what i mean to live

It dawned on me recently that one of the reasons I love to read so much is that I often find myself wandering blissfully through the words, hand-in-hand with the author who somehow manages to perfectly say what I mean to say but can't express. I will be lost in the ardent confusion of my thoughts, struggling to make myself understood, and then suddenly I stumble across a page or a sentence and discover a Cyrano behind the bushes of my mind. And it is those authors who become my favorites -- the ones whome I read and find myself exclaiming, "Yes, that's it exactly! That's what I mean!" George MacDonald is my favorite author for this very reason: I'm continually amazed at the multitude of ways he manages to express my deepest emotions and thoughts and fears and prayers.

Sometimes this phenomenon works in reverse: I will read a sentence or paragraph and find myself tripping over the magnitude of thoughts I never even imagined before. And rather than finding words to express my life, I'm faced with words that my life should express, but doesn't. Such a surprise came to me while reading this in The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis:

You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations -- these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit -- immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.

Wow. It's one thing to tell yourself "Jesus loves everyone." But it's quite another to think of every person you meet as an immortal... and that's a new thought for me. The homeless man outside 7-11. The checkout clerk at Safeway. The driver who always cuts me off when exiting the freeway. The next-door neighbor who wakes me up with his leaf blower every morning. I try to live every day with a view that Jesus died for all these people, that He loves them just as much as He loves me, but I have to confess how often I find myself failing in that regard, or catch myself thinking I'm better than others or more deserving of my salvation because of the life I've lived. Clearly, when I tell myself and others that "Jesus died for them, too," it's just not saying what I really mean. If it were, I think I'd behave differently. I'd work harder to share that message with others, because there's no question they will live forever. It's only a question of where.

You have never talked to a mere mortal... now that certainly puts your life into proper perspective. While I continue to explore all the wonderful words that say what I mean, I hope I can live and mean what these words say.

the orange balloon

Was it the sunshine
the beautiful morning
that made you dance that way
Was it the singing
the birds' sweet harmony
that made you smile

I heard your laughter
and longed for more
Nothing different from the day before
nothing wrong

You were drifting lighter than air
dancing with the wind
This grown-up world
was somewhere in the distance

Where was the sunshine
the beautiful morning
when anger exploded that day
There was no singing
no tender harmony
while you cried
while you died

You were everything to me
how I tried to hold on
But I'm not as strong as the wind
just not strong

And now the sunshine
the heavenly morning
shines upon a small grave
And now the churchbells
the solemn harmony
sing you a lullaby

You were not the only one
no, I'm not the only one
to feel this pain
I don't want to let go
but I know you've gone home
to wait for me

You are drifting lighter than air
dancing with the wind
And I see you
smiling... in the distance


Written after the massacre of schoolchildren in Dunblane, Scotland on March 13, 1996. Posted here in memory of my niece, Aubrey Faith... blessed with imperfection, she was too perfect for this fallen world.

love is in the air

Pikes Peak looked like a giant Frosted Flake yesterday morning as I walked to church, and I couldn't help but smile... snow! in AUGUST!!! I love Colorado!

All of my belongings are now scattered through my house, and I'm working on a new to-do-list of painting and unpacking and organizing... I love three-day weekends!

The complete second season of House is now out on DVD, just in time for me to get caught up before the third season begins next week. I love technology!

I have bug bites on my arms and neck from getting a little too carried away in my weed-pulling this weekend. I love living in my own house!

A phone call at 11:30pm Saturday night. An unexpected visitor (and shopping companion!) last night. A phone call at 7:30am this morning. Three different emails waiting for me when I arrived at work. I love my friends!

Movie suggestions from Mom. A hammer drill (on loan) from Dad. Accidental phone calls from my almost-two-year-old nephew. A Hello Kitty drawing from my nieces. A camera-phone pic from my brother. I love my family!

