The Good Hunger

There is an ache, a longing, a void, which should be ever present in me, and which I all too often lose. If only I could always say, as Amon Wilder wrote in 'No Language But A Cry:

'I have a heart that cries to God
Abandonedly across the blind
Imperfect avenue of mind,
I have a heart that cries to God...

I have a heart that cries to God
Immediately and must dispense
With faltering through the world of sense,
And calls across the mind to God.'

But, instead, I have a heart that says "What should I cook for dinner tonight? Can the grocery budget be stretched any tighter? How many more phone calls need to be made? Which child was supposed to be on dish duty for lunch?..."
And when I'm not rushing around the house playing Martha, I too often throw myself into the garden, or an art project, or the center of a book. Some great, haunting, hardly definable question keeps rising in me, to be hastily pushed down. I told my mother last week: 'There are just some things I need time and space to think through', but this isn't really the issue. The problem is that there are things I'm using every available shred of time and space to AVOID thinking about.
And in all of that turmoil, where can God reign? Where is the good hunger, the crying out for Him?
Mercifully, after periods of terrible dryness, resentment, and confusion, He has restored it, but I still feel, many days, like I'm tiptoeing through a quagmire of impossible questions, and even more impossible answers.
I wrote this last night:

The Promise:

"You weep as one who had a right to weep.
So state your case."
'It is but this:
I cannot love Thee, Lover, as I would.'
He laughed then- such a laugh
Of sorrow and mirth- exulting tenderness-
"You weep for that?
Child dear, did you but love me as you can
You could not love.
Nor long to love at all!
But you do long-
You yearn, you ache to love.
Whence does that yearning spring,
If not from Me?
My daughter, if I have
Planted My love, and will to love in you,
Caused it to grow, tumultuous, in your heart
It is because I know
How to complete, perfect it,
And will bring
Our love to lovely flowering in My time
Until, as in Love's last extremity
I served my Father, and humanity,
You too shall love!"

It is a promise to hold to, even when this, written a little earlier, seems far more descriptive of my state:

'And Love- Torn, broken, bleeding Love
In me.
Has not that gushing wealth of blood
Has not the anguished hue of red
That was Thine own.
But is a sickly-pale, anaemic thing
Shrinking from all its wounds
Quaking with dim fears, with a horror of pain
Peculiar in a soul too craven, flaccid
To suffer mighty agonies at great events.
It is as though
They'd pierced my side- those haggard men with spears
Looming through lurid sunset, swirling fog-
And drawn forth not a rush of blood with water
But water, trick'ling, with a tinge of blood.'

High calling- Low response:

This morning- the family scrambling to grab breakfast and make it out of the house by 8 am. Suitcases strewn everywhere, as we arrived home from St. Louis last night. Squabbling children, worried parents, stress you could cut with a knife. It seems to be the story of my life these days. To top it all off, I entered the kitchen this morning to discover (unfortunately not before I'd stepped in it) that someone had thrown up all over the floor (which Lex JUST scrubbed) during the night. Ah, how I love Lysol... :-D All of the children swear they have no idea who got sick or how this unfortunate occurrence occurred. The dogs and cats are not releasing any statements at this time, but we have a detective on the case... ;-)
Yeah. Life is messy. And boy, is it EVER messy!
Andy Kauffmann, a missionary, and aquaintance of mine once said though: 'When you live in the mess, you learn to cry out to the King!"
I haven't been learning this 'crying out to the King' business very quickly. Crying- yes. Crying out- no! Self-pity is so insiduous, and creates the ultimate 'Slough of Despond. Lately I've been uptight, emotionally volatile and brittle, frustrated with everything. And it's not because circumstances are truly intolerable, it's because I, in my determined self-will, have been intolerant of circumstances.

The Christian walk is such a beautiful thing on paper. 'We rejoice in our light and momentary troubles', 'What is seen is temporary, what is unseen is eternal', 'Just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also, through Christ, our comfort overflows.' 'Take up your cross and follow me.'
Such a high calling is ours! To walk and love and suffer with an all-sufficient Savior! But the minute this doctrine leaves the realm of theory, I am tempted to enter the realm of 'rage and pout and sulk'. Oh, I know better, but I do it anyway! It seems that everything in human nature wells up in resentment when desires are balked, troubles are piled on, and things cease to go 'according to plan'. MY plan, of course! :-P
Such a high calling we are given. Such a low response seems to be within our grasp. God says 'Surrender these things to Me', and all too often we whine 'But I CAN'T!' (Which is usually code for 'But I don't WANT to!' ).
Fortunately, He can, and will, where we are incapable.
God, give me the humility not to whine, or snap irritably my protestations of 'I can't do this!', but instead, to come humbly, say brokenly 'I can't do this.'- longing and hungering to see YOU do it IN me. Believing that it WILL be done, regardless of the tumult clamouring all around.

A couple of paragraphs in 'Still Higher for His Highest', by Oswald Chambers, convicted me deeply this week:

The Snare of the Sentimentalist, Worldly Sorrow, and The Deepest Longing:

"Lord I will follow Thee, but..." The wish ought to be followed by immediate obedience. I must take the wish and translate it into resolution, and then into action. If I do not, the wish will translate itelf into a corrupting instead of a redeeming power in my life. This principle holds good in the matter of emotions. A sentimentalist is one who delights to have high and devout emotions while reading in an arm-chair or when in a prayer meeting, but he never translates his emotions into action. Consequently a sentimentalist is usually callous, self-centered and selfish, because the emotions he likes to have stirred do not cost him anything; and when he comes across the same things in the domain where things are real and not sentimental, the revenge comes along the line of selfishness and meanness, which is aways the aftermath of an unfulfilled emotion."

