moving over...

...to: http://ahandfulofquiet.wordpress.com

Where there'll be writing,
hopefully images, and
tellings of what God is giving me and letting me watch Him do
here in the Bronx.
See you there.

Sea chanty. To be sung in Bloggers' Harbor.

Sea Chanty , 2011.
(Inspired in part by a recent, very-decent, read, Against the Machine, by Lee Siegel.)

Travelers in the blogosphere,
Oh, tell me what we're doing here...
Are we treading seas of introspection,
Or sailing strong in some direction ?
Does your being blogborne turn a profit?
Are you as worthwhile if you're off it?

Do you find yourself disoriented
By tides of 'thought' that we've invented ?
Wave on wave on chattering wave,
We call our self-expression 'brave,'
And sail on link to link to go where
Everyone has been – it's nowhere.

Round and round past slightest switches
Of the same old themes and pitches;
What we think's a glorious ocean
Is just a whirlpool set in motion;
And we the rubber duckies swelling
On the waves of what they're selling.

Jump in quick and make your name in
The 'uniqueness' game we're all the same in.
Publicize your style and choice
In hopes a name may buy your voice.
If you hoist a flag that's hip,
And reference every other ship...

Did you start out to share what's true
And find the hearers shaping you?

Though all the world be sponsored, hosted,
Please know: you're more than what you've posted.
You're called to journey farther, longer
You're called to oceans wider, stronger

...Than “today's most read” could ever reach,
...Than “new for you” will ever teach.
The depths of minds and thoughts that haunt them
Can't be turned on just when you want them.
To sail to realms of tested treasure
Takes time, takes patience, wind and weather.

And in the waiting, courage forms
And perseverance in the storms;

A sailor's wisdom built with time,
May sing the world a mariner's rime.
....Or may find his joy in sailing so
'The world' may never need to know.

February 17 in new York.

whispers of summer in the 60degree breeze.
I remember you! I remember you, Bronx of July, of June.
You left
but you return.
You return!

I, new to changing seasons (whole seasons, longer stories than I ever knew,
each
so separate from the others),
I marvel that the place of last year's story
ever comes back.

The blue, blue sky,
the echo of laughter of source and cause unknown
rebounding off apartment buildings --
we're outside again! ..
the stifling snowhush lifted,
and the kids call out again.

It is, today,
a February's temporary reprieve,
a warning that this setting we've complained about
for months,
this grim gray cave we ride the subway through,
that wets our boots and buries cars and holds us all inside,
it's heard the knell,
has numbered days.

drip
drop
drip drop,
if you listen, you will hear the passings of a dying world;
if you have anything to do
before it falls,
best get it done -- a new world waits,
is peeking in from stage's wings
while snow dissolves.

Prepare the new!
We shall reset and start again
on a new scene.

This says the breeze today on the platform
over 183rd and Jerome.

Blessed, blessed, blessed and so blessed.

“Never allow your heart to deceive you, saying: ‘the Word of God cannot be done on earth as it is in heaven.’ … Don’t pray anything less than the Word of God. Don’t pray anything that is less than the size of God Himself.” ...thus, slowly, thoughtfully said Dr. Pravin Moudgill. (Or, as he asks that we call him, Pravin Uncle.) And he meant it. I do not know quite how to convey to you how much I saw the Word of God treasured, used, reflected on, revered and BELIEVED in word and in deed over the past week.

being the wordsmith, and not the photographer, I haven't visual snippets to share with you yet. But I can tell you that the Spirit of God is alive and well and has many very good homes inside the believers of India. True devotion is whole-life devotion; true belief in the Word of God is complete and unconditional belief.

I praise God for the men and women I have met this week who have shown me the heart of Jesus. In the time they have taken to speak to my heart, in the hospitality they have shown and the stories they have shared, they have been Family, in the truest, the eternal, sense.
My thanks to Wycliffe India. My thanks to our Father.

smallworld.

wondering.