I'ts Monday after lunch, and I'm in a good enough mood to recognize and enjoy all these wonderful blessings. I love Dr Pepper!

and in my spare time, i foil would-be shoplifters at the 7-11

There was a point several weeks ago when I thought that taking my time to move out of my old apartment and into my new house was a good idea. Needless to say, I have changed my mind. It was a beautiful theory that now haunts me as I dwell among the boxes that I swear are multiplying on their own, and in rabbit-like quantities. My days at work are consumed with thoughts about the work waiting for me at home, and I spend my lunch breaks creating detailed "to do" lists that even as I'm writing them I know won't ever be completed. It's the pinnacle of my moving insanity -- the only thing I seem to be accomplishing is a bunch of lists of things I need to accomplish. No matter how many details I try to set down on such a list, something always comes up that I didn't think of and I get sidetracked from what I intended to do: old friends move away, new friends start to call, girl friends need to talk, boy friends need to cry... and before I know it, packing or unpacking more boxes is the last thing I have time to do.

So I caved in to my moving delirium this week and hired the services of "Two Men and a Truck" to move the heavy large objects from my apartment. As advertised, two men drove up to my apartment with a big truck yesterday morning; a portly black man named Cliff and a very thin and wiry Hispanic man named Luis (for a visual aid, think Abbott & Costello). They were very friendly and got to work right away, shrink wrapping my couch and orange armchair (they left the white chair uncovered, though... odd...), my corner china-cabinet, my Total Gym... everything. And then they saw the bedroom furniture -- and there were audible gasps. I had to take a few minutes to reassure them that the bed and dresser could be fully dismantled and weren't nearly as heavy as they looked, but even then their eyes were wide and their heads ever-so-slightly shaking back and forth in disbelief.

Three hours later, the piles of furniture and boxes in my new house were so out of control that I had to move boxes of Louis L'Amour books out of my kitchen to get to the box of pots and pans so that I could cook dinner. Even then, the only empty place in the entire house to sit and eat was the stairwell!

And if this weren't enough, I have suddenly found myself moonlighting as "Super Amy, Guardian and High Protector of David's Sunflower Seeds at the 7-11." Yes, yes, it's true -- I caught a shoplifter redhanded at the 7-11 the other night. (Sigh.) See what I mean? Something always comes up to keep me away from those to-do lists... and it's exhausting!

Still, the end is definitely in sight -- it's kind of like being trapped in a caved-in mine, and then someone finally drills through the rubble to provide me with oxygen, Gatorade and a Martha Stewart Living magazine. There is still drilling and digging to be done, but I can finally see my way out. After all, I did manage to assemble my large and very comfy bed last night, so no more sleeping on an air mattress! And as my head sunk into the feather pillow, and I breathed deeply, relishing the cool 65 degrees of my new air-conditioned bedroom, I thought to myself, "It will all be over s..." ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

a d'backs victory... and other holy moments

I admit it -- I was moping last night. Well, all day, to be perfectly honest. In one short conversation Sunday night all my excitement about moving into my new house just went completely down the drain. One of my new roommates bailed, and I was instantaneously body-slammed by a cruel new financial reality. Not fun. Not fun at all. Of course, there are other fish in the sea, they say, so I shouldn't lose any sleep over the one that got away. But this wasn't just a fish that fell off my hook as I was trying to reel it in -- this was a fish that jumped out of the icebox in the back of my truck as I was driving away from the riverbank after a long day of fishing and wriggled its little scaly body all the way back down to the water. I guess I should've remembered to close the icebox lid.

So yes, I spent the day moping, worrying, and all the other stupid, self-centered things we fallen humans do when things don't go the way we want them to. I know I was at work for nine hours yesterday, but I don't remember doing a bloody thing to earn my paycheck. I just remember scribbling away on a legal pad, trying to think of new waters to explore in my search for another elusive roommate fish.

The irony of my wallowing is that all the while I was "counseling" a friend of mine to remember God's promises and provision. We were emailing about Abraham and Isaac, about the difficult choices we have to make, about the seemingly impossible ways God asks us to trust Him, and I have to admit, I was talking a pretty good talk, but that very moment I knew I wasn't walking it. My hot air is renown (I'm a piper, after all), but my ability to relax and inhale isn't. I talked for hours encouraging my friend to trust God's provision, and all the while that legal pad full of my own provisional ideas was staring me in the face. So I shut up, took a deep breath, and chucked that legal pad in the trash. It was a holy and insecure moment.

