So perfect for the way we see love. Or the way I've seen love. Or the way that I kinda really want to see love. Just thought I'd share.
Well, I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
Falling in love just makes me blue.
Well, the music plays and you display your heart for me to see,
I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me.
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
Well, the night does funny things inside a man.
These old tomcat feelings you don't understand,
Well, I turn around to look at you; you light a cigarette,
I wish I had the guts to bum one, but we've never met.
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
I can see that you are lonesome just like me,
And it being late, you'd like some company.
Well, I turn around to look at you, and you look back at me,
The guy you're with has up and split- the chair next to you's free.
And I hope that you don't fall in love with me.
Well, it's closing time, the music's fading out.
Last call for drinks, I'll have another stout.
Well, I turn around to look at you; you're nowhere to be found,
I search the place for your lost face,
Guess I'll have another round.
And I think that I just fell in love with you.
-Hootie and the Blowfish
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
A Summer Well... Spent
I saw my last firefly of the summer. A flash, seen out of the corner of my eye, was like a door closing in my face. And now that I'm doing my first laundry of the year in the bottom of Manly in a room that feels like summer hasn't left the building, I feel like reflecting on what's on the other side of that door. Things I learned this summer (in no particular order):
1. You can do many, many, many things with LEGOs. Many things. Trebuchets being my favorite, of course.
2. All children under the age of 12 think that you are over the age of 35, at best.
3. Kickball is intense and there is a real strategy to Mancala.
4. Sidney Carton is quite possibly my favorite hero in a novel.
5. You can survive off of pasta, Parmesan cheese, water and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for at least a month and a half.
6. God really is good, all the time.
7. You may not smoke, eat or drink while practicing the organ at Wesley.
8. The lights in the alley in between Newman and Wesley stay on until 12 AM.
9. Campus is gorgeous at dawn.
10. Sometimes you think that you'll ruin something just by being there.
11. Sometimes you're very wrong.
12. Where you are is where you're meant to be. If it's not, you wouldn't be there. If it's not where you're going to be, you won't be there.
13. Your heart can break and rejoice in the space of 2 seconds.
14. Mephibosheth was spared by King David. Go read about it in 2 Samuel.
15. I really don't know my summer constellations.
16. I don't know what it's like to be in love, though I do know what it's like to love Someone you can't see.
17. The Star Theater is cold. Bring a jacket.
18. Spider bites are TERRIBLE.
19. You can't swipe guests into the pool.
20. Campus is much more apparently hilly on a bike.
21. Pluto's official designation is a 'plutoid.'
22. Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog is AMAZING, as is Godspell.
23. The roasted almonds are in between the pecans and the walnuts and cotton candy ice cream with butterfingers mixed-in is more popular than you would think.
24. Wesley really is like my pre-college life: The downstairs looks like South, the upstairs has the same amount of random stuff as my house, and the sanctuary reminds me like the old sanctuary at St. Luke's.
25. I should like very much to defy gravity.
Everyone asks how your summer was the first time you see them when you get back to school. What am I supposed to say? Boring? Incorrect, as I was quite busy and engaged. Unproductive? Also incorrect, I made a good little chunk of change and read a couple of books. Interesting? Perhaps, but that's not its defining feature. Oddly painful, comforting, restricting and freeing at the same time? Yes.
But I want something to show for it, something that will make me remember and make me forget, something that will cement it into my mind and be my defining triumph, like the lift in Dirty Dancing. I probably simply want to prove to myself something that cannot be proved.
For now, though, I'll carry on with school, my jobs and my friends, sit back and label the memories as summer and my summer love as God. One day that'll change, but only when the change doesn't matter.
1. You can do many, many, many things with LEGOs. Many things. Trebuchets being my favorite, of course.
2. All children under the age of 12 think that you are over the age of 35, at best.
3. Kickball is intense and there is a real strategy to Mancala.
4. Sidney Carton is quite possibly my favorite hero in a novel.
5. You can survive off of pasta, Parmesan cheese, water and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for at least a month and a half.
6. God really is good, all the time.
7. You may not smoke, eat or drink while practicing the organ at Wesley.
8. The lights in the alley in between Newman and Wesley stay on until 12 AM.
9. Campus is gorgeous at dawn.
10. Sometimes you think that you'll ruin something just by being there.
11. Sometimes you're very wrong.
12. Where you are is where you're meant to be. If it's not, you wouldn't be there. If it's not where you're going to be, you won't be there.
13. Your heart can break and rejoice in the space of 2 seconds.
14. Mephibosheth was spared by King David. Go read about it in 2 Samuel.
15. I really don't know my summer constellations.
16. I don't know what it's like to be in love, though I do know what it's like to love Someone you can't see.
17. The Star Theater is cold. Bring a jacket.
18. Spider bites are TERRIBLE.
19. You can't swipe guests into the pool.
20. Campus is much more apparently hilly on a bike.
21. Pluto's official designation is a 'plutoid.'
22. Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog is AMAZING, as is Godspell.
23. The roasted almonds are in between the pecans and the walnuts and cotton candy ice cream with butterfingers mixed-in is more popular than you would think.
24. Wesley really is like my pre-college life: The downstairs looks like South, the upstairs has the same amount of random stuff as my house, and the sanctuary reminds me like the old sanctuary at St. Luke's.
25. I should like very much to defy gravity.
Everyone asks how your summer was the first time you see them when you get back to school. What am I supposed to say? Boring? Incorrect, as I was quite busy and engaged. Unproductive? Also incorrect, I made a good little chunk of change and read a couple of books. Interesting? Perhaps, but that's not its defining feature. Oddly painful, comforting, restricting and freeing at the same time? Yes.
But I want something to show for it, something that will make me remember and make me forget, something that will cement it into my mind and be my defining triumph, like the lift in Dirty Dancing. I probably simply want to prove to myself something that cannot be proved.
For now, though, I'll carry on with school, my jobs and my friends, sit back and label the memories as summer and my summer love as God. One day that'll change, but only when the change doesn't matter.
Me and My Mouth
Aaaand after sitting back and re-reading my vent, I realized how much I plagiarize when I rant. In my brain, I like to see this is a list of awesome references and quotes, not as an addendum to the last post.
~Mozart to my Salieri- go watch Amadeus. It will make you happy. And sad. OK, probably more sad, but for a good bit, you'll be happy.
