― C.S. LewisThe Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

This is how I feel about Hutchmoot.

Hutchmoot is good but it is not safe. There is nothing safe about walking into a building where God is busy working. But it is good. Oh, it is so, so good.

I walked alone towards The Redeemer late Thursday afternoon. The sun was filtering through the leaves, I felt happy and my feet felt light. However, this changed the moment my foot crossed over the threshold of the door. Raw terror swept over me and I cowered. Voices screamed in my head and whisper to my soul, "You don't belong here. All the people who you think you belong with will reject and hate you or worse secretly despise you. What were you thinking in coming here? You are worthless." Lies were being thrown and slung as easily as baseballs in the spring and I wanted to bolt back to the safety that was felt behind the locked steel doors of my car. Instead I tried to make myself look invisible as I slid and collapsed into a chair in the back of the sanctuary.

I was being undone. The voices unstitched and unraveled the deepest core of who I thought I was and it was searingly painful. I rested my head on the chair in front of me, I wanted to cry, I wanted to run.

But what was intended for evil was being woven into the story of my life to accomplish something good. I was being broken so I could be bound back together, unraveled so I could be remade, and unstitched so I could be sown back together - into something better than I could have imagined.

Every conversation, every session, every meal, every person, and every beautiful thing seen, smelled, heard and touched was a piece of the thread that was being used to stitch me back together again.

I fight to believe I am worth anyone's time, much less people who are admired and respected by many and who have a line of people who all want a chunk of their time and attention. All I wanted to do was to tell them thank you for what their writing, music, and stories have done for me. All I wanted was a sliver of their time and attention so I could just thank them with my lips and they could see in my eyes how much their work had meant to me. But they gave more than a sliver. They cared, they stopped, they sought me out to get to know me, they invested their time, energy, and words into me. They were the hands, feet, and voice of Jesus. And I am crying even now thinking about it.

One of the ladies I was hoping the most to thank and maybe exchange a handful of words with, grabbed me by the hand, dragged me to a bench outside to talk and tell me that she loved me. Another as I passed by stopped me and asked to grab a conversation with me, I was dumbfounded. Another took the time to listen as I whispered the words I had been to terrified to say and then held me as I cried, feeling the fire of who I was created to be burn down and branded into the deepest parts of my soul.

It makes me cry because I think that is how God is with me. I am just hoping to tell Him thank you, just hoping for a sliver of His attention for a brief moment, so those words can come tumbling out. And then in the middle of my sentence He laughingly drags me by the hand to a bench out in the air to pour life into me. He stops me in the middle of my day to tell me that He wants to get to know me, and he holds me tenderly while I am being broken and remade and He doesn't care that my tears are staining His shirt.

Hutchmoot was nothing like I expected it to be, it was so much better. I didn't expect to love everyone this much and be changed so intensely. I was warned that it would be like this, but like a child who has only seen puddles and is told of the vastness of the ocean, I thought I understood--but I had no idea.

I do know this, I have finally found my tribe. I may be the least of them--but I have found my tribe.

Aslan's presence is thick at Hutchmoot. And because of that, Hutchmoot is anything but safe, but I will tell you that it is good.

Friday, October 11, 2013

Day Two.

"To try to be brave is to be brave." writes MacDonald and this was the rhythm that I attempted to dance to today.

Yesterday was unexpectedly difficult. I thought it would be slightly uncomfortable at first with a sprinkle of awkwardness, however...

I walked into the Redeemer and fear struck the bells in my heart. They shivered, shook, and I broke out in a cold sweat. Panic poured into my veins, flooding my heart with doubt and fear. I wanted to fly out the doors back into the safety between the metal doors of my car. Instead I smiled nervously at the girls who handed me a packet with a kind smile. Sidled by the people around me trying my best to be invisible as I slid quietly into the sanctuary. 

Cross in front of me, my knees gave way, and I dropped silently into the back corner seat, wondering what on earth possessed me to think that I would belong here. These people are brilliant, wonderful, and beautiful. I listened to the lies that were being slung into every hole in my heart and they began the work of covering the truth with their sticky explosions. Lies that tell me I'm not good enough, that no one will like me, and that I made a huge mistake in coming. These lies drain the joy from my smile, the spring from my step, the lightness in my voice and glint in my eyes. 

For a short while the blinders come on and I forget what I know deep down in my bones to be true. 

So I prayed, I had nothing else to do but lower my head onto the seat in front of me and I began to tentatively knock on the gates of heaven begging for grace.

Sigh. Deep breath. Exhale.

I got up and began mulling around being generally awkward and self conscious. Inwardly cringing at the way that I greeted people. Berating myself for the fear that I was feeling and wishing that I could work up the courage to just be myself. People came up and introduced themselves and I couldn't help the panic that flashed across my face for a moment, I prayed they didn't notice it and I wished I could greet them in a the way that I wanted to. 

The concert was phenomenal, Eric Peters sang a song that I was sure was written just for me.

By that evening I was exhausted. Emotionally drained and ever more convinced that I am an introvert.