What does all of this have to do with major league baseball, you ask? Well, not much, except that the D'Backs exciting victory over the Cubs last night (or as one Cubs-fan coworker more aptly put it this morning, the slaughter) shook me out of my doldrums and helped me refocus my attitude. There I was, sitting in the empty library of my new house, listening to the game through a phone conversation with my mom (they don't broadcast Arizona games here in Colorado), and as I found myself rejoicing over the final out, I realized that what I should really be rejoicing over was the very spot I was sitting in. God had brought me to this house! He hadn't lost track of me -- He knew right where I was sitting. He not only knew, He cared. He's always cared. He always will care. He cares even more about me than I do about the Diamondbacks. It was a holy and humble moment.

And then, just to put His special explanation point on the day, it began to rain. We haven't had rain in quite a while, but it came last night, and the coolness and relief it brought made me almost giddy. Rain has always been God's special calling card for me, His way of saying "And just to make sure you really understand that this is Me talking and that I always keep my promises..." I sat on the back steps of my new house, my bare feet getting wet as they stuck out from under the eaves, and I laughed at myself for all my stupid moping. It was a holy and peaceful moment.

God does provide -- He always has, and He always will. He provides absolutely everything we need -- whether it's a job, a home, a roommate, a soulmate... or just a good baseball game and a bit of rain.

the challenging shield of faith

I remember feeling rather let down when I took my first "spiritual gift inventory" test and the number one analysis of my responses was, "You have the spiritual gift of faith." Well, duh! I'm a Christian, of course I have faith! Can't this test tell me something more relevant, like what I'm supposed to do with that faith? My friends had the gifts of discipleship, pastoring, healing, compassion, teaching... "action" gifts that seemed a lot more important to me than simply "faith." I wanted more direction than that! (Don't we all.) If faith was the gift I'd been given, well, quite frankly I wanted the gift receipt to go with it.

How do you even begin to describe the gift of faith? Is it some perpetual optimism that refuses to see the dark and depressing sides of life and is always singing chipper, zippety-do-dah songs and blissfully smiling as the raindrops are falling on my head? Hardly. It's more like the grueling boxing match in which blood and sweat are flying everywhere as blow after blow pounds me into the mat, blinding my battered eyes, making my head spin as the referee starts to count... and yet somehow I always find myself back on my feet before the count reaches ten.

In Ephesians 6 Paul describes the armor of God, and faith as our shield, our primary defense against all the evil plots and schemes of the enemy. I think of the large, full-body shields of the ancient Roman army, and the way legions were trained to use them individually and as a team. The shields were extremely heavy, they were large enough to cover more than one person if necessary, and they could be locked together to form an impenetrable barrier that protected the entire column while still enabling them to advance on the enemy's line. They were also spiked, making them something of an attack weapon, too.

Faith is a difficult spiritual gift to live with. Sure, it's hard to keep getting up, to keep crawling out of my corner round after round... but the hardest part of living with the gift of faith is realizing that not everyone has it -- that some of my fellow soldiers have lost their shields in the midst of their battles, and that my shield of faith has to be large enough and sturdy enough to guard more than just me. I still don't know everything that it means to have faith as a spiritual gift, but in realizing my calling to continue fighting for the faithless, for the despondent and discouraged who are ready to give up on the victory God has promised them, I'm learning that faith is an action gift after all.

focus

A hesitant step away from all that came before
A deep breath before going forward
I look back for a final glimpse
Of the one I used to be
But I'm not there anymore
Even my shadow is vague
Just the outline of a hidden flower
Choked by weeds, blurred in mud
Smothering in the dark
Where I now stand in the light of today
And face a new path
So clear, so obvious
So joyously frightening in all its possibilities
That I don't know how I ever though
I could see before this moment
If only for today
I know where my hope lies
I step into the crystal clear darkness
And await tomorrow's smiling light

bad boy smurf crush

Every girl I know who grew watching The Smurfs had a crush on Handy Smurf -- myself included. Why? All the Smurfs were identical, except for Papa (who wore red and had a beard), Brainy (the glasses), and Handy (that lovely little heart-shaped tattoo). So why were we all smitten with Handy and not Brainy? Can anyone even NAME another Smurf besides Papa or Smurfette? (And yes, it should be disturbing that she was the only girl living with all those guys...)

