What If. . . ?

What if I weep for you?
You, who can weep no longer,
your eyes fixed on the Author
and Finisher of our faith,
not upon the mounded grave. . .

What if I ache for you?
The ache of separation you don't feel,
you, who are with the Father,
who are here no longer,
yet who dwell in thin places. . .

What if I rejoice for you?
You, who have stepped off
this mortal coil into the Kingdom
coming, to meet in the Kingdom
to come, under Spirit, Father, and Son. . .

What if I reach for you?
Reach out my hand, to empty air
for you, whom I can't touch
until the Kingdom comes, fully
and wholly, Heaven and Earth, together. . .

What if I miss you?
You, who have my heart, still,
though I didn't know it until
too late, when you passed the gate
between here and where I can't be yet. . .

What if I say your name?
Will you come back again,
my dear poet-friend, whom I miss so
fiercely? Will you teach me to see,
show me the ways of the Kingdom coming. . .

What if I love you?
You, bell-ringer, song-singer,
hope-bringer, who quietly gave
all of yourself away—all of your mind
away—all of your life away,
                                             what if. . . ?



I do. . .
              and I will.

You Feel It

It's a curious thing, being alive—you feel it.

You feel the aliveness even in decay, in aches and pains.
You know life when the wind whispers in your ear,
and when the sun runs its fingers down your cheek.
And you feel alive when the wind is stiff, tries to tip you off a cliff,
when the sun burns your skin red and stains you with pain.

You feel the aliveness in beauty, in the ecstasy and the ache.
When music courses through your body to the gas pedal,
and when it courses down your face in briny drops.
When the sunset and the stars sing a symphony,
and when the storm clouds rage against your pane.

You feel the aliveness in the fear, propelling and suspending.
When terror races through your veins, pumping your legs,
and when it stings like ice, freezing your flight, your mind.
When you're so close to trepidation you can taste it,
you find that you feel frighteningly alive, alive, alive.

You feel the aliveness in hope, in its shock and comfort.
Someone offers a hug, a kind word, an unexpected gift,
and it jars your heart, opens eyes wide in surprise as they cry.
How can something so soothing still stun your soul?
See—impetuous generosity can change your life.

It's a haunting thing, being alive—you feel it.

He Makes My Griefs to Sing

Wounded I sing, tormented I indite, Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest: Sorrow hath chang’d its note: such is his will, Who changeth all things, as him pleaseth best. . . . . .I live to shew his power, who once did bring My joyes to weep, and now my griefs to sing. — George Herbert

“...Songs, like trees, bear fruit only in their own time and their own way: and sometimes they are withered untimely.”  

—Treebeard (J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King)

And so it is with people. Sometimes they are withered untimely. 

Welcome to the fallout
Welcome to resistance
The tension is here
The tension is here
Between who you are and who you could be
Between how it is and how it should be

Nine months have gone by, and still the fallout of your untimely withering haunts me and hurts me. I saw who you could be. The poet you were...the poet you could have been, the world will never know. You died untimely, Aaron. I feel the tension of who you were and who you became—and who you could have become if...if 'how it is' and 'how it should be' somehow were different. What if how it is were changed to how it should be? You would still be here. We would still be friends. 

Or would that be how it should be? 

No one is ever told what would have been... And who can say how it should be, except the Maker Himself? You would still be here, I believe—but perhaps we would still be separated. Friendships grow, but they can also change and they can wither, too. I know that is okay, but sometimes I really hate it. I don't want to not be friends. I don't want you to be gone. I don't want to bear this perpetually bleeding wound... Because I want you to still be you. I want you to still be alive and 'normal.' I want to still be friends. I want that to be how it should be. But I don't get to be in control.


Maybe redemption has stories to tell
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell
Where can you run to escape from yourself?
Where you gonna go?
Where you gonna go?

Salvation is here

"Where can you run to escape from yourself?" If only I knew. I think you wanted to know, too. To escape from the torn, tortured part of your mind. And honestly, I want to run from the ugly, mean, revolting me that I too often am. I want to escape the things and the people who overwhelm and suffocate me. And I think you did, too. I evade and hedge and hide... You took a more drastic route to escape from yourself. I think I understand, a very little bit. I am trying to forgive you for leaving me...for leaving your family...for leaving a broken world that needed your songs. 

Only God's forgiveness to me in my brokenness fuels my love, my ability to forgive. And I know His forgiveness inspired you. Do you remember penning this: "Unmerited favour is my only remedy"? You did...and it rings in my memory like a clear bell-cry. Unmerited favour is my only remedy! Indeed. 

When Redemption is fully perfected in the Kingdom-coming, I want to hear its stories. I want to hear redemption in your story...to see how it threads through and plays out. Will you tell me the story? Will you teach me the language of the Kingdom? Will you help my tongue and heart live the words and ways of the Kingdom? 