~Marius and Cosette- Les Miserables by Victor Hugo
~Lucie and Charles- A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
~'The bitter comes before the sweet.' -Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan
~'And You said, "I know that this will hurt, but if I don't break your heart, then things will just get worse. When the burden seems too much to bear, remember, the ends will justify the pain it took to get us there.' -Let it All Out, Relient K
~'My worth to God in public is what I am in private.' -My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers
There are a couple more things that I had in my head, like Stained Glass Masquerade by Casting Crowns or Solomon's Prayer of Dedication for the Temple in 1st Kings 8:22-30 (which I borrowed from Jan's sermon on Sunday), but that's all the legit references I can claim. Now I feel slightly less guilty.
~Mozart to my Salieri- go watch Amadeus. It will make you happy. And sad. OK, probably more sad, but for a good bit, you'll be happy.
~Marius and Cosette- Les Miserables by Victor Hugo
~Lucie and Charles- A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
~'The bitter comes before the sweet.' -Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan
~'And You said, "I know that this will hurt, but if I don't break your heart, then things will just get worse. When the burden seems too much to bear, remember, the ends will justify the pain it took to get us there.' -Let it All Out, Relient K
~'My worth to God in public is what I am in private.' -My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers
There are a couple more things that I had in my head, like Stained Glass Masquerade by Casting Crowns or Solomon's Prayer of Dedication for the Temple in 1st Kings 8:22-30 (which I borrowed from Jan's sermon on Sunday), but that's all the legit references I can claim. Now I feel slightly less guilty.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
For When Tires Don't Blow Out Loud Enough
I want an explosion.
My best friend once showed me something her roommate had written and it started out like that: I want an explosion. It was wonderful. Not happy, uplifting, let's-resolve-all-our-problems-by-writing-something-worthy-only-of-a-Hallmark-card-all-the-while-complaining-about-how-it-sounds-cheesy, but angry and violent and crude and edgy and wonderful. Everything I'm not. Mozart to my Salieri. And it made me so mad that she could say something like that and have it come out so powerful and yet disregardful of the power, just expression and angst. Everything sharp and intense in the world and none of its pathetic fluff. There's a chunk of me that wants to be like that, sarcastic defense mechanism and all. I don't want to be round anymore. I don't want to nice or kind. I don't want to be pathetically good, like Marius and Cosette or Lucie and Charles. I want passion. I want emotion. I want an explosion.
That's a chorus to my life right now. The tire on the family van blows. I don't want to sit calmly by, trusting that it'll work out. I want to yell at the world, or at least cry, react in some way so that life knows that it's not OK to do this to me on my way back to school. I did scream at the next person who made me mad. I had to let him know that it's not fine to act like helping someone move in is the hardest thing you've ever done in your life and I had to let him know that acting like a complete and total (insert your favorite insult here) is not acceptable. And I'm not really up for sitting by as friend lets an idiot boy ruin her days and I'm not really happy to let another friend be tortured by the memory of her best friend and the worry of how to deal with such a rejection. Dear friends, I want to fix your problems. I don't want to hear you complain about them. I've listened for long enough- let's take a stand. Let's take on the world today. We need an explosion.
Because it's not fine to be mistreated, for anyone. It's not fine to live your life halfway, when it's been paid for so you can live it fully and it's not fine to let anything or anyone stop you from being everything you're meant to be. This is not an uplifting statement. This is pretty much a command. Stand up for yourself. Make a difference in your life so you can make a difference in someone else's life so this whole stupid, warring, broken, painful world can get fixed. Do it so my life will be better. When this world is whole, there's not going to be anymore troubles. Yes, and I know that I don't have any problems in my life. I know the meaning of the word blessed and I'm ready to want to live like I am. I know that my world is just a bed of roses and that I should be delighted for the air that I breathe and the water that I drink and the food that I eat. (Hey, world? Maybe you didn't notice, but when you laid down this bed, you left the thorns sticking up. Thanks for the warning.) So while I know that there's no reason to rock the boat, I want to cause a little commotion. I want to cause an explosion.
I'm probably not mad at you. I probably just need to sit down and chill and think a little before I just blow up for all the world to see. But I don't want to sit down and I don't want to chill. Waiting just lets it shrink enough to fit it back in the bottle until the next person shakes it without the lid on. I just need to yell, get it all out- do I even know where this anger is coming from? No. Yes. Probably. And that makes me madder, that I could fix it, I'm just too expletive lazy and too expletive apathetic to make it better. But I don't want to go back to the status quo. I don't want to go back to that happy land of not seeing what's around me just so I pretend that everything's all right. It's not fine. And life needs to know that. We need to know that. We need to fix things. It's not acceptable to fight in the family of God. It's not acceptable to be His on Sunday mornings and your own for the rest of the week. It's not OK to talk about people behind their backs, or in Facebook statuses, or anywhere else, except to their face so things can get fixed. Don't be afraid of going through the mess. The bitter comes before the sweet. If I don't break my heart then things will just get worse. You can't just patch it and pretend that makes it whole. One day, that patch is going to be just as bad as the crack in the first place and then, my friends, you'll want an explosion.
I don't want to go to church and feel like I'm reading between the lines of the sermon- I don't need politics from the pulpit. It is hard enough for me to come back to a God who won't talk to me, ignoring the fact that I'm probably not listening, and a God that lets His creation suffer, ignoring every explanation I have of that suffering, and a God that stopped fitting in my temple, ignoring the fact that He could never have even begun to fit in there in the first place. It's hard enough for me to sit there and pretend like listening to people drone the call to worship and the prayer is fine, pretend like I don't want someone to be moved by something, to show some emotion, to let me know that they're not OK either, but that God is fixing that and is living and is real and in their lives. I don't need a ritual. I don't need a remembrance ceremony. I need You here and now and alive and well and I need You to remind me of why I let myself get into this mess we call Your church in the first place. I need You to go with me into every part of my life, to stop me from being what You don't want me to be, to be my shelter, my shield, my guide, my words, my passion, my energy, my life, because I'm obviously not capable of making You be that on my own. My worth to You in public is what I am in private and I am a mess by myself. God, I wanted to shout You to the nations, not blare out a few out of tune notes before busting my lip. I want to be right, I want to be holy, I want to be Yours. And right now, I think to be Yours, I need an explosion.
Somewhere along the way, I'll realize that the world takes a lot of crap from me, as do you, dear reader. I'll realize that who I am in the world pales in comparison to who I want to be and that my ideals are useless unless acted on. I'll realize that my hypocrisy can only go so far before I must fix it and I'll realize that there are many things I should want before I want an explosion.
