Snow Day

We had a white Christmas, my family and I. Not the kind you normally think of, though. We didn't skip through the snow while Christmas shopping or sit and watch the flakes drift lazily from the sky. It rather snuck up on us (though we had heard it was coming). It fell in the night, greeting us the next morning, blanketing the trees and the houses and the ground, until all were just lumpy, white silhouettes.

Snow usually does something for my soul.

A little over a year ago, I sat on my bed, home alone, and watched tiny snowflakes drift to the ground, and my heart was stilled. There weren't many flakes, and I knew it was too warm for them to survive their journey down, but something about those daring flakes refreshed my soul. I didn't quite know why. There really wasn't an explanation. I think perhaps it was the hope of a blanket of white. Perhaps the hope that all would be covered and clean. I had been living in an uneasy spell. The kind where I would rest my head at night feeling distant and disconnected. That day, the snow made me think. It helped me sort through myself. It refreshed me.

When I looked out my window the day after Christmas, I didn't feel the refreshing. I was rather disappointed. But it still made me think.

Why didn't I feel the refreshing? I still love it. I love trees layered in brown and white. I love seeing no roads or sidewalks or driveways, only white. I love the cars and trucks and vans all wearing icy caps.  I love the world so quite and still and pure, but I didn't feel the stillness inside. I didn't feel the blanket of peace covering my heart with a clean quilt of calm. I think because I'm in one of those uneasy spells. So I told God. I told Him I need quieting, stilling, purifying, and refreshing. I asked for snow on my heart.

Last night, rather late, I got a message from a friend who had soul questions. I was tired, but I stayed up to text her; I wanted to help. I had no idea that God was using her to speak to me. The problem she had was the uneasiness, the restlessness, the knowing that something isn't right between her and God. The things I told her were the things God was telling me that second, things that I needed to hear just as much as she.

I told her that she would ache for a while from the pain in the past, but eventually she needed to simply accept that as part of her story and move forward.

How hypocritical am I! I've had such a hard time stitching my past into my story. I fear I've been keeping it raw, dangling me in front of me throbbing and dripping with pain. My reason is rather silly. It' s not because I feel angry or bitter. It's because I want to hold onto the hurt. I want to hold onto it because I want to need people.

Ridiculous isn't it? That I should keeping ripping open my pain so I may keep on hurting. It makes no sense. But I want to need people. I want people to keep asking questions and keep offering comfort and keep caring. What if they leave as soon as I'm done hurting?

I don't feel that way about everyone. I have solid oak friendships that I know will remain no matter what happens. But there are a few frail ones, too. Some little seedling friendships that don't have strong roots. I'm so afraid they'll blow away at the first calm breeze.

It's all backwards, isn't it? Most people probably fear relationships will topple in a storm. I think I'm different because I so want to feel needed and wanted. I want to be special to people. I want to be someone to them only I could ever be.

I think that's why I've been uneasy. I think that's why the snow didn't calm my heart.
It's time to let go, Moriah.

How wonderful that the God who created the heavens and earth cares enough to make me restless until all between us is well!

He has come.

Christmas time is here. Happiness and cheer.
But to be perfectly honest, I haven't been very Christmas-cheery lately. I've been having a bit of trouble getting into the Christmas spirit.
I've tried to grow jolly. I've listened to music and gone to parties. I've eaten fudge and watched more Hallmark movies than should be legally permitted, but I still can't seem to make myself sing, "Christmas!"
A few nights ago, I watched "The Nativity Story" with my friends and was reminded of something I can hardly believe I forgot. My heart awakens at the thought of it, like an ember that glows as a result of a breeze. That night, my soul remembered:
Immanuel
How could I have forgotten?
Immanuel. The most beautiful word ever spoken, ever heard, ever written.
Immanuel. At the thought of it, my heart swells in my chest. At the sound of it, throats so dry from crying out are quenched. Eyes so wet from desperate tears are dried. Arms so weak from reaching and begging are lowered in relief.
Immanuel. He has come.
The image of the invisible God walked among us. God walked among us.  Sometimes I forget, but I don't think I will ever grow used to the idea of God among us.
The Word became flesh, and his flesh was just as frail as ours: susceptible to bruise and break and bleed.
The Creator dwelt as creation. The tongue that flung stars into galaxies could suddenly only coo and cry. The hands that inscribed stone with commands for thousands of generations could suddenly fit around a teenage girl's finger.
Immanuel. God with us. Not here for a visit; not just checking in. God dwelt with us.
I watched "The Hobbit" today, and strangely enough, it reminded me of Christmas. There was one scene, an inconsequential moment really, that grabbed my attention.
Bilbo Baggins dangled precariously from a cliff, sure to soon plunge to his untimely death. The dwarves clamored to rescue him, grasping at his hands, trying to get a grip to save their companion. Their efforts seemed in vain, until Thorin leapt from his position of safety on the ledge to the treacherous crags where Bilbo hung. The dwarf king jumped down from the cliff to reach the Hobbit. It was such a small moment in the movie that I'm not sure anyone else noticed. But in that moment, my insides stilled. I thought to myself, "That's my kind of king," and my heart remembered again: Immanuel.
How can I keep forgetting?!
I become so consumed with my own inconveniences and discomforts. I become so concerned with the cheer and home and happiness of Christmas, that I forget the only thing that really matters.
God with us. Immanuel.
Remarkable. I don't believe I can ever think of it without the still, calm wind rushing through me, stilling my soul, calming my heart, refocusing my mind.
This changes everything.
Hallelujah. He has come.

