Hearthfires and Hearts Afire

Come in, come in and warm thyself
by the fire of love,
kindled by kindness and
breathing out the incense 
of acceptance

Come, gather 'round
the crackling branches, 
pruned and withered, 
still offering warmth and light
as they fall to ash and truly die

Come toast thy face 
in the warmth of grace and
by the blaze of holiness 
be scoured and cleansed, 
be set to rest

Come out of the wet, the cold, 
the wild wind—to the hearth 
and heart of this home,
wherein Christ dwells in mirth
and tears, in hugs and hands

Come in, come in and sit
thyself beside the fire
of hospitality and glowing embers,
where we laugh and weep
and still remember.

Hiking and Hitchhiking

This weekend, I went hiking (and hitchhiking) with Tosha-the-Brave. 

Here we are looking chipper, the two-ish miles of steep uphill accomplished and all that gorgeous colour and all those towering mountains around us for the next six-ish miles.

The day began sunny and hazy from wildfire smoke. . . But as we climbed, the sky grew dark and foreboding. Not truly foreboding—Tosha and I just both love that word. But the clouds did roll in for a good portion of our hike, making it the perfect temperature.

We met some nice folks at the trailhead who offered to give us a ride back to our car, as "Lost Man Loop" is a bit of a misnomer. It is really Lost Man Horseshoe, with a four mile stretch of winding Independence Pass road (with no shoulder) between trailheads. . . or is that trail tails? Either way, we were thankful for the offer. It ended up some other folks let us ride in the bed of their pickup, which was great fun (albeit, a little breezy).

Here we are post-hike and post hitchhike, on the home-side of Independence Pass. We saw a road that was parked up and down and was full of golden Aspens. So, of course we turned around and explored it!

I'm always grateful for Tosha's encouragement (and patience) while hiking. We had a lovely day together in God's glorious autumn colours! And we were both thankful that He provided kind people to hike with and ride with, as well. 

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay

—Robert Frost

*All photos taken by Tosha-the-Brave

From the places you've been torn. . .

"There is nothing that can replace the absence of someone dear to us, and one should not even attempt to do so. One must simply hold out and endure it. At first that sounds very hard, but at the same time it is also a great comfort. For to the extent the emptiness truly remains unfilled one remains connected to the other person through it. It is wrong to say that God fills the emptiness. God in no way fills it but much more leaves it precisely unfilled and thus helps us preserve—even in pain—the authentic relationship. 

Furthermore, the more beautiful and full the remembrances, the more difficult the separation. But gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. One bears what was lovely in the past not as a thorn but as a precious gift deep within, a hidden treasure of which one can always be certain.”

—Dietrich Bonhoeffer

______

Emptiness. I have felt its greed in my heart and in my body. There is a permanent hole in my heart while I walk on this side of the Kingdom coming, and God Himself does not fill that emptiness. He is leaving that slow-bleeding hollow right where it is. It is that absence that somehow makes me feel your presence more sharply, Aaron. 

For years there was an Aaron-shaped empty-space where you should have been in my life. You didn't just drift away, as so many friends do when life carries us along. You were sharply cut away from me one winter's day in Alaska. You became a stranger to me over the course of time, and in a particular instant you saw me as a stranger to you from then on. No one understood the ache I carried inside of me from that encounter. I didn't even understand it really. I didn't know how deep the wound went until that parting shaft was ripped out one September day, the barb leaving a gaping hole in its reverse exit. 

No words could fill that hole. No friendship on earth could patch up that wound. But when I read Bonhoeffer's above quotation, it resonated all the way down the path of that still-bleeding laceration. "It is wrong to say that God fills the emptiness." He leaves the torn up place to allow us in that empty, painful ache to connect with the one we've lost: "For to the extent the emptiness truly remains unfilled, one remains connected to the other person through it."

How strange. In those five years where even my closest Semester friendships began to wane, I felt a deep connection with you—the friend who had abandoned me. When you ended your precious life, the pain was unbearable precisely because you had already left an empty place, unfilled all those years, where my connection to you was strong. It remains strong. That emptiness makes me curl up in a ball and ache sometimes, because absolutely nothing can fill it except you. And nothing I can do will get me to you. Only God can do that, and this isn't the right time yet. 

"Furthermore, the more beautiful and full the remembrances, the more difficult the separation." I have forgotten so many details, moments, jokes, and sayings of our time together at Semester... Certainly I have forgotten more than the ones I can and do remember. But I treasure what I remember. I treasure your letters. You taught me things while we corresponded, but you have taught me much more through those same words years and years later. And the more I understand what you were saying, the more deeply I value your mind and heart, your self. Thus, the more difficult the separation. The assuaging answer isn't to forget or to stop reading your letters. Though there is intense pain in the separation, there is profound healing in remembering, especially in remembering together with your family or our friends.

For years I have felt that all I had to offer God was emptiness. Empty hands. An empty heart. Empty desires. Empty relationships. Empty arms. An empty shell. The times I've been the wisest (though they felt the most foolish) were the ones where all I had was emptiness to offer on the altar to God. Now I begin to learn that the very empty places are the ones where I find connection to the person or dream or thing that is missing. It's not the connection I would choose. The ache can be debilitating sometimes. I would give much to reach out and wrap you in a hug once again, my arms full rather than empty.

Until the Kingdom comes in its fullness and we run to the Supper of the Lamb together, I will try to remember that God isn't filling the hole, He isn't fixing the ache, and He isn't covering over the emptiness...so that I am still able to feel connected to you. Not in an idealised or idolised way, but in a  way that beckons me "Further up and further in! "

Love always,
Johanna

_____

Title: 

This is the hole

Where most of your soul

Comes ripping out

From the places you've been torn

(From"Always" by Switchfoot)