Daddy, your footsteps are far apart.

Apart from me you can do nothing.
Abide in me.
You are the branches.
He prunes, that <you> may bear more fruit.
As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you.
If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love.
These things I have spoken to you,
that my joy may be in you,
that your joy may be full.
Love one another as I have loved you.
You did not choose me, but I chose you...
... Appointed you, 
that you should go, and bear fruit that your fruit should abide
that you will love one another.
(John 15)

Abide.  #soeasytosay #sohardtodo #sogoodformysoul

Waiting...
Steadfastness, that is holding on;
Patience, that is holding back;
Expectancy, that is holding the face up;
Obedience, that is holding one's self in readiness to go or do;
Listening, that is holding quiet and still so as to hear.
(Passion and Purity)

Show me who I am, Abba -
apart from distractions.  As your child, as a woman, as a girl.  
As a student, as a graduate.  As a leader, a follower, a sister,
a friend.  As a daughter, as a lost sheep.  As a Mary, as I sit
at your feet.
Show me who I am.


"True oneness, true unity inspired by the Spirit will always
sacrifice preferences at the feet of the person of Christ and the
unity he wants, whether they be political, theological, or anything.
May the Bride find delight in the service of sacrificing for unity."
(RT: @drummerboyTJ, John 14)




#preBrazil.

learning to lament

Jesus, why is it so hard for me to carry your name?  God, my vision is so clouded by the film the world wants to paint over everything.  Your glory has been reduces to the feeble attempts at describing or describing away who you are.  We keep building towers of Babel and then celebrating in the climax of our confusion.  So many, God? So many are lost and believing this construction of false truth that we've made for and from ourselves, or that we've swallowed, begged, borrowed from generations before?
If grace is an ocean, we're sinking, but the avalanche of self-worship keeps plunging into the sea - it won't ever fill it but it still keeps coming - no one learning from before...
I know.  I know the ocean's not big enough to describe your grace.  I know, even, that the avalanche can't compare to how far we've fallen... but somehow the spring comes after every//single//winter... right, God?  The mountains move, the lame walk, the blind see, the dead rise... right, God?  You are a God of miracles. Of turning Babel on its knees, of extending the kingdom to the sinner on the cross by your side, of loving the tyrant, the rebel, the arrogant, the one who gets himself lost on purpose.  
But sometimes they don't come.  Sometimes the daughter they've seen grow up and cling to you just doesn't seem to be enough.  The friend who's loved them believes truth that's only for her.  The sister's example of 'religion' is just a drop in the bucket in a sea of hypocrisy, her earnest prayer seems not to be heard.  The husband that left has caused too deep a scar, the years of a misfed philosophy are too deeply ingrained.  
And the hope that I claim, the one I live by, has only been a shade of the truth.  I'm only standing ankle deep in that sea of grace - my body still whipped by the wind and the sun and the views of Babel towers on the shore - though not for lack of your invitation.  God, I want to swim.  Bring me in, deeper = may I not stop at my knees, my waist, my neck. But God, will they come?  Will they even come as far as their ankles?  Maybe they'll never come if they're not called by someone swimming.  So teach me to swim, Father.  Teach me to swim by drawing me in - may I not fear, may I not forget those on the shore, but may I jump in to the truth of your grace, your sacrifice, your salvation, your arms.  Catch me, Daddy, I want to jump in.


Matt (my worship pastor from home) spoke about the Psalmist's lament on Sunday, and that day, it didn't quite resonate... but yesterday, quite unexpectedly, I got it while I journaled and wrote this.  He said that a lament is different from grumbling or complaining, because a lament still places focus on God, and ends in giving him glory.  He cares deeply about our thoughts, and yet, we must see that all of our confusion and fear ultimately ends with Him, at the foot of the cross.  

beautiful things.

yesterday, i had a nice talk on the horseshoe.
today, my best friend Amie got engaged!
tomorrow, i'm going to Philadelphia.
it's been a good 72 hours.