" This is how we know what love is:
Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. "

"We love because he first loved us."


so we give ourselves away, in emulation of Him.
so we seek to love those who do not love us back, to be lights of grace against darkness,
to go the extra mile, to turn the other cheek.
driven and empowered by His Spirit only, we endure and we keep loving. His love is more than enough to show us how.

May I ask you , how low are our expectations to be
of being loved and graced and cared for in return? By human beings?
It's easier on the heart to have low ones.
what is your will on this, oh Lord?

is it possible to have no expectations? Neither here nor there, neither high nor low? To just never think or feel about people's love
at all?

I don't know.

yet : ...How deep the Father's love for us ... will be my song and focus. Because it is eternally and infinitely true, unplombable, enough to drink and bathe and believe in and learn for
all my life. ( and evermore. )))))))

trash-o-pology, the profane and the sacred, the clean and the dirty.

The words in quotes below are from an interview with the NYC Department of Sanitation's Anthropologist in Residence. (They have one! This amazes me.)
They gave me a ticket once. For putting the wrong kind of container in one of my recycling bags. I must say, I did not think this conducive to encouraging recycling among the public. Easier to throw the recyclables all in a concealing black garbage bag with the rest of the trash than to be caught recycling wrongly in the required clear bags.
(I still recycle. But I get help. And look at the very in-depth explanatory poster frequently.)


" The anthropologist Mary Douglas is famous for writing about dirt as a shifting category for everything that is out of place: shoes on the floor aren’t dirty, but shoes on the dinner table are; it isn’t dirty to have cooking utensils in the kitchen, but it is to have them in your bedsheets. She sees what counts as dirt as a gateway to the bigger systems that judgments like this are caught up in, and a way to figure out how commonsense judgments become that way.

RN: Well, her argument is partly that you can understand the entire cosmos of a culture by looking at its definitions of dirty and clean, and acceptable versus unacceptable, the profane and the sacred. You can start with something as humble as dirt and read it out to an entire worldview.

As a scholar, you can start anywhere. And that’s the beauty and the challenge, the frustration and the terror and the lifetime obsession of a scholarly bent. I start with this set of questions because I just can’t figure it out.

The goal of a scholar is to reveal things that otherwise might never be seen or studied or considered or understood or debated. But that’s an infinite list! It’s also in many ways the job of an artist, to show us things about ourselves. The scholarship of anthropology sometimes gets trapped in its own lofty language…. If I can help illuminate some facet of us as a species that makes culture, as a species that tells stories, as a species that plays in ways that connect us to each other, then I’ve done my job. My entry point is through things we decide are no longer worth keeping. ... "

The world recognizes that sacred-profane is a division we humans see and name. The world thinks this is subjective, that we make it up. And so many societies have made up so many rules about this. About what is holy and what is not.
Interesting. Because there is a real holy and not.
And it is not subjective. HE is not subjective.
This makes me want to go back and read all of God's words on holiness in the Pentateuch again.
And to ask questions about what is considered holy and what is considered profane, and why,
in the cultures I encounter.

photo from artist Nicole Fournier, here.

How can I tell ...

How can I tell you of the Lord's goodness to me?

I prayed for years for a deeper throbbing of the Gospel in my spirit, in my mind and heart. I prayed for community, for people to walk with and work with. I prayed for people to learn from. People wiser than I in faithfulness to and application of the Truth, of the Word.

And as God developed new passions in my heart, I prayed for those to be answered and used and channeled for His glory.
Refugees and immigrants. Urban settings. Muslim people. People with disabilities. Children. People living on the streets, whether full-time or just all day. The poor -- not only economically poor, but poor in family, in love, attention, and in truth.

This story stars a Father who knows the perfect moment to give His daughter good gifts. Who knows just the rhythm in which to unveil them, just the order, just the way.

I said 'help, I can't.' and He gave me school in a way I could dive into, in a subject I could love, in a form I could afford.

I said 'brokenness,' and He gave me work with the physically and mentally 'broken.' But only after He had broken me, too.
And there He showed me the beauty of the very small and simple. Of touching hands, of washing hair. And there He showed me that it is the purity of the offering, not the appearance of the offering, where its beauty, where its value, lies.

