The LORD God Almighty

Sometimes I forget who God is. That sounds ridiculous, right? How could I forget the one whom everyday I speak to and read about and talk about and work for? But I do. It's rather easy, honestly. See, my mind is small and my understanding is so very little. I can't grasp the fullness of God no matter how hard I try. So oftentimes, I make Him small, just like my mind.
But He's not.

I've been reading through the Old Testament lately, looking at the stories I grew up on and looking for truths I've never noticed. It took me the entire book of Genesis and the first few chapters of Exodus before I realized something: I've never fully understood the purpose of the Bible.

I've appreciated the Bible in a lot of ways. I've loved the stories. I've striven to follow its instruction. I've soaked in its expression of God's love and cried along with the psalmists who try to express love in return. But this past week, I realized it is something more than that. It isn't just the explanation of my faith or the stories of those who have gone before me. It's the story of God.

He's the main character of the book. He's in the first sentence and the last and every sentence in between. Each chapter, each section, shows another piece of Who He is. I know His character because it's embedded in every page. When I question or wonder or struggle, I can return to His Word and find truth, not in the stories or the proverbs or the instructions, but in Him.

As I recently read the story of Moses, I noticed how God introduces Himself, "I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob" (Exodus 3:6). Remember, 
He says. Remember the stories of your ancestors. I am the same God. 

The same God.

That's what I far too often forget. He isn't simply my friend or my father or my comfort or my teacher. He is the same God who spoke light into being. The same God who breathed life into dust and so loved it that He gave everything to know it personally. This God I serve is the same God who erased the nastiness of unrepentant sin from earth in the flood and the same God who graciously gave us a sign that He would never do that again.

Far too often, when I think of these stories I picture God as a kindly old grandfather with an interesting past. But He's not. He's still the same God. He's still the mighty creator, and zealous warrior, and loving father, and all-knowing teacher that I read about in this ancient text.

Every day, I look at and love the beautiful mountains of the Black Hills, and every time I see them, I can't help but think of Amos 4:13. And recently, every time I think of it, I remember just exactly Who I serve. I probably look like a crazy person, constantly smiling out my window, remembering Who my God is.

He who forms the mountains,
creates the wind,
and reveals his thoughts to man,
he who turns dawn to darkness,
and treads the high places of the earth -
the LORD God Almighty is his name.

More than a game

Wednesday, I watched Karisa play her last softball game. Tears welled in my eyes when it was over. I watched my sister begin to weep, then pull herself together in one final noble act for the good of her team. I watched her smile as she, for one last time, stood congratulating and encouraging every teammate and coach. I wanted to cry because I knew, behind the smile, her heart was really broken.

To an outsider, it may seem a bit silly that a sport could mean so much. Even as I stood there, I tried to stop my tears by telling myself, “Oh it’s just a game.” But it’s really not. It’s fourteen years worth of passion.

We began playing softball the same year. I was six and Karisa was seven. We played together for years, until she was old enough to move up while I stayed behind. We both began playing simply because our parents signed us up. But from the beginning, there was a difference. In the backyard, Daddy and Karisa would practice catch, while I would mostly try to avoid being hit by the ball or cry because I had been hit. In the games, Karisa would have a position in the infield while I squatted, drawing in the dirt or picking flowers in the outfield. When it came to practicing on our own, both Karisa and I would complain. But while I would find excuses, for some reason, Karisa always ended up doing it. After about five years, I finally had enough, and I hung up my cleats. But Karisa kept going.

Sometime in those first few years, a coach suggested that Karisa try pitching. And I suppose that’s where it all began. I think she was eight. There’s no telling how much money my family spent on pitching books and Ernie Parker DVDs. But hey, those books and DVDs helped my father, who had definitely never played fast-pitch softball, teach my sister how to throw. I’m not really sure when the head-first dive occurred, but suddenly our summers were planned around pitching camps and softball tournaments. My family has never been on a vacation that wasn't based on a softball event. When Karisa got into high school, softball became more of a year-round thing. In the summer and fall, Daddy and Karisa would practice at the fields or in the rustic bullpen he had cleared in the woods across the street. When it got too cold, they would drive up to the church and practice in the gym. Sometimes I was dragged along to record practices so they could review the film later. I cannot count the number of times they would end practice earlier because one or both of them had gotten mad. I don’t even know how many times Daddy said, “I’m not helping you anymore,” or Karisa fought against his instruction. But in the end, the next day, they always went back out there, with two gloves and a bucket of balls, so that Karisa could become the best pitcher she could possibly be.

In all that time, I was always there, waiting at the church for practice to be over in the winter, sitting in a lawn chair at dusty fields in the summer, huddled in the dugout keeping stats for her high school team in the spring, walking across the soccer field to see a few college games in the fall. I wasn't known as a softball fan, though. In fact, it was pretty well known amongst my family that I strongly disliked the game. Let’s be honest. My idea of a vacation wasn't exactly dirt blowing all over my face as a girl slid into home plate. But secretly, I've kind of enjoyed softball all these years. Ok, summer ball, no. But these last eight years of high school/college have actually been borderline enjoyable. Yes, there have been moments when I've almost gone crazy after hours of driving to games. Yes, there have been moments when innings have dragged on for hours. Yes, there have been moments when I've been sick-at-my-stomach nervous when we just needed one more run. But watching my sister do something she truly loved, something she worked toward with everything in her, that made it all worth it.