"It is a terrible thing to say, and yet true, that there is a sorrow so selfish, so sentimental and sarcastic that it adds to 'the sin of the city'. All sorrow that arises from being baffled in some selfish aim of our own is of the world and works death. Those who sorrow over their own weaknesses and sins, and stop short at that, have a sorrow that only makes them worse, it is not a godly sorrow that works repentance. Oh that all men knew that every sentiment has its appropriate reaction, and if the nature does not embrace that reaction it degenerates into a sullen sentimentalism that kills all good action."

"You are getting tired of life as it is, tired of yourself as you are, getting sour with regard to the setting of your life; lift your eyes for one moment to Jesus Christ. Do you want, more than you want your food, more than you want your sleep, more than you want anything under heaven, or in heaven, that Jesus Christ might so identify you with Himself that you are His, first, last, and forever? God grant that the greatest longing desire of your heart may begin to awaken as it has never done, not only the desire for the forgiveness of sin, but for identification with Jesus Himself until you say, "I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me."

Oswald Chambers pulls no punches, but he's truthful. And I recognized far too much of myself in the 'Sentimentalist' he describes. Do I also identify in that all- consuming, overwhelming, overcoming hunger for Christ? Not always.
So, Lord, where I fail to desire You, 'desire in me'.

Something Like a Summary:

How do you put a year into words? How do you take the pieces of it and stitch them, as you would scraps of fabric for a quilt, into a unified whole? How can I tell you about the year that was the best, and worst in my life, when there's so much to say- when all the darkest and brightest things are too precious, or too tawdry for me to give to you? I don't know. I've been trying for a while now to think of something like a summary. Something that would tell you enough to be worth saying, without saying too much. And it comes down to this: I can summarize my year quite well. This is all that's worth keeping from the twelve months that have elapsed since I graduated from high-school last May:

God is sufficient.
God is merciful.
God is powerful.
God is glorious!

Now, I realize that's a pretty generic summary, and although it's all you really need to know about my life up until this point, there are all sorts of things you DON'T need to know that I rather feel compelled to share with you.

I had my last final today, began packing to move out of the dorms, and spent some time with friends I won't be seeing much of this summer. Have you ever had days that, from just looking at the bare details of events, you know should have been good, and yet they were... not? This was one of them. The only truly lovely thing I can remember is walking through the chill of grey morning and listening to a robin calling in a cataclysm of sweetness. How can such a small song slice the air so?

The rest was deeply tinged with bittersweetness. I suppose, if I had to give today a name, I would call it 'wistful'. I dread the endings of things, and to have such a great season of life ended is disconcerting. Foolish as it sounds, there's a deep ache in it. I seem to be putting the semester's labor, and ideals, and dreams away into boxes in more senses than one.

So what is it, like, this packing? Well, first, the walls are stripped- photographs of family and friends, missionary prayer cards, poems and Bible verses on sticky notes- all are pressed between the back pages of my scrapbook, now, along with the memories that overwhelm me when I look at them.
The 'covenant stones' come down too- the once rain-drenched leaf that I placed on the Altar one black night, and its song:
'O Lord, I wish Thy way.
And when in me myself shall rise
And wish for something otherwise
Bring sword, and slay!' -Carmichael

The other, small leaf, white as bone that I found nestled in the lush new grass, reminding me of Aline Kilmer's poem. It has a story too:
'The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of our God shall stand forever!'

The locket, which opens upon the stern question: 'At what point is Jesus Christ not worth it?'

The slender red twig, plucked from a hedge on a rainy day when I stumbled through the field in a haze of confusion:"As for God, His way is perfect... And if His way be perfect, we need no explanation."-Carmichael

The great, cruel thorn, broken from a locust branch: "All Christ's life was a cross and a martyrdom; and thou seekest for thyself rest and joy?"- The Imitation

All of these nestle now in the bottom compartment of my jewelry box, along with other mysterious treasures. As I pull off the last of my pictures and trinkets, I feel the friendly walls receding into blank, inscrutable whiteness. The ceiling rises silently away from me as the room grows in emptiness. In my heart lurks a feeling that is almost grief.

Next, heroically, I attack the bookshelf. Now, you must understand- I am an unashamed bibliophile! I came to college with a loooot of books! Due to a random combination of gifts, text-book hoarding, and used book sales, I now have even more books- many of them large and heavy. So this book packing is still a bit tricky. Especially since I keep stopping to read them, trying to decide what to leave at home, and what to bring back with me next fall...

That is where things stand at the moment. I will have to finish the job tomorrow.
But I have to finish this summary tonight. After tomorrow, I will never again walk down the hall to Leaverton 2018 C. I will not sleep- or lie awake puzzling over life- on that hard, slippery blue mattress with its striped sheets. I will not sit typing at this desk. I will not sing in that shower. I will be gone so completely that I might as well have never come. And when I think of this- that tomorrow I will walk out of this room for the last time, a flood of detail sweeps over me, and the tears are springing to my eyes again. Not so much for the room, but for the life I lived in it. For the friends who've come and gone here- the things I've learned here- the lessons burned on my heart here. When I leave tomorrow, my last physical connection to all of these things will be gone forever. Something- I hardly know how to say what- will have ended, and vanished into memory, or, perhaps, forgetfulness.

On Monday, during the storm, I was sitting cross-legged on the bed with my notebook, trying to explain my feelings about the semester's close. This is what I wrote:

"I see the wind-tossed maple tree just outside my window- its leaves bunched like wet, green ruffles, fluttering with a wild and frantic charm. And all that great expanse of sodden grass, stretching away into a dark wall of trees. Rain falling from the grey sky to lash against the grey road. A pooling of glimmering, cloud-reflecting droplets on the pane. These are the things that bound my world today. I dare not think beyond them- the helter-skelter of the bookshelf, Shakespeare leaning in drunken cameraderie on George Bernard Shaw- 'Jane Eayre' jockeying primly against Maugham's 'Complete Short Stories' for space. The crazy, childish colors in the quilt Aunt Caroline sewed. Papers strewn everywhere. Lightning flashing from time to time on the prisoning walls. Thunder rumbling, like a crescendo of percussion, in time with Ralph Vaughan Williams' 'Folk Song Suite for Millitary Band'. Here is the last safe, famliar place in the world, and I am leaving it forever in two days. For what? For a farther venturing into yet another unkown? On Wednesday begins the mad transition from one reality into another. If only life had some halting places! Spots like stepping stones, on which one could pause and consider the next jump. But it doesn't work that way, and still the stately, mysterious procession of Circumstance continues its intricate dance.
So what can be said about this year? There were days of miraculous strengthening- days when I felt too ill and tired to walk across the room, and yet was able to walk all over campus- days when my heart was trampled to pieces- when I was torn in half by my own uncertainties- when I was drained dry and wrung empty by the world's hunger, and yet, somehow, when God opened the opportunities for sharing, He gave me what I needed to give as well. I learned things- both in and out of the classroom. I caught glimpses of a Love so burningly exalted above mine that I could only fall to my knees before it.