When it feels like surgery And it burns like third degree And you wonder what is it worth? When your inside's breaking in And you feel that ache again And you wonder What's giving birth?

If you could let the pain of the past go Of your soul None of this is in your control If you could only let your guard down You could learn to trust me somehow I swear, that I won't let you go If you could only let go your doubts If you could just believe in me now I swear, that I won't let you go

Nine months later and this song still makes me cry.

Jon Foreman said this about I Won't Let You Go: "If the Author of time and space, the one who breathed my soul into existence, were to sing me a song about trust, it might go something like this, 'I love you and I won’t let you go.' I believe that where you put your trust begins to define you."

Where you put your trust begins to define you. I've put my trust in myself, in my friends, in my family. I've had friends leave me, annoy me, and/or smother me. A friend recently asked if I got tired of them... My response was honest, "I get tired of myself and can't get away from me. So yeah, I get tired of everyone I know at some point. The only exception is God. I don't get tired of Him." I've put my trust in people (myself included) who let me down, who don't satisfy, who don't know what to do or what I need. For a season of my life, I even put some of my trust in you, Aaron. I trusted that you were a first-friend—someone who understood gloaming and poetry, who had seen the grey-green wave in the sunrise, who would be my friend in rough times. In many ways, you were and you did.

But my ultimate trust can't be in any creature or creation. As wonderful as people are, as much as mountains and pine trees and rivers are 'home,' they will fail me, even hurt me. It isn't that we shouldn't trust others or not revel in creation. If we first trust God to love us and to not let us go—even when we want to let go and are tired of ourselves—then we can trust others and love them and creation. But if we don't truly trust God first, how can we trust or love anyone or anything else?

There ain't no darkness strong enough
that could tear you out from my heart There ain't no strength that's strong enough
that could tear this love apart Never gonna let you go

It's still true. Though Treebeard also says, "Never is too long a word, even for me" I dare to say it, with God's help. Because eternity is both now and to come. And for eternity I will hold on to the love and friendship you gave to me. Not in a grasping, hoarding way, but as a handhold on the face of the mountain as I climb toward the Lord. I will hold on for dear life—because life is dear. Your love, your generosity, the beauty and wonder of your soul are supports for me on this path. I could not proceed—I would not be where I am today—without those holds you provided. Your friendship has changed me, deepened me, strengthened me...made me more like Christ. Thank you, Aaron. I love you and I miss you, friend.

~ Me

Created for a Place I've Never Known

"I've got my memories

Always inside of me

But I can't go back

Back to how it was...

...Created for a place 

I've never known"

Memories—I have those, too. But they are intangible. A stack of letters, smooth under my fingers, they are tangible. They hold your ruminations, a hundred quotations, illustrations, and aspirations. But letters cannot give me a bear hug. So I have your blue plaid flannel shirt wrapped around me. But where are your strong arms, my friend?

I can't wander back to the Lodge and find you there. Can't find you perched atop a woodpile at my parents' house...or at your parents' house, either. Believe me, I've looked. I've seen your bookshelf, the beautiful things you crafted, your writing desk, the footprints you left in the closet, your handwriting on the mirror. But you have gone on without me—beyond the veil to a place I've never known. A place I yearn for in the beautiful, aching moments. You've run ahead to a place I long for more earnestly now than I ever have.

Looking back over your letters has become something of a yearly tradition around our almost-shared birthdays. Ever since the day I first met you, I have known you were different than other people. Sometimes that difference was frustrating, as I just wanted an answer about your favourite food or your week's adventures. But more often, your different-ness was perceptive and inspiring. You once sent me a heart-full poem, asking for my advice, only to have me mutilate it—blind until years later to the depth of sorrow and beauty commingled therein.

I should have known that the soul of an artisan-poet, so well-versed in the language and habits of the King's world, wasn't long for this fragmented, still-fallen one. Perhaps part of your restless wanderlust stemmed from never quite feeling like you belonged here. There seemed no corner of the earth that could quite be your very own, my elven-friend. So you chose to step out of this world to find the place you had never known, but longed for all your life.

"This is home

Now I'm finally where I belong

Where I Belong

Yeah, this is home

I've been searching for a place of my own

Now I've found it

Maybe this is home

This is home"

Like Jewel says in The Last Battle, 'I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now.' But there you are; you've gone further up and further in, without me. I envy you. So. Much. And I look forward to the day when I will get into Narnia and you can teach me the ways and words of the Kingdom. Who knows how long that will be, life is too dear to leave it without Aslan deliberately calling me away. But when He does—O friend!—come meet me. Show me sylvan glades where the dryads play. Teach me all the colours I haven't seen before. Tutor me in the names of the trees and the contours of the Kingdom. And help my trembling, tied tongue to learn to lisp the language of Heaven, until it becomes familiar to taste the words.

