Now it is time to tell you how I like your misspellings, your bad grammar, in your texts.  All your words are spelled correctly when I hear your voice, and you are punctilious in your grammar and diction.  But you do mutter at times, and I give you the benefit of the doubt.  Can I mention that you are funny when you try and when you don't?  Can I tell you how excessively family-oriented that makes me feel?  I have failed to mention how I want to see you in my living room.  Neither are you aware of how much I would like to look into your beady eyes as you are looking into mine, and I especially remember that look of complete vulnerability in your eyes, tinged with surprise, pain, shame, and gratefulness.  I can't tell you that I want to listen to "On My Own" with you, and how good that will make me feel when it has always made me cry before, because "the hopes and fears of all the years are met" in me in that song.  Could you give me a hint?  I have a few things I would like to bring up, and one is an answer to a simple question you asked but I would not answer when I was home at Christmas and you were here.  How I've wondered what your prayers entail.  I want to read aloud with you, because I think you would be very good at it, and I know that I am, when I have a voice.  I want you to share my winter evenings with your homey face and have you help me set up my book shelves and advise me on furniture that would fit up the stairs.  I want you to move onto a boat so I can visit you, and so you can have an excuse to be at my place more often.  I want to serve other people with you.  I want to be outward-focused with you, to know that together we have not just enough, but more than enough, to meet internal and external needs.  I want to see that with you.  I want to ride in your vehicle with blankets and wool socks because the heater doesn't work.  And maybe someday I will want you to put your hand on my back. 

I want to get married for every reason in the book.  If you separate any one of the reasons from the fold and put it on display like a shorn sheep, it looks pathetic, cold, sappy, or utilitarian.  But combined, look at what a good thing marriage is, how utterly reasonable it is!  How healthful!  How simple!

exactly where you are

Once upon a time...

we received the good.

"Accept it all and let it be for good...

"This moment's pulse, this rhythm in your blood...  Stay with the music.  Words will come in time...

"And when the heart is full of quietness, begin the song exactly where you are."  Malcolm Guite

Amen, and thank you, Jesus.

Why has my flow of thankfulness been punctuated by cursing and anger?  Lament and desire for remittance?

That is where I begin-- exactly as and where I am.  I love you, and sorrow, and find myself in the middle of age-old friendships and betrayals.  I take my stand FOR the good.  Help me to embody that good, the kind that forgives and reconciles and tells the good truth.  God, make me salt water and fresh water.  Make me foam when I break against the rocks.  Make that breaking spectacular and salty like my language, fierce and proud, and ethereal and fluid.  Help me to retreat and regroup and re-assail.  Make me fresh water that receives from above and below the essential life giving liquids and reflects the clarity and light of the firmament.  Your ways are so, so good and wonderful and loving and beloved and clear and light and no darkness at all.  You tell us what will happen before it happens.  You give encouragement and warning.  You call for truth and justice, for those are your ways.  You delight in mercy and in unity, and you call us to persevere, to expend ourselves, towards those ends.

Thank you for late night talks with Rob, for his desire to understand the words I am not saying, for his love.  Thank you for the mercy it is to find comfort in him.  Thank you for how unity requires perseverance, and is able to open our eyes, and challenge us to challenge and repair the disunity all around us.  Help us to be unifying forces, and love you dreadfully.

When I Swore in my Head at Work

When I swore in my head at work, it happened at the strangest time.

I was walking up the basement stairs after picking up my lunch salad from the fridge, and as I passed the curtained-off office of my co-workers, my legs felt strong.  Like they knew they missed running this morning, and had at least 3 miles to make up for.  Like I had been running up the stairs all morning.  Like I had actually hiked in the mountains as part of a previous job.

Strong legs and memories.  That's what prompted it.

I wanted to tell them, "I could climb mountains with these things, *insert swear words you can call people here*."  And then I wanted to run out of the office and find the nearest mountain, which happens to be Pillchuck, which you can see from the office building on a relatively clear day.

To be honest, I don't swear that much in my head.  Anymore.  It's been a few years since that phase died down, and it only lasted a year or so anyway.  I'm sure it'll come back to bite me in the *not saying that cuss word here* when I'm senile and all I can do is speak out these words from that one year.