There were those special, piercingly sweet moments- the week I was sunk into discouragement and self-reproach because people kept on talking about what a 'good person' I was, and how 'moral' I was, with never a word of Christ, the consuming passion. I was convinced I must have failed utterly as a missionary, that whatever I was doing had only drawn attention to my own efforts rather than God's power, and was depressed and broken to tears over it for days, pleading for transformation; then a girl, not a believer, but a seeker, came to me needing encouragement and a hug, and after we'd prayed together, and cried a bit together, she put her hand on my arm and looked me in the eye and said: "You are the only genuine Christian I have ever met in my life. I don't know if what you believe is true or not, but you live it- and you don't just do good things, either, I SEE your God in you. I SEE Him in your face. I see you doing things that you could not possibly do on your own. You have wisdom that none of the psychologists and specialists they took me to knew about. You have been loving in a way no person could be, and I know that your God is powerful in your life, and truly your Lord."
I was dazed. I knew, all too well, that what she said was not true. There was so much sin in me of which she was unaware- so much pride creeping into my efforts. There had even been frustration and lovelessness toward HER that God had been rooting out of my heart. But I WANTED to be the person she described- and moreover, my agonizing doubts about my ability to be light in darkness, and plead the cause of Christ rather than my own merit suddenly fell away. It didn't matter how weak and clumsy I was- she had seen Christ in me! Surely He could show Himself through me to anyone else as well! That was one of the glory days.
Another came when, as, under a great deal of stress and discouragement, I was feeling that I didn't 'fit in anywhere', that there was no ministry or work that I was really 'suited' for, and I wished desperately that God would show me what I was able to do, not even daring to ask Him for the explanation of it all- and then, my TESL professor took me aside and said, "You were created to teach children. It's in your blood to teach children. God gave you an instinctive gift for teaching that I have encountered very rarely. Don't give up!" It answered so few of my questions, and yet, it was just the thing I needed to hear in order to get through the disappointments of that week.
I could talk for hours about God's faithfulness this year, about the things He is teaching me. There were days when it seemed His training was too harsh- even days when I resented it. But, seeing the year in review, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the humbling, for the heartbreaking, for the cutting away of the human supports I leaned on, and of my own self-sufficiency. At the beginning of my first semester, a friend sent me an article about Samueul Rutherford. Here is what Rutherford wrote while imprisoned for his beliefs:
"If God had told me some time ago that He was about to make me as happy as I could be in this world, and then tell me that He should begin by crippling me in all my limbs, and removing me from all my usual sources of enjoyment, I should have thought it a very strange mode of accomplishing His purpose. And yet, how is His wisdom manifest even in this! For if you should see a man shut up in a closed room, idolizing a set of lamps and rejoicing in their light, and you wish to make him truly happy, you would begin by blowing out all his lamps; and them throw open the shutters and let in the light of heaven."
After reading that, I went out into the field and prayed, "Lord, blow out all my lamps!"
I didn't know what I was asking. I don't know if I could have had the courage to ask such a thing if I had. I don't know, even now, if I have the courage to continue on with it- this grinding process of lamp-extinguishing, and I have only tasted the edges of an answer; God is very merciful in His dealings with my weakness. But I will close my freshman year with the prayer that began it: "Lord, blow out all my lamps! I would see Thee in all Thy radiance!"
This drab dorm room- my haven against storms and attacks for the past eight or nine months is the lamp which will go dark on Wednesday. A new set of roots are being torn up.
Yet I finally realize, marvelling, that it is a place more soaked in prayer than tears. That my memories of this once faceless room- returning on Wednesday to facelessness- are more of unimagined glory than of unimagined pain. And I know too, in this brief flash of perception, that there could not have BEEN the glory without the pain, the prayer without the tears, the victory without the breaking. It is finished, and He was sufficient! And I? What can I be but thankful for His chastening love? So let the years come!"

The Undiscovered Country:
'Lord, for the erring thought
Not unto evil wrought:
Lord for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still:
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.
For ignorant hopes that were
Broken to our blind prayer:
For pain, death, sorrow sent
Unto our chastisement:
For all loss of seeming good,
Quicken our gratitude.' -William Dean Howells

Jottings and Meanderings:

For anyone who leads an incredibly boring life, and would therefore like to read the rest of the poetry that was scribbled into odd corners of my notebook during this year- this post is for you. I thought of giving this some really impressive title, such as 'The Complete Unpublished Works of Sharon L. Moore', but I fear, gentle readers, that you will see all too clearly why the various artistic efforts of 'Sharon L. Moore' remain unheralded and unpublished! So, here they are, a scrambled collection of jottings and meanderings, to be enjoyed or ignored as you please:

Lamentations 3:22

And yet- (O praise Him for that yet!)
I call this promise to my mind
Though every hope I may forget,
Still happiness in this I find:
By His great love we still prevail
For His compassions never fail!