I said 'community,' and He gave me friends over the years and the miles,
and then He gave me an organization that echoed that cry. I went to Rio.

He gave me people to serve, and work in which to thrive. He gave me a tongue that spoke a language it had not known, and a heart full of prayer and of love. He gave me grace, so much grace. He listened to my cries and complaints and quibblings and questions for days upon days upon years upon years. He sent me people who loved me. He gave me a family full of sweet patience and steady nourishment. He sent me people who listened, and people to love. And people to laugh with.

"Be at rest once more, O my soul,
for the LORD has been good to you.
For you, O LORD, have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears,
my feet from stumbling,
that I may walk before the LORD in the land of the living. ...
How can I repay the Lord for all His goodness to me?" Psalm 116:7-9, 11.

I came back. I said 'work.' And He gave me a job. But it was more. For all those years I'd said "Gospel," for all those prayers I'd prayed "Body," for all those passions I'd gained and surrendered,
He gave me a city. He gave me a block. He gave me a Body.

And I didn't see it. For ten months I walked in darkness, every day. I woke early, and walked, frozen, frustrated and fearful, to a narrow room without windows to feel futile and exhausted and beaten, nine hours every day. And then walked home and cried, and microwaved something,

... and started again. I read Spurgeon. Hoped against hope.
How hard it all seemed. Not just difficult, but hard. Closed, like the heavy metal door of a bank safe. Peoples' lives, peoples' hearts. Possibility. Was this wisdom? Was this life? Had I been on vacation all the years that had come before? Been a child?

S l o w l y , I started to see that the teaching I sat under was something special. I was hearing Christ, again and again. I was seeing Him treasured above all things. I was seeing the Gospel valued, loved as solid food, the solid food, not milk. When we sang, we sang to Him. And we reveled in what He has done. .......

And finally, came spring. And I cried with the first leaf.
Things were still hard. But there were seedlings, stirring under the soil of my soul.

"Bring joy to your servant,
for to you, O Lord,
I lift up my soul.
You are forgiving and good, O Lord,
abounding in love to all who call to you.
Hear my prayer, O LORD;
listen to my cry for mercy" Psalm 86:4-6.

Spring was stirring in the world. And I saw it in: New Jersey. Can you imagine? Keswick Campground. I saw people loving people. I saw Acts 2 being studied and pursued. I saw lives so intertwined by years of loving Christ together. Generations blessing other generations. And I knew, if it was only to see this, to know it existed, it would have been worth the year of fight. The year of fear.

"Give me a sign of your goodness,that my enemies may see it and be put to shame,
for you, O LORD, have helped me and comforted me" Psalm 86:17.

I saw a church. Without a building. With a Lord. With a center. And I loved it. I remember looking into the woods and wondering,
would I go from here alone, back onto my own road, away,
or would I get to stay, walking with these people...

And then He took me far away.

He said it was to practice being, walking, with Him. I couldn't reject that. And so I went. Fighting opposition all the way. Fighting lies from the master liar. So much fear. I put my love for my new home on the altar. My new sisters. The teaching I wanted to guide and steady me. On the altar. Moving forward.

My plane landed in Rio, and I felt like I'd gone back in time. Like I had opened up a memory book long closed, and stepped inside. But God had newness for me there.
He'd brought me broken, and I had to share that. Had to disappoint people. Share the truth with them, because the truth hadn't changed. "I'm open," I said. "But I need to tell you that I've struggled. That I'm called elsewhere, and don't know when." And there was grace. And there were signs. And wonders--it was all right. The one who died for me was with me. Should I have been surprised? Parakletos. You came into the court with me, arm on my shoulders. You cared for me when I was weak and sickly, ladling broth into my mouth. No self-by-bootstraps here. You came.

I loved my life. I loved those women and children. More than words could ever say. I loved Jucelia, who wears a flower and listens closely--and stabs people in rage when she is drunk, bedeviled. And I loved Bruce, whose twisted leg won't stop him from doing swift-chop capoeira in the streets. Whose smile lights up the world.