hands

tonight, i worked at the theatre and got to watch a broadway show for free.
it was cool and all, but the best thing that i saw happened to not be on the stage at all...
a very old man (you know, one of those cute ones, all dressed up in his suit) was sitting next to me, and as we got into the show a bit of the way through, he so sweetly reached over and took his wife's hand in his.
it's something so simple, and i mean, walking around campus, you see kids walking around holding hands all the time, but it was just so golden to see this 70+ year old man make that gesture... after so many years with that one woman, letting her know that she was his, that she was special, that she was important to him in that moment.  what a difference 50 years can make in the meaning of a simple gesture, right?
so i don't really know the moral of this anecdote... maybe, i want that kind of interaction in my 70s, and maybe, never stop holding hands with the one(s) you love.

her.

Remember your word to your servant, in which you have made me hope. This is my comfort in my affliction, that your promise gives me life.                         Psalm 119:49-50    

Father, hold her.
Help her to know she can crawl into your arms, that you want so desperately for her to come closer, to finally, finally relax, to let go, to let the scales come off, to let the mummified layers be peeled off to restore the life that lies shaking and crippled beneath.  So much pain for so long is kept trapped, wound so tightly as to never let it breathe, but it comes, seeping through the tattered layers, ready to destroy and disintegrate with a resounding wave of applause by the eyes that watch and taunt and wait.
Spirit, protect her.
Speak to her, that she may know you have already won, those eyes that taunt will forever be silenced, just not now.
Jesus, fight for her.
May she know and feel the freedom you bought for her already.  That grace that comes so freely, the sun, the fountain that flows your love... it hurts at first, I know - but let it crash in and melt the layers and soak the shivering bones and pale flesh that shrinks at the touch of life, the promise of sun.  Let the wind rush in to every hiding corner filled with sand.  May she know that she's in your hand, that her folded body can stretch and sigh and rest.
Father, hold her.

Whoa... sobering. (Procrastination Reblog, Part 2)

I follow Kevin DeYoung's blog, and this was his post for today.  It's sobering to realize/remember that even the "greats" of the theological world were very fallen, too.  It's sad to see how someone with such intelligence toward the meaning and interpretation of the scripture should have paid attention to loving his wife as Christ loves the church... wholeheartedly, with abandon, with sacrifice... and, finally, for those men out there who are married or will be someday, please take note - don't get so "bogged down" with thoughts of good intention that you forget to actually DO it... (James 1:22-25)

Keep a Close Watch on Your Life (and the Good of Your Wife)

A.W. Tozer was a great preacher and a man of God. But–as we all have our inconsistencies–he was not particularly a good husband. He wasn’t physically unfaithful, just emotionally unavailable.

Lyle Dorsett explains:

With a burning desire to learn and a keen sense of educational inadequacy, Tozer began to devote long hours to reading. He not only read a lot, his mind was preoccupied when he was home, as he continually sorted out ideas and wrote articles in his mind when he could not be alone to put them on paper.

By early 1928 the Tozers had a routine. Aiden found his fulfillment in reading, preparing sermons, preaching, and weaving travel into his demanding and exiting schedule, while Ada learned to cope. She dutifully washed, ironed, cooked, and cared for the little ones, and developed the art of shoving her pain deep down inside. Most of the time she pretended there was no hurt, but when it erupted, she usually blamed herself for not being godly enough to conquer her longing for intimacy from an emotionally aloof husband. (A Passion for God, 81)

Tozer refused to visit relatives and “seemed less than delighted if any of them showed up for a visit.” He also neglected family vacations. A.W. Tozer was a man of spiritual stature, but a man of little warmth when it came to his family.

Men, there would be worse ideas than to talk to your wife tonight, maybe your kids too, show them this blog and ask, “Is this me?” Just to be sure.

Okay.  now back to dance history.

since I'm procrastinating on a lovely spring day...

REALLY INTERESTING POST ABOUT 'THE ARTS' AND THE CHURCH