3 A.M. View From My Window in January: ( That sounds impressive! :-P )

A dreaming haze of pale azure
And golden lights rests on the snow;
Dark tree-shapes cast a blue allure
Where shadows stretch along the glow
Of sleeping ice and frozen street.
They strain, elongated and slim
From deeps where tree and shadow meet;
Arch past the realm of shade and dim
To burst in brittle lines of bloom-
Strange fragile bones of gilded blue-
A skeleton of flame and dew-
Shivered to powder at a touch;
No living hand can finger such.

The Question:

And what is Love? I found it at His hand
When every other love of mine had failed
And left me crushed- do not misunderstand;
I did not come to Him a supplicant
For grace or tenderness, but rather, railed
Jeered, spit into His face- wholly rebelled,
The more He wholly loved- I never meant
To rest upon His strength, and yet He quelled
Hatred in me, and spite, and He has nailed
The gate between us to the side until,
My Love, He could cross over unto me
And bring His captive over into Him!
My Life, My God, Belovéd! dwell and fill-
Work, praise, abide in me- hads't Thou not moved
The walls that parted us, I had not loved!

~~~~~
But here I stumble at the rim
Of dizzy heights; my prayer will be
Since I lack strength to cry to Him
'Lord, cry in me!'

Lord cry in me, I cannot call
My eyes burn, ache, but do not see
My God, I cannot come to You at all
So come to me.

Lord humble me, chasten and rend
My knees are stiff, and will not bow.
I have not any love to give,
Love in me now.

Lord pray in me; my heart is cold.
Replace the stone with flesh and fire
I cannot yearn for You- then Lord,
In me desire.


An Informal Sonnet:

The saying goes, 'Love does not dominate;
It cultivates.' My face is hot with shame
To think of all I've gilded with Love's name
That did not bear Love's Spirit, or its trait
Of self-forgetting- how can I but blame
My soul-corroding pride, or too much hate
This seething love of Self that did create
Such lovelessness, which childishly I called
My 'love'? Was that indeed such 'love' as I
Thought worth receiving? Thinking now to buy,
And now to grasp- which sought to elevate
Itself, and not its object- love that mauled
The very name of Love- O, God create
THY Love in me, that I might imitate!

~~~~~~~~~

A rushing murmur is the creek;
The quail burst from the grass a whir
Of stuttering wings- the things I seek
Are but a ripple and a blur.

I may cup water in my palm-
I cannot cup the greenish pool
Nor every golden light and stone
And mossy branch that makes the whole.

I may pluck feathers from the grass
Or let the wind rush past my arm
I cannot pluck the speeding birds
From out the wind; their wild alarm

Their frantic wings, and wilder flight-
Are beyond reach of touch or sight
Neat-patterned plumage, coat of gloss
But flashing memories of loss.

A rushing murmur is the creek;
The quail burst from the grass a whir
Of stuttering wings- the things I seek
Are but a ripple and a blur.

~~~~~~~~~~

"And so they melted all their gold
And cast it in a bovine mold
Where now their offerings they bring
To bow themselves before the 'Thing'.

And when by prophets they are governed
Yaweh as their lawful Sovereign
All that the silly creatures crave
Is, "Kings, like OTHER nations have." "

History has not treated kindly
Israel, she who followed blindly
Hand-fashioned gods, and sinful men
For this was wrong- but then again,

We of today are not much better-
Israel balked when Yahweh led her-
Still the ancient impulse lingers-
We want a god in reach of fingers.

Man, who cannot see much beyond
Himself, forever must be fond
Of asking ('if it's not too much!')
For gods that he can see and touch.

Man, who must play the ages' fool
Chafes at his wise Creator's rule
Favors abuse and subjugation
Under a human domination.

Well may we laugh at Israel's blunders
Yet, there come moments when one wonders
Why we should deem ourselves exempt
From this we treat with such contempt.

Moderns, eschewing wood and stone
Hunger no less for gods their own
Humbly exalt, with reckless vanity,
Struggling and sorrowful humanity.

Often we fill our 'obligation'
Toss God some phrase of approbation-
Rarely will foolish man commence
With worship and obedience.

Humans instinctively disdain
Life underneath their Maker's reign-
We're glad, of course, that Christ would die
But will not call Him Adonai.

From the beginning we've colluded
Plotted and schemed (myself included)
For the illusion of control
Over the sorry human soul.

Lord if I come now, brokenhearted
Back at the point from which I started
Sickened to death of self and sin
Will you receive me yet again?

Lord, I'm afraid I still am fighting-
Even this moment, as I'm writing
Longings to throw off bit and bridle-
Take to myself another idol.

Knowing from trial that the conclusion
Surely will shatter my illusion
Still I go hungering to find
Solace from one of 'my own kind'.

Help me to keep to this decision:
Though far beyond my hands and vision
Vast though You be, though broader, higher-
You will I make my sole desire.

Every heavy hanging minute
All of my life, and all that's in it
Loneness, bewilderment, and pain-
All that I am is Yours again.


View From My Window On a Blustery May Afternoon: ( :-P )

A flash of butterfly-winged
Leaves- in a lime-bright whirl
Like a storm of stars
Flutter between the mystic gaze
Of an April sky and me-
Sunlight bursting
In fiercely yellow blooms
Sprinkled in glints across
Leaping ripples of grass-
I lean
Into the boisterous air,
Past the thrust of the wall, and
The decorous bounds of the window
To catch
The glad heels of the romping wind
Painting the gold-green world
Cerulean blue.
The horizon
Rushes before me- a barricade of towering trees
Stamping and tossing their heads
In their earth-bound fury
Of root-anchored, green-swelling
Impatience- the world swings upward, then down,
Patterned with billowing shadows.

~~~~~~~~~

The night was a slavering Thing of shadows
and fever- the pillow hot with it. Night
was a claustrophobic weight- a smothering of darkness
a suffocation of darkness like blankets
Heaped upon blankets- Life, Sound, Wind, Liberty, Light and Coolness
Were words from another realm whose meaning jarred
Upon low-ceilinged, black realities. Parched lips muttered
And cracked with soreness. Fought to draw air
in- gasping with flattened lungs- then silence.
The nightmare prospect of years stretched in a grim line
Where leaden feet must stumble.