You have always shown me the world through different eyes. You have shown me beauty and wonder—ever my guide into Faerie Land. You have asked the questions I didn't even think to question. You have valiantly lived, trying to reconcile confusion and the constant hurricane of thoughts and fears. 

"And now after all my searching

After all my questions

I'm gonna call it home

I've got a brand new mindset

I can finally see the sunset

I'm gonna call it home"

Do you remember the time that you told me that your family went to the beach on or around Christmas, and that you saw a wall of water rising up and the sun behind it? Those lines from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader  sounded so naturally like something that would actually happen to you. And now you're in Aslan's own Country, the Utter East. Perhaps you sailed so far West from the Grey Havens as to arrive in the East. But you left me here without you, friend. In many ways, you left me for another world years ago. I always hoped you would find your way back far enough to reach out your hand to me once again. But we can't go back to how it was. And maybe that is for the best. I don't know if I could have borne the changes in you since that last visit. They were already apparent then...and they hurt to see. But know that I never stopped loving you and being your friend, even from a distance.

Perhaps it is better that what I do remember is you running to ring the unringable church bell in Pagosa. You, sitting on the floor, reading The Silmarillion aloud to me. The vast amount of ham you could eat! 'Phoners' and enthusiastic letters. The artistry of your hands and the music you played. The enthusiasm you had for music and lyrics and poetry. 

You were hard for me to understand, my friend. But not hard to love. You were hard for me to know how to help in fits of depression. But it seemed to be a joy for you to help me—even when I didn't always know it was your hand reaching out to me. You visited me when I was lonely. You gave me one of the greatest adventures I've ever taken, and were an integral part of my other grand adventure. You gave me the gift of your friendship, even though it cost you dearly to be open to loving another living thing. When you withdrew that gift, I felt abandoned, betrayed, unwanted. But now I know it was not because you didn't care, you cared more than you knew how. A part of me ceased all those years ago, and now part of me has died with you, friend. There are things that will never heal this side of Aslan's Country.

Missing you hurts like Hell, Aaron. Because it is Hell that stole you from me, from your dear family, and from a world that needs to see through your eyes. 

'This is worse than Mordor!' said Sam. 'Much worse in a way. It comes home to you, as they say; because it is home and you remember it before it was all ruined.' I remember you before the enemy set about to ruin you, to try to take you. But though you have gone further up and in, while I am left in the Shadowlands, neither has the enemy succeeded. You are now safe forever from confusion and heartache. You get to know how fully loved you are. You belong. 

Your seed has fallen into the ground in order to bear much fruit. In so many ways, the Lord has already borne good fruit through you, my friend, but the harvest continues. I can't thank you enough for being you. I love you. So. Much.

"A truer, nobler, trustier heart 

never beat within a human breast" 

—Lord Byron

“But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.” 

—C S Lewis, The Last Battle

___________

Song lyrics: This is Home by Switchfoot
Quotation 1: The Last Battle, by C S Lewis

Quotation 2: The Return of the the King, by J R R Tolkien

Dear Elf-Friend

Ten years have disappeared,

Slowly, so-very-slowly in ways,

yet how fast and bleared

go those years of days 

So much has changed, 

and I've changed, too,

but some things stay the same—

like how I miss you

I missed the gift

of your letters, your self,

only when there was a rift

between you and health

Five years, nearly,

since I last saw you, so altered—

I miss you dearly,

even the way your words faltered

So much has stayed:

my foolish words and blind eyes—

but for change I often pray,

and the Lord hears my cries

I miss your songs

and poems, your wonder

and childlike joys, gone,

mind and reality torn asunder

Years and disease

have made you disappear, my friend—

Sorrow brings me to my knees

at how we came to an end

So much might resolve,

but my hopes wane,

as the days and years revolve,

and you don't write again

I miss who you were,

miss what I didn't value

enough when I had it, sir—

oh, if only we knew. . .

If we but knew

how to order our loves,

our minds, our days so few—

how to give thanks to Him above

Had I known

ten years ago,

had I received with thanks,

what difference would that make?

Sorrow and Stars

Last light is leaping from hill to hill

spilling like liquid from an upset cup, 

A golden haze spreading o'er rock and rill

until, until, until the valley has its fill

and the glory thins and wavers and is taken up

The clouds' creamy bronze hues drain clear, 

drop by drop—suddenly they run ashen grey

in an eye-blink, in the drip of a tear

giving way to darkness, uncertainty, and fear

as the sunset darkens and turns fey

A stab of pain blooms to full grown ache

with the dimming of day and the coming night;

sorrow saps hope, makes dreams break

swooping in the moment that light forsakes

the rim of the earth, reminding us of our plight

Amidst our sadness, star eyes open with a wink,

sweeping our thoughts toward vaulted skies—

there is beauty beyond woe, we are led to think

as argent gems pressed on velvet cause us to blink

and shake silver sorrows from our eyes

Rivulets

It is said that grief makes our hearts break;
this is both figurative and literal truth—
because when I cry, I quiver and shake,
my heart splintering with a violent ache

