Ending.

I’m saying goodbye to this particular online space. It seems to me that the last words offered in an online space such as this should carry threads of the means of its ‘death’ and the hope of new life carried in that passing. In brief, then, I give you the means and the hope.

The Means
From time to time it is simply time. Necessity need not always be found in a list of reasons or intelligent rationale. It can simply be time. For me, it was time to leave my hometown nestled in the mountains of Southeastern New Mexico. That began a year of wandering from one gracious home to another, friends who were kind enough to let me be a part of their lives for whatever length of time I stayed. At each place there came a time when it was right to go. The last place I stayed was with a beautiful family of six -mom, dad, and four kids. I was there for nine months or thereabouts. I just moved in to my own apartment – first time in my own space since I left New Mexico. It was just time. I thought it would be easier to leave than it’s actually been. As I write this, it is one of the few times in the few weeks and a half (when I moved in) that I’ve stayed put in this new home. House. Doesn’t feel like home yet, though I’m sure that will come quickly enough. It’s easier to make plans to go here or there or visit this or that person than it is to sit in the emptiness of a house that has yet to become home. I sit in this space and I wonder at the story of how I’ve come here. I wonder the meaning of this space. And I ponder what hopes I have for this home.  

The Hope
So much in me has shifted over the past few weeks. Close friends I have spoken to have held that it all looked like some sort of a preparation. For what, God only knows. I don’t feel like the same person that I was a month ago. Something died. And something else is forming in the ashes. In that movement, I search for small ways to let the transformation be reflected in small ways.

Saying goodbye to this blog is one of those ways. It holds so very much of who I am. So much of who I have been. A lot that has died. Even more that is simply morphing into…someone or something else.

My hope in all of this is that lost arrivals will find an end to their wanderings or at least find some rest in the beauty of an attentive, creative, personal, and intentional life – I may be tracking this through a new online space, though I’m not certain.
And so there is an ending.

Thank you. Those of you who have walked along with me here — thank you.
Those of you who have let me blather on until I stumbled into a tiny slither of truth that we might share — thank you.

A poem from my friend Rob, who is in my thoughts and prayers today.

innerwoven

Faced with the disturbing reality that, to end the painful, troubled life of the family dog is somehow still better than watching a once remarkable animal descend into incontinent, sorrowful chaos, to wit…

There was this dog

For Skittles

 

Sullen cries, all joy despise

when blind even All-Seeing eyes –

there was this dog.

 

Turbid seas, invited see

what men in better times might be –

there was this dog.

 

Gathered moss, a grey-green toss

of silt and muck and sun-less loss –

there was this dog.

 

Darkened days, all hope a haze

delight could spare no time or trace –

there was this dog.

 

When fortune called, new joy installed,

instead of dark, did grace befall –

there was this dog.

 

Unnerving sounds, made still hearts pound,

her swift, sharp sound brought courage found –

there was this dog.

 

Children’s songs, if…

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Soon…

There are some technical difficulties this morning, so I’ll just whet your appetite for now…and give you the goods later.

About once a month, I’ll be posting work from a poet whose work I’ve followed since I was very, very young — my dad. I’ve played around with writing poetry, but it’s one of those things I know that I know that I want to explore more fully. I attribute that desire, at least in part, to Dad’s faithfulness to the craft over the years. He pastors a church and works full-time teaching fourth grade on an Indian Reservation in New Mexico, so the work he has done has been in the midst of a very full life fraught with the tensions of everyday life that we all know and sometimes love, sometimes abhor.

I hear my Dad’s voice (his name is Al, by the way, or Alfred if your into something more formal) in his poetry, of course, but also the voices of the writers I know have shaped his mind: C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Dorothy Sayers, John Stott, Francis Schaeffer, and many others. I hear his years of battling illness. I hear his voice rumbling aloud at night, before bed, a story of hobbits and wraiths, the Shire, an eye, and a ring. I hear our shared dream to visit Oxford and walk that hallowed literary ground…and so much more.

I’m looking forward to sharing my dad with you in the coming months.

And…welcome to the blog, Daddy.