But I was surprised at how strongly I was feeling against those curtain-cloistered co-workers.  "You don't know what I'm capable of!" I wanted to say.  "I can climb and run and do way more than you're paying me for!"  Of course I can, and they know that.  It's just that nobody thinks about it except me.  "I'm really smart!  And I could be doin' stuff!"  What, do I think they'll hire me to go home right now and write that Russian-literature inspired masterpiece of the English language?

I guess that's what's so helpful about having friends.  They know I'm better than this job.  They know I've got skills that are useful in the real world other than typing really fast and speaking politely over the phone.  They love me and celebrate and these gifts, and encourage me to explore and grow them.

I guess that's my cue to be my own friend and say, "*Word* it!  You are so good at so much *noun* that you should just go and do.  The world will thank you and you will bless God.  You should go do something amazing, like climb a mountain.  Or write a story.  Or travel, *blank* it!  Or water your garden that you already have that is awesome.  Or kiss your favorite fiancee and then do it again.  You do cool *stuff* and there's no one like you.  No one else can feel the rain on your face... or the muscles in your legs as you mountain goat up the switchbacks.  You'll never get a runner's high without your own cooperation.

So go on, take that jog!  Take that job!  Volunteer at that place!  Visit that migrant farm outreach!  Speak your own *blank* Spanish again.  Do your favorite blissful things that make your face come alive and your heart expand beyond the confines of the atmosphere.  Be a *really good* counselor!  Reach out to someone in need and let their life matter to you.  Read a life-altering book.  Write one!  Write a love letter!  In Spanish!  Wear that fancy dress!  Paint those toenails again!  Buy that carazy-expensive makeup and wear the heck out of it!  Say your prayers till Jesus comes!  Say it again!  Talk about your love life with the Holy Ghost and blow people's minds!  Plan your own damn birthday!  Ask for what you want!  Write yourself the best love letter you can think of!

Create your own treasure hunt!  Prayer labyrinth!  Website! Watercolor greeting card!  Sister adventure!  Bridal shower!  Recipe!  Leaf sculpture! Hand-written letter!  Envelope!  Collage!  Pottery bowl!  Pillowcase!  Dress!  Hemmed-up pants!  Tea leaf concoction!  Body scrub!  Pinterest board!  Anthropologie wish list!  Pillow fort!  Prayer nook!  Amen!

Tonight, I'm going home.  And I am excited to MAKE SOME COOKIES, which I am going to SHARE WITH MY SMALL GROUP FROM CHURCH, damnit!

I hope that blesses your heart.

I'm going to be alive.

taste the rainbow and the rain arrow

I shot the rainbow with my arrow.

It took a few tries to hit my target.

When I hit just right, at the apex of the bow,

the bow took my perfectly flung arrow,

And shot it into the heavens.

And by that, I mean the stars.

And by that, first I mean the moon.

And then all the planets that happen to be in a row, above or below.

And then the first neighboring star, if you happen to be heading in that direction,

Our sun.

And then, if your aim is true, it will reach the heavens.

Which can also be a term for the skies we see...

So it might just hit beyond our reach.

Which, if you think about it, is a good place to shoot for.

In any case.

Flew to the sun.

Once upon a time, I was caught in the sunshine, and between me and the sun stood so many miles of space, and one window.

So I jumped out the window.

And flung myself through space.

The heat from the force of my jump caused a burning sensation in my legs.

Which fortunately kept them from freezing off while I flew through space.

I held my breath.

I wore my glasses, because everyone knows it's safer.

When flying through space.

To wear eye protection.

This everyone knows.

Back at the window, the leaves waved to the empty desk inside.