I was alone. You met me. Hundreds of bus rides.
And you gave friendship.
I was so sad. And You mourned with me. You still do. The train tracks, clustered crack addicts crowded over trash dump flames. Nearly toothless twentysomethings with swollen bellies and farmed-out children, sprawled on sidewalks, boldly begging, and surprised by conversation.
You mourned with me. You still do.

"Confuse the wicked, O Lord, confound their speech,
for I see violence and strife in the city.
Day and night they prowl about on its walls; malice and abuse are within it.
Destructive forces are at work in the city;
threats and lies never leave its streets" Psalm 55:9-11.

What greater joy is there, what greater life, than speaking truth and showing love to people lost? What higher honor than to sit down on a dirty blanket, to be welcomed into someone's place, and say "Repent. It's free. Redemption's near. And has been purchased, by blood not yours. Come near. Come near." What greater pain than holding a child raised in sin and squalor, singing, praying, whispering,
and letting go?

... I didn't have to make a choice, make a decision, to stay or go. I can't explain it. But it was made. I didn't have to weigh, evaluate. I knew. I'm going home. I'm going back, and settling. It's not to do with value or with need. It is a story, that You're writing, and I'll follow, where You've put the answered prayer.

And home you took me. Just last week. Could there have been a greater overflow
of perfect goodness? Could there? How can I tell you
what the Lord has done for me? ? ??

"How great is your goodness, which you have stored up for those who fear you, which you bestow in the sight of men on those who take refuge in you" Psalm 31:19.

I prayed, you see, don't take these opportunities from me. Don't take these open lives, don't take these eyes, these hearts. Put roads into homes and lives, oh Lord, in my new home.

And do you know what my God did? Last week, I sat on a sidewalk beside a busy basketball court and heard a man, a brother, rap, freestyle, my heart. Your heart, Lord. Your call to those 'too busy' to stop and listen. He wasn't phased. Your Word declares that many will not hear. I saw him keep declaring. I saw some stop and listen. I ached for the similarity to the Rio streets. And sat to talk to littler ones,girl, boy, I'd never met. Before I knew what'd happened, I was answering their questions about You, Lord. "Is it true that God is coming back?" And standing at their apartment doors, meeting, or just waiting for, parents who passed them over to us, to complete strangers, for the evening. And I watched these children flourish in our yard, among Your people. I held them as they watched the Gospel acted out, and taught them a Jesus song. I saw them come alive. And knew
You'd answered Your daughter's prayers.

I have a home. I have a church to call these children to. I have a family in Christ to ask for help, to watch in action. I have a Body to be just one small but treasured part of.
I have teachers and examples who point me back, over and over, to Your cross, Your feet, Your Word.
I have sisters to laugh with and to seek with and to pray with and to learn from.
I have a neighborhood full of people. Full of people. Refugees who come and sing in the backyard and share their lives. Lost ones whose homes You've opened up through wonders to us.
The suffering's like a skin upon the ground. My soul, don't ever doubt that He is Lord of night and morning. However long the night, how could you ever doubt again His mercy, love and purpose. ??

"I will exalt you, my God the King; I will praise your name for ever and ever. Every day I will praise you and extol your name for ever and ever. Great is the LORD and most worthy of praise; his greatness no one can fathom" Psalm 145:1-3.

Oh, His abundant goodness! Did you know,
He loves you this much, too?
Did you know
He did not spare His son?
What else
would He withhold?


How can I tell you what the Lord has done for me? I could shout it from the rooftops. I could sing it from the stage. I could call it on the corners. .... I will praise the Lord at all times. He has been so good to me.

Streams of mercy... that I want to share with you.

Sweet small town of happy respite: Waxahachie. Did you know places like this still existed? I did not. And I’m so glad they do.

Sunflowers and skies heavy with coming rain; let's go to the fireworks..!

June was hotter than July is turning out to be. Is this normal?