It was some writhing hours later I stood
A cold, broad plain stretched out before me, rose
A slope. Where sparks teemed in the stillness- flung
Wonder into a gaping sky- then music soared
Passion and tenderness, eagerness, loveliness
For You came gladly singing, Morning Star.
Beginning and end for me- You, never begun nor ended.

Your promise brightens on the clouded rim
Of earth- dawn sweeps horizons, and I gaze
At that white creeping radiance- a glow
Lights up my farthest sight- the whole world lifts.
It turns its head to catch the throb of drums
And pulsates as the sunrise, thundering
Rolls crashing past the black-edged wall of hills
And over greyish fields- the promise holds-
Eternal, Morning comes.

The Echoes of His Peace

'And now I hear Thy mighty "Peace, be still,"
And wind and wave are calm- their fury, froth.
Could wind or wave cause Thee to break Thy troth?
They are but servants to Thy Sovereign will;
Within me all is still.'(Amy Carmichael) :

Those are the wondrous moments in life. Not when the water is a happy, playful, breeze-ruffled thing dancing along between myriad sun-glintings, but when the waves rise up in a great grey rage, and strike like walls- when the wind is a roaring beast, and the depths swell, and billow, and crash over with irresistible force- and then, miraculously, are quelled. It must be worth years of storm-tossing to feel that glorious storm-halting once!

The past few weeks have been a hurricane. I just felt driven helter-skelter before an icy blast of inadequacy, and hurt, and betrayal, and, anger, and rebellion. I didn't know the world could really be such an absolute howling wilderness, and that one could keep smiling, and studying, and chattering away as though nothing were the matter.
Pride was in a fury, and idealism was struck to the heart. Was it possible that I could really be SUCH a miserable failure as this? Were people really so corrupt and untrustworthy? Would I ever have the grace to love them as unselfishly as I wanted to? Did I really WANT to love them at all? Was there any point even in trying? I was writhing in the grip of absolutely poisonous emotions- and I hated the feeling- and I couldn't stop it, or see more than a few inches beyond pain.

It simply went on like that, until I was teetering at the breaking point. Life was a seemingly endless round of dully staring into space, of crying, of lacking the emotional fervour to cry, of praying listlessly in circles- knowing I was stung only by a hundred 'little things', and suffering as though they had been great and terrible ones. It's awful to feel oneself grieved beyond logic and reason- no one watching from the outside can sympathise or comprehend it.

And then, one night, kneeling through the crashing wonder of a thunderstorm, I talked and sobbed it all out with God in rain drenched hopelessness at the Altar Place. And I woke up the next morning, and it was... gone. I hardly recognized myself. I had been frozen before- often unable to feel at all, but this was not freezing or numbness- this was PEACE! Pulling the blankets closer around me, I curled up beside the window and looked out. The tawny-grey lace of branches and twigs on the nearest tree- just beginning to be touched with green at the tips (it is a tree that steps cautiously into Spring) were jeweled with with dangling rows of diamond droplets. The bark of the farther tree was black with rain- the asphalt was shining with it- puddles were flashing at me here and there. A wild panorama of green began to rush past- lush, joyous emerald grass- a great canopy of treetops rising in the near horizon- a silvery cascade of paler green falling over the closest maple. And the sky was soft, gentle, awash with clear grey light- the whole scene singing exquisite morning-ness! I was so glad! I think I learned all over again what gladness is!
Beautiful God! Beautiful morning! As though the Maker of all THIS could be at a loss to guide me, and the people he'd placed about me! I was laughing- happy, childish, unsarcastic laughter, and it was unspeakably good. It has been good ever since- transcending final projects and impending finals- stress, worry, and discouragement. Peace is such a glowing thing- and suddenly, all the love that I couldn't manage at all is overflowing almost effortlessly in generous fountains of grace.

It sounds so strange- is such a miracle, to me! I've felt gradual change before, but never a sudden, utter transformation like this. I only know that a faith which was completely impossible to me when I went to bed was mine in abundance when I woke up- has stayed, like a weight of brightness on my heart all week. At first, I only began to know, as an accomplished fact, that joy was a thing entirely independent of happiness- and then I found that happiness follows on the heels of joy! Every truth in the world was suddenly new-minted. Circumstances are unchanged, but life is far, far, better than alright! And He is glorious!

A few months ago, at the rocky beginning of the semester, I jotted this verse down (during math class, of course.)

He laid a hand upon my inner gale.
One sighing splash denotes collapsing waves,
Then all is still.
And silenced is the clamour of my soul-
Its plunging- frenzied, wild,
Rests calm within the chambers of His will,
Is chambered in the circle of His calm.
No other sound intrudes upon us, save
The waters, breathing like a drowsing child,
And rocking in the echo of His "Peace!"

I'm still a little bit dazed by the stillness. It came so suddenly, and stayed so completely. But since the echo of Christ's "Peace, be still!" is still throbbing here along clear, rainbow lines of light- like the sun bursting through rain-slicked glass- why, what can I do but radiate peace as well?

A Small Beauty

The sanctuary- which does double duty as our pastor's house- was hushed. Skirts rustled. A shoe scraped. Two throats were cleared. It was the 'prayer' part of the service, where we share concerns, and then take some time for everyone to pray as/if they feel moved. We were all waiting, in the throes of an awkward pause, for SOMEONE to feel moved- begging the silence to break. Then Mr. King stood up in the back of the room. He said:

"We thank You, Lord, for this 'small beauty' we live in. We thank You for showing us a small beauty, so that we can conceive of a bigger one. We thank You for Your promise that one day, there will be no more 'small beauty', or pieces of beauty, but only Your great Beauty transforming all."