And the sun shone on the keyboard.

unknown

I saw you get out of your car.  You turned the radio down just enough for me to miss the name of the last song.  I heard you are getting married.  That's great.  I can't remember the guy's name.  I met him once at the  intramural softball game.  I remember you at church softball games, when we were in high school.  You know, back when we went to church.  I suppose you look happy.  You looked happy then, too, but much skinnier, and your clothes didn't fit as well.  Nobody was holding your hand on the bleachers, and you always wondered what it would be like to have a player to cheer for, other than your dad, who was pitching.  And it's hard to cheer for a pitcher, especially one who doesn't hit or run or make fast plays.  And is your dad.  I think you're used to being embarrassed.  But that could just be me talking.  Now it's all intentional.  What will you use to manage your shame?

love song melancholy

It hit me, the melancholy, listening to sappy love songs that my sister sent me as possible wedding music fodder.  "You and I, we can conquer the world."  First, Rob doesn't like Michael Buble, and second, I don't feel like we can conquer the world.  Maybe Rob does, but I don't.  I don't feel like a power couple.  I feel like making no grandiose promises.  We are more like the simplicity of "I Will Be Here".  That's simple enough, but maybe really hard.  Who's to say?

What on earth is oneness-- what is unity in diversity?  What on earth is sanctification and how does that correspond to oneness in marriage?  What on earth are we here to do?  I remember that we were getting pretty excited about Christian living when we listened to Pastor Jeff talk about participation in the glory of God, living the way we were designed to live, spurring one another on to living well, from the spirit of Christ, everything.

Tozer on Spiritual Concentration and the inner life. “Retire from the world each day to some private spot, even if it be only the bedroom (for a while I retreated to the furnace room for want of a better place). Stay in the secret place till the surrounding noises begin to fade out of your heart and a sense of God’s presence envelopes you. Deliberately tune out the unpleasant sounds and come out of your closet determined not to hear them. Listen for the inward Voice till you learn to recognize it. Stop trying to compete with others. Give yourself to God and then be what and who you are without regard to what others think. Reduce your interests to a few. Learn to pray inwardly every moment. After a while you can do this even while you work. Practice candor, childlike honesty, humility. Pray for a single eye. Read less, but read more of what is important to your inner life. Never let your mind remain scattered for very long. Call home your roving thoughts. Gaze on Christ with the eyes of your soul. Practice spiritual concentration. “

Tell stories. Use words if necessary.

Once upon a time, I ran out of stories.  So I had to borrow other people's stories.  Some are better than others.  Some help me start story-ing again.

Once upon a time, all my stories had no beginnings or endings, just middles.  It's because I forgot about the beginning and couldn't imagine an ending.

Once upon a time, these things happen every day.  Thank God for imagination, for memory, and for the shared collective of human stories.

We can do this.

a little bit ticklish

What kind of man is he, this friend of yours, that we may admire him?

Well, he's a story-teller, first and foremost.

He's a learner, so he's a teacher.
And he's a little bit ticklish.
I keep trying to avoid it, but he's made of the stuff.

He is funny and silly and serious.
He is quiet and merciful and brave.
He surprises me with what comes out of his mouth.
That is, when I am listening long enough.

An excellent game player, and that's a fact.
Careful and precise and mindful.
More competitive than he lets on.
Learning is as important as winning, and more.

He texted me this morning asking if we could be pirates.
Of course my answer was yes, and when.
What do we need, did I have to lose an eye or leg?
He suggested we start tonight, which settled it.

One of the handiest men I know.
Like an un-flanneled Al Borland, with glasses.
Fixed the light switch box in my parents' basement,
Eradicated a mouse from my kitchen drawer.

Unsentimentally, I can tell you that he cries.
He cries for himself, for his own pain, and for others.
He cries in real time, and when it matters.
I believe in his connection to life and death, and the other.

I guess it's a little bit ticklish.

miss january

Hanging on your wall, downstairs in your basement room, or perhaps still in your backpack, or on your desk, in a pile and a flurry of other things, is the calendar that my dad made for you for Christmas 2013.  

I wonder if you will hang it up, or if you will keep it someplace private and quiet.  I wonder how often you will look at it, and how you will feel when you see the pictures.  I wonder who else you will tell about it.  

*(My dad gave my boyfriend a calendar full of pictures from me.  As he opened it, he wouldn't show it to me at first, and I assumed the worst-- embarrassing childhood photos. But no, it was nicely done, with pretty quotations and recent photographs.  What a sweet gesture.)

Is it not good news?  Is not all good news so personal, a father saying, "Look, this is my daughter.  Is she not lovely?"  

I told you that it felt like a twelve-month lease.  You laughed because you couldn't help it, you were shocked into explosion.  I always like it when that happens.  I like seeing your insides out, a truth you can't help telling.