How I Am

People ask me, as I'm sure they do you, a hundred times a day how I am. Most times, they are simply being cordial. You are supposed to ask that, right? You are supposed to care. But sometimes, very rarely, the people who know me will look me in the eyes and ask. And I know they don't want to know how my day was. They want to know how my heart is. How I am. Most times I tell the cordial people I am good. Most times I tell the real seekers I am ok. The second one is true.

I really am ok. I don't walk around thinking about pain or feeling angry. In fact, most of the time, I'm pretty happy. I love my life at school. I love the people in it. And my happiness isn't fake. I'm not putting on a show for anyone. I really do feel it. But that's only mostly me.

Touring a cavern, they take you deep down beneath the earth, but they only take you so far. They only can take you so far. And you're not seeing something fake. It's still really the real cave, it's just not all the way down. Down deeper is much messier, without the nicely paved sidewalks or lighting. It's a sloppy place, the belly of a cavern. I suppose it's the same with people. Deep down is pretty messy.

My happy runs deep, it goes beneath the surface (that's called joy), but my very, very inside isn't such a pretty place. It's beat up. My heart and my soul are bloody and bruised. They don't hurt from just one thing, because nothing hurts from just one thing. One thing produces a thousand shards of a thousand little things that fly out and cut and hurt. Life is broke and sloppy. Humans cause pain, and the hurt sloshes out and splashes on anyone near. Deep down in the center of me is an ache. Most days it's just a dull throb; some days I even forget or choose to ignore that it's there. But some days, when I can slip away by myself and let myself think, I bleed.

Those days I don't want to slap on a band-aid and move forward. I need to bleed. I don't want to be cheered up. I just want to sit and ache and cry and bleed. Wounds have to hurt before they heal, or else they wouldn't be wounds at all.

I don't want to spend my life with an aching soul, but I think for now it fits. Ache is an appropriate response to painful experiences. But one day, I will wake up without the hurt. And the next day again. And the day after that. And one day I will not daily feel the throbbing in my core. I think I must choose it.

I will. I will choose to pat the pain on his head and send him on his way. In fact, I am already starting to do that, a bit every day. But sometimes I'm too tired to shoo him off. And sometimes I don't want to. I don't think that's wrong. I think it's real.

So how am I? I'm ok. But one day, one day soon perhaps, I will be grand.

Aching

My heart broke once,
And every so often, it breaks again.
It broke first as I watched my life go up in flames
And again and again when I poke through the ashes.

Would it be better if my heart were made of steel?
That I should feel nothing and bear all?
It would not hurt so very much.

But I am a human, and through my heart flows blood.
I do not hate to bleed.
I do not even hate the pain that comes with a bloody heart.

Perhaps it would be easier to have a heart of steel,
But so much less alive.

He's Got This.

He's got this. Those three words have been my solace this last week and a half. When I start feeling desperate, when I start feeling hopeless, when the knot starts forming in the pit of my belly, I remember those three words: He's got this. Oh, how He does.

For the very first time in my life, I am facing a real trial. I never fully grasped the weight of James' words, "Consider it pure joy..." until I was squeezed. It's not fun. But I do see the joy. It's not here yet, but it's coming. That's hope.

I've learned so many things since this tumultuous trial began. So many more than I would have without the flames. Thank you, God, for that.