I used to think Andy Leyland was my first bad-boy crush, but now I have to recant. It wasn't Andy, it was Handy. I was a six-year-old with a crush on the bad-boy Smurf. La LA la la la LA, LA la la la LA!

deuteronomy... by way of australia

My nieces love to sneak up on me -- to surprise me when I round a corner or tickle me unexpectedly or practice their scariest faces and growls at me. Most of the time, I know they're there or can hear them coming, and so I just play along. Sometimes, though, they genuinely catch me off guard. Either way, we always end up laughing and giggling afterward.

I think God likes to sneak up on us, too. Sometimes we can sense His coming -- say, during a sacred week of remembrance like Easter or Christmas, or perhaps during a spiritual retreat weekend -- but other times He catches us completely off guard with an omnipotent "Boo!" Either way, the surprise always yields the contentment that can only come from true joy -- it's God and I laughing at our inside joke.

God surprised me last week. I turned a corner in one area of my life and "Boo!" God was there, just waiting to get me. I arrived for my first day at my new job, still hesitant that I had made the right decision even as I walked through the doors and took my seat in orientation. But then our devotions begam, and "Boo!" God and I started laughing, for only He could connect the dots between my current doubts, the testimony of a brother in Christ from Australia, and Moses' descent from Mount Horeb as recorded in the first chapter of Deuteronomy.

Now I don't know about you, but when I look to Scripture for inspiration, Deuteronomy is not the first book that comes to mind. But it just goes to show that all of Scripture is indeed God-breathed and profitable!!! Here is what our devotional reading was that morning:

The Lord our God said to us at Horeb, "You have stayed long enough at this mountain. Break camp and advance into the hill country of the Amorites; go to all the neighboring peoples in the Arabah, in the mountains, in the western foothills, in the Negev and along the coast, to the land of the Canaanites and to Lebanon, as far as the great river, the Euphrates. See, I have given you this land. Go in and take possession of the land that the Lord swore He would give to your fathers, to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob and to their descendants after them." (Deut. 1:6-8)

God's word was as surprisingly clear to me that day as it had been to my Christian brother when he felt called away from his home in Australia, and as it was to Moses -- I had stayed long enough on the mountain. It was time to come down, time for me to break camp and move on to the new place God had already prepared for me. And it became so obvious at that moment that, doubtful as the decision had seemed, it had been God telling me to leave my comfortable, familiar mountaintop, to break camp and move on to the new place He was showing me.

God doesn't call us to a place of comfort -- He simply calls us to a place of obedience. and it's only when we're obedient to what He's clearly and very obviously called us to do that we can have confidence in the less obvious, that we can trust His leading as we break camp and head into the unknown, and that we can thoroughly enjoy His many surprises... even those that come to us from Deuteronomy, by way of Australia.

When is the last time God snuck up on you said "Boo!"?

countdown

My last Monday at this job... only five more days of sitting at this computer, at this desk, of looking at these very stale grey walls. Am I excited? I think I should be. And yet I still find myself questioning whether or not I've made the right decision. In a lot of ways, as someone pointed out to me, it's a "no-brainer." More money, less working hours... but there are deeper issues longing to be resolved that "no-brainer" simply isn't a good enough answer for. What is God up to? Why did He so obviously put me in this job in the first place, and now why did He so obviously open this new door that leads elsewhere? (And why on earth did He give me a new job that requires skirts and stockings???)

But the decision is made. The resignation was accepted here. The new-hire orientation is scheduled there. I'm looking at the pictures and knickknacks that I've collected on this desk, and am wondering if they'll fit as nicely on my new desk there as they do here. Will my new computer be as spiffy as this one? Will my new coworkers accept me? Will I find new friends to connect with, talk with, laugh with, hang out with? I have so many questions... and that's only looking forward. It's all but impossible to think about what I may be leaving behind, what I may be turning my back on...

I guess this is what trust feels like.

snow globe

Peaceful, calm
Exquisite to behold
But utterly useless on this shelf
Safe, settled,
dead
Admiring glances won't do
I was meant for so much more
I want to be more, all
But I can do nothing on my own
please
Uproot me from my complacency
Unleash my dormant potential
Unnerve me gently, wildly, lovingly
Unsettle my world till I am
glistening with hope
dazzling with peace
churning with life
Only then will my true beauty be revealed
That at last all may behold
The timeless serenity that swirls within me
when I am in Your hands

the bowling rematch

It seems I'm starting a trend... when the going gets tough, the tough go bowling.