Not merely beating, there is actual pain—
my broken heart spills out of my eyes,
a white-hot, cleansing sort of soul-rain,
wracking my worn body again and again

Breaking comes quickly, mending is slow,
impetuous thoughts voiced in an instant
take years to root out, for truth to re-grow,
and in their stead, for healing waters to flow

Healing water dripping at the tip of my nose,
all freckled and snuffly—as my soul mends,
my physical heart shudders, its beat slows
into rhythm, works its way into lyrical prose

Weeping may endure for the soul's dark night,
but the tears do not write our story for us,
our deep Joy dawns with the morning's light—
we yearn for all manner of things to be made right

A Slow Heal

Sometimes I catch myself smiling wide,
catch myself laughing at my sister's puns,
being glad to greet family and friends,
sometimes I catch myself not
thinking of you. . .

Then the smile freezes, the laugh cuts short—
Gladness still wells up over loved ones,
but there is an undercurrent of sorrow—pain
slices my heart all over—I bleed—
thinking of you. . .

The aching loss burns at my blue-green eyes,
eyes you looked into my soul through—
this is the Fall, this searing streaming that runs
heart-deep when I catch myself
thinking of you. . .

Sometimes I catch my breath over Beauty,
catch myself missing so much of you—
but sometimes I find that Beauty begins to heal,
I learn to live life, even when
thinking of you. . .

Perspectives

"Why me?" I hear her moan;

"Why this broken mess?"

"Why am I all alone—

toiling daily, while he's free?"

"Why, why, why, God?"

"Why me?"

"Why me?" I look above;

"Why do You never quit?"

"Why do You love, love,

love me? You never flee,

You take delight...Why, God?"

"Why me?"

"Why me?" I hear her cry;

"Why all of my friends?"

"Why doesn't someone try

to love me in all my debris?"

"Will no man choose me, God?"

"Why me?"

"Why me?" I look around;

"Why his lavish love?"

"It overwhelms, astounds,

builds up, inspires, sets free."

"Why" I whisper, "Why, God?"

"Why me?"

Dark Nights

Serpentine sorrows weave their way through my thoughts tonight. It has been one of those days where things go well, but one person after another lets a little bit of ache show through. I see the hurt, yet the trying to be vulnerable so the heart won't harden. I see broken bodies and broken hearts. Sick bodies and sick souls. I see carnage and horror in the streets of Paris. The pain piles high; the daily struggles of how to move forward after the death of a loved one, the death of a relationship, the death of a dream. 

These are not my sorrows, they live in the lungs and limbs and sore hearts of others. But those 'others' are my people. My friends, my family...My neighbours across the globe. What do we do when the Fall is crushing us? Not in one splat, but slowly pressing down on us, like a heavy stone, like the steadily rising tide, like oppressive darkness... Then what?

Under the pressure of the Fall, I am reminded of the relief of the Incarnation. Sometimes I have wondered why God created mankind if He knew that sin and death would enter the good world He had made. That is because I am inside the story, too close to the events to understand the Author's intent in each minute portion of the story.

 O me! for why is all around us here

  As if some lesser god had made the world,

  But had not force to shape it as he would,

  Till the High God behold it from beyond,

  And enter it, and make it beautiful?

  Or else as if the world were wholly fair,

  But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,

  And have not power to see it as it is:

  Perchance, because we see not to the close;—¹

As Tennyson points out, we do not know the close—but God Himself sees the end from the beginning. He knew Eve would succumb to temptation and that Adam would fail to stop her. God knew the price He Himself would have to pay to right the world from the chaos of the Fall. He knew that He would love us and we would spit in His face. That He would forgive us, and we would run into the arms of other gods again and again. He knew He would be vulnerable with us and that we would use His own love and mercy against Him. He knew these things, too, when He created mankind—and He went ahead and made us and loved us and died for us anyway.

The Curse may crush, sin may seek to squeeze the Life out of us, darkness may seem like it is draining the Light out of the world... But the Curse, the darkness, does not know the ending. Life will win. Light will oust darkness forever.

So when the perishable is lost in the imperishable, the mortal lost in the immortal, this saying will come true: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory’ ‘O death, where is your sting? O Hades, where is your victory?’ It is sin which gives death its power, and it is the Law which gives sin its strength. All thanks to God, then, who gives us the victory over these things through our Lord Jesus Christ!²

Somehow, God makes the ending better than the beginning, even when dissonance is introduced in His symphony. He weaves it into His strong melody and brings resolution and redemption.

Blesséd, blesséd, blesséd be He!