I've discovered the immense comfort of the Scriptures. God soaks His Word in comfort. His passages soothe and untangle the knot in my gut. Memorizing, quoting, and reading God's word are as aloe to a burn: instant relief and healing. One of my very favorite verses is Zephaniah 3:17. "The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing." Praise Jesus. Thank you, God.

I've felt God with me. He is walking with me in the storm. Beth Moore talks about when Jesus walked on water. I had never thought of the situation in the way she portrayed it. The story is in Matthew 14:22-33.
The disciples are in a boat, far from shore. They're struggling in a storm. Jesus comes out late, somewhere between 3 and 6 in the morning (the fourth watch of the night). I imagine they've been struggling for hours. When He gets there, He doesn't do what He's done in the past. Just chapters earlier, He silenced the wind and stilled the waves with his words. But this time, He doesn't open His mouth. Instead, He walks into the storm. He walks on the waves as the storm rages on. The disciples are terrified; they don't even recognize Him. Instantly, He speaks up, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid." Then Peter says the unthinkable. He tells Jesus to call him out of the boat. He offers his life, and Jesus says, "Come." Peter does. Peter walks on water with the Lord. When he notices his surroundings, he becomes overwhelmed and sinks, and Jesus immediately rescues him. The storm doesn't stop until together they return to the boat.
Jesus could have changed the circumstances. He could have rebuked the wind and waves and stopped the storm right then. He had done it before. He could have instantly removed the terror and discomfort, but He didn't. Instead, He walked into the disaster and called his follower to walk with Him.
This is my life. God has the power to stop the hurricane. I don't doubt that for a second. But instead, He's chosen to walk out to me, to call me out to walk with Him.
I have lived my entire life on calm waters, on land. Thank God, for that. God has so richly blessed me with a happy, easy life. I have always said I place my trust and faith in Him. Now all that is challenged. Now is the opportunity to show that what I have always said is truth. God has given me the opportunity to live out my words. I think this is the pure joy in the trial. The testing of my faith will develop perseverance.

I'm not worried. He's got this.

Four Things

Someone asked me yesterday to list four things I learned this semester. I, of course, could barely think of one at the moment. So later I cracked open my journal and read the 70 pages that make up these past four months.

1. January 26, 2012
     Our first Singers trip went well! Much better than I expected. The drive home, however, was perhaps my favorite part. Karisa drove me back, and we left earlier than the rest. We stopped at Backyard Burger to get my dinner before leaving town. I was so upset they didn't make my burger plain. We were in a hurry to head back because the weather was supposed to get bad. And it did. Extremely bad.
     We drove through lightning first, the sky flashing every few seconds to reveal dark clouds with sinister tails threatening to drop from their roiling blackness. In minutes we were swallowed into the belly of the storm. The rain pounded so hard all we could make out were the reflectors on the road. The lightening electrified the sky, so bright it hurt my eyes. It was strange: such brightness that didn't illuminate, but merely filled the air with light.
     I felt a bit nervous, but it was peculiar. I was not scared. I looked at the rain and the flashes and saw the magnificent power of God. The radio played the most perfect songs, one being "Light Up the Sky." I was not afraid, not because I was at peace with dying (which was a real possibility), but because God was in control. I knew He would take care of us.
Just minutes earlier I had been worried about pickles on my sandwich.

2. February 18, 2012
     This weekend is our first overnight Singers trip. I've decided this year to learn something from each home I stay in... I learned two things:
     The first is a small something. We talked a bit about crazy coincidences, things we laugh about and say "It's such a small world!" Mrs. Ellen made the comment, "Well I guess we know Who has a hand in that!" I'd never considered that. I'd never considered God planning those delightful, unpredictable encounters.
     The second is a bit larger and deeper. Natalie made a comment about the closeness of our youth group in high school that I suppose stuck with Mrs. Ellen. She later told us that she had heard an alarming statistic on the rate of youth group members that maintain church attendance after graduating. She told us that her sons had all grown up in the same youth group. Now, one attends church, one is nominally a member, and one does not attend at all. And all from the same youth group. I suppose I always knew, but at that moment it hit me how vital the personal relationship is. I think perhaps the statistic has always been alarming. But there are and always will be exceptions to the statistics. They are rare, yes. But there are, scattered among us, the truly dedicated disciples. Like jewels hidden in the depths of the mine, lying between ordinary chunks of rock and earth, they exist. Oh how I long to be such a gem!