Friday was one of the crappiest days I've had in a long time -- so bad that crying in the ladies' bathroom was actually involved -- so at 11:30pm Friday night my buddy Tim and I once again ventured to the lanes. This time was supposed to be a rematch, because Tim swore he was "just letting me win" the last time we went. Well, the highlight of my night was rather Babe Ruth-esque call-it-before-you-do-it turkey in the tenth frame of our first game, and the highlight of Tim's night was my vain effort at human bowling in the second game (a sad fact of life, sometimes those slippery shoes stop slipping, and your body doesn't stop with them... man, those lanes are really oily... the real miracle is that I still managed to knock down eight pins, even from a flat-on-my-face release point).

The results of the rematch were not very satisfactory... for Tim. But he got an extra laugh at my expense when the alley manager commented on my less-than-graceful fall while we were turning in our shoes, so we're probably even now. What's next -- bumper bowling?

THE phone call

Exhausted and feeling under the weather, I crashed out on my couch yesterday afternoon as soon as I got home from work. At 6:05pm, Jack Buck's screaming voice woke me up... "Gibson swings, it's a fly ball to deep right field, it's gonna be a home run! I don't believe what I just saw1"

(Yes, I am just enough of a baseball fanatic to have the radio call from Kirk Gibson's immortal home run in game 1 of the 1988 World Series as a ringtone on my cell.)

My glasses were nowhere to be found, and after knocking the phone off the table in my attempt to answer it, I finally grabbed hold of it and squinted to read the name on the caller ID...

ERIK.

Could it finally be??? His name has not appeared on my caller ID for a year. I flipped open the phone, said something very groggy and incoherent... and sure enough, that trademark Fonzy-Meets-Adam-Sandler greeting reached my ears... "Hey."

My brother is home!!!

buy me some peanuts and cracker jack

It's snowing here today, so the concept of "Spring Training" seems a little elusive to me this morning. But even as I type away here in Colorado, my team's pitchers and catchers are arriving at the ballpark down in balmy Tucson, climbing out of their fancy cars, slapping each other on the backs after months of vacation, and clamoring towards the locker rooms...

BASEBALL SEASON IS HERE AT LAST!!!

Man, just typing that sentence makes me crave a really greasy hot dog and some heat-lamp-mutated nachos, not to mention the blue skies, the sunburn, and the sticky stadium seats. Few things in life are as enjoyable as a day at the ballpark -- especially when it involves a miniature plastic batting helmet filled with vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce and candy sprinkles. And that's just spring training at the little minor league ballpark -- don't even get me started on the garlic cheese fries at hte major league field!

But lest you think I'm really just obsessed with food, there are SO many things I love about baseball. The camaraderie with complete strangers in the seats next to me, the leisurely glory of the slow-burn sunshine, the rousing chorus of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" in the seventh-inning stretch, the computerized condiment races (why don't they ever let mayonnaise compete?), the individual music to introduce each player at the plate... but you know what I love best? No commercial breaks! The action of the game is never interrupted so superficially. It's over when it's over. No time penalties, no shot clocks, no two-minute warnings. And there are so many variables, literally anything can happen! From the obvious big things like the number of players and the size of the playing field, to the minute details like the direction in which the grass is mowed and the placement of the pitcher's fingers across the ball seams....

What more can I say? Toss it all in a big ballpark blender, top it off with those garlic cheese fries, and you've got the greatest game ever! Let the opening day countdown begin... 44 days and 4 hours till first pitch! Anyone care to join me in Denver on April 3rd? :-)

holding hands

I started to write this last weekend, but with all the emotional crap that hit the proverbial fan this past week, I got waylaid. Now I'm glad I did, because many comments and discussions this week led me to think more deeply about the power of touch. Touch is a love language. From the first time I held my niece in the hospital, and now she fights with her sisters over who gets to hold my hand as we cross the street or snuggle closest to me on the couch while we watch The Sound of Music for the umpteenth time, to the way I saw my dad's touch soothe his mother as she lay dying, to the ultimate touch of all... just thinking about all the powerful ways one can communicate just by holding hands... Lord, may I never be afraid to reach out...


