guarded

Someone told me this week that I'm hard to read. I think I laughed, because I've always seen myself as one who wears her heart on her sleeve. I look around me and I'm convinced that everyone can see exactly what I'm thinking and feeling, that I'm an open book. But am I really?

I find myself walking a fine line between guarding my heart and letting my guard down. It's such a blurry line, too, because as a Christian I'm called to do both. I'm called to be open and honest and unafraid of my vulnerabilities... yet I'm commanded to guard my heart, for it is the wellspring of life. How do I know which to do when? Am I guarding my heart too closely in areas of my life where I should be letting it down? But what if I let it down, expose my vulnerabilities, and end up abused or rejected? I'm sure my experience is nothing new or unheard of: being hurt deeply enough that building up walls around my heart is a basic survival skill, a way of life... an addiction that's hard to break. I know what it's like to peek over my wall now and then, to let someone in, but that world outside is still too scary, too painful to venture into again. And so I wait to be rescued.

But on the other hand, how can I be salt and light when I'm locked in my own little world? And how can that light even shine if I'm all bottled up and closed off? How will my rescuer know where to find me? And how will he know that I'm in such desperate need of rescuing if he can't see beyond the walls?

There's a compromise around here somewhere, but I think I need to peek out from behind my fortress to find it... and that's a frightening prospect...

conversations

It's supposed to be easy, comfortable
a gentle ebb and flow between friends
But with you there is no return
The tide is always out
No sharing, no real friendship
Only a barren shore
where conversations go to die
I long for saturation
to splash in the languid coolness of you
your rare, sweet samples have left me
gasping for more
on these scorched, lonely sands
If you only knew how little I desire
how little you'd have to give
to quench this thirst, to be my friend
So little, so simple
but sadly too much for you
Rolling on, rolling by with
oblivious disregard
or is it malicious withholding
I can no longer afford to care
My voice is fading
the sands are slowly burning
Hope hurts, but I can't turn away
I can only wait for you
to crash ashore before I wither
to pull me under before I fall
To come to me
drown me
talk to me

the power of words

Funny how I can have a busy and hectic but otherwise good day, and one little careless word from someone can completely ruin my mood. Also strange how one carefree little nickname can make me laugh out loud and feel good again...

I wonder if I'm ever that careless with my words... if I can really wield that kind of power over someone the way they apparently can over me. Has someone ever sulked and brooded for an entire evening because of something I said? Have I ever been the unwitting means of making someone's day with a simple word or phrase?

I've heard some horrible words in my days -- some that were meant to be mean, others that were meant to be kind but actually killed me (it's amazing how you can wait a lifetime to hear three little words, and how revolting they can sound when they come from the wrong person). But I think the words that hurt the most are the ones that are never said...

because i said so

Chris Rice said it best... "Think I'd have it down by now / Been practicing for 30 years / Should have walked a thousand miles / So what am I still doing here?" The older I get, the more I can relate to this song. Just this week, I came across an old piece of scrap paper with this on it:

When He speaks, it's always best to listen.
When He directs, it's always best to obey.
When He corrects, it's always best to change course.
And when He tells me something wonderful, it's always best to believe Him.

I don't know where I read this or who wrote it, but I'm glad I thought to scribble it down ages ago because I needed to hear it today. That last line in particular is the one that hits me the hardest. I know God has told me some wonderful and incredible things, but I haven't been believing them! Perhaps it's just my strict Calvinistic upbringing that focuses more on God the sovereign and holy judge rather than God the loving and joyful father... who knows. Maybe it's just that the bad stuff is often easier to believe. I have no problem believing that I'm a sinner deserving eternal damnation. I have no problem believing that a sovereign God chose to set me apart for Himself and rescue me from my well-deserved fate. But when He tells me that "He rescued me because He delights in me," I find myself doubting and questioning Him!

But that's what He said, no doubt about it. It may not make sense, but what can I do? Like when I was a kid and my dad told me to do or not to do something, and I asked him why and he just said, "Because I said so." That's God's message to me -- to all of us, really: if God says to believe that He loves me and knows what's best for me, and I'm crazy enough to ask Him why, His response is, "Because I said so!" Well, these may be hard truths to swallow, but who am I to contradict God when He says so?

