underfoot...

The crunching is deafening.  Tiptoe doesn't help much despite my practice at this particular dance.  But always underfoot they lay, taunting my big laborious steps that insist on forward movement.  They are loudest, it seems anyway,  when I most need to be quiet and they set my stomach churning as my breath catches in my throat.   Those pesky triggers seem more to me, landmines, than eggshells.

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Michele and Me

The sign said  'Closed'.   Through the window could be seen cleaners mopping, organizers straightening and stockers refilling cubbies, cabinets and counters with fresh merchandise.  Maintenance was underway.  It was a necessary pause in sales to keep the store in fit condition for when the sign got flipped back to 'Open' the following morning.
Have you ever met someone who clearly had no 'Closed' side to the sign of their life?   Or 'Open' side for that matter?
Both types are out there; the frenzied sales vs. the mellowed maintenance.  My sister and I seem the perfect personifications of each extreme.  She's a constant planner, a driven go-getter, and she chases down experiences for her family so they can taste each wonderful flavor this life has to offer.  I , however, don't chase much of anything.  My personal palette doesn't crave many flavors nor do I feel the same responsibility to deliver the varied spectrum to my family.   The quiet enjoyment received from fully appreciating vanilla is where I find fulfillment.  Contentment in present circumstances, for the time the circumstances are upon us is the most valuable experience I feel I can ever offer my son.
Am I unambitious?  No!  By far, no!  I am a convicted and driven vehicle against religious intolerance and complacent Christianity as well as being a voice and example for the responsibility of personal influence in our own spheres.  I am valuable while appearing stand-still in the wake of my sister.
Is she unappreciative of her present circumstances?  No!  By far,  no!  She sees the  responsibility she has, while she can still be a tool of influence, to acquaint her family with the opportunities this world offers and the potential of her children to interact, grow within, and claim these experiences for themselves.  She is valuable while appearing to be a chaotic tsunami against the backdrop of my calm waters.
So why am I wasting your time?  I'm not; stop being so quick to judge!  There!  Did you catch that?  We judge.  We might not always like it about ourselves but we do it.  It's a reflex, call it survival if you like, where we assess possible risks in our environment in order to know whether we should pull away or draw close to someone.  And we judge more quickly in circumstances where we have very little information.  In short, we judge what we don't understand.  So here I have placed before you what would appear to be the lazy sister vs. the self-absorbed sister.  But now you know a little more.  You know we are both driven by what we evaluate to be the best circumstances for our loved ones.  You know we are both passionate in our roles as human beings who seek to get the most out of their lives.  You know I love my sister very much or I wouldn't have taken the time to introduce her strongest and most noble characteristics instead of relating the bitter feud that raged throughout our childhood concerning a certain dollhouse that......never mind.

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Telling

I'm rewriting an old list of poetry prompts for myself. This is what I just jotted down:
-frustration
-disillusionment
-disenchantment
-disappointment

Does anyone else think this is telling of my current state of mind?
Do I like my life? Yes, absolutely I do! But there are evidently some feelings churning just underneath the surface that hint to my current almost ever-present scowl.

And I look around me and the singles look at the married and the married look back at the singles and they both feel the same list.

The young look at the adults and the adults would give anything for one more day in the sandbox with their friends.

So we know it's not circumstances, or at least not a checklist that can be filled out to insure a lifetime of happiness.

Is it in the spouse you find? No. People change and as a married person its not your role to stunt that growth but to accept it and continue to love.

Is it in the freedom of living your dreams? No. Who knew so much would have to be compromised and sacrificed to get where you are now?

The house, kids, money, fame....if immortality were a reality it would be on here, too, sitting next to our accomplishments, desires, and expectations which inevitably at some point fall short of satisfaction.

Is it about having enough faith? I'll tell ya, 'No' to that as well. You can't always blame 'lack of faith' for an emotionally low time. Sometimes the day just seems darker than usual. Sometimes you cry and you don't know why.

I'm sorry. I should've warned you at the beginning; I don't have a moral, lesson or any advice of hope for you today. If you find comfort in the co-suffering of others then I guess you can be assured of that.

The wealthy, famous, married, independent, successful, young and old
all sometimes cry without knowing why.