My best friend once showed me something her roommate had written and it started out like that: I want an explosion. It was wonderful. Not happy, uplifting, let's-resolve-all-our-problems-by-writing-something-worthy-only-of-a-Hallmark-card-all-the-while-complaining-about-how-it-sounds-cheesy, but angry and violent and crude and edgy and wonderful. Everything I'm not. Mozart to my Salieri. And it made me so mad that she could say something like that and have it come out so powerful and yet disregardful of the power, just expression and angst. Everything sharp and intense in the world and none of its pathetic fluff. There's a chunk of me that wants to be like that, sarcastic defense mechanism and all. I don't want to be round anymore. I don't want to nice or kind. I don't want to be pathetically good, like Marius and Cosette or Lucie and Charles. I want passion. I want emotion. I want an explosion.
That's a chorus to my life right now. The tire on the family van blows. I don't want to sit calmly by, trusting that it'll work out. I want to yell at the world, or at least cry, react in some way so that life knows that it's not OK to do this to me on my way back to school. I did scream at the next person who made me mad. I had to let him know that it's not fine to act like helping someone move in is the hardest thing you've ever done in your life and I had to let him know that acting like a complete and total (insert your favorite insult here) is not acceptable. And I'm not really up for sitting by as friend lets an idiot boy ruin her days and I'm not really happy to let another friend be tortured by the memory of her best friend and the worry of how to deal with such a rejection. Dear friends, I want to fix your problems. I don't want to hear you complain about them. I've listened for long enough- let's take a stand. Let's take on the world today. We need an explosion.
Because it's not fine to be mistreated, for anyone. It's not fine to live your life halfway, when it's been paid for so you can live it fully and it's not fine to let anything or anyone stop you from being everything you're meant to be. This is not an uplifting statement. This is pretty much a command. Stand up for yourself. Make a difference in your life so you can make a difference in someone else's life so this whole stupid, warring, broken, painful world can get fixed. Do it so my life will be better. When this world is whole, there's not going to be anymore troubles. Yes, and I know that I don't have any problems in my life. I know the meaning of the word blessed and I'm ready to want to live like I am. I know that my world is just a bed of roses and that I should be delighted for the air that I breathe and the water that I drink and the food that I eat. (Hey, world? Maybe you didn't notice, but when you laid down this bed, you left the thorns sticking up. Thanks for the warning.) So while I know that there's no reason to rock the boat, I want to cause a little commotion. I want to cause an explosion.
I'm probably not mad at you. I probably just need to sit down and chill and think a little before I just blow up for all the world to see. But I don't want to sit down and I don't want to chill. Waiting just lets it shrink enough to fit it back in the bottle until the next person shakes it without the lid on. I just need to yell, get it all out- do I even know where this anger is coming from? No. Yes. Probably. And that makes me madder, that I could fix it, I'm just too expletive lazy and too expletive apathetic to make it better. But I don't want to go back to the status quo. I don't want to go back to that happy land of not seeing what's around me just so I pretend that everything's all right. It's not fine. And life needs to know that. We need to know that. We need to fix things. It's not acceptable to fight in the family of God. It's not acceptable to be His on Sunday mornings and your own for the rest of the week. It's not OK to talk about people behind their backs, or in Facebook statuses, or anywhere else, except to their face so things can get fixed. Don't be afraid of going through the mess. The bitter comes before the sweet. If I don't break my heart then things will just get worse. You can't just patch it and pretend that makes it whole. One day, that patch is going to be just as bad as the crack in the first place and then, my friends, you'll want an explosion.
I don't want to go to church and feel like I'm reading between the lines of the sermon- I don't need politics from the pulpit. It is hard enough for me to come back to a God who won't talk to me, ignoring the fact that I'm probably not listening, and a God that lets His creation suffer, ignoring every explanation I have of that suffering, and a God that stopped fitting in my temple, ignoring the fact that He could never have even begun to fit in there in the first place. It's hard enough for me to sit there and pretend like listening to people drone the call to worship and the prayer is fine, pretend like I don't want someone to be moved by something, to show some emotion, to let me know that they're not OK either, but that God is fixing that and is living and is real and in their lives. I don't need a ritual. I don't need a remembrance ceremony. I need You here and now and alive and well and I need You to remind me of why I let myself get into this mess we call Your church in the first place. I need You to go with me into every part of my life, to stop me from being what You don't want me to be, to be my shelter, my shield, my guide, my words, my passion, my energy, my life, because I'm obviously not capable of making You be that on my own. My worth to You in public is what I am in private and I am a mess by myself. God, I wanted to shout You to the nations, not blare out a few out of tune notes before busting my lip. I want to be right, I want to be holy, I want to be Yours. And right now, I think to be Yours, I need an explosion.
Somewhere along the way, I'll realize that the world takes a lot of crap from me, as do you, dear reader. I'll realize that who I am in the world pales in comparison to who I want to be and that my ideals are useless unless acted on. I'll realize that my hypocrisy can only go so far before I must fix it and I'll realize that there are many things I should want before I want an explosion.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Yellow Light Epiphany
Dear Boy,
Thanks for this summer. You probably don't know and won't know how much you changed my plans. You don't know how many hours I spent letting my heart ache pointlessly over you or how many people I asked for advice on what to do about you or how long it took me to realize that you are not what I really want in my life today, but I know. I wasted those hours, I started those conversations and I waited my two years- let me go check my email to find the exact date- to figure out what I figured out today.
You know, I may have loved you. There are times that I've been afraid that I did and there was a whole week of happiness induced by that thought. I knew all along that you never loved me, though. You take the taste out of peanut butter, as Charlie Brown might see it. Maybe I preferred it that way. You were safe and you were unknown to most of the people around me. You could be my mysterious excuse to not talk to someone else. You were safe. You left my heart in a confused mess, but you were safe.
I probably should apologize- I'm sure this is making you uncomfortable. My pen sees it as revenge for having to smile when you mentioned past girlfriends when I've never even been on a date or for the times when I was sure you were saying things to make me size up your opinion of me, knowing that I would fall short. I'm not the girl you want and you probably never thought of me outside of the times that you saw me. I had one painful evening when I could imagine us seeing more of each other. Maybe that's the night that I began to realize that you must become part of my past as much as I am only a part of yours.