I love that thought, and that wording. It's true- we live in 'a small beauty'. Sometimes, I just feel so drained and weighed down by the ugliness surrounding me- by the ugliness WITHIN me, for that matter, that I forget there is ANY beauty in the world! At other times, (and it happens often in Spring!) I'm so carried away into ecstacy by the beauty burgeoning and blossoming everywhere that I can hardly conceive of anything superior, nor feel strongly enough my need of it.

But we live in 'a small beauty'. Not a complete one. Beauty in patches. And it would be as terrible to not see it at all as it would be to see nothing else. Only the recollection that fractions of an infinite beauty are the most- and least- that we are able to see can guard us from either extreme.

So I just content myself with writing poetry about it in math class... :-)


I watched the rippling fires
Of rumpled grass; flame tumbling over flame.
The wind blows up a silver blaze, whirls higher,
Extinguishes in green; begins the game
A second time; goes dancing through the trees
And meadow, painting with a silvery sheen
The ruffled leaves, then swiftly as it came
Is leaping back; advances and retires
And spreads the fields in sighing green again.

The breeze falls slack-
Drifts in shaded hollows of the wood.
The sun begins to shine in earnest- heats
The meadows with a flood-
Of heavily rippling warmth- a skylark sings
Above the panting field; a lone bird beats
A path into the glaring sky, its wings
A whir of silence. She and I, we stood
Welded to noon-stillness of sluggish blood
Limp fingers linked in drowsy wondering
At Summer burning through a veil of Spring.

The Moon Is Round!

I was skimming through Jim Elliot's journals last night, and found, under the entry for Dec 26 these cryptic words: "The Moon Is Round!"
An explanatory note in the margins, written by Jim's wife, Elisabeth, explained:

"This refers to an experience which Jim told me about years later. He had been depressed, doubting the sovereignty of God. The moon seemed to show him that there is wholeness, that all things are complete in Christ, even when they appear to be partially shadowed."

How often things 'appear to be partially shadowed'!

And yet, even when I look at the dark sky, and see only a dim white sliver of the light and beauty I hoped for; even when I look at my life, and see only a miserable thread of the glory or satisfaction that 'ought to be' present (or nothing at all!) it should not be a cause for despair.
The wholeness, the fullness, the glory of the moon are not lost or extinguished. Only 'partially shadowed'. And shadows cannot alter the reality of the things that are.
When we gaze grief-stricken on a world where 'nothing makes sense', where 'everything goes wrong', where 'everything under the sun is meaningless', we must keep in mind that we are looking at vast shadows, and seeing only wee snatches of realities. "The Moon Is Round!" Darkness may seem to halve it, or obliterate it entirely, but it is still there, unchanged, as round and massive as ever.

My favorite song at Chinese fellowship (partly because it is one of the only ones accompanied by an English translation) is 'The Sun Above The Clouds.' The gist of the song is: 'I walk about sometimes and see the sun shining brightly, and at others cannot see it at all. But this does not mean that there is no sun, only that clouds are getting in the way. I will still be joyful because I know the sun is there, whether I can see it or not.' And then, the chorus basically says: 'No matter what the clouds do, the sun does not change. Ah! It stays the same!'

The sun, the moon, the Son, His power and love- they stay the same. No matter if our view is sometimes limited.

So, if you're feeling overwhelmed by shadows, or lost in clouds, remember: The sun above the clouds is still shining, untouched by the lower things. And, 'The Moon Is Round!'

Where 'there was not any wall':

It seems to me that this year has been far too full of crisis. The family has vaccillated between medical emergencies and financial emergencies, sometimes throwing in both at once for good measure. Less than a year after our last move, we are considering moving yet again. Some days, I feel like a puppet being jounced about on a string. People, governments, and circumstances outside of my control seem to be running the show, and it's really, really scary!
But that's only a 'seems like'- and seemings are nothing!

Here is the reality:

Psalm 18:28,30-36
"You, O Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light." " As for God, His way is perfect; the word of the Lord is flawless. He is a shield for all who take refuge in him. For who is God besides the Lord? And who is the Rock except our God? It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he enables me to stand on the heights. He trains my hands for battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze. You give me your shield of victory and your right hand sustains me; you stoop down and make me great. You broaden the path beneath me, so that my ankles do not turn."

Psalm 31:8-9a
"You have not handed me over to the enemy but have set my feet in a spacious place. Be merciful to me, O Lord, for I am in distress;..."

Psalm 33:9-11, 13-22
"For he spoke, and it came to be; he commanded and it stood firm. The Lord foils the plans of the nations; he thwarts the purposes of the peoples. But the plans of the Lord stand firm forever, the purposes of his heart through all generations." "From heaven the Lord looks down and sees all mankind; from his dwelling place he watches all who live on earth- he who forms the hearts of all, who considers everything they do. No king is saved by the size of his army; no warrior escapes by his great strength. A horse is a vain hope for deliverance; despite all its great strength it cannot save. But the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him, on those whose hope is in his unfailing love, to deliver them from death and famine.
We wait in hope for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in his holy name. May your unfailing love rest upon us, O Lord, even as we put our hope in you."

Have I put my hope in Him?
If I have, is there any earthly reason to give stress and worry a foothold in my life? Faith doesn't say "LORD???? What are you THINKING??? How could you let these things happen to us? Where is this going? Why? Why? Why?" Amy Carmichael summed it up neatly: "Faith never questions why."
Faith is not fearful, nor resentful, nor rebellious.
Sometimes it appears to me that the world is a total mess. Completely crazy, completely rotten. Out of control.
And we DO live in a fallen world, full of messed up people doing messed up things and making stupid decisions. But NEVER out of control! He who 'forms the hearts of all' and 'considers everything they do' is Sovereign. All things are working together for His glory. He is the Deliverer, and His love is unfailing.
It's just that sometimes, deliverance seems far away, or, when it comes, is nothing like my expectations. Oswald Chambers wrote:

"The things that happen do not happen by chance- they happen entirely by the decree of God. God is sovereignly working out His own purposes. If we are in fellowship and oneness wih God... we will no longer strive to find out what His purposes are. As we grow in the Christian life... we are less inclined to say, "I wonder why God allowed this or that?" And we begin to see that the compelling purpose of God lies behind everything in life, and that God is divinely shaping us into oneness with that purpose. A Christian is someone who trusts in the knowledge and wisdom of God, not in his own abilities."