We walk to farmer’s market on a Saturday; ten or twelve little booths along the small town square. Courthouse clock chimes nine. Book sale at the old historic library. We ooh and aah over old children's books, and wonder what the research-on-the-internet generation will miss by not having illustrated encyclopedias through which to flip and be transported...

We walk, and that means we get to have our vision bathed in green green green; the trees are blossoming , looks like…a Pennsylvania May. Cooler weather makes me see things I might normally not see…

It’s nice to chat with the man who grew the tomatoes you are buying. He tells us about 300 varieties of lavender, and going to the Texas lavender festival. “We had lavender and lemonade,” he says, and his grandson gets a bag out for tomatoes…

I see three people I know at one intersection of the 4th of July parade. But you don’t need to know anyone to have someone to say hello to. Everybody chats, and smiles. Two trailers full of World War 2 veterans ride by. We stand and clap.

Making a pillow cover from an old shirt... I find I have a lot of mending and projects piled up from years of busyness and coming and going…I'm not really capable of most of them, but it's delightful to try. And to get help. ...

An outing to the Vintage Market down in Forreston – it’s the only store there, really. John talks about old jazz, and Barbra talks about old clothes, and they knock twenty dollars off the price of whatever you are buying… and send you off with three CDs of great old music.

Comforting and being comforted. I think they know us at the Starbucks by now. By face if not by name. Iced coffee. Hazelnut…
I made a layer cake that slumped, but was delicious. Pineapple. !

'Bright Star' and 'Fantastic Mr. Fox' and many episodes of M*A*S*H. Writing thank you notes…

A wonderful book (Peace Like a River). Octavius Winslow.
Ballet beneath the stars on the grass in Fort Worth.
Dear friends. Sad soccer games. Bemoan the results with friends across the globe on Skype. This is the glory of the World Cup.

Parents, grandparents. Loving them. Sharing a few stories. Mostly being here together, now.

Looking back and looking forward. Photos of Jacare and tears for the streets. Plans for the Bronx, and great mysteries, too. Hurting and praying, trusting and hoping.

And packing lots of boxes. Because who knows when you might need this book or blanket?

These four weeks have been very different from the last four months. Those months were, too, sweet. For blessing comes in many colors.
They interplay and fade and grow, take turns in a human life. , no one less real than the others.

I won’t be staying here—it’s not my call-place; that makes it, really, all the dearer now. The Wood between the Worlds, you know,
is a world itself, too.
( Remember Aunt Beast in A Wrinkle in Time? And the planet Ixchel? (no, I didn’t remember the planet’s name on my own. I had to look it up.) )

I’ll just say thank you.
Thank you family, thank you friends. Thank you, Lord, for places that, for a time, are pitchers full of sweetness and reminders of tangible good. What grace it is that pours them out, for a while. faint echoes of great things to come. Call for songs of loudest praise.

Pena pena penissima...

just
unbelievable.

all that yellow and green .
all those weeks of preparation .

did you watch? it was painful.

A conversation with Vinicius.

"They woke us up there in the square and gave us three options.
They said we could have an arm cut off, go to jail, or be beaten.
I had to work later, so I said they should beat me."

He's barefoot, limping, and bruised. He's about 18. Skinny. He lives on the streets, sleeps on the streets. His girlfriend just had a baby. A beautiful baby boy.
"Vinicius, do you guys know which ones are 'good cops' and which are 'bad'?"
"All police are the same to me. One who's good one day can turn bad the next day. And one who's bad might be fine another time. Some of them come in talking. But some of them come in beating... They're all the same to me."

-- ( do a google image search of "dormindo rua" to see what millions and millions of Brazilians see every day. )-

observe-and-absorb.

bought a drawing (not of this particular painting) on Sunday afternoon, by this man, an artist on the streets of Santa Teresa, here in Rio. He had such in-depth, interesting explanations of all his pictures and the symbolism in them... thought you might like to see.
This one is called 'Invasion.'

More gunshots yesterday, in the favela across the street this time, not ours. Pray for mothers and children.

sweeping it under the rug. ... ?