Ever since high school, I hit the ceiling when I go under a yellow light- you get a wish when you do. I often waste mine- a wish for a car, for a boyfriend, for a perfect day. Not that these things are inaccessible, just that they don't come by wishing. I realized today, after musing under a yellow light, that neither would you and, upon further examination, I realized that I wouldn't want you to.
Would you believe in a love at first sight? I'm certain that it happens all the time. But it doesn't mean a relationship, as it's just a glance. Destiny is worked out by us and love remains unrequited when left idle. So here's to you- you cured me of my ridiculous obsession with love and helped me grow up, all the while being true to yourself, which Shakespeare tells us is the most important thing.
Still, if you want to spend a couple of hours talking about my favorite books (a question of yours which I never answered satisfactorily), listening to Beatles' songs (just to see where I'm coming from), looking at the stars again (before the constellations I know set), or talking about our awesomely blessed yet superbly separate lives, I'm not at all opposed to putting off packing every little thing until one in the morning. Just in case you happen to be a Hawk Nelson fan, too.
With best regards,
Your Ordinary Girl
Thanks for this summer. You probably don't know and won't know how much you changed my plans. You don't know how many hours I spent letting my heart ache pointlessly over you or how many people I asked for advice on what to do about you or how long it took me to realize that you are not what I really want in my life today, but I know. I wasted those hours, I started those conversations and I waited my two years- let me go check my email to find the exact date- to figure out what I figured out today.
You know, I may have loved you. There are times that I've been afraid that I did and there was a whole week of happiness induced by that thought. I knew all along that you never loved me, though. You take the taste out of peanut butter, as Charlie Brown might see it. Maybe I preferred it that way. You were safe and you were unknown to most of the people around me. You could be my mysterious excuse to not talk to someone else. You were safe. You left my heart in a confused mess, but you were safe.
I probably should apologize- I'm sure this is making you uncomfortable. My pen sees it as revenge for having to smile when you mentioned past girlfriends when I've never even been on a date or for the times when I was sure you were saying things to make me size up your opinion of me, knowing that I would fall short. I'm not the girl you want and you probably never thought of me outside of the times that you saw me. I had one painful evening when I could imagine us seeing more of each other. Maybe that's the night that I began to realize that you must become part of my past as much as I am only a part of yours.
Ever since high school, I hit the ceiling when I go under a yellow light- you get a wish when you do. I often waste mine- a wish for a car, for a boyfriend, for a perfect day. Not that these things are inaccessible, just that they don't come by wishing. I realized today, after musing under a yellow light, that neither would you and, upon further examination, I realized that I wouldn't want you to.
Would you believe in a love at first sight? I'm certain that it happens all the time. But it doesn't mean a relationship, as it's just a glance. Destiny is worked out by us and love remains unrequited when left idle. So here's to you- you cured me of my ridiculous obsession with love and helped me grow up, all the while being true to yourself, which Shakespeare tells us is the most important thing.
Still, if you want to spend a couple of hours talking about my favorite books (a question of yours which I never answered satisfactorily), listening to Beatles' songs (just to see where I'm coming from), looking at the stars again (before the constellations I know set), or talking about our awesomely blessed yet superbly separate lives, I'm not at all opposed to putting off packing every little thing until one in the morning. Just in case you happen to be a Hawk Nelson fan, too.
With best regards,
Your Ordinary Girl
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
About Standards
Lafou, I'm afraid I've been thinking. A dangerous pastime, I know.
My thinking is more of the to-get-me-off-the-hook kind of thinking than anything else. I've been thinking about people and how we are and whether we're all really messed up or whether we're really OK on the inside, with a few bumps and bruises (or major amputations and gushing flesh wounds for some) on the outside. If we're all pretty much good, if par for the course is being a decent human being, then this whole savior business is a bit over the top. I mean, we'll get along just fine here, if we're all decent at the core, and then we'll see what happens afterwards, no need for divine intervention in each human life. But if we're screwed up inside and we're headed forever in the wrong direction, then we're screwed for here and the hereafter if there's no savior. So it really depends on us, how we really are, whether there's a need for me to go through all the 'saved life' trouble.
Enter Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. I've been wanting to reference this for some time (and what does that say about my life?). At the beginning of Act Two, Dr. Horrible (LOVE Neil Patrick Harris) and Penny sing about their views of the world. 'I cannot believe my eyes, how the world's filled with filth and lies,' and 'I cannot believe my eyes- is the world finally growing wise?' Penny's got the happy view, obviously, since she doesn't end the musical by being inducted into the Evil League of Evil, with good in the homeless people and Captain Hammer, corporate tool. She also sees the good in Billy, aka Doctor Horrible, but he only sees the problems in the world. Now, I'm sure that someone out there has come up with the perfect idea- combine the two together. See the bad and the good in the world and fix the bad while you cherish the good. Which is lovely, I'm all for that instead of cutting off the head of the human race, but the question still remains- is the bad from our cores, or is it from the outside? Is there good in everybody's heart, to keep safe and sound, or do we listen close to everybody's heart only to hear the breaking sound?
So say that nobody's perfect, but nobody's perfectly bad either. Can I say that? Is that right? Because it seems to me that we've all got that part of us that needs to die- in some, it's bigger than others, but remember the good thief is just as clean as the rest of us. At the same time, we've all got some good, some something that is worth saving, something that demands a savior because it cannot be allowed to perish with all the rest of the junk that we toss out when we throw in the towel at the end of our metaphorical day. If you like to toss around the world soul, I'd call that our soul. At the end of a semester talking about heaven and hell (for class credit, I may add), my last essay for my exam about the nature of the soul ended with the idea that perhaps a soul isn't something that we can identify. Maybe it's the part of us that God loves, for whatever reasons He loves us. The part worth saving.
Now to the getting-me-off-the-hook part. If everyone's broken on some level, then I'm fine if I'm broken too. Par for the course. And if I'm just as worth saving as the next person, then just being saved is enough, like the next person. Except I'm not off the hook. No matter how I reason that no one's perfect, that they don't have to be better so why do I, that I don't have to change the status-quo in my life because my life isn't really that bad, I still get stuck with this discomfort, like I know better and I'm ignoring something. I know what causes the discomfort. I know why it's here and I know what I need to do.