Gucci versus Bread

There was ice on my windshield this morning. Like…ice. Then fog most of the drive south to Grand Rapids. Had an appointment at an eye doctor here – routine stuff, which usually costs more than you’d expect. It did. They took pictures of the inside of my eyes and let me see them. Simultaneously squeamish and awed. That meant eyes had to be dilated, which felt about like a glass of wine. Then came the unspeakably graceful process of selecting new frames under said dilation. This involved facing bright, showy lights while keeping my eyes open wide enough to squint at the wall of empty and overpriced stares. That would be more than enough effort to expend, but then there were the hovering salespeople and their relentless attempts to guide my stone-eyed, tear-blinded self toward the designer brand frames that are, of course, over-priced.

I finally emerged from very professionally adorned glass doors, images fresh in my mind of the insides of my tender, squishy, and very wide-open eye balls. Drove south and west to my friends’ home…and wrestled with the door knob. It was harder than I might have imagined to unlock a door in my very dilated and by then sun-blinded state. Finally inside…I took a nap.

Good grief.

It is now Saturday evening and I am in the kitchen, baking bread. Dough’s rising.

(P.S. I won the battle over frames…$69. Still too high, but cheaper than the Gucci’s they were trying to sell me. Haha, yeah…me…Gucci. I just wanted to bake bread…)

Ballard Street

(After almost two hours of piddling with words, this is all I’ve got. Enjoy.)

Poetry from Peterson

A beech tree in winter, white
Intricacies unconcealed
Against sky blue and billowed
Clouds, carries in his emptiness
Ripeness: sap ready to rise
On signal, buds alert to burst
To leaf. And then after a season
Of summer a lean ring to remember
The lush fulfilled promises.
Empty again in wise poverty
That lets the reaching branches stretch
A millimeter more towards heaven,
The bole expands ever so slightly
And push roots into the firm
Foundation, lucky to be leafless:
Deciduous reminder to let it go.

(From Eugene Peterson’s Living the Message)

Seashells: Anonymity and Name

A friend gave me twenty-six seashells. Each is beautiful, complex, and unique. They are nexpected gifts found in unexpected places to be received, treasured and shared. The fourth shell.

I went to Mars Hill Bible Church…Sunday before last. I’d gone with friends the week before and thought, since I would be in the area, I’d drop in. It was the first time I’d ever gone to church alone – without friends or family.

No one knew me.

I come from a small town…lived there for twenty-seven years. My parents have lived there for much longer. I led worship in a small church for ten years. I worked in a number of small businesses around town for twelve years. That means there’s no going anywhere without seeing someone who knows me or my parents. That can be both gift and burden.

Anonymity felt good that day in church. No one knew me, my name, my job, my story, my parents, my “regular” drink at the coffee shop. There were no expectations beyond common courtesy. It was very freeing.

On the flip side, anonymity feels strange to me – walking, shopping, dining out…knowing that I won’t see a familiar face. Some moments are flooded with emptiness. That’s when I find myself going beyond myself…wondering about the stories living around me. I’ve discovered the delight of knowing a person’s name.

Three stand out at the moment…

There was Mike, the Enterprise guy. He looked like T.R. Knight (Frasier, Law & Order, CSI, Grey’s Anatomy). College graduate. Interested in the people around him. Looking to move away from a familiar town and see what’s next. He wished me luck in my wanderings.

Then there was Ruth, the cashier at Meijer. She looked tired. But strong, with a certain kindness in her posture. She had just arrived at work and wasn’t ready for the long day to begin. She was interested in the bran muffins I was planning to bake.

Then there was Joe, the one-man-band performing on the streets in downtown Holland. Delighting in his music, putting his whole body into it. Saving money for a cabin in the mountains around Asheville, North Carolina. Joe notices things about the people standing around him.

When these three were asked their names…there was a certain pause. Why does this person care to know my name? Distrust, perhaps. Maybe more like disbelief. Why do I matter to this person? To know someone’s name is to know a piece of the very core of their identity.

I like being anonymous. But I also like being known.

Goopy muffins…

There’s so much to tell about my trip to Michigan’s upper peninsula, to Grand Rapids, Mars Hill Bible Church, friends in Byron Center. “Seashells” I’ve come across and wanted to write about. Odd as it sounds, unemployed as I am, making time for this kind of writing has been hard. Some of today’s scribbling with a taste of why that is…

I don’t even know what the problem is anymore. I don’t care about this project and I don’t know if I even wish that I did. Ugh.