In the neighborhood. (watch the video.)

So, these train tracks are one of the saddest sights of my everyday in Rio. I cross them daily to leave or enter my neighborhood. And as the reporter says in the video, these crack users are children, women, pregnant women, men... all kinds. Yesterday, a tall man lying on the sidewalk just outside the favela entrance, with a big stuffed Pooh bear by his feet... comfort? I see dozens of bodies on sidewalks, every day. I look at their faces to see if they are people I know, kids I have hugged. They usually aren't. There are just so many. ...

The reporter also says that the spread of addiction is moving much faster than the government's efforts to deal with it. Only four shelters for addicts in the city. Users are rounded up, brought in to the police station, and let go again. What's the point?

And,

ladies and gentlemen,

the world is coming to Rio.

2014, World Cup. 2016, summer Olympics. What's to be done?

There are rumors among the street people here in Rio (and I must say, their rumors about the government’s dealings with them have a way of proving true, or close to true)

that a giant prison is being constructed on the nearby island of Ilha Grande, a tremendous ‘shelter’ where all the ‘harvested’ street dwellers and crack addicts will be thrown over the years and months approaching the World Cup and Olympics. All of them together. All of them away from the eyes of the world and the media, on an island accessible only by boat and plane.

Imagine all the ‘crackheads’ without their crack, all the street kids tossed in with the adults, with the dealers, kingpins with petty criminals…if this place is real, it will be a hell on earth for those inside. Who would agree to work at such a place? What kind of help will be offered the inmates? … Please, when you see any features on the upcoming World Cup or Olympics, write to local, national and international newspapers, magazines, and websites, urging them to investigate Rio’s preparations. It doesn't have to be a long, complicated letter. Just ask what's going on. Ask them to do their jobs. Don’t let these things go on under the table.

Don’t let them be done violently and at the last minute. The bodies I see on the sidewalks…these people are lost. And, yes, they are criminals. But they are people. The world's arrival here could be an opportunity for well-planned change. For hope, at least for a few caught in the ditch of crack addiction, wandering the streets. Do whatcha can. Please, write, and

pray.

All you servants of the LORD, who minister by night in the house of the LORD . ...

there are times when
dirty feet
make me weep and weep and
why,

in a 'Marvelous City'
and in a week full of goingscomings goings again,

Why, after a hundred--more--poignant faces touch
my heart and meet my eyes;
Why, with a thousand other stings to feel,

Why is it only feet I see --

hardened, tar-stained, brownandblack ;

cut up and sticking out from skinny legs tucked in
to dirty t-shirt or under lintmade blanket.
?
and why are they walking

in this world
along a path I can't remove them from. ?

your feet are haunting me.
I'm awake, I'm asleep, they are before mind's eye, before
my eyes.

I can't stop crying for your feet.

****************************************************************************

Há vezes quando
pés sujos
são suficientes pra me fazer chorar, chorar e
por que, numa Cidade Maravilhosa,
e numa semana cheia de idavoltaidavolta ida de novo,
Por que depois de ver cem -- mais -- rostos tão inesqueciveis
que tocou meu coração,
por que com milhões de outros arguilhões pra sentir...
Por que só vejo pés,

pés duros, manchado de pinche, marrom-e-preto...
machucado,
e ligado as pernas magrinhas,
pernas apertadamente escondidas numa camisa suja
ou em baixo de uma corbetura cinza. ?
Por que estão andando neste mundo

pelo um caminho do que não posso os tirar .

?

Seus pés estão me assombrando.
Estou acordada, estou dormindo, eles estão diantes
dos olhos meus.
Não consigo parar de chorar
para teus pés.

Perspetivo Trans-Cultural.

The vision-clearing benefits of ignorance.

Undistracted by the many mixing colors of accent, dress, contextual clues,
All focus pointed, piercing, in

to Heart.

The work of simply understanding
Crowds out other clues and colors,

till all that’s there is Soul-- a soul,

Regenerate

Or not.

In step with its dear maker

Or apart.