It's true- but sometimes I forget, or at least, drift away. Then I find myself where I was this morning- drooping Mondayishly in math class, battling the throbbing beginnings of yet another headache, and scribbling sub-par poetry in the margins of my notebook.
Here is this morning's effort:

'Time placed a chain of silence on my tongue
Binding my weary thoughts with rings of steel;
A weight of leaden armoring which hung
Massive and grim, too dense to fear or feel
beyond- Tomorrows writhed throughout the cell-
Whose heavy doors shut out the clear Today;
Only three scattered bars of sunlight fell
From miles above, to waver, not to stay.

Dizzy, I heard the rushing far below
Of angry waters- ringing in my ears
Came doubt, and pain; futility also-
The torrents grew, and were the roar of years.

My God- I cannot see beyond this wall
The window, too, is high and out of sight.
No key of mine can turn the lock at all
No flame of mine could penetrate this night..."

Here, I stopped, wondering dully what I was trying to say- and suddenly realized that I did not need to find an ending for my poem, because Amy Carmichael has written it already:

But "...a light shined in the cell.
----And there was not any wall
----And there was no dark at all
----Only Thou, Emannuel!"

There IS not any wall! Nor is there any darkness! Nor is there any prison of Despair, save in my own fevered brain. There is only Him.

My friend and teaching partner, Maggie, shared this with me yesterday:

"Our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but only empties today of its strength.” - Charles H. Spurgeon

Do fear and worry accomplish anything? If they are, as they were this morning and last night, undermining my confidence in God rather that driving me to Him for comfort, they are destructive, and should have no place in my life. We can say with the Psalmist 'my times are in Your hands' because He is ABLE to keep our 'times'- our dreams and our tomorrows.

So, contrary to the ferment of 'what if...' and 'it seems like...' thoughts attacking our brains, we should maintain this attitude:

"I have set the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body also will rest secure." (Psalm 16:8-9)

And may 'the God of peace' give us His peace!
Amen.

If this is love...

She stood in the doorway, fingers rattling nervously over the keys of her phone as she typed a text message, face tense, a few mascara streaked tears wandering down the soft brown of her cheek. She wasn't talking to me, but to her best friend who was in the other room.

"I just don't get it", the girl choked. "It didn't used to be this way with him and me. I never thought this would happen to us."

I'd never seen her so subdued. The girl talking is one of my suitemates- her best friend is the other. Usually, Kiki is brazen, brassy, carefree- impossible to embarrass or disconcert. She laughs at things which would offend or grieve anyone else- I would have said that NOTHING was sacred to her- yet here she was, weeping all over her carefully applied makeup, convulsively toying with her phone, arms folded as though to shield herself from hurt- or to hide a wound. Maybe the coarseness, the shrillness are a front- a bold face against all the inexplicable terror and cruelty of life? Perhaps that hardened exterior is really a protective shell enfolding a sensitivity I was too dull to guess at? Perhaps...
Do we ever really know anyone? Even the people we live with?

But she was still standing there, stammering out through pauses a rather hysterical jumble about the issues she is having with her boyfriend. Then, at the end, as I was leaving for class, she said something that I don't think I'll ever forget.

"Love aint s'posed to be like this. He say he love me. Well, I say, if this is love, I DON'T WANT IT!"

And something in me, which had been hard and unforgiving towards them both, melted in a rush of anguished pity. I longed to jump into the conversation and tell her all that was burning in my heart. But, instead, afraid of 'meddling', afraid of 'offending', afraid of being rejected yet again, I walked out the door, and off to class. I don't know quite what else I could have done, and yet, there is so much which I desperately wanted to say to her at that moment. I don't know if I even have words for the feeling, but I will write it here:

" 'If this is love...', you said. Do you know what love is? Have you ever felt it? Ever seen it? You know about shootings. About abuse. About discrimination and betrayal, about drug dealing, and streets where no grass grows, and skies without stars. But love- love? Do you know about that? Would you even recognise it if you saw it?
'If this is love...' But, oh, Kierra, Kierra, that isn't. I don't know what's gone wrong for you, I don't know why you're upset, but I can tell you that what you're describing isn't love. Not that I'm an expert- and yet, I KNOW Love- and He is nothing like that. May I, can I show you what LOVE has to say for Himself?

Exodus 24:6 '...The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin.'

1 Chronicles 16:34 'Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.'

2 Corinthians 13:11 '...And the God of love and peace will be with you.'

1John 4:8 'God IS love'

So who is Love? HE is love!

But WHAT is love?

'This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us....' (1 John 3:16)

'Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.' (John 15:13)

'Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails... (1 Corinthians 13:4-8)

'...Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up....' (1 Corinthians 8:1)


Kierra, does that sound like any 'love' you have ever experienced before? I know I'VE never received it, not from the dearest people in the world- but it overflows from Him! It's His nature, His identity!

Maybe you don't think you deserve it, and of course you don't. No more do I. Yet, still, He gives anyway, and gives, and gives!

'THIS is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.' (John 4:10)

'But God demonstrates his own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.'

'If this is love...' you said. If you had any idea what love is, and where it comes from, such a statement would be ridiculous. Perhaps what you're embroiled in is 'romance'. It might be 'relationship', or 'admiration', even 'friendship' after a fashion, but love? No! Never!

Of course, romance, admiration, and friendships can be remarkably pleasant. You know that as well as anyone. They have ups and downs, though- sometimes, even fall completely apart! Where do you go then? What can you cling to? Who stays near you?

There is a verse in my Bible, marked with a date, and with the still stinging memory of heartbroken tears:

Isaiah 54: 10 'Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed, says the Lord, who has compassion on you.'