3. March 25, 2012
     We had two "wow" moments on the retreat. The first was Thursday night.
It had been a gloomy, rainy day. In our final session, the last song we sang was "You're Beautiful" by Phil Wickham. As soon as we started singing, the sun burst through the cloudy sky into a beautiful sunset. The light illuminated the room in a shower of gold and orange. As we sang about how beautiful He is, He showed us. All I could do was turn and sing, looking out the window at the light that does not even compare to the light of Christ.
     The second came Friday night.
We watched the Louie Giglio video "Indescribable." In it, he shows the vastness of the universe and the tininess of our earth. God displays His power in space. The day had been cloudy and rainy (again!). In fact, we had just played outside in the dark with not a star in sight. The whole video, I asked God to sweep away the clouds and reveal His stars, reveal His power, reveal Himself. When I walked outside to the bonfire, I looked to the sky in amazement. The sky glittered with a million diamonds, with balls of fire miles upon miles away. He showed Himself.
     The universe is huge. God is bigger. He measures it with the width of His hand. If our planet is a speck of dust in a ray of light, how small are we?
And He died for us.
He wanted me so badly, He gave up His kingdom, His title, His safety, His life for me. He became sin Who knew no sin that we, we minuscule beings living on a tiny speck of dust, might become His righteousness.
That is my God.

4. April 1, 2012
     Last night, I went to see "The Hunger Games" with some friends. It was late; we went to the 10:05 showing. On our way, our friends called to tell us that there was an accident, that we should take a detour, but we misunderstood the exit to take. We stopped in traffic, waiting to move on. We could see the number of emergency vehicles, more arriving as we waited, and we knew it was bad. But we had no idea.
     When we drove by, all I could say was, "Oh, God... Jesus, please." I was not using His name in vain. I really was crying out to Him.
Debris littered the highway, like a tornado had torn through a house. The vehicle itself lay on its roof, barely resembling a Jeep. It looked as if a giant had heartlessly crushed it with his fist. A young man, a teenager, sat on the side with his head in his hands, a woman next to him offering what comfort she could.  And on the asphalt lay two black bags. Two black bags holding two soul-less bodies. I have never seen anything like it.
     I felt so selfish to carry on my way to the movies. It felt so meaningless. I felt shallow to cry at the loss of a character when, that night, parents in real life would be told they lost their child. So instead, I turned to the wall and cried for those families. I had so anticipated that movie, but I didn't truly enjoy it. I kept thinking of those black bags and those suddenly smaller families.
     On our way home, we drove through the place where the accident had been. All that remained was a bit of scattered debris, broken glass, and the wetness on the road where they had attempted to wash it all away. I think one of us commented, "Oh good, it's cleaned up." But it wasn't really. You can't clean a mess like that. You can pick up pieces and take away debris. You can kick the glass into the ditch and blast away oil and blood with water. But you can't clean it up. From now on, families are smaller. From now on, friends are always missing one. From now on, two souls are spending eternity somewhere.
You can't clean that up.

Best Friday

Today isn't just Good Friday. It's the very best Friday.

Today's the day they say that you died for me,
Gave up your breath to give me life.
But I think what you've done reaches far beyond words.
It's bigger than a catchy phrase or a familiar verse.
This thing you've done is far too big to grasp.
I cannot wrap it in a box and place a bow atop.
I cannot speak words that explain your actions.

"Suffering" doesn't cut it.
"Agony" doesn't begin.
"Sacrifice" is so unworthy.
"Gift" is far too kind.

You took off your king robes
Not in exchange for something greater,
But for the humiliation of nakedness.

You gave up authority to speak into existance
Not for a slightly lower position,
But for the silence of a lamb.

You gave up heaven for Nazarath
And galaxies for earth.

I cannot describe your actions.
I cannot express your deeds.
I will never comprehend the extent of such love.

But I taste it.

It flavors my life.
It seasons my heart.
My soul leaps at a drop of it.
My body surges with the warmth of just one morsel.

I cannot explain it.
And for that,
I praise you.

Is this love?

I wrote a song yesterday. This is strange because a) I don't do that and b) I didn't know I could do that.

Wednesday in chapel, a girl who spent a semester in Bangladesh spoke about her experience. I felt saddened by the living conditions of the people and their lives. But what really affected me was the pictures and stories about their sacrifices.

She showed pictures of blood flowing down the streets, blood that they hoped would cover their sins. She said they wanted a deliverer, but they just couldn't believe it was Jesus.

