To Breathe Again

Fresh from the land of the dead
he appeared.
Or reappeared?

Only supposed dead,
not zombie-like, to offer a comparison
but gone.

Still in my mourning,
days later I rub my eyes
in disbelief
wonder
awe
and a little trepidation.

What changes must have taken place
through the journey from old life
to new life
to new beginning?

What transformation took hold through the loss,
the acceptance,
the divine opportunity to begin anew?

Perhaps life and death will continue to battle before our eyes.
Perchance Loss is merely taunting us,
allowing us a renewed hope
to fully introduce
a deeper pain.

No matter.
My hand is once again in yours.
Miraculously, we breathe again
as the land of the dead stands vacant
until our united return.

Made for each other

She knew she was supposed to. She prayed for a blockade just in case she was being mislead but it hadn't come yet. She didn't think it was going to. The responsibility, thus the consequence, was grand scale. This was what she did, though. He did too. They made a good team when it came to kicking up dust. That time had come again and as usual it came because of what they knew.

They are probably seen as chaos creators by those who don't know them well. Of course those who do know them still consider them trouble makers but the faith that leads these two is undeniable. Thus, they are prayed for in lieu of condemnation. Prayers of guidance and wisdom were always over their heads to get them through the trouble that continually camped at their heels.

There was no debate as to why it seemed these two travelled via whirlwind. The word 'question' that carried through most people's lives as a noun lived within theirs as a verb. It was an action their convictions wouldn't ignore and conviction never worked for it's own means. They simply asked too many questions.

His problem was with loose ends. He just couldn't leave them untied. From childhood missing details would drive him to research and more questions would arise until the wrong questions were asked = conflict.

Her problems lay more in the field of right and wrong; she always knew the difference. As with him, her childhood was dominated by gnawing conviction. Her field was not in research however but in love. She befriended, defended and scolded always under the banner of 'the right thing to do'. As a cute little girl her actions were seen as inspiring. As an adult the same actions fueled by the same convictions were considered condemning and judgemental = conflict.

So conflict and conflict ended up together. As a team they live and question and act through their faithful convictions. It has brought them misery, danger and rejection. Their Father cradles them each night, though. He urges them forward not with empty promises of comfort or success but with the assurance that tomorrow night He'll be there beside them as He has been since their youth. As He always had been since they day they individually chose to follow His lead.

'And to His leg I cling, eternally pressing my face to His calf to keep from looking behind me.'


I found this in the middle of my notebook in the middle of another night. I started scanning my recall to find the event that at one time had me spiritually in a heap on the floor, hiding behind the only sure and steady constant in my life........ God's enormous, extremely human looking leg. At least that's how I pictured it when I wrote the above. That, I remember. I remember how I felt and in what my soul found perseverance, safety, and comfort.

Let me explain.

When I was little, my visual personification of what God must've looked like took the shape of a huge bare foot firmly planted on Earth (in my backyard more specifically) with the robe draped leg extending up until just above his knee, where the clouds took over.

Where do you even begin to analyze this one?

Let's start here.....
Why my backyard?

It was where I was and I was taught that God was always with me. Easy enough.
Also, my backyard was the biggest thing I could imagine. There were still hedgerow boundaries (much like my mind at the time) but it was 'God-big'. After all, why would He have to be bigger than that?

Next........
Why just a foot? Why not the whole 'He' crouched between mom's garden and the playhouse Daddy built?

This one runs a little deeper and I'm not even sure I can find the answer. I could never imagine a whole 'He'. Just pieces, like a foot. It wasn't for lack of imagination! I could sit and play board games with the guy (I would roll the dice for His turns, of course.) And I never hesitated to whisper His name knowing full well that His ears were good enough to hear my voice even when I was really, really quiet. I grew up talking to Him as if he shared the Pepto-Bismol pink room with me, yet I could never bring myself to imagine more than the calf/ankle/ tootsies part any time I tried to put a picture to it all. I guess maybe it did hit the parameters of my imagination. (And yes, it was a foot on the other side of the game board with His leg extending through my ceiling. Why else do you think I had to roll for Him?)

Sadly, as an adult it doesn't seem my imagination has stretched much, does it?