HOLDING HANDS

A curious infant reaches out
Clutching just a finger
With all her tiny might
the perfect touch of wonder

A carefree daughter reaches out
Trusting like no other
In her snuggled safety
the perfect touch of joy

A comforting son reaches out
Not to receive but to give
A soothing last goodbye
the perfect touch of peace

A confident friend reaches out
Surprisingly tender and secure
Trembling with silent promise
the perfect touch of love

A constant pursuer reaches out
Eternally patient and inviting
Scarred for all to see
the perfect touch of Life

restoring your sanity -- a 12-step program

How to unleash all your pent-up aggression and recover from a really crappy day:

1. Go bowling.

2. Go bowling late at night for discounted prices ($1.00 shoes/lanes).

3. Go bowling with a good friend.

4. Beat your friend at bowling.

5. Beat your friend four times. (He will, of course, insist that he's letting you win.)

6. So then beat your friend left-handed, and by a margin of nearly 40 points.

7. Watch your friend's tap-dance lessons as a 5-year-old pay off as he strikes the most amusing poses upon releasing his bowling ball... especially when he's bowling left-handed, too.

8. Laugh heartily.

9. Dance in your slippery fluorescent shoes to the retro techno music that's just a shade too loud to hear yourself think.

10. Get lots of free bowling coupons from the really cool bowling alley manager.

11. Go home and take a bath to remove the stale cigarette odor from your hair.

12. Fall asleep in the bathtub.

the big red planner

I know my way around a computer, but I'm not the world's most high-tech person. You may laugh that I still use an old-fashioned planner (a diary to my UK friends) that consists of pens and paper and writing things down by hand... but you'd laugh even harder if you knew the number of times I forgot to charge my old PDA and lost my entire schedule and address book! No, these big red books I carry around each year, with the year stamped in gold on the spine and cover, work much better for me. I actually look forward to getting my new planner every October, and slowly filling in my activities for the year -- few of you would be surprised to know that all my entries are color-coded, too...

The ritual of filling out my new planner each year always begins with a purple pen and a printout of the Arizona Diamondbacks season schedule. That's right, I put every home and away game right into my planner. (Go ahead and laugh, you Rockies fans...) Then it's a green pen for my annual bagpipe competitions and Scottish festivals, a light blue pen for choir practices, a pink pen for my women's bible study, an orange pen for my World Vision sponsorship commitments... the list goes on. Birthdays, holidays, paydays, laundry days... everything goes into that planner. And the older I get, the more colors I find myself using. It's crazy, but it works for me. And once the new year begins, I open the pages of that new planner and enjoy how orderly and purposeful my life looks... a well-planned, widescreen, Technicolor marvel.

But it never stays that way for long! Who of us can ever plan our lives a year in advance, and not have our plans change? Oh, the best-laid plans of mice and men!

Thing is, with the PDA, if my plans happened to change, I could simply erase a cancelled appointment or move it to a new day and voila! It was all still perfect and neatly organized. My life was still orderly, according to the little screen in the palm of my hand. No one ever had to know that the Diamondbacks were originally scheduled to play at 1:05pm but that the ESPN coverage moved the first pitch to 1:35.

With this big red planner, however, when something gets cancelled or changed, I have to cross it out and rewrite it. There's no hiding the mistakes, no way to keep up the appearance of a neat and orderly life. I've tried white-out, but all that produced was a really nasty headache and a lingering acrid odor. And as I looked at my planner last night and all the changes I'm already having to make this year (and it's barely February!), I even entertained the thought of buying a new one and starting over.

But then it hit me -- my life is never going to be perfect. So why waste so much effort at pretending? On the contrary, I should be glad that my plans for my life are falling through. How dull my life and its big red planner would be if it was always perfect and orderly -- especially if it was only full of my plans. God's plans are so much more exciting! The very fact that I'm now living in Colorado proves that. I should be glad to be crossing out my plans and replacing them with His! And I should be glad to look back through all these scribbled pages and see the places where He foiled my attempts to control my own life. It means that He loves me too much to let me have my own way! So no more white-out for me, no starting over... because it's not my big red planner. It's His.

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...