I just can't try hard enough to be good enough to make the discomfort go away. If it's not one thing, it's another. We're called to be better, to do better, to show the world that there is better out there and to tell them how to get to it, to work on the metaphorical evil laugh, if you will. But these results of our call are all just symptoms. The cause is something crazy-scary-terribly deep. We're not doing anything for our own sanctification, or we're not supposed to be, anyway. We're not in this to get something out of it, heaven or a better life or whatever. We are in this because we love this Man and we're ready to follow Him with everything. Christian meets the cross pretty early in Pilgrim's Progress. There's so much more to life after salvation. But you can't live it peaceably unless you're willing to live it. Every second of every day, you're called to do superhuman things not for yourself, not even for others, but for Him. You don't sneak candy bars off the line and call it part of your shift treat when you really just wanted one. You don't sleep in until 11 because you don't want to be bothered with living any more hours of life than you have to. You don't write off a kid because he's not paying attention, a problem causer and just kinda out there. You don't cut corners on any job. You don't assume that someone else is going to help. You be better because He deserves your better, your best, not your barely coping.
And you can't do this by yourself. You can't be the best every second of every day. It doesn't happen. You break down- gravity stops us, I think, or something kinda like it. The friction of a soul that's fighting the system. So after you try to do this alone and fail, you realize that you need something else and it has to be supernatural. No promises that you won't still fall, but promises that you will be what you were meant to be all along. Oh, the Holy Spirit. I wish I understood this better. Somewhere along the way, after you've promised Christ that you can indeed pick up your cross and after you've realized that the spirit might be more willing than the weak flesh, but it's not winning any races, you realize that your spirit has to be His. You have to trade out your brokenness for His peace, His wholeness, because your brokenness patched up isn't going to cut it.
But even then, you still have to pick up your mat. The wonderful thing about God is that He'll take your barely coping, He'll take your brokenness, anything you want to offer up, He's ready and willing to have because He isn't prideful like us. He doesn't say to us, 'No, you rejected me. I'm not going to take your crap anymore.' He doesn't deserve it, but we can't give Him what He deserves until He brings us to it. We have to be better- and I just found this out: To be better, you have to do better. No one's going to study for you, to make you the best in the class. Those people actually work for it. No one's going to keep you accountable every step of your every day. You've got to choose to do the supernatural- the Spirit is willing when you are. Oh, but what a choice!
Last day at Wesley. I vacuumed up a ton of hair and blue fuzz (why is the entirety of my life covered in blue fuzz? Isn't dust grey?) and I cleaned the shower and the sinks and washed some dishes and moved a couch and rearranged my room. Feeling celebratory and hoping that that one guy who was supposed to move in hadn't yet or at least didn't mind piano playing, I headed down to the sanctuary. Last time in there, just me and God chilling. Sometimes I'm not sure that He wouldn't rather me stay in my room where I can keep my hypocrisy to myself and not pretend like we're on good speaking terms when I sing to Him, but I can find Him there. Or maybe it's that I'm more willing to search for Him there. Anyway, I walked out, past the furnishings and random things that remind me of the home I grew up in and down the staircase to the bricks and chairs that remind me of the high school I should have wised up in and into the room that if it had green carpet would remind me of the sanctuary that I first sang in. You get to be privy next to the hymn that I ended on. 'Are Ye Able?'
“Are ye able,” said the Master,
“To be crucified with Me?”
“Yea,” the sturdy dreamers answered,
“To the death we follow Thee.”
Lord, we are able. Our spirits are Thine.
Remold them, make us, like Thee, divine.
Thy guiding radiance above us shall be
A beacon to God, to love and loyalty.
I've been a sturdy dreamer (Mark 10:35-40, BTW) for quite some time. I'm a talker. I'm big on telling people to do, but I'm not so big on actually doing, you understand. That's why there's a refrain, so people like me can get it into our minds by singing it multiple times. Yes, I'm able, when my spirit's His and I'm made like Him. And it has happy consequences. Now I know the fine print is important and that you have to do everything in the fine print to make life work out, but that's not the point. The point, my friends, the point is, that I am able. So I will.
My thinking is more of the to-get-me-off-the-hook kind of thinking than anything else. I've been thinking about people and how we are and whether we're all really messed up or whether we're really OK on the inside, with a few bumps and bruises (or major amputations and gushing flesh wounds for some) on the outside. If we're all pretty much good, if par for the course is being a decent human being, then this whole savior business is a bit over the top. I mean, we'll get along just fine here, if we're all decent at the core, and then we'll see what happens afterwards, no need for divine intervention in each human life. But if we're screwed up inside and we're headed forever in the wrong direction, then we're screwed for here and the hereafter if there's no savior. So it really depends on us, how we really are, whether there's a need for me to go through all the 'saved life' trouble.
Enter Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. I've been wanting to reference this for some time (and what does that say about my life?). At the beginning of Act Two, Dr. Horrible (LOVE Neil Patrick Harris) and Penny sing about their views of the world. 'I cannot believe my eyes, how the world's filled with filth and lies,' and 'I cannot believe my eyes- is the world finally growing wise?' Penny's got the happy view, obviously, since she doesn't end the musical by being inducted into the Evil League of Evil, with good in the homeless people and Captain Hammer, corporate tool. She also sees the good in Billy, aka Doctor Horrible, but he only sees the problems in the world. Now, I'm sure that someone out there has come up with the perfect idea- combine the two together. See the bad and the good in the world and fix the bad while you cherish the good. Which is lovely, I'm all for that instead of cutting off the head of the human race, but the question still remains- is the bad from our cores, or is it from the outside? Is there good in everybody's heart, to keep safe and sound, or do we listen close to everybody's heart only to hear the breaking sound?
So say that nobody's perfect, but nobody's perfectly bad either. Can I say that? Is that right? Because it seems to me that we've all got that part of us that needs to die- in some, it's bigger than others, but remember the good thief is just as clean as the rest of us. At the same time, we've all got some good, some something that is worth saving, something that demands a savior because it cannot be allowed to perish with all the rest of the junk that we toss out when we throw in the towel at the end of our metaphorical day. If you like to toss around the world soul, I'd call that our soul. At the end of a semester talking about heaven and hell (for class credit, I may add), my last essay for my exam about the nature of the soul ended with the idea that perhaps a soul isn't something that we can identify. Maybe it's the part of us that God loves, for whatever reasons He loves us. The part worth saving.