The image of clinging to God ends there, at His leg, even if I try to picture more.

I've lived through.....well, 'I've lived through' is statement enough. And looking back at it all I can see that I've almost instinctively leaned on God for the majority of my life. It started as childhood faith; trust that what my parent's taught me was true. As a teen, when I tried to get away from anything my parents stood for I found myself running but always looking behind me to make sure God was keeping up. And now as an active Christian woman, the leg is my first refuge. Like I said, I feel it as an instinct. I consider it a unique gift. I don't meet many people who see God the way I do. (Except perhaps the writers of Monty Python :)

'Clinging to His leg' is only the first part of the statement, though.

I pressed my face to His calf to keep from looking behind me. Wow! In an action that mirrors a shaken woman holding tightly to her protector, hiding her face in his chest until the evil has gone, I realize.... I watch a lot of movies. Does this even happen?!? Usually, in reality when 'evil is nigh' people are clawing and fighting and running! Not clinging to another person in full faith that the wave of destruction is just going to stop at the sheer presence of this untouchable wall of a man, protecting the fragile clinging woman. Too many movies, it would seem. But don't miss this! I'm pressing my face to his calf to keep myself from looking behind me. I remember this, now!
I'm actively pushing my cheek, so much that my imagination can feel the pressure on my face, in an attempt to keep my head from turning where it continues to want to look; to my past!

I don't give much detail in these blog posts about how I used to live my life. But I'll break regular form for a minute and throw you a metaphorical glimpse. There was a time when it felt as if I had a genie in a bottle. Everything I had ever dreamed of having, I was given. But it was tainted and when I let God open my eyes to it I could see that it was no genie, that my dreams were vain and destructive, and that I had fallen so deeply into the trap, the time of escape was quickly passing me by. So I looked up from the bottom of this pit of self-indulgence and grabbed the rope that was almost out of my reach. God pulled me up and I'd like to say I haven't looked back since but obviously that's not true. Otherwise I wouldn't be curled up, cutting off the circulation to God's leg with the pressure of my turn-tempted head.

If I've ever been addicted to anything, it would be to 'me'.

Awww, poor little girl! Not drugs, alcohol or gambling! The poor thing is addicted to herself! Let's drop all these support groups and funding and focus on Crissy who is really in trouble!

Yeah, and that's the guilt that follows when I'm reminded of the superficial nature of my nature. But I'm cursed with constant introspection (or self-scrutiny if you really want to put a picture to it) and it's what I've figured out about myself. That, of course, being half the addiction!
It's a subtle sin. Not one anyone else would notice, when I have it under control, but only I know that I'm fighting. It's a lonely sin. It involves a universe in which I exist to perpetuate the existence of said universe. And I'm aware of it. Which, once again, is where 'the leg' comes into the scene. A self created universe can exist without God's presence only if He's not invited. (I'd use the analogy of 'A vampire can only enter your house if you invite him in' but it seems somehow vulgar, so I won't) So I invite Him and He stands between me and the wave of destruction that actually will stop at this untouchable wall of .....well, a foot....and protects the fragile clinging woman.

It's the story of my life...... that phrase I began this blog post with, and I stumbled upon it while randomly leafing through my notebook. It stood alone on the top of the page, waiting for me to find it when I needed it. That's the story of my life, too.

The life of my pens.

They trip me. Purposefully I think, so I put them back in the container under the bed. There they can be still. And I reach for a stick of gum, only to pull out a pen. I reach for the keys and the pen falls out instead. One rolls off the Bible on the bedstand. Another, refusing to give up it's home on the floor, rolls around feet for weeks. They taunt me. I haven't used them in months. We haven't spent time together since the days when they were all I had left. We had a shared purpose in those days of suffering and loss. My soul clung to it's owner and we held on together; together with the pens.

I think they've gotten lonely. I can almost hear them whining for attention. Lonely pens of a writer. Is there anything more sad? And ironically they hold so much more potential for purpose now that they are not all that reside in my purse, glove compartment, side car door panel, back jeans pocket. They comingle with a paycheck. They sit beside jingling car keys. The bed that has the blanket and a pillow; they get lost in the covers when I intend to spend time with them but fall asleep instead. No wonder they whine! They have so many praises to express! Blessings to proclaim!