And that is all you see.
And you know not where you stand in this strange world, How you, the alien, look through those dark eyes,
But you do know what you’re there to do. And you know what is still true,
And so that’s what you say. And so that’s what you do. And watch Him work,
That’s all.

You miss your language. Miss the colors. Nuanced. Funny. Intricate filigree weavings and pretty details.

But you know you’ll also miss the blunt, bright colors that your simple-d eyes see here.

And you pray to keep the tautness , the intentness, the constancy of focus, simple story : Lord and creatures, lost and found. You’re ready to tell it, to all who’ll hear. To all who’ll hear.

Get ready, urban hipster. Get ready, vagabond or doctor. It does not matter how you speak, or dress, or look at me. It does not matter where we are. I know, by the grace grace grace of God, Whom you need , Who’s seeking you.

And will fulfill my Father’s wish to speak that out to you, in love and truth.

where to stay. This... is very important.

To be at rest in thankfulness, and nothing else. Thankfulness for my salvation, resting in my utter inability to pay, my utter poverty, and His utter grace and utter love.
Does it sound simple?

It seems that I am wired to worry, analyze and reconsider. I don’t think that’s what I’m doing, but it is. This constant haze, mist, of ‘what, then, am I to do?’ hangs, drips, inside my head. To see the mist dispersed and sit instead inside the pool of ‘It is finished. He has done it.’ … takes surrender. Means surrender. Takes stopping my planning – for ministry, for relationships, for cooking, for writing, for a moment – even a moment – and, instead, accepting as ALL-sufficient the gift of righteousness
in Christ. I long, oh, Lord, to live in thankfulness instead of in Attempting. Perhaps not attempting to earn pardon or favor, but a constant consciousness of attempting to see you right, to hear you well, to act optimally, and questioning if I have succeeded. If I am, even now, succeeding. How is it…we can know that salvation is free, and then be eaten up by acidic worry that we are not accepting it and living it correctly? Or enough.

There are so many books that, meaning well perhaps, tell us what to do, how to do it better, within our faith. So few about the object of our faith. ! The object, Christ, who is our hope.
So few reveling in the Gospel itself. Each author, speaker, Christian, staring at one tree trunk, intently, nose-to-bark, not seeing the green greatness of the forest in which they dwell secure. We ‘move on’ from the ‘basics’ of what’s been done for us to ‘more advanced’ spiritual food: What WE can do. We sing about how much we love Him but forget to sing what He has done for us, and who He is, then wonder if more guitars would help us feel more.
We are children blindly ignoring the lavish gifts of shelter, food, love and family, sure that our game in the front yard is far more important than the dinner waiting for us inside; we play and play out there, play hard until we’re starving, dead, exhausted. We refuse to go in, and lie in the mud outdoors. Home is ‘basic.’ We’ve seen it once before.

Maybe it is my own toxic, inborn pair of perfectionist’s glasses that causes me to see in so many stories of ‘great saints’ this admonishing finger, waving, pointing, saying ‘and are you? And are you?’ … Words that put faith on a scale of weak-to-strong and walks with Christ on a gradient of ‘right-to-wrong.’

I have been freed by the knowledge that I was chosen in Christ before the foundations of the earth,
so far, far, far apart from anything I did or could ever do, or not do, think or not think. All that so pale next to the great and glittering GLORY of His choosing … choosing even me.
I have been freed by the completeness of His work in Jesus Christ. The beauty of a Gospel no man, no power, can change or take away.
I’ve been so privileged to hear that Gospel preached again and again, to see it loved and dwelt within. Pressed into me by hearing and example.

Lord, help me to stop, to stop and push away the garment of worry and analysis in favor of the garment of righteousness. When that garment, YOURS, is really on me, it’s all-consuming. It leaves no space for thinking
about myself.
Lord, guide me gently, or push me flat-out, into Thankful-ness so I’m immersed in it completely, grinning, drenched, welling up with fullness, secure. Every day. Please. Please.
I can’t do this, get there. With You, nothing is impossible.