____________________

1. Lord Tennyson, Alfred "The Passing of King Arthur" Idylls of the King (Public Domain)

2. I Corinthians 15.54-57 (PHILLIPS)

Looking Back

This is the time of year that I miss England most of all. I love America, and I am thankful beyond expression that I live here. But there are days when I yearn for England. On this very day four years ago, I flew across a dark ocean to an island shaped like a rabbit. 

That day I also met my best friend, and was reunited with a friend who has since become a brother to me. I was soon to meet another one of my dearest friends, to be challenged and shaped in ways I did not know...I was about to feel the edges of myself and see the face of Christ in unlikely places: from street vendors to homeless folk, in the wrinkles and behind the glasses of my tutors, in the humble and pretentious alike whom I met at college. Little did I know any of this four years ago to the day. All I knew was that I had barely made my flight and that I was grateful to have an empty seat next to me. 

The intervening years have seen much change, regression, and growth in myself and my peers. Who has not fallen back three steps in the taking of one at times? None of us knew the pain and loss these last years would bring—parents divorced, loved ones dying at young ages, cancer, disappointed hopes, and dark nights of the soul. Not one of us quite knew the joys these last years would bring—marriages, children, grad school, world travel, opportunities that refined our skills, reunions, spiritual freedom and progress, and Hope—always Hope—to anchor our souls. 

At this time last year I was looking forward in hope to a better year. I was excited to read over my previous goal letter and witness very specific answered prayers. However, it took very few weeks for me to realise that 2014 would be much more difficult than the preceding year. Some of most cherished hopes were dashed to shards, others blossomed in ways I never expected. 

Hindsight is always bittersweet in this fallen world, and I often pin my hopes on the unwritten days ahead. Learn from the past, live in the now, hope the future will be better. That seems to be my motto. Yet I have been challenged by the writings of G. K. Chesterton not to expect the Fall to come undone in future days and weeks, simply because they are as-of-yet unwritten. 

"The last few decades have been marked by a special cultivation of the romance of the future. We seem to have made up our minds to misunderstand what has happened; and we turn, with a sort of relief, to stating what will happen—which is (apparently) much easier."*

Alas! I am lazy, looking for the easy way out of trials, ache, and loss. I just want all the bad to go away so I can live a beautiful life, where everyone looks out for the interests of others—rather than poking their noses in, unwanted. It is easier to look ahead than to remember the past, because the past is laced with both joy and pain. No one wants to focus on the bitter, unless they are infected with that poison. Still, it is hard to pursue joy—not happiness, but joy. It can be unspeakably difficult to accept with joy loneliness, abandonment, death, or some other loss. Why must we bear the cost of someone else's poor choices? Yet we often do. When we look back at what has gone before, in our lives, in history, we see that turning our face to the Maker in praise—especially in the midst of pain—is where we grow and are made whole.

So, I look back upon this year, glad that is over—and yes, I am hoping and praying that the New Year will be full of good things without any major loss or pain... But I also know that I must accept with joy whatever comes, and I know that is not easy. Easy is not where I struggle for life, it is not where my spiritual muscles are strained and strengthened. I do not ask for hardship to make me grow, but I ask for the grace and humility to walk with Jesus through all hard things with joy. 

Let me be Christ haunted in the coming year—Amen.

_______________

* Chesterton, G. K., "The Fear of the Past" in What's Wrong with the World (Public domain)

Fearless

Grey trees have barely given up their leaves before dark, swirling skies trace those limbs with white. The rising and falling of the seasons in their steps of the Great Dance have nearly made their circuit. Consequently, my mind is recalled to the beginning of this year, with all its fresh hopes and vague possibilities. Memories step out, one by one, only to be swept back into the dance of time. Grief and Beauty waltz together. Sorrow beats time with Joy. Suffering looks quietly into the eyes of Hope. Bitterness clasps hands with Forgiveness. The motif of the Dance this year seemed strange when originally given to me by the Instructor Himself back in those fresh, first days of January: Fearlessness.

In the nativity of the year I thought being fearless meant meeting obstacles and adventures head on. I had inklings of what some of the hurdles might be, hopes of what the adventures would contain. I little knew how difficult the hardships would be. I did not reckon that adventures were risks that could fail and wound miserably.

Much of the year held such sore trials that it seems to replay in black and white rather than colour. Deaths. Friends and family worn out with the things required of them. Betrayal. Being cast out by loved ones. Uncertainty. Deeply wounded hearts. Bitterness. Prodigal children. Loneliness. Certainly not all of these things visited me, but they have been visited upon such close friends and family that they have affected me very personally. I look back upon this year and see marriages crumbled; dreams burnt up; loved ones buried; relationship turned to cold, dead embers—I see ash.