Now to the getting-me-off-the-hook part. If everyone's broken on some level, then I'm fine if I'm broken too. Par for the course. And if I'm just as worth saving as the next person, then just being saved is enough, like the next person. Except I'm not off the hook. No matter how I reason that no one's perfect, that they don't have to be better so why do I, that I don't have to change the status-quo in my life because my life isn't really that bad, I still get stuck with this discomfort, like I know better and I'm ignoring something. I know what causes the discomfort. I know why it's here and I know what I need to do.
I just can't try hard enough to be good enough to make the discomfort go away. If it's not one thing, it's another. We're called to be better, to do better, to show the world that there is better out there and to tell them how to get to it, to work on the metaphorical evil laugh, if you will. But these results of our call are all just symptoms. The cause is something crazy-scary-terribly deep. We're not doing anything for our own sanctification, or we're not supposed to be, anyway. We're not in this to get something out of it, heaven or a better life or whatever. We are in this because we love this Man and we're ready to follow Him with everything. Christian meets the cross pretty early in Pilgrim's Progress. There's so much more to life after salvation. But you can't live it peaceably unless you're willing to live it. Every second of every day, you're called to do superhuman things not for yourself, not even for others, but for Him. You don't sneak candy bars off the line and call it part of your shift treat when you really just wanted one. You don't sleep in until 11 because you don't want to be bothered with living any more hours of life than you have to. You don't write off a kid because he's not paying attention, a problem causer and just kinda out there. You don't cut corners on any job. You don't assume that someone else is going to help. You be better because He deserves your better, your best, not your barely coping.
And you can't do this by yourself. You can't be the best every second of every day. It doesn't happen. You break down- gravity stops us, I think, or something kinda like it. The friction of a soul that's fighting the system. So after you try to do this alone and fail, you realize that you need something else and it has to be supernatural. No promises that you won't still fall, but promises that you will be what you were meant to be all along. Oh, the Holy Spirit. I wish I understood this better. Somewhere along the way, after you've promised Christ that you can indeed pick up your cross and after you've realized that the spirit might be more willing than the weak flesh, but it's not winning any races, you realize that your spirit has to be His. You have to trade out your brokenness for His peace, His wholeness, because your brokenness patched up isn't going to cut it.
But even then, you still have to pick up your mat. The wonderful thing about God is that He'll take your barely coping, He'll take your brokenness, anything you want to offer up, He's ready and willing to have because He isn't prideful like us. He doesn't say to us, 'No, you rejected me. I'm not going to take your crap anymore.' He doesn't deserve it, but we can't give Him what He deserves until He brings us to it. We have to be better- and I just found this out: To be better, you have to do better. No one's going to study for you, to make you the best in the class. Those people actually work for it. No one's going to keep you accountable every step of your every day. You've got to choose to do the supernatural- the Spirit is willing when you are. Oh, but what a choice!
Last day at Wesley. I vacuumed up a ton of hair and blue fuzz (why is the entirety of my life covered in blue fuzz? Isn't dust grey?) and I cleaned the shower and the sinks and washed some dishes and moved a couch and rearranged my room. Feeling celebratory and hoping that that one guy who was supposed to move in hadn't yet or at least didn't mind piano playing, I headed down to the sanctuary. Last time in there, just me and God chilling. Sometimes I'm not sure that He wouldn't rather me stay in my room where I can keep my hypocrisy to myself and not pretend like we're on good speaking terms when I sing to Him, but I can find Him there. Or maybe it's that I'm more willing to search for Him there. Anyway, I walked out, past the furnishings and random things that remind me of the home I grew up in and down the staircase to the bricks and chairs that remind me of the high school I should have wised up in and into the room that if it had green carpet would remind me of the sanctuary that I first sang in. You get to be privy next to the hymn that I ended on. 'Are Ye Able?'
“Are ye able,” said the Master,
“To be crucified with Me?”
“Yea,” the sturdy dreamers answered,
“To the death we follow Thee.”
Lord, we are able. Our spirits are Thine.
Remold them, make us, like Thee, divine.
Thy guiding radiance above us shall be
A beacon to God, to love and loyalty.
I've been a sturdy dreamer (Mark 10:35-40, BTW) for quite some time. I'm a talker. I'm big on telling people to do, but I'm not so big on actually doing, you understand. That's why there's a refrain, so people like me can get it into our minds by singing it multiple times. Yes, I'm able, when my spirit's His and I'm made like Him. And it has happy consequences. Now I know the fine print is important and that you have to do everything in the fine print to make life work out, but that's not the point. The point, my friends, the point is, that I am able. So I will.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
A Folk Tale
There once lived a beautiful Princess in a castle in the clouds, the daughter of the powerful Sky King and Queen. The Princess sat at her loom every day, weaving the cloth of the rainbows and gazing out her window to see the best places in the sky to place her beautiful cloth. It happened one day that she saw a Herdsman far below one day as she looked to cast out her cloth and immediately fell in love with him. She left her castle in the clouds with her work unfinished to meet the Herdsman.
The Sky Queen was very proud of her daughter's work, and very jealous of her daughter's time. When she found that her daughter had left the heavens for a man on earth, she called the Princess back up into the sky and locked her in the castle far away from the herdsman. But the Sky King took pity on the lovers and brought the Herdsman to his kingdom so the two could be nearer each other. To appease his wife and to keep his daughter weaving the rainbows, he placed a river between the Herdsman and the Princess so they may never truly be together. However, it is said that once in a year, blackbirds and magpies are allowed to fly up to the sky and make a bridge across the Milky Way to let the two lovers, called Vega and Altair by us, come across and meet each other. If there is a rainbow in the sky that day, the Princess has thrown her weaving away early, in a rush to meet her love before the sun sets and the bridge disappears.
The image below is a picture of the summer triangle take by the Hubble. The two bright stars on either side of the Milky Way are Vega, above it, and Altair, below it. Vega is in the constellation of Lyra the harp, for the more curious of you, and Altair in Aquilla the Eagle. The other star, the third brightest in the picture, looks like it's leading the Milky Way forward. It's Deneb, in the constellation of Cygnus, the only summer constellation besides Ursa Major and Ursa Minor I can point out with any reliability. If you look at the photo for a second, you'll see two stars above and below the Milky Way near Deneb, and three stars in an almost line pointing right. They're the arms of the Northern Cross, the rest of Cygnus the Swan.