Unconditioned summer escape

No longer night but 'good morning' would be the welcome. In the warm attic room apart from the summer makeshift sleeping arrangements, I sit and sweat and breathe the real and raw outside air. The noise of the cars acts as small annoyance for sacrifice in the escape of the reconditioned cool of downstairs where sane mortals sleep and eat and dwell. My attic morning breeze escape. Mine and the dog's. Dollar the stuffed animal lap dog who looks out the window or sits guard on the floor with the yoga mat bed and ergonomic pillow. The pillow doesn't suit him. We sit in the early and late hours while the house sleeps. We write words of wisdom to help lead others in their purpose and we write our rantings here, where formality no longer exists. Hair uncombed, pizza crusts to the right and a beanbag prop behind my back defines who I can be in my attic morning breeze escape. Dollar can always be himself. It's why I like him so much. The breeze will subside, the sun will beat and the shades will be drawn to create my morning interval of rest, with Dollar remaining vigilant by my side. But the rain falls today to our joy and the breeze persists for a little while longer. We'll sit and listen and close our eyes to focus on the breeze crossing the room and reaching our awaiting, contented faces. It's to be a wonderful day in the attic.

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.

Perspective

'He still moves stones.'
The flyer caught my eye and it seemed silly to me, the image that came into my mind. Jesus Christ, crouched down pushing little piles of gravel around like a kid on a sidewalk. I walked away from my register a bit to read the smaller print.

'Experience the power of Easter'.

Oh. Duh, right...big stone....grave. I'd forgotten about Easter coming. I don't see how! Surrounded by pastel candies and big eared chocolate bunnies stacked next to the convection crosses in the store with the flyer about stones. I must be working on forgetting.

And I take a breath and muse on my contemplations of why I think too much.
And the boulder I'm pushing along with me through the evening prompts questions of concern from working friends. I don't seem myself. No, I'm a bit low tonight...rock perched on my shoulders...slowing me down a bit.
The huge chunk of mountain-side chained to my waist drags my steps as I think and pray of my fear, misery, and devastating circumstances.
The depressed and hopeless countenance I'm sporting walks with me briefly past the newspaper rack. Habit reads the headlines as my feet continue to pass by.
But my feet force a stop and the unmanageable weight on my shoulders is liquefied to a greasy black shower of self consuming guilt. Horror rereads the title.

'Tot's death deemed an accident'.

Oh God!
Oh dear God!

Once again, you reveal my mountains to be nothing but pebbles.

Happy ......Easter!

Taking in my surroundings I acknowledge the value of standing in the epicenter of human priority in America. And it's only appropriate that a song from my past is ringing through the supermarket speakers as I work and absorb and write. The seasonal peanut butter eggs sit in front of me with the cigarette case to my back. The tabloids screaming of infidelity and weight loss are placed in 6 strategic 'buyer potential' areas while the daily newspapers are on two racks in the front with me. In a few hours copies of the morning edition will arrive. I'll place them in stacks in a cart by the main walking area and throughout the day the stacks will shrink and disappear as shoppers grab their Sunday paper, milk and assorted necessities and luxuries. They'll read of another country's devastation, as they did last month, and some will skip to the coupon section while others reflect on the tragic loss befalling a distant neighbor, hidden on page 14.


I feel Americans are given an unfair reputation as, I can safely assume, are every other collection of humans identified as a whole by the name of their country. We do this because of the similarities a mass population shares such as language, laws, traditions and social norms. And just maybe we gain a strategic edge by blurring individualistic lines of a potential foe into one regional identity. How much easier is it to sink a distant ship than to drown a man with your own hands?


But I direct this back to the beginning at the mention of the song playing in the background. The lyrics focus on the artist's past addictions. Ironically it's a song from a CD I owned that has long since been collected and passed on to the thrift store with many other reminders of a reckless and senseless time in my own life. This was a part of the 'cleaning of my environment' as it were, to be able to start on a new path, much like the writer of the song was doing as he looked back to the bridge and sung of moving forward. And in focusing on the renewal God has made of my often frivolous and sometimes meaningful existence, I find the value in the concept of individuality.



Working with the public allows you insight into a myriad of individual personalities, which is why I work the night shift. I can only take small chunks of society at a time.


But in these little bursts of customers throughout the dark hours, the differences in their attitudes and overall perspectives of little and large events sneaks it's way through to me.


Some people are optimistic of the future. More seem pessimistic of the present while still others are not aware of anything outside their own sphere of day in and day out living. It seems inaccurate to conglomerate and package together as a mass consciousness these singular perspectives on this piece of land out here to the west.


And of course these individuals in America that I watch shopping in different aisles at 3 in the morning live their own stories. Diapers, organic produce, medications, arms full, baskets full, carts pushed up to the redhead cashier who talks to them as she rings them through. We laugh about the birthday cake for the 2 year old who doesn't even know he's two and I congratulate the lucky mailman who was off for both days the snow storms hit, and my eyes follow the select few who are looking for a clean bathroom and a warm refuge that I allow to walk around the store and pretend they might purchase something.