Woven throughout, like intricate dance steps, are flashes of colour: lime and ochre aspens, glowing in warm sunlight. Dazzling white smiles of friends visiting and visted. Lavender and white cosmos along my walking path. Pink, brown, green, and black ink, flowing with words of hope, cheer, and life. Orange-red sunlight, pouring over the foothills at dawn. Bright blue eyes filled with whimsy. A rain of golden leaves falling like a shower over me and a friend. Sly red foxes on night walks and gift-mugs. Green in every crevice of long-dry mountains and sidewalk cracks. Mottled grey, brown, and red stones, illuminated by liquid sunlight in a chuckling, clear stream. Hazy blue mountains and burnished clouds at sunset on my solitude hikes. The navy velvet of the night sky, pierced by silver stars... All the colour of this year radiates from Beauty, love, and personality.

The Psalmist reminds us to worship the LORD in the Beauty of holiness... It is the Beauty that leads us to worship, that breathes life into dead places. When we see a wildflower in the wilderness, hear a single burst of birdsong on a chilly morning walk, know the love of another, it is then that the breath of life rushes into our souls.

I am tempted to look at the snow out my window and see flying ash. So many dreams and hopes have become but fine dust in my hands this year. Instead, I do the only thing I can: I pour every last handful of ash on God's altar, asking Him to raise a flame of Hope. Not a fragile "thing with feathers" as Emily Dickinson calls hope, but a solid, weighty anchor for my drifting soul. I ask for new, richer dreams; for restoration to rise like a phoenix from these pale ashes.

I am learning that to be fearless does not mean to be foolhardy, but to hope in the midst of burning dreams. To be fearless means to love, because perfect love casts out all fear.

Many months ago I read something about pain and fear... It broke my heart then as it does now—and every time I re-read it. It is the real Hope and Beauty in the midst of sorrow that stares at me from these words:

I wrote in my journal: So here is what I want to remember and never forget: Anxiety is the devil. Fear is a taste of hell because it cuts us off from the ever-offered rest of God’s love. And fear cannot do one damn thing to avert the thing feared. 

Sorrow, on the other hand, is a kind friend, and when it comes, grace comes, too, and all the tender mercies of God. All fear is the fear of loss and death; all love comes with a price tag of pain; all true sorrow has its counterpoint of joy. And it’s real. We’re living it in the most vivid way. 

 And if we’re running along the beach laughing at one moment and weeping over the grief that is coming the next, well then, this is life abundant, the full package. And the joy is more real than the grief because the joy is forever and the pain is for but the passing shadow of this life.

Lanier Ivester, Love Begets 

Why?

Do you ever find that the answer to "Why all of this, God?" is, "I am Good." It is not "I am God" - though in another way it is that, too. But His answer is "I am Good." 

And He is.

He is good, whether or not the situation changes. He is good, when the heart of a man is slow to change, and all we feel is the tension. He is good when cancer is not cured, or the car crash happens. He is good when He holds us in the midst of searing pain, though He may not remove us, or it. 

God's goodness is not trite. And often pain, sorrow, suffering, and loss are felt more intensely in the midst of knowing just how good God is. Yet it is His goodness that brings Him to walk with us now through the valley of the shadow, through anger, through disappointment, through realising we do not have what it takes to be this or that. We do not have a God Who suffered with us, but a God Who suffers with us, present tense. That is Good. That is God. And that is why.

~ Johanna

Is Nothing Wasted?

They cut down half the tree at the first turn on the trail up to Red Mountain. It was an aspen or poplar of some sort, and I had had many a thought whilst gazing upon it. Half of the tree is clothed in green leaves, but the other half was mostly dead and bare. 

The juxtaposition of life and death had snatched my attention several times on that hike. Sometimes reminding me to be thankful for the beauty of life when seen in the shadowy presence of death. Sometimes it reminded me that I am like that tree - full of life where God has come in, yet plenty of dead branches of sin still needing to be removed.

When I saw that the dead half of the tree had been chopped down, my first response was to check the tears rising in my eyes. Why should I be sad that someone removed a tree that was sapping life from the living half? Would I be sad if God just cut out all of my sinful deadness and removed it? No, that is ridiculous. I rejoice when He clears out the deadness inside. But sometimes -- always, I think -- it hurts when He prunes away my sin.

Sometimes we must endure unbearable hurt. We must recall that pain is not always a result of our own sin. All sorrows and hurts can be used for our good, though I cannot always remember that when I am walking through the depths of the valleys. 

Today has been one of those days where I want to bear someone else's pain, but I cannot -- it is too much for me, and it does not alleviate them. When I looked out over the city from the foothills tonight, I realised that the hurt I feel for my friend, though it seems crushing to me, is only the hurt of one person amongst those thousands. One hurt among the billions across the globe. I cried out to God, asking how He could possibly bear the brokenness that fills His world. Then I walked home past that brokenness. And it revolted me, rather than melting me, which I think sin ought to do. Yet I want to move beyond the repulsion to the point where I can lift broken things up to God, the only Redeemer and Re-creator.