Ohhhh! Okay, guys! I get it. Gone are the days of writing from suffering. The days of praise are here!

What would a writer do without her pens?

Faith goes camping.

.theenemylurks.
Once again night comes creeping up to, over, and beyond where I'm sitting. But I'm not sitting by a window anymore; it's no longer mine to enjoy. And I will not be the fortunate recipient of spontaneous purring; they have laps to warm or crickets to chase elsewhere. They are no longer mine to love. I don't bother bending my ear for the sound of the car pulling up bringing my love to the front door. No motor. No door. They are no longer ours to use. Each aspect and detail chipped away at for months, than weeks, now days. So I sit in silence with Jesus on borrowed camp chairs and use a paper plate to write the musings of a broken woman. And He smiles and corrects my phrasing.

" A chipped woman is not broken but worn," He reminds.

"Good point!", I reply.

A chip from betrayal that no glue can ever properly mend.
One from brokenheartedness at the parting of ways from dear loved ones.
And still another from being dropped when no one was brave enough to reach out and catch.
.theenemylurks.

But then...and unmarred dish is an unused one. An unused dish is merely decoration and I never was much for plates on walls.

And my attention diverts again to where I pretend I can see Him sitting. I study His face and notice that He's chipped too. His brows carry concern for his constanly disloyal children.
His eyes bear the tint of the ever fresh memory of loss. And His shoulders seem weighed down with remorse at the opportunities passed over by those called to serve. We are sorrowful together by the ring from which I can only coax smoke. We share our concerns. And we watch the days approaching when those serving now will confront their own walls of uncertainty only to stand on this side of faith for the rest of their mortal given time.
.theenemylurks.

He reminds me, as always, that sorrow is appropriate but it never walks alone. And He instructs me to look around, as always, and I do. And we smile together at the humble campsite littered with faithfully supplied gifts from a friend most overlook as faithful. And I see the tent that houses arms that grow tighter every night. And I remember the choices and responses that landed us where we are. And I swell with pride and confidence. We did what He taught us to.
.theenemylurks.

A road has been blocked. Our lives are new with possibilities; but I fear the plateau. We are in a difficult place, yes, but it remains at the same difficulty. For the past 7 months we have lost little by little until all but each other and some useless piles of possessions housed in a house of His could be called 'ours'. And now we've leveled out. We didn't lose anything yesterday and it almost frightens me. All we have is each other. Are we being prepared for us to begin gaining again, or the opposite? Are we being prepared for the worst?
.theenemylurks.....but I already know his defeat.

The Way I Pray

I'm going to change the way I pray. And this is not about knees or hands or volume. The content of my prayers has been immature....rather, the content of my prayers has been redundant.

"Please protect us."

I always have.

"Please provide."

I always do.

"Please show us the way."

When have I ever mislead you?

He stops me in mid sentence with His replies. He has halted my prayers. In short, He's calling me out. Have you ever felt this way? Frustrated, knowing you need to grow to the next step or you'll flounder....useless and ineffective. Believing you are searching for something only to be confronted with the reality that your search is a hoax. A good hoax, fooling yourself along with everyone else. The thought of a passionate search allays your fears as well as encourages others of your faith. But you've already been given the answers to all of your questions. You are at the end of this search and you know it.

My truth is my family's truth. Suffering is coming. We know it and He knows it and He's going to allow it. We must be strong enough to handle it or it wouldn't be headed our way. My prayers were my fallback and assurance...and He won't allow them anymore. I'm no longer suppossed to ask but am expected to act. My prayers are no longer pleadings for faith but have become actions of holding His hand and walking forward.

I've changed the way I pray.

My life is a novel.
Sometimes comedy, sometimes drama and even into the realms of science fiction it sometimes seems to travel. There is an author and He's brilliant. He marks the bottoms of my shoes with ink and lets me run away on whatever path I desire...but He has a road drawn out that He wants me to follow. I'm often afraid on this road because of the shadows. The turns are so sharp that the shadows swallow up the path. I step because the road is always there, but I still fear the shadows. And my feet try to follow the penned lines lovingly leading me but my footprints mark up the burm and often stumble into the other lane. The pages are smeared with my missteps.
My life is a novel.