I collapsed in bed and questioned for the hundredth time what I was doing, when the MacDonald quote flashed through my head, "to try to be brave is to be brave," and I paused, looked up at the ceiling, closed my eyes, and filled my lungs with air.

I wanted to be brave.

Now I am not a propionate of faking it, but I also believe that there are times when our feelings follow our actions. There is a time for crying, but there is also a time to lift your chin, look at the sky and smile remembering that you are small and given much. So I determined to do just that, I would try and be brave and in the process actually be brave.

And today was wonderful.

Be brave. It's worth it.

Saturday, October 5, 2013

Fall

Fall has arrived with a laugh, flinging a parade of colors in her wake. Two thousand thirteen is wrapping about herself a mantel swirled with burnished colors. I walk outside and leaves painted burning gold and flaming red float down and catch in my hair creating a crown cannot be riveled. 

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Why: Nursing


Why did I choose nursing? Because, when I looked into doing anything else I discovered that I am too much like my parents to not work in healthcare.

Why do I love nursing?

Let me tell you why...

1. I love my patients. I enjoy caring for, helping, and I love that for an entire day I get to build a relationship with them, I am their advocate and at times I am fortunate enough to become friends with them. I enjoy breezing in and out of their rooms and perching on the edge of a chair to talk with them and answer questions. I try to always wear a smile and be genuine. I do my best to be winning and make them laugh and smile. I love getting to know them and listening to their stories. I hate watching people hurt and go through ugliness but I am thankful that I have the opportunity to be there with them and lay a hand on their back or their hand to let them know that they are not alone when ugliness happens. Yes, I deal with nastiness but I strive and strain to view it as an opportunity to serve and do good. I deal with bodily fluids all day long and I strive to do it to the best of my ability. I've also gotten to meet so many incredible people, World War veterans, a lady that played in a symphony and who now works for the government, a Holocaust survivor who had lost her entire family, and this year I met my favorite patient of all time whose whole family I absolutely adored.

2. I love my cohorts. I love working alongside the individuals in other disciplines to provide care for my patients. Ladies and gentleman, I have the great pleasure and honor of working with some of the most wonderful people in the world. From doctors, surgeons, nurse practitioners, and physicians assistants, to physical, occupational, speech, and respiratory therapy, nurses and nurses aids, house keeping, room service, pharmacy, maintenance, lab, volunteers, and pastoral services--I have had the opportunity to become meet and become friends with some of the funniest, nicest, smartest, kindest, and most gifted people I have ever met in my entire life and I really truly mean that. I walk into work every day and look up at the ceiling grateful for the people I work alongside. Major plus: I try my hardest to avoid paging doctors but I'm thankful that when I do they are almost always so gracious. (Side note: I really, really miss my ortho, neuro, and plastic surgery people, but I love my new cardiac people)

3. I love that I am never bored. I am always, always learning something new and interesting. I could never work an eight to five desk job (I would literally go insane) and nursing is so far from a desk job it's wonderful. I run around all day and have to think all the time about what I need to be doing next and I adore it. I love the critical thinking and the constant bouncing of ideas I do every day. I love that I can ask questions and I love that I work with people who like teaching me new things. Every discipline I have worked with I have found a physician, surgeon, or secondary provider who loves to teach and I do my absolute best to learn as much as I can from them.

4. Stories. From patients, staff, and ones that are constructed while I am at work there is never a lack of good stories in a hospital.

This is why I love my job.

Also, I think I would really love to work as a nurse practitioner someday too...but we'll see, it kind of scares me too, lol.


A Violin Lesson and Gratitude.

I had another violin lesson yesterday, the door swung open and I slipped down into a room that I had known well as a child. Dozens of cellos are hung in a row off the walls and there is a back room filled with violins. It smells of wood, wire, and rosin; my heart sings everytime I enter.

Here is where I went every week from the time I was five until I was thirteen, here is where stories were constructed, freeze tag was played in the front yard, and music (however squeaky) was spun. My instructor hasn't changed at all, she's still smiling and sprightly, she still exudes that contagious energy that she always has, and you can tell she is doing what she loves.

We finished up the lesson. We past Bach's Minuets and had revisited an old Gavotte anBourrĂ©e. My fingers are still trying to find their places, I've probably grown a foot since I was here last and my hands are adjusting. I looked over at her smiling and tell her that I've never had this much fun playing. 

I packed up my violin then I leaned against the wall and my instructor and I caught up a little bit. And then I shared that coming back here and playing again made me realize how much I took for granted playing as a child. I took for granted that I was able to learn to play a beautiful instrument and I never appreciated how much my parents sacrificed in time and resources to give me the opportunity to learn to play the violin. My mom drove thirty to forty-five minutes weekly for years so I could learn, she would wake my sister and I up in the mornings and packed us up into the van even on the mornings when we grumbled and scowled. 

My parents insisted I practiced, paid me a quarter on the days that I did, taught me to read music, and I humphed indignantly at times because it was hard. They sacrificed, got attitudes thrown at them for it, and when they got frustrated - I thought it was their problem...whoops.