And as the night continues on, the morning paper makes its way onto front seats and kitchen tables and television stands. Some of the individuals in America will reflect on the individuals that are suffering through the rebellion of our shared planet. Some of these individuals residing in America will call loved ones and cry over a mutual loss traveling abroad. Others will scan the Internet to assess the damage done and any possible route to help alleviate some distant but very real pain. These particular individuals have recognised individuality. How valuable this realization is to them! No longer does the Earth appear insurmountably vast, but is acknowledged as a homestead. Disconnected no more by property lines, restricted air space or unscaleable heights these brothers and sisters of humanity mourn each loss and revel in the victorious stories of lives spared. No country, principality or nation can boast of such an insight being characteristic of their people. Only individuals. A man sitting in his living room, a child hearing the news in school, a woman on a plane passing over a broken world; individuals who decide to share the pain through their mourning souls. I think I may have found the lost species of Human I've heard so much about but have long doubted it's existence.


And as images form of Christ and the angels watching the humans trip over each other in their quest to get to where they think they need to go and survive for the sole purpose of not dying, love must've swelled for their all powerful God. This master Creator doesn't see the swarms of billions of feet below. He knows individuality. He created individuality. And he doesn't have to peek over the clouds to find a man praying; He knows the man and feels his prayer and already has His hand working through this individual's circumstances.
Easter is here again. It's my 35th. I've experienced every sort of candy known to pre-packaged holidays throughout these years and Easter has become my favorite. Chocolate is great. Spring is refreshing and Easter doesn't last 2 months like Christmas does. Fleeting thoughts of the meaning behind the cross I'm eating satiate my guilt for not being moved by 'the true meaning' of Easter anymore. In all my experiences of getting in and out of trouble, praying, thanking God for answering my prayers, getting into trouble again etc... I've allowed my idea of God to become a distant mass of 'Power' and 'Awesome...stuff' and 'Goodness' I think of occasionally when I look up into the sky. How unjust.

Moments of waste; Value eternal.

While walking through the days with Time on my heels, tapping my shoulder now and again, my thoughts consistently loom over the optimism of death. It's so often been my hope, the promise of 'now' not being my future, but 'then'.

Difficult my cage that binds me far beneath my shelter.
The Curse, knowledge seeing infinite within finality.
Left disappointed, God looks down on me;

"Gifts of love beyond the finite?
Purpose no immortal soul could bear?
Graciousless you curse the skin I've wrapped you in!"

As angels look on my life with envy, I stumble to find my role in a chaotic realm.
A perfect life lies waiting for me to pick it up; not beyond the veil but within the imperfection in which I'm cast.
An immortal soul tainted with mortality, is me.
A haggard weed given the chance to bloom and flourish in a barren land.
Being fed Almighty wisdom and watered with the promise of value, I repent and gorge on His sustenance.
Shortsightedness had blinded me again.
Is forever how long it will take me to learn His love?

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?!

Deep breath out. That's how I know when I'm destressing. I learned it as a yoga technique....inhale through the nose, deep breath pushing it all out the mouth. It's involuntary anymore, and now it lets everyone know that what I am dealing with needs to be released, without my wanting anyone to know. "Why are you stressed?" he'll ask 'cause he's kind and genuinely concerned. I like him. I won't usually know what the stressor is at that particular minute...my body just knew what it needed and...deep breath out. Now, we're not talking just a sigh. That would be normal and not too noteworthy. We're talking about my mouth rounding into an 'O' and blowing the deep breath out...with sounds and all. I don't even know I'm doing it until it's done and at least one eye is attracted to the possible cry for attention. I suppose the problem with having involuntary actions cleansing my emotional system is that I can't often grasp at what I needed help releasing. Is that even a problem? Yes, (my psychology courses taunt me) for if I'm not aware of the root of my stress I will continue to ...deep breath out...until I hyperventilate and although momentarily the stress is gone, the stressor is not. So we dig. We dig up the unresolved issues of earlier days and blend them together with obvious 'today' responsibilities and somewhere in the middle of all of this we find the ugly little problem. Sometimes it's removable. Often it's painfully deep within the skin....deep breath out. And he talks to me. And he makes me talk, and he talks again and I love to listen and we'll pass through hours without my having to take any breaths at all. And morning will be breaking so we give in to our human need for sleep and I'll wait a bit until I hear his breathing. It's then that I see God and his hand stroking our hair, and Iremember to thank Him and assure Him that next time I'll remember to turn to Him for peace before the ugly little problem begins to fester.
But I don't...deep breath out.