As I stood watching my sister say goodbye to the game that has been her life for the past fourteen years, I didn't cry because I was sad that it was over. I cried at her passion. She has devoted over a decade to a single sport, a single position within that sport. Every choice she has made, from early morning runs to avoiding physically risky activities (*ahem* ice skating), has hinged on becoming the best softball pitcher she could possibly be, not only for herself, but for her coaches and her teammates.

As I stood with tears in my eyes, I thought about myself. What am I so passionate about? What do I care about enough that I will dedicate my life to doing it as best I can? What will I do to be the best I can be, not only for my own benefit, but for the benefit of those around me?

I think I've known all along that, to Karisa, softball is more than just a sport. But right here at the end, I've finally gotten it. Finally, at the last game I’ll probably ever watch my sister play, I saw past the dust and the lawn chairs and the car rides. I finally realized that these last fourteen years, I've seen real passion, dedication, and conviction.  And I so admire and thank my sister for that.

Little Conversations

God and I talk.
And I don't mean "praying". We just... talk.

I've always thought the spiritual discipline I struggled with most was prayer. And honestly, it probably is. I don't spend solid periods of time on my knees or even just sitting, praising Him, thanking Him, and laying out my and others' problems. But lately, I've started thinking maybe that's not really the point.

The Bible says to pray without ceasing. I can't spend all my time sitting alone in my room.
But I can talk to Him all day.
That's the best to me. That right there might be my very favorite part about being a child of God. I can talk to Him whenever I want.

I can talk to God. GOD! I can talk to GOD! Do you get it? Are you understanding this?! The Creator of heaven and earth! The Lord of the universe! The One who defeated death! I can talk to Him whenever I want! That's something right there. I can't even talk to my best friends whenever I want. But I have access to constant communication with THE God. I feel so cool.

And He talks back.

That's the tricky part, though. It's kinda hard sometimes to hear someone who doesn't speak audibly. Especially when you can't see him either.

But He does talk.
I'm not crazy.
I know His voice.

I can't really explain it. I don't hear it with my ears or my brain or even my heart. I hear it in the very deepest part of my soul. It's the Voice that I immediately recognize as Truth. Sometimes, when I feel really desperate to hear from Him, I try to imagine what He would say; I put words in His mouth. But that's not Him, and I have to remind myself of that. Then I have to be still. And in the deepest part of me, I plead to hear.
He's never failed me yet.

His voice is the most beautiful thing I know. It's so quiet, so calm, but it has more power than anything I can fathom. Every time I hear it, I feel like a ship being heaved into a harbor, like it's drawing me nearer, pulling me in tight. I feel my soul scooting up closer to Him. I love it.

Sometimes we laugh together. He thinks some of my jokes are pretty funny. I mean, He did create my sense of humor.

Sometimes He teaches me little lessons, like how life really is beautiful.

A lot of the time I just compliment Him on His handiwork. When I see a night sky or a beautiful sunset, I just have to say "Bravo!" or "Good one, God!" He likes that.

But I think my all time favorite conversations we have are the ones when He tells me He loves me.
Isn't it funny how we forget about that? He sacrificed His very life, and we forget about the love. I do it all too often.

I still remember the first time I heard His voice say, "I love you." I was maybe 13 and just having a rough day. I remember looking out the car window and begging, "Please, let me feel Your love." I've never forgotten it. I think that's the moment I first felt my soul on fire. Not a blazing wildfire. Just so very, very warm and like something in me were growing bigger and bigger. Fuller and fuller.

But I still forget sometimes.
Just a few days ago I forgot.

I was having another rough day, crying about things that couldn't be helped, just plain aching. And to top it off, I lost something important. I finished my cry, but I still needed to find what I had misplaced. I simply said, "God, I really need to find this." Then I reached into my purse and pulled it out. And promptly started crying again.

You do still love me.
Of course I do.
You haven't forgotten me.
Of course not. I never will.

I do still need to improve my prayer life. I do need to devote effort and energy to praise and thanksgiving and requests. I do need to set aside time to be still. But I wonder if our little conversations aren't just as valuable.

They're my favorite.

Torn Curtains and Mended Hearts

It's funny. I began this blog writing about Good Friday two years ago. The last Good Friday, I also wrote. There's just something about this day that sticks me in the soul.

I forget about Jesus sometimes. I mean, I pray and read the Bible every day. I go to a Christian college. I sing songs and memorize verses. But sometimes, I still forget.

I usually remember His love and His mercy and His grace. I don't forget to praise Him or ignore Him with my choices, but sometimes I forget what He did.

Just yesterday I realized Easter was coming. I knew, of course, already, but I hadn't remembered. Now Good Friday is here, and the reasons I love it so come flooding back into my mind.

Ever since I can remember, my very favoritest part of the Easter story has been what happens when Jesus breathes His last.

Darkness coats the sky and the air and land. The earth shakes. Rocks split. Tombs break open and release their dead. God will not allow the death of His Son to be silent or unnoticed. Pagans exclaim truth and recognize the King. And the curtain of the temple is torn in two.

That curtain. That is my favorite part.

I cannot fathom life without God in me. I cannot fathom being forced to live with the guilt of sin until I could smear bloody sacrifices over my mistakes. I can't imagine not talking to Him any second of every day. I can't imagine living without His constant presence.

Every time the curtain tears in the story, something within me stirs to life. God is here. He's available. He's no longer reserved for the holiest priest once a year. He's for me. In my mind I see something like the fall of the Berlin Wall, with people piling over and pouring in. Rushing into His presence. Finally, finally embracing.

The curtain had to be torn so that our connection to God could be mended. Isn't our faith so full of ironies? Isn't that why we call this Friday good?

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.