That's when my heart broke.

Yesterday when I sat to play the piano, I played a sad song. Suddenly it had words. I questioned God. I don't understand why He doesn't just swoop in and save the day. He could, right? When I finished my song, I wasn't satisfied. The song was complete, but it didn't really express what I was feeling. I didn't feel angry or disillusioned by God. I felt something else. A sense of responsibility. I kept playing and singing, working out the kinks. Halfway through a sentence, I froze. This is not my song to God; this is His song to me.

How can you let them suffer,
Can you see them try so hard to see your face?
How can you hear them crying
Out for you to pick them up?

How can you be all you say you are
If you don't help your people?
How can you do all you say you've done
If you don't do something?

Is this love? That you turn away?
That you hide your face from their searching hearts?
Is this love? That you'd walk away
When all they need is your embrace?
Is this love?

How can you see them striving,
Can you see them pouring out their sacrifice?
Why won't you let them know
That the blood's in vain,
Let them know that the price is paid?

How can you be all you say you are
If you don't help your people.
How can you do all you say you've done
If you don't do something?

Is this love? That you turn away?
That you hide your face from their searching hearts?
Is this love? That you'd walk away
When all they need is your embrace?
Is this love?

Radical?

What is a radical Christian?

We hear about the habits of certain believers. We read about Daniel refusing to eat the rich food of the Babylonians and taking time to pray three times a day. We hear about a person memorizing whole books of the Bible. We hear these stories and think, "Wow. They are radical Christians." But are they really?

Is it really radical to refuse to eat what God forbade? Is it radical to spend three hours in prayer when Christ says to pray without ceasing? Is it radical to memorize several verses when we are taught to hide His word in our hearts? Is it radical, or is it expected?

Perhaps our idea of radical Christianity is distorted. Perhaps distorted by the world's expectations. Perhaps we do the bare minimum. Perhaps we do just enough to be seen as Christians, but not enough to really appear different.

When the Israelites left Egypt, they numbered around two million. Out of these original two million, only two entered the Promised Land. Why? Because they were the only two who completely trusted, who completely held God to His word by obeying Him. One in a million.

Complete surrender, complete obedience is not popular. Nor is it common. But is it truly radical?

What if we were radical by the world's standards? What if we refused to eat the richness of the world, refused to watch what they watch or hear what they hear? What if we refused to find entertainment or humor in the things God hates? What if we devoted time to be still and listen or to memorize His word? What if we were actually different on the outside, and not just within? Would we be radical? Or would we just be obedient?

Flying with Geese

Do you ever have a million thoughts flying around in your head? Colliding into each other? Each rambling down a separate path, but, somehow, you know they are all connected? I do.

The geese last week were migrating. They came in droves to land in the farmers' fields or soar above my head as I trudged to class. I watched them fly in their v's, seamlessly changing leaders, all surging toward what their eyes cannot see and their tiny brains cannot grasp. Surging toward something they simply know is.

I heard a question recently, a question that didn't really want an answer. If God knows our future, why would He create people who He knows will not choose a relationship with Him?

I don't have the answer. I don't think there is one. But I'm reminded of the geese...

I think of the geese that fly without doubt, the geese who do what they're supposed to do without question or suggestion.
How dull it would be to be a goose.
I don't envy geese. I don't want to spend time with them. I would not choose a goose as my best friend or give everything to have a relationship with one. I want to spend time with thinkers. I want to hear other thoughts or opinions, to share life.

When I was young, and only on a few occasions, I played with my grandmother's doll house. I made them talk and walk. I gave them names and personalities. And I suppose I enjoyed it. But the real fun, the real thrill came when I imagined them alive, when I imagined them as little people living, moving, breathing, speaking on their own. I enjoyed the dolls most when the dolls came to life.

God did not want an earth filled with generation after generation of dolls. He wanted life.

I wonder, if  I were Creator, if I could do it. Could I make creatures who would not choose me? Would I make a little boy who would grow into a little man who would declare I didn't even exist? Would I not? Would I refuse to create him simply because he would not choose me? I don't know. It would break my heart.

I am glad we are not ignorant fowl. I am thankful we form opinions and ideas and questions. But I think, eventually, we must choose to fly like the geese. There are seasons for questions; yes, many seasons in my life. However, not every question will have an answer. Not every puzzle piece will fall neatly into its place of logic. It is then that we must fly like the geese: not knowing how or why, but simply soaring, surging toward what we know is truth.