I wait for the sun to turn his back and I try to find meaning in today. What monumental achievements have been accomplished through me on this Thursday during this April? Scrabble? Not much depth there. I just heated up some pizza! Yummy, but not exactly life changing. I've saved no lives, inspired no great actions or contributed to any significant causes in the course of today. I did convey the miracles of my week to my Scrabble partner; my Christian sister. I smiled at my teen when he asked me for some late night snacks. I put a few seconds aside to stop my husband from his work so I could kiss him. Long term effects? Life changing moments? Not likely. We're sane though, in insane times. My friends and family know my love for them. God's presence is so alive in my life I find myself gushing about how He catches me to the church pianist as we're placing letter tiles.

My life is challenging. Not 9-5 challenge or the fear of adultery challenge or even the crippling temptations challenge. Just my trials that weigh on my soul alone. That of course being the most difficult part to bear. But then He taps me on the shoulder and reminds me of the boys in the living room- the boys I can't imagine life without. And He draws my attention to the 20 pound tiger cat sprawled out on my side of the bed and I can't help but giggle.
I giggle a lot. I'm known for my uncontrollable laughter.
I suppose that reflection of my soul is the most accurate.

Just another...

So once again I don't do what I know to do and it once again appears to leave no blame on me. Funny. And I begin to look closer at the circumstances that are me and my function and something has halted progress. A boulder in my road has blocked my path. It's not a particularly large boulder; I could climb over it if I only put a little effort into it. But I choose to stand in front of it, cursing the responsible party for this outrageous waste of my time. I stand and stare at the rock. Waiting for it to be moved or to roll out of my way of it's own accord or perhaps someone will come pick me up, put me on their back as they crawl over this easily surrmountable hurdle; all these are acceptable scenarios for this monumental inconvienence. I stood and stared at the rock.

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.

Mortal moments...

I have moments of mortality. On the hearing, one would assume them to be instants of frailty or fear but they're nothing like that. They are 'step back and see who you are, where, and for now' moments.

I had one today. I was walking home from a friend's house. I approached my white painted, rented porch and there He was. I stood still, right next to Time. I saw the porch not as another seamless step in my ever increasingly stressed existence but as the backdrop of a scene. My backdrop on this set for these days. Out of body? More like the cleansing of my perspective. I've always been aware of Time and his role in my script. And since the day I understood that these eyes were peering out from this soul, I've respected Him. I like Him. His prescence means to me that this is not all and that although we walk well together I will one day be waving goodbye to Him from a distance. He stays, I don't.

My moments of mortality. They very much have defined who I chose to be through all of my steps of life. As a child I knew when an opportunity came to be kind, it was there for me to take. I probably learned that one from my parents or Sunday School. You don't wait for someone else to come along and fill the void. You step towards the opportunity and embrace it. I remember the feeling of regret when I would pass those chances by. I saw Time walk away from me and I was never able to see Him in the same light again. The moment had passed. The regret clung to me as a reminder never to let it happen again. Thus I was a kind kid.

As a suicidal teen I was taunted by Time. He would highlight each tedious task of each moment of each day that would be for the rest of my unending years stuck here. Shower, wake up, study or fail, locker, homeroom, which house to go back to, who to trust, who to follow, who to hate, how to make it all stop, wake up, study, locker, homeroom...and don't worry it won't last forever. After school you can have a job from 9-5 and a mortgage and car payments and taxes, 9-5, mortgage, payments.... I didn't like Time then. He was always there and wouldn't let me think.
But we didn't wave goodbye.. I'm glad now. I wasn't then.

When I became a mother Time dropped the ball. Maybe he got jealous. He would skip minutes at first and then be gone for months. When I felt him again my son was walking. He hung around us for a while but only until I was working, going to school and watching the little boy make friends and get bitten by girls in day care and making school projects and tucking himself in. Those were the years Time fudged the numbers. Not fair to us but every thing has it's lesser moments. But we at least we were friends again. I appreciated His prescence in my life and consequently He didn't hound me anymore. He just hung around.

But this scene on the porch was just another moment in another day in another town for another reason. We shook hands again, caught up with each other in that fleeting glimpse and we were refreshed. Time went on with His duties and I stepped back on my stage. I wasn't aware that my perspective had needed cleaning. It did.