There's a river between me and my Love. Maybe the world put it there, maybe I did, maybe it's been there and I keep on running back across it because life on the other side isn't as easy as I thought it would be. Somebody back in the day linked up a bunch of stars together in their mind and called it Cygnus. There's a black hole in that part of the sky- I've looked at its noise with a radio telescope. That black hole got the constellation stuck in my mind and I think it's wonderful how a week of research a summer ago and a Japanese and Chinese fable told to me a week ago serve to keep it always in my mind that there's a cross in the middle of the Milky Way, when I have such a tendency to forget that it's been in the river all along.
The Sky Queen was very proud of her daughter's work, and very jealous of her daughter's time. When she found that her daughter had left the heavens for a man on earth, she called the Princess back up into the sky and locked her in the castle far away from the herdsman. But the Sky King took pity on the lovers and brought the Herdsman to his kingdom so the two could be nearer each other. To appease his wife and to keep his daughter weaving the rainbows, he placed a river between the Herdsman and the Princess so they may never truly be together. However, it is said that once in a year, blackbirds and magpies are allowed to fly up to the sky and make a bridge across the Milky Way to let the two lovers, called Vega and Altair by us, come across and meet each other. If there is a rainbow in the sky that day, the Princess has thrown her weaving away early, in a rush to meet her love before the sun sets and the bridge disappears.
The image below is a picture of the summer triangle take by the Hubble. The two bright stars on either side of the Milky Way are Vega, above it, and Altair, below it. Vega is in the constellation of Lyra the harp, for the more curious of you, and Altair in Aquilla the Eagle. The other star, the third brightest in the picture, looks like it's leading the Milky Way forward. It's Deneb, in the constellation of Cygnus, the only summer constellation besides Ursa Major and Ursa Minor I can point out with any reliability. If you look at the photo for a second, you'll see two stars above and below the Milky Way near Deneb, and three stars in an almost line pointing right. They're the arms of the Northern Cross, the rest of Cygnus the Swan.
There's a river between me and my Love. Maybe the world put it there, maybe I did, maybe it's been there and I keep on running back across it because life on the other side isn't as easy as I thought it would be. Somebody back in the day linked up a bunch of stars together in their mind and called it Cygnus. There's a black hole in that part of the sky- I've looked at its noise with a radio telescope. That black hole got the constellation stuck in my mind and I think it's wonderful how a week of research a summer ago and a Japanese and Chinese fable told to me a week ago serve to keep it always in my mind that there's a cross in the middle of the Milky Way, when I have such a tendency to forget that it's been in the river all along.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Thundering Whispers
I've been racing in front of the storm for a while.
It's my favorite kind of weather, right before a storm. The wind picks up, huge clouds billow around, the air smells like rain and the world waits, anticipating the rain that comes to clean the ground and the thunder that comes to shake loose our hearts. I love the smell of rain, especially summer rain, coming down onto hot pavement and giving the world a momentary reprieve from the sun. It makes me feel alive, to listen to the electricity crackling in the air and let the wind blow through my hair and the rain kiss my face. I know that one day, far too soon, these things will abandon me to the deadness of the dull winter sun or the chillness of a sad winter rain. I hang onto my summer storms, running out from the dry safety of a building to dance in them, sing in them, stand in them, as long as the ground holds me up and the air lets me breathe. How much more do I hang onto those fleeting moments before the sky opens up, when you can still see a little bit of the blue heaven before the clouds cover it entirely, when the wind greets you like an old friend and challenges you to a race before the world? These things, my friends, are glorious and come into my life just rarely enough to be always welcome.
My heart still beating entirely too fast for the simple approach of a storm, I almost fly across a darkened quad, mistaking the lights of cars going down Cameron for fireflies and wishing that there really were lightning bugs to distract my attention from their namesake. The quad is quiet- for all I know, it could just be me, the quad and the storm stealing minutes from eternity. Keys out, I unlock my bike, take off the rain cover and actually hop on, pedaling like crazy to outrun the downpour, to escape the clouds, to hide in safety from the still-distant lightning. I speed by Hill Hall and perhaps on another night I would be struck by its proud stance in the face of such a storm, but not tonight. My mind is racing as fast as my bike, jumping from seventeen to nineteen to twenty and the things I would take back and the things I would keep and everything that I would have done. I'm coasting down the small hill across the street from Phillips and Peabody before my mind takes up the idea that my fear, my urgency, my race is quite ridiculous. The thunder, right on cue, claps again, and I wake up and pedal faster.
Across Columbia, flitting by frat houses and my bike begins to feel like my noble steed, carrying me far from the troubles that chase me. Victorious, I come down a hill and turn on to Pittsboro, pedaling like a child who rides his bike fast just because he can or who stands at the top of a hill on her rollerblades, taking a breath just before she starts down, flying into the grassy bank at the bottom, speeding up on the way down just to say she did. It's the only kind of speed I indulge in these days, the kind that says that I can but choose not to, the kind that lets you feel empowered because you and nobody but you taught that bike how to fly or those shoes how to soar. I run to feel the power in my legs, not because I need to. Needed to.
Lightning flashes in front of me as I swing into the driveway by Wesley but no matter- I'm back now, I'm safe. I wonder why I don't just sit down on the picnic tables, wait for the storm to come before heading inside. I lock up my bike and suddenly the urgency's back. I fumble with my keys before opening the door in a hurry and almost run up the stairs once I'm inside. I could sit in the sanctuary and listen to the storm before darkness takes over the world, but I don't. I'm safe, inside, doing household chores for a quarter of an hour before my heart slows down and I stop listening for the rain. I don't understand my panic, the need to run away from the storm instead of just dancing in it. Storms scare us all, as kids, even if it was only the first time we heard the thunder and didn't know what it was, but I've long since learned that there are much more terrible things in the world than summer thunderstorms. Why should I want to hide from one?
I'm not courageous. Sometimes I think I'm the most cowardly person I know. But then again, I always doubted whether the Cowardly Lion was just faking when I was little. I mean, sure, the Tinman couldn't help that he didn't have a heart, poor dear, and the Scarecrow didn't have much choice, with straw for brains, bless his soul. But the Cowardly Lion never made sense to me. Where does courage come from anyway?
Storms mean change. The world is never quite the same after its been rained on. Every good story needs a storm. Maybe that's why I love standing in front of one so much- it's like reading a book when you know what the end must come out to be, but you have no idea how it will get there. Before a storm, you know that things are going to be wet, that there will be puddles to jump in, but you have no clue how the clouds are going to achieve this. Will there be torrential downpours for a few minutes or light drizzle with a good solid rain near the end? Will the wind pick up and sling the drops invasively into people or will it lie low once the rain has started, letting it drop gently onto the waiting earth? Before a storm, existence is uncertain expectation with an end in mind. I think that I would love to live life that way.