Tonight we followed the road. All year we have followed the road faithfully but tonight we have found ourselves alone, with Him. Actually, Him and two. Two faithful children that know of our struggles and our mutual desire for nothing more than His will. And I love them. And I thank Him for them. But the two are set as a reminder of the smallness of the number. There used to be many. There used to be much. The much slowly dwindled away but we knew we didn't need much, so we didn't miss it. We didn't expect the many to dwindle to two, however, and it caught us off guard. We felt the loss. But He picked us up again, placed us in the presence of the two and left us to praise Him for His goodness, together. And we did. And we do. And we will.
And our feet continue on the path although it is all shadow now. We can't see the road or feel it under our shoes, but we can smell the pen marks. The author never leaves His characters without a path to follow. That's what makes it a worthy story and Him a crafted creator.

Hug me, Hug me...Say that you'll hug me!

I've always been a stuffed animal and pet person. It's because I'm a hugger. Now, for those who don't know me well you'd never guess my appreciation for the one on one full body blanket. And when I say hug I am definitely not referring to the polite one hand on a back reciprocated. I'm talking practically lifting the feet off the ground, but not, type of hug. I see a hug as proof of trust and I like to show people how important that trust is to me. So I hug hard and don't let go.
Now, I believe there is power in a hug; positive and encouraging power. Sounds corny and I hate corny so I'm sorry about that. But I was reminded of my love, and extreme need, for hugs today when I was feeling down. My family has been down a lot lately. We've been down together though so it's not so bad but when I need a healing hug, I don't want to take the good mojo from someone else who's down. Not everyone is a healing hugger. So I'm sitting on a blue chair needing a hug and one of 4 opportunities is nestling around my feet. I grab the little recipient and don't let go. He's not particularly crazy about the love abuse but he's kind, so he cooperates. Small meows turn into purrs and my hug is rewarded, dissolving my bad mood immediately. Power. When I was a child I would mangle my Pound Puppy, 3 foot tall stuffed gorilla, Cabbage Patch Doll (I can still smell the baby powder thinking about her) and any unfortunate pet we had that didn't try to bite, with hugs. I understood the power then, I just didn't know that Jesus was associated with the equation. I know now. Whether you're a hugger or not, you have a release agent of your own. You write, quilt, build, demolish, sing, dance...you get the idea. Mine is hugs. Nothing is more healing to me than being taken hold of and being able to hold in return. And I've been fortunate enough to have known a few good huggers in my day. I have a couple girlfriends that are 'whole' huggers; they are unhalting and all of their defenses are down when we hug. It's how I know I can trust them and it brings my trust out even more. Without this type of release my emotional, spiritual and physical health would suffer severely. I believe it works the same way for them if they let it. Sadly though, not everyone reciprocates our actions for the same reasons. There are people who appear to be 'whole' huggers but have alterior objectives. They feign unconditional trust in order to get a foot in the door to take advantage in another area of our lives. I've come to accept this as reality and my hugs toward these people are more defensive and not at all satisfying. I dislike those hugs intensely. It's a distortion of something I hold dear but I've learned that there is risk in relating with other humans. This is where I found Jesus in the mix. Never have a met a better hugger than Him. (Stay with me.) He's the one who taught me about 'whole' hugging. He's the only reason I can fully trust another person. Not through convincing me that people can be trusted, I know that's not true, but through convincing me that it's worth the risk to extend out my arms, making myself vulnerable emotionally and physically, in order to introduce or reaffirm the unconditional trust that Jesus has used to complete me. I've had friends that were sincere and 'whole' huggers for years until one day when I wasn't looking, the knife fell and I was wounded. I was crippled emotionally and my hugs were guarded towards everone. But Jesus reminded me that I needed to open up again so he gave me cats and a husband and yes, a few stuffed animals. I practiced my hugging again and was made ready to be vulnerable to the rest of the world. Jesus. How do I know it was Him? I'm asked this question often and every area of my life has been addressed by it. The answer is always the same. I know because it's not me and He's the one to whom I've handed over my life. I'm not steady in my thinking and the thinking that comforts me is always steady and sure. I'm not strong in any respect aside from faith and that is often fickle. But when I fall back I'm caught every time. When I say 'fall back' I mean surrender. No, it's not easy and yes it can be dangerous but not if you know that the net is there and it itself is telling you to fall. Does it sound risky to you? It sounds not only risky but crazy to most of the people in my life. So they watch, usually expecting me to break my metaphorical ankles, buck up and realize that God doesn't work that way. Fortunately, although they are watching for disaster, they end up witnessing the awesome reality that at the bottom of the precipice my ankles don't absorb the impact. Caught and placed back onto this shaky ground into my own busted out sneakers, I fall but never hit. That's not something I can do on my own.
So he's convinced me to be a hugger. It heals me and introduces trust to others. It's the best way I have found to display the real Christ that lives in me. I write and draw and converse but none of it takes as much risk as a hug. And after all, what do I have to lose? He can't be torn from me and noone will ever turn my trust from Him. His hugs are even stronger than mine.