For the Lord takes delight in His people; He crowns the humble with salvation. (Psalm 149:4)

Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine... you are precious and honored in my sight... I love you. (Isaiah 43)

The Lord be exalted, who delights in the wellbeing of His servant. (Psalm 35:27)

He reached down from on high and took hold of me... He rescued me because He delighted in me. (Psalm 18)

And on a more personal note:

Seven shooting stars (July 28, 2005)

"it wasn't me"

This is from my brother in Iraq... scary how close we can come... death was only 10 minutes behind...

Not too sure how many of you heard about the Blackhawk that crashed near Tal Afar this past weekend. Well, just wanted to let you all know that it wasn't me. I was out flying that night, it was pretty crappy weather and we almost got caught in the weather ourselves. We were along the same flight path as the guys that crashed but about 10 minutes ahead of them. All of the guys I work with are fine. It was an aircraft from the unit replacing us in a little while. Not much else going on though. Just starting to get things packed up to head home soon.

anxious moments

I think it's my biggest fear -- not losing my own life, but losing the life of someone I love. I turn on the news to see that a Blackhawk helicopter has crashed in northern Iraq, killing all on board, and my heart stops.... Was that my brother? Why don't the news reports tell us what regiment? What unit? I'm a relative -- someone notify me, please!

Some of you know what it's like to wait for that phone call... one call or the other... praying for the one, hoping the other never comes... desperate for either because not knowing is killing you...

My brother posted a message on our family's website just two days ago, saying he was alive and well and coming home soon. Suddenly, I'm swallowed up in the terrible irony... what if he isn't? What if those were the last words I heard from him? Coworkers gather round me to pray, and the deepest prayer of my heart can't be voiced aloud... He has a family, a small son... I have nothing... take me instead....

And then the phone rings....

It's the one call we prayed for. He's okay. He's still alive and well and coming home soon. Tears of joy and relief mingle with regret and guilt... because my phone call means that someone else just received the other call...

waiting for boaz, wishing for naomi

Being single is different for guys in so many ways. I've been trying to think what encouragement men receive from Scripture if they're ever as frustrated and lonely in their singleness as we women tend to be. Do people ever hound them, tease them, even cast them questionable sideways glances as they notice a bare ring finger on the left hand?

For my part as a single woman, those who try to encourage me always seem to talk about Boaz. They say things like, "One day your Boaz will come," or "It's okay that things didn't work out with Mr. So-and-So because he was no Boaz," or "The man God created just for you will love and care for you just like Boaz." This is all well and good, but the story of Boaz and Ruth tells us nothing about what Boaz was going through. Perhaps he was lonely and looking for a wife. Perhaps he was completely satisfied in his own little world and then blindsides by the request to be Ruth's "kinsman-redeemer." We don't know. He's actually not the hero of the story. And guess what? Neither is Ruth (even though the book is named after her).

That's right -- the hero of the story is Naomi. She's the catalyst for all of the action: she makes the move from Moab back to Bethlehem; she lets Ruth head out to work in the fields; she sends Ruth to the threshing floor for her midnight rendezvous with Boaz. And once it all pays off, after Ruth and Boaz are married and she bears him a son, all of the townspeople gather and sing praises to Naomi! She's the puppet master, the mover and shaker that makes it all happen.

Now, while I'm definitely waiting for my Boaz, at times I find myself wishing for Naomi -- someone to come along who sees the slightly bigger picture, who knows exactly whose threshing floor to send me to and what spices I should wear to please and entice him, and who knows exactly how happily and confidently he will react. If only I had a Naomi to do all the thinking for me! I could simply obey and be blissfully happy as a result. But I have no such hero -- I am simply Ruth, a stranger in a strange land struggling to get by, trusting God for my (sometimes literal) daily bread. What if I make the wrong choice? I could get all dolled up and head to the threshing floor, but what if no one's there waiting for me? Or worse, what if he's already there... with someone else?

My consolation is found in Ruth 2:5, when Boaz notices Ruth and asks about her. Here Naomi is nowhere to be found. Boaz is acting all on his own. Perhaps the story would've reached the same happy conclusion without Naomi's helping hand, because Boaz was showing some personal initiative. Perhaps my Boaz will notice me and ask about me, and begin to get our story rolling -- perhaps he has already. But oh, how I wish for a Naomi to come along, point him out to me with certainty and instruct me on how to be ready for and pleasing to him! Or -- and this is jsut to very loosely paraphrase some apocryphal versions of the story -- to go straight to my Boaz, kick him in the keester and shout, "Get a move on, idiot!"