The research project I’m doing for my final hoorah in grad school is not coming along. So what am I doing? I am baking bran muffins and hoping for some kind of lightbulb to come on or  blow up or anything.

Gotta take the muffins out of the oven.

…

Not yet…still goopy on the bottom. Tasted one…they aren’t even sweet. What a treat for everyone in the house (she says with underwhelming enthusiasm).

What am I doing? I am sitting at Janet and Mark’s dining room table, tapping away at my laptop keyboard, hoping to God that I get some clue on where to go with this project. I’m supposed to be defining the problem or challenge and then giving lit reviews related to the topic, biblical and historical foundations for the problem and goal of any strategy that arises in the final section. Yeah, the final section is where I present whatever it is I think will “fix” the problem…address the challenge.

Oops…gotta check the muffins.

…

The bottoms of the muffins aren’t cooking…temp was too high on the oven.

This whole grad project feels underdone. Goopy. I mean, yeah, of course…the paper isn’t finished. But I’m hitting this wall in the writing process – beyond the usual fear of a blank page. Something’s missing. I don’t know if the problem/challenge needs greater definition or if I don’t like the already defined problem/challenge because it isn’t — oops, muffins.

…

Goopy or not, out they came. New batch is in. Added some sugar to sweeten the deal, lower temp on the oven…we’ll see.

Yeah, I don’t know. Is the defined problem/challenge too close to home for me to look at it objectively? Is it okay to just…not look at it objectively? But it’s a research project. Not creative writing or memoir or…whatever. But if I can make it more personal…give it faces and names and risk offending someone, risk getting a lower grade…at least I’ll have added some sugar to sweeten the deal.

Hmm.

Holland

Arrived safely in Holland, MI, yesterday about midday. Had lunch and a latte, walk, and drive with my friend Dan. Then…I settled in at the hotel, put the final touches on my grad school research proposal, watched the last fourth of Avatar on tv. Then I settled in with granola, chocolate-mint flavored water, and Richard Rohr’s Falling Upward (a gift from Dan).
Random thoughts about yesterday?

• I love driving long distances – getting on the road and then just…going. Time can fade into the background…nothing but the sound of the tires on the pavement, music (it was a Mumford & Sons, and The Choir kind of day), my own thoughts, and the occasional comment from my phone’s GPS.
• There is something really good about driving into a new town and the first stop being the workplace of a good friend.
• Conversation with soul friends, anam cara, is SO GOOD. It just…flows.
• I learned that Michigan has two seasons: winter and…construction. Road construction was crazy on the way here.
• It’s frightfully easy to sit in a hotel room and mindlessly click through channels. And most of what’s on is crap. Much better to turn the thing off and read a good book.
• My “ginger granola” doesn’t taste anything like ginger. The chocolate-mint water, though…mmm.
• Lemonjello’s is…amazing. Similar to The Pourhouse…but they are each their own thing. And both offer an addictive selection…
• This book…oh, this book.

This morning I woke up, scavenged the free continental breakfast and…well, I’ll just say this: Saturday morning cartoons are not what they used to be. The weather here has been windy and rainy slash misty all day. And COLD. I need to rethink my wardrobe! But I braved the weather and made my way to Holland State Park. A girl from New Mexico who is in Holland, MI…with that much water a few minutes away…? Yeah. So I was there for a few hours, just a few completely blissed out hours. It was raining but I walked along the shore anyway. I walked until it was just too cold, then I sat in my car and journaled and read until the rain died down a bit…and I went out again, with my camera. It was even colder by then. I stayed out until my fingers were numb, then went back and read some more before heading out to meet Dan and his (totally awesome) family for lunch at Boatwerks.

I’ll post some other reflections later, maybe…or some random thoughts. It’s still rumbling around inside me. Hey, maybe I can post the pictures, too…keep an eye out for it.

exploring the infinite (via travelingthechasm)

From my sister in the between…thoughts on Scripture and the bewtweenness of knowing and being known there.

Amongst a vast number of possible ways to approach Scripture, there is one with an overtone that suggests a counter-cultural self-awareness. This approach may also very well be vital to our engagement in all facets of the Christian life: we are incapable of mastering knowledge of God. Richard Rohr spoke most directly to this principle in chapter six of his book, Things Hidden. He says, “We are saying that it is important to have correct, orthodox … Read More

via travelingthechasm