I sat in a room and built memories with the other children in between lessons and orchestra. On nice days we would play freeze tag for hours in the front lawn (my sister fell into the pond once and had to play in orchestra with wet jean shorts), on cold days we would play epic battles of War with cards or pickup sticks in front of the fireplace. And this is just a sliver of my fantastic childhood--and I never realized how incredibly blessed that I was. So, I told her thank you for teaching me as a child.

While I was driving home I thought about how much I would love to go back in time and bend down and take my seven year old selves face in my hands and tell her/myself to appreciate everything. "You have much to be thankful for, be grateful. And don't be a butt," is what I want to tell my little serious eyed child self.

I drove back to my parents house, went inside and caught my mom washing dishes downstairs. I snuck up behind her gave her a hug, apologized for the prick of a child I was and the prick of an adult child I can still be at times, and I told her thank you for everything that I took and take for granted, for my music lessons,  the time, the patience, and everything else. And true to my mom's character she laughed it off and said it was no big deal.

When it comes to parents, I have a couple of the best ever.



Wednesday, October 2, 2013

And a one...

I discovered Andrew Peterson years ago when I was a junior in high school. I heard the lyrics of "Just As I Am" read during a message on a podcast that I listened to and those words struck every bell in my soul, striking and resounding with words that rang true. If you were to read my blog from high school you would find Andrew's lyrics peppered throughout (along with various C.S. Lewis quotes and long tangents: I haven't changed much).

No More Faith, Love is a Good Thing, More, Lay Me Down, All Things New, and The Good Confession have been the soundtrack of my life. When hard times come, when waves crash around me and the wind howls like an animal--these are some of the songs where I find refuge. When I am to tired, scared, worn out, and lonely to even read, I have learned to find a quiet place and let a song strike the chords of my heart again and again reminding me of what I know to be true but so often lose sight of in this foggy reality we live in: there is more.

When I have made a mistake for the hundredth time The Good Confession is what played and gave me hope that I am loved inspite of myself. Oh, though I kick and scream, oh love, love is leading me.

Then there was the night that I saw the jaws of death snap shut and I stared the curse full in the face. I saw life slip between the fingers of all that tried so hard to save it. Ever fiber of my being rebelled against the ugliness of what I had seen and I wept. I walked out of the hospital clutching my notebook to my chest and I drove under a bright dusty moon. Head pounding, heart raw and aching, soul weary. I found myself passing the road that lead home and winding down a road that led somewhere, anywhere that I could pray, think, and process.

When I say pray I mean whispered sentences that are strung haphazardly together, begging for grace and help. Processing everything while pounding on the chest of my Father begging for clarity and words, for platitudes would not suffice and cliches could not shoulder the burden. So I drove on, past sleeping cattle and a doe that peered wide-eyed at me out from between the pines as I glided past.

I longed, longed to go Home. To see past the curtain and shed completely the scales that cover my eyes.

And the words from More and Lay Me Down swirled in the air around me. I passed cemeteries where the dead lay silent, with only a few hammered words in stone to sum up their life. They know of the glory that I long for, whether they flee it or seek it - they know it. I pulled into an empty church parking lot, clambered onto the hood of my car, and looked out over a mist that spun across the tombstones.

This is where we will all end up. Lying quietly inside a hole in the ground or a small pile of dusty ashes-regardless of your story and where it leads during life, whether the character you played was rich or poor, kind or cold, humble or prideful - there will be a page in your story that when turned to, will hold these words, "...from dust to dust," and whether it comes swiftly or slowly, the end is coming for us all. And in that moment I was so ready for it, ready for glory. Ready for no more tears, ready to see the whole picture and laugh at the brilliant Story that was woven here on earth. ...but hold on, it's worth it.

And I realize in that moment that I am loved enough to hurt. I am loved enough that suffering and trials are allowed to enter into my story to refine and purify me, to shape me into something better. Joy is sweeter after tasting salty sorrow.

This a beautiful world full of sunrises and sunsets, bright days and dark nights. Some fathers never make it home, babies are buried, tragedy enters the scene, hearts are shattered, and we scream as pain carves deep scars into our souls.

I am alive. My heart hammers, my lungs inflate, I breath, and I live. While this means I will get to see life, it also means I will see death. I will see the curse played out over and over, again and again. And when this happens, I will run, fast and furiously back to the things I know to be true. I will go back to the old roads and I will lash my heart to the ancient mast. I will hold on and I will not give up.

I will live, running and striving to pour out as much of my little life as I can. I will not hoard up myself. I will give and smile and laugh. I will hold onto hope and even with hands full of grief I will hold onto the knowledge that this is not the end of the story. I will run this race before me with vigor because I know there is a better beginning awaiting me once I cross the finish line. Ugliness and pain and heartache and tragedy and even death itself will not have the final word, and they all will be burned away like the dross that they are. And we will laugh as beauty colors the sky with a flourish.

Good is coming.

I am not home yet.