The Lord reminded me several times tonight that He is making things not like they were, but better than they were. He is not only restoring us and the whole world, He is re-creating us. There is hope, beyond those darkest moments, most vile atrocities, and heart-shattering pains. How do I know? Because one day it was true to say that God was dead, and we killed Him. Because He became our sin, and His own Father turned His face away from Him. Then He turned death upside down. And one day, He will do that for us, too.

The hurt that broke your heart
And left you trembling in the dark
Feeling lost and alone
Will tell you hope's a lie
But what if every tear you cry
Will seed the ground where joy will grow

And nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

It's from the deepest wounds
That beauty finds a place to bloom
And you will see before the end
That every broken piece is
Gathered in the heart of Jesus
And what's lost will be found again

When hope is more than you can bear
And it’s too hard to believe it could be true
And your strength fails you half way there
You can lean on me and I’ll believe for you
Give it time, you will believe it too

Nothing is wasted
Sometimes we are waiting
In the sorrow we have tasted
But joy will replace it
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our redeemer
Nothing is wasted

~ Johanna

The Best [Satelite] Roomates -- Ever!

Near the close of the year I begin to recall all of the good and hard things from that year. All of the laughter, lessons, tears, prayers, group dinners, inside jokes, travels, and whatnot swirl 'round in my thoughts.

What a hard year 2012 has been for my friends and my community... Several of my close friends lost very dear loved ones this year (mothers, boyfriends, and children). One good friend moved out of the roommate house (and we have gained another dear roommate, but there is still a hole there). There were mass shootings in Colorado and Connecticut. There were many natural disasters, from devastating hurricanes to wildfires that rolled dangerously close to my front door.

Yet what joy and growth have come this year, as well! This has come from many corners this year, but by far I have shared the most life-stuff with my roommates across town. My year began with a surprise visit from my best friend and a sensational birthday party with the roommates. A welcoming haven these roommates have been all year... I especially remember our conversation (and delicious crêpes!!) on Palm Sunday/Easter. I remain eternally grateful to these dear friends taking me in when I was evacuated during the wildfire, and crying and praying with me as our city was threatened with conflagration. I cherish our Christmas celebration, reading parts of Luke 1 and 2 and discussing what things must have been like for Joseph and Mary, and Zacharias and Elizabeth. So much thought went into the gifts given, and work into the delicious brunch, and the day was full of chilling and talking about the things on our hearts. 

 

Those events merely mark the flow of the year; in between were many other mixed happenings: Stacia losing her mom this summer, Lyndi's hip surgery, Lauren's new job celebration (ha, and driver's license debacle), Nicole's going away party, Karen's arrival, birthday parties, coffee house band listening,  tea parties and kleenex, dinners on the patio, family members visiting, and more.

Considering how much joy and pain, new friends and old friends coming and going, and deepening in life and in the LORD has taken place with these women, I would be utterly remiss if I did not say how deeply grateful I am for the LORD placing me with 'The Awesome Ladies' community.

And I am filled with joy.

~ Johanna

The Queer Ache

"It's so beautiful that it hurts me," said Anne softly. "Perfect things like that always did hurt me—I remember I called it 'the queer ache' when I was a child. What is the reason that pain like this seems inseparable from perfection? Is it the pain of finality—when we realise that there can be nothing beyond but retrogression?"

"Perhaps," said Owen dreamily, "it is the prisoned infinite in us calling out to its kindred infinite as expressed in that visible perfection."

~ Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne's House of Dreams 

Autumn. Merely the word itself evokes waking to a crisp dawn, catching the scent of leaves and the tang of woodsmoke in the air. It is the time for apple cider and pumpkin bread, sweaters and long walks on clear sunny afternoons to see ochre and copper hues painting the landscape. Autumn holds some of my most cherished memories in her crinkly hands. Her cool, sunny days inspire me to study, to write, to read poetry, to dream and hope more deeply, to do new things, to bake, to dare to become fully alive. I practically skip on my walks, and prance to work. My soul cannot help feeling awake. When our souls are thus awake and aware, we are more attuned to the 'queer ache' of Beauty.

This morning I decided to take a jaunt to one of my favourite overlooks in Manitou. While collecting many shapes and shades of leaves, I wound my way up the back streets, stopping to smell the last of Summer's blooms. I stood as close to the edge of the overlook as I could. Grey clouds poured over the closest ridge of foothills, veiling the sun for a time. In the filtered light I beheld russet scrub oak, burnished aspens, deep green firs, and the majestic crest of Pikes Peak with a hoary mantle of snow.  