Sometimes I think the thunderclouds know the great questions in my life. Maybe I stand in front of them because I want to listen. Maybe I ran because I've heard them talking and I'm not ready to do what they say. You know, when you hear, there's no excuse not to do.
Are you going to leave Me? No? Then do you love Me? More than you know?
Then follow Me.
Where? Does it matter? You're with Me. I'm not going to let you get lost. I love you. How will we get there? You'll see. Do you trust Me?
Then come.
It's my favorite kind of weather, right before a storm. The wind picks up, huge clouds billow around, the air smells like rain and the world waits, anticipating the rain that comes to clean the ground and the thunder that comes to shake loose our hearts. I love the smell of rain, especially summer rain, coming down onto hot pavement and giving the world a momentary reprieve from the sun. It makes me feel alive, to listen to the electricity crackling in the air and let the wind blow through my hair and the rain kiss my face. I know that one day, far too soon, these things will abandon me to the deadness of the dull winter sun or the chillness of a sad winter rain. I hang onto my summer storms, running out from the dry safety of a building to dance in them, sing in them, stand in them, as long as the ground holds me up and the air lets me breathe. How much more do I hang onto those fleeting moments before the sky opens up, when you can still see a little bit of the blue heaven before the clouds cover it entirely, when the wind greets you like an old friend and challenges you to a race before the world? These things, my friends, are glorious and come into my life just rarely enough to be always welcome.
And yet, tonight I wanted to run from the storm, from any indication of a storm. The story starts mundanely, as all the best ones do- business wasn't exactly booming on Franklin and I left work early. On the way out, I passed the homeless man sitting on the bench outside of the store, almost hid my face from the two down the road because I had bought them dinner last Monday and didn't have the same means tonight and power walked down to the corner before the lightning caught my eye. My heart sped up, my chest felt tight and I'm sure a little panic flashed over my face. I cross the street and another glance up at the sky finally links back into my mind that my bike is sitting behind Graham Memorial with its seat rain-cover on, waiting on me to save it from the storm. Thunder cracks, and not too far in the distance as I speed down the other side of Franklin. On the steps of University United Methodist, the homeless man from in front of Cold Stone fluffs his newspaper pillow and settles down behind a column. At the bus stop in front of the church, the pregnant lady I served chocolate with marshmallows and roasted almonds to sits and laughs with her mother, unaware that someone behind her won't be listening to the sounds of the rain on his roof, safe from the wet, as she will be as soon as the bus pulls around to take her home.
My heart still beating entirely too fast for the simple approach of a storm, I almost fly across a darkened quad, mistaking the lights of cars going down Cameron for fireflies and wishing that there really were lightning bugs to distract my attention from their namesake. The quad is quiet- for all I know, it could just be me, the quad and the storm stealing minutes from eternity. Keys out, I unlock my bike, take off the rain cover and actually hop on, pedaling like crazy to outrun the downpour, to escape the clouds, to hide in safety from the still-distant lightning. I speed by Hill Hall and perhaps on another night I would be struck by its proud stance in the face of such a storm, but not tonight. My mind is racing as fast as my bike, jumping from seventeen to nineteen to twenty and the things I would take back and the things I would keep and everything that I would have done. I'm coasting down the small hill across the street from Phillips and Peabody before my mind takes up the idea that my fear, my urgency, my race is quite ridiculous. The thunder, right on cue, claps again, and I wake up and pedal faster.
Across Columbia, flitting by frat houses and my bike begins to feel like my noble steed, carrying me far from the troubles that chase me. Victorious, I come down a hill and turn on to Pittsboro, pedaling like a child who rides his bike fast just because he can or who stands at the top of a hill on her rollerblades, taking a breath just before she starts down, flying into the grassy bank at the bottom, speeding up on the way down just to say she did. It's the only kind of speed I indulge in these days, the kind that says that I can but choose not to, the kind that lets you feel empowered because you and nobody but you taught that bike how to fly or those shoes how to soar. I run to feel the power in my legs, not because I need to. Needed to.
Lightning flashes in front of me as I swing into the driveway by Wesley but no matter- I'm back now, I'm safe. I wonder why I don't just sit down on the picnic tables, wait for the storm to come before heading inside. I lock up my bike and suddenly the urgency's back. I fumble with my keys before opening the door in a hurry and almost run up the stairs once I'm inside. I could sit in the sanctuary and listen to the storm before darkness takes over the world, but I don't. I'm safe, inside, doing household chores for a quarter of an hour before my heart slows down and I stop listening for the rain. I don't understand my panic, the need to run away from the storm instead of just dancing in it. Storms scare us all, as kids, even if it was only the first time we heard the thunder and didn't know what it was, but I've long since learned that there are much more terrible things in the world than summer thunderstorms. Why should I want to hide from one?
I'm not courageous. Sometimes I think I'm the most cowardly person I know. But then again, I always doubted whether the Cowardly Lion was just faking when I was little. I mean, sure, the Tinman couldn't help that he didn't have a heart, poor dear, and the Scarecrow didn't have much choice, with straw for brains, bless his soul. But the Cowardly Lion never made sense to me. Where does courage come from anyway?
Storms mean change. The world is never quite the same after its been rained on. Every good story needs a storm. Maybe that's why I love standing in front of one so much- it's like reading a book when you know what the end must come out to be, but you have no idea how it will get there. Before a storm, you know that things are going to be wet, that there will be puddles to jump in, but you have no clue how the clouds are going to achieve this. Will there be torrential downpours for a few minutes or light drizzle with a good solid rain near the end? Will the wind pick up and sling the drops invasively into people or will it lie low once the rain has started, letting it drop gently onto the waiting earth? Before a storm, existence is uncertain expectation with an end in mind. I think that I would love to live life that way.
Sometimes I think the thunderclouds know the great questions in my life. Maybe I stand in front of them because I want to listen. Maybe I ran because I've heard them talking and I'm not ready to do what they say. You know, when you hear, there's no excuse not to do.
Are you going to leave Me? No? Then do you love Me? More than you know?
Then follow Me.
Where? Does it matter? You're with Me. I'm not going to let you get lost. I love you. How will we get there? You'll see. Do you trust Me?
Then come.
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