“Find rest, O my soul, in God alone;
my hope comes from him.
He alone is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.
My salvation and my honor depend on God;
he is my mighty rock, my refuge.”
Psalm 62:5-7

midnight.

Boy in the dirt
One bright light overhead
Your mama~s in the bar a few doors down.
You're digging holes.
You're digging holes.

Nearly midnight, here you are,
You and a friend in a pothole in the road.
Your sister's in your mama's lap, where angry words fly back and forth
Over empty cups.
What are you building?
What are you building?
What are you building that she will never see?

Precious boy, I'll scoop you up...
But you're not mine. You are not mine.
10 steps from my gate...
Lord,
what are you building that I will never see?

soon going.

Surreal, fast-coming,
sudden jump-of-worlds !
...... I do better right now when I try
to be fast-moving, too, to match it.

Up and doing,
not still and thinking.

Oh, God,
no way for me to make this good;
but You, You, God, do wonders.
!

A rousing illustration, for a rainy day.

Obeying, suffering, and rising as the Representative, the Surety, the Head of His Church, may we not say, that what He did was not so much His own act, as that of the Church in Him?
He obeyed not for Himself, nor for Himself did He die and rise again, but for His "body, the Church." His resurrection, therefore, was as much His Church's entire release, discharge, and justification, as it was His own.
Then was the glorious sentence of acquittal passed, then transpired the great act of justification. The emerging of the Redeemer from the grave was the emerging of the redeemed from all condemnation. His release from the cold grasp of the destroyer was their release from the iron hand of the law. "He was taken from prison and from judgment," and as He passed out of the court of God's justice, and from the prison-house of death, the Church, purchased with His blood, passed out with Him, legally and fully discharged, exclaiming, as the last barrier yielded and the last fetter broke, "Who is he that condemns? It is Christ who died; yes, rather, who has risen again!" Precious Redeemer! what surpassing glory beams forth from your emptied sepulcher!

from Octavius Winslow's Morning Thoughts . Can you see yourself
running out of the courtroom,
away from the prison?

Can you see all of us, the Church, together?

It's finished. It's finished! May this bring you hope today
whatever dark and trying circumstance might otherwise stake claim on your vision and priority.

dear one,
No matter what you fear,
Christ's work is true.

grace yet unseen, but so certainly there.

[ from Octavius Winslow, Morning Thoughts] :

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Matthew 6:34.

It is a matter of much practical importance, that you take heed not to anticipate or to forestall the promised grace. For every possible circumstance in which you may be placed, the fullness of Christ and the supplies of the covenant are provided. That provision is only meted out as the occasions for whose history it was provided occur. Beware of creating trouble by ante-dating it. Seen through the mist, the advancing object may appear gigantic in size, and terrific in appearance; and yet the trouble you so much dread may never come; or coming, it will assuredly bring with it the "word spoken in due season." In the case of every child of God, calamity never comes alone; it invariably brings Jesus with it.

**********************************************************
He will be more than enough. He always is.

He already knows just how He will be enough in the days to come.

My future housemate, my Jacqueline , has a really wonderful, thought-provoking post up on her blog. Use Google translator, if need be, to read it, even though its translation won't capture the depths of wisdom to which God's led Jac. :)

She writes about the people cited by God as sources of joy to Him, people He holds up as examples in the Word -- Daniel, Job, Noah, David, Abraham, Mary... these Biblical saints all endured times of such suffering. And she contrasts this to the televised 'saints' of today, with all their 'health and wealth.' Their goal is to attract millions of peoples' eyes. The Biblically God-pleasing goal is to seek only His approval. This will look very different from what impresses the world.
God humbled Himself, took on shame, became low, on a cross -- because of this, we don't have to be an eternal source of shame and sadness to Him. He can even be pleased with us! And the path to pleasing Him is the path of faith in Him, and in what He's done.

That faith is so often perfected and made real in lives through suffering.

How rich God has made my life in relationships. Jac, you are evidence to me of His future grace. May we walk the path of Biblical saint-hood, not the world's version.

Amen.