The pang of Beauty brought tears to my eyes, not because of what they saw, but because I felt hungry for something I cannot yet sink my teeth into. C. S. Lewis called it 'joy', Sheldon Vanauken labelled it 'Beauty', and Solomon called it 'eternity': "[God] has made everything beautiful in its time. Also He has put eternity in their hearts, except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end." (Eccl. 3.11) 

Today, as I felt "the imprisoned infinite" in me calling out to the divine Infinite, I wondered if God ever feels the pang of Beauty. If we are made in His image, if Jesus came and suffered as we suffer, and we feel this ache, is it possible that He does too? Is this what the Palmist really meant when he said that "deep calls out to deep at the noise of Your waterfalls" in Psalm 42? Was he saying, "Your infinite Spirit in me calls out to the Infinite Godhead when I hear the rush of mighty waters"? Does your heart leap when you hear the chorus of many waters, or at the sweet warble of a bird in an otherwise still wood? Is it eternity (the infinite) in us resonating with the Eternal One, who is Beauty Himself?

I am inclined to believe the pain of Beauty is the infinite part of us (our spirit), longing for the Infinite Himself and a fully redeemed world. The pain comes because we are still under the curse, even if we have received the Cure.  I return to what I pondered today: does God ever feel the ache of Beauty? I am tempted to say, "Surely not, He is the Infinite our spirit longs for, after all".  Yet when I began to ponder this earlier, I wondered if the pain we feel in yearning for God (the Beautiful) Himself is akin to what He feels when He holds out His arms to us and we walk away (Isaiah 62.2-3). It is as if the Infinite calls out to the eternity, or infinite, in our hearts and we turn away. Surely that is as wounding as longing for the Infinite, but being unable to enter fully into that Infinity. 

This is speculation on my part, as God is not a fallen human and does not come at things in a broken manner. I am still learning to think His thoughts after Him, rather than assuming He thinks like I do. I am still being healed of my brokenness, He has never been 'broken' in the sense of being fallen. What I do know is that the more attuned I am to let Beauty lead me to God, the more often I hear Him speak. Though there is an intense longing for the Infinite that cannot currently be fulfilled, I would rather have the stabs of Beauty to remind me that I am awake and that God exists.

“We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade, the presence of God. The world is crowded with Him. He walks everywhere incognito. And the incognito is not always hard to penetrate. The real labour is to remember, to attend. In fact, to come awake. Still more, to remain awake.”

 — C. S. Lewis, Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer

~ Johanna (13 October 2012)

Pain Is No Measure of His Faithfulness

I believe in a blessing I don't understand
I've seen rain fall on wicked and the just
Rain is no measure of his faithfulness
He withholds no good thing from us
No good thing from us, no good thing from us

I believe in a peace that flows deeper than pain
The broken find healing in love
Pain is no measure of his faithfulness
He withholds no good thing from us
No good thing from us, no good thing from us I will open my hands, will open my heart

I will open my hands, will open my heart
I am nodding my head an emphatic 'yes'
To all that You have for me
I believe in a fountain that will never dry
Though I've thirsted and didn't have enough
Thirst is no measure of his faithfulness
He withholds no good thing from us
No good thing from us, no good thing from us

I will open my hands, will open my heart
I will open my hands, will open my heart
I am nodding my head an emphatic 'yes'
To all that You have for me

Open My Hands ~ By Sara Groves and Alli Rogers

How quick are we to open our hands to the blessings of God when they involve pain and loss, sorrow and suffering? What if God blesses us by allowing our house to burn down in a wildfire?

There are many realities to ponder when we say 'He withholds no good thing from us.' Are pain and loss somehow indicative that God is not good or in control? What if those are things He uses to shape us more into His image? 

"For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness. For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory; no good thing will He withhold from those who walk uprightly," says the Psalmist. 

It is not an automatic thing that God withholds nothing good from anyone, Scripture states that the one who walks uprightly will have this blessing.

Are you walking uprightly? Are you 'examining yourself to see if you are in the faith'? In other words, does your heart desire the things God desires and are you living in light of that? If so, then we ought not be afraid to nod our head in emphatic 'yes' to all of God's plans for us. Singleness. Marriage. Barrenness. Children. Trips to other countries. Mounds of work. Belovéd friends. Annoying neighbours. We must give the nod to discipline if we desire to accept freedom. And so the story goes. The things that we have now are the the things God has given us (or allowed us to go through) to make us more like Himself.

Are we ready to pray, like Lilias Trotter (missionary to Algeria in the early 1900s):

I am now ready to be offered.
Measure thy life by loss and not by gain,
Not by the wine drunk, but by the wine poured forth,
For Love's strength standeth in Love's sacrifice,
And he who suffers most has most to give.

Measure your life by the losses, the being 'poured out like a drink offering', and the suffering. Let us walk together, O fellow Christians, knowing that He withholds no good thing from those who walk uprightly. And let us see that neither pain, nor rain is the full measure of God's faithfulness. 

~ Johanna