.....so in my brilliantly faithful walk amongst the plans and poems of man, I prove faithless. Wow, what a shocker.
I readjust my course and sit down to the map. Joshua 1:9; so familiar! It must've been mentioned in sermons, background conversations and dinner table discussions over thirty times in my recent recall. It's actually become so familiar that when I stumble upon it in different versions, my eyes automatically reread it and then glance up to recall what book and chapter I'm in. Oh yeah, Joshua!
I don't read the Old Testament often. Okay, I don't pick my Bible up 1/5 the amount of times I intend to. I fear it. I should explain. I love the Bible because I very much desire truth. No problem there. What I fear is complacency. I won't be a Christian that begins her walk at 7:35 and by 8 or even 11:00 she's ready to punch out of this job and clock into her real life. I guess that's why I don't like routines or traditions. Admittedly, it's flawed logic but it's intention has nobility. I don't want any movement I make to be without purpose. Things lose their value to me when they become just another part of my day. As a
matter of fact, I don't say "I love you" to my family members as part of a routine because of that very fear. They know I love them through my actions and my carefully placed words (including "I love you") but I work to treasure and make treasured by others my actions. It's not that I don't believe in Bible study on a regular basis, I just know myself well enough to know that routines are traps for me. And so here I am, sitting on the sofa with a tiger kitten to my right and a keyboard on my lap sketching in words the redirection of my course. All this time I thought I was walking down the sidewalk he mentioned and it turns out I'm not even in the right town! I'm so glad He whispers. I haven't been turned into a pile of rejected human compost in the middle of this foreign sidewalk.
"Psst, Crissy it's this way."
Oh Daddy, What to do with me?!

walking alone

...so as the day turns into night, I sit down to write. The pressure behind my eyes begins to subside as the deep breaths that hint to my stress become less frequent. The darkness holds back time as I finally can think and write and sip and think and breathe. Subjects with the weight of an ocean pour over us without mercy. Faithfulness meets fear for coffee as they ponder common ground. What to do next? How many moments that should have been treasured, set aside, savored were forced to share space with preoccupations of the day? When did I give permission for this? When did the line between purpose and survival dissapear? I had it all figured out last month, I swear! The answers were put in place and the way was clear. Where did it go? I didn't blink or make a turn yet I don't know if I'm on the same road. Will I compromise today? Will I do what I shouldn't to appease everyone else and make our lives much more bearable? What will I lose if I do? I won't, anyway; and I'll suffer for it. I'll lose the respect of many and the trust of those I love. Still, I won't anyway. I don't think I've ever before understood how alone I truly am, in human company anyway. My cats like me and God hasn't budged from my side. Still, my coffee has grown chilly and it's not safe to walk outside alone. I need to walk alone. He's snoring. I'm typing. The wash is drying. The boy is dreaming. I'm typing; confirming my choices so I know on what to stand firm. Defining my place so I know in whom I can find support. Dreading the light, knowing what it brings. I'll embrace tonight for a little while longer.