I read that verse now, and I cannot fathom what it was to me at the moment I marked it, and held onto it for dear life. I remember the confidence that swept over me- that the things happening all around, and the things that MIGHT happen, and all the millions of things I don't understand were NOTHING in the face of His unfailing love, and His covenant of peace, and His compassion for me- for my weakness and brokenness, nearsightedness and confusion!

Do you really want to replace the overwhelming peace and comfort of that passage with the temporary 'fix' of a movie or a new dress?
Do you have anything better?

Hosea 6:3-7 'Let us acknowledge the Lord; let us press on to acknowledge him. As surely as the sun rises, he will appear; he will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth. What can I do with you, Ephraim? What can I do with you Judah? Your love is like the morning mist, like the early dew that disappears...I desire mercy [Hebrew 'hesed': right conduct, loyalty.], not sacrifice, and acknowledgement of God rather than burnt offerings. Like Adam, they have broken the covenant- they were unfaithful to me...'

'If this is love...' But of course, it isn't. A shadow, perhaps. A cheap imitation, at best. It won't ever satisfy you. Won't sustain you. Won't last. His love- the love of the one Who IS love- is entirely different.
The best we have to give of ourselves, either to God, or to the people around us is love that is like the morning mist- which trembles into nothing at a ray of sun or a breath of wind- like dew that is vanishing almost before it is fallen.

That is not the kind of love He is offering you. That is not the kind of love you are hungry for.
Proverbs 19:6 says: 'What a man desires is unfailing love...'
And Psalm 33:5 assures us: 'The Lord loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love.'

Amy Carmichael once wrote:

"It is a safe thing to trust Him to fulfill the desires which He creates."

Do you think the Creator could not know that His creatures desire unfailing love, and cannot be content with less? Do you think He expects that beings created for eternity could settle for love that does not endure forever also?
Nothing of the sort is true. He has given us a gnawing hunger for His kind of love- for the love that only He can give. And He WILL give it, if only you will let Him!

He doesn't want you to go through the motions, to make more effort, to clean up your life. He isn't primarily concerned with your cigarettes, or cussing, or promiscuity. Because you could turn your back on all of that, and still it would mean nothing at all. We've all failed Him, from Adam on down. We've turned our backs on love, TRUE love, even while we were crying out for it, frantically trying to fill up the void.

Kierra, He wants YOU- your heart- pitiful, corroded as it is! Holiness- sanctification- those follow. They're terribly important. But it's not the point. You, your goodness, your badness, are irrelevant. You'll never be good enough to win His approval. You'll never be bad enough to forfeit His love. God isn't primarily concerned with the language you use, or the drugs you put in your body, or who you're sleeping with. Because, until your heart has been opened to a deep, consuming, operative faith in Christ and His atonement, it's irrelevant! He doesn't WANT you to 'clean up your act', or 'get your life back on track'. He wants you to fall before Him, broken, and let HIM do what needs to be done.
And that is love- the continuous pattern of our brokenness, and His redemption.
Are you very, very sure that you don't want it? Anything else will leave you here, right where you started, weeping in anger and disillusionment; forever nursing wounded affections and wounded pride. And that's a pretty miserabe place to dwell in.

So, '...Let us press on to acknowledge Him...'

And someday, I hope you will say to Him:

'Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its ardor unyielding as the grave. It burns like a blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away.'(SS 8:6-7)

THAT is Love.

'...I pray that you... may have power... to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge- that you... may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.' (Ephesians 3:17-19)

Daisy Chains

"No calamity so touches the common heart of humanity as does the straying of a little child. Their feet are so uncertain and feeble; the ways are so steep and strange." -William Sydney Porter

I guess a lot of people would think it odd that I spent three hours today browsing through the children's section of our University Library.(or, perhaps, as I do, think it odd that a University has a children's section at all! :-) )

I KNOW that a lot of people thought it odd, because I got some extremely strange looks from students at tables, and even passers by. Personally, I maintain that, considering the general eccentricity of your average college student, they should not begrudge me a few hours with Child and Young Adult literature during the peak of mid-term frenzy.
But, be that as it may, to put the concerns of these narrow-minded folk at rest, I will hasten to explain that my hours with Amelia Bedelia, and Bill Peet, and a staggering selection of 'folk tales from around the world', etcetera were for the purpose of completing a mid-term in my TESOL class- I was hunting down read aloud fodder for my 22 imaginary second graders, in order to finish designing a lesson plan on Critical Thinking and Reading strategies.

So, I see nothing to peculiar in the fact that I spent my afternoon with children's books, in the library. Nor in the fact that I enjoyed it. But, even I have to confess that there is something a bit unusual in the fact that a large portion of this time was spent curled up between two aisles of books crying.

There is a certain, rather morbid class of books which people are always writing for children, which probably has some technical name of which I am unaware. Were I going to name it, I think I would title this genre something lke 'A Child's Garden of Coping Strategies'. Maybe you have never seen these books? I will try to explain.
I encountered them for the first time at the age of or seven or eight, in the Lee's Summit library, where I was wandering about after a reading program.
As I crawled blissfully from shelf to shelf, a title caught my eye. I pulled the book out, and began to thumb through it. I was riveted, with a sort of shocked fascination. It was horrible! All about a little girl whose parents fight, and then get divorced, and how she has to live traveling between two houses. Of course I knew, in a sort of vague, theoretical way, what divorce was- but this was just AWFUL! How could things like that happen?
So, trembling, I shoved the 'awful book' away, and pulled something else from the shelf. That's when I discovered the 'coping genre'. Because the next book was supposed to teach children about death, and help them come to terms with it. When I looked more carefully, I found that this whole section of shelf was full of books about children dealing with abuse, divorce, lost pets, grandparents with alzheimers, loneliness, bullying, betrayal, sickness, etcetera.
"Weird." thought I, and moved off in search of fairy tales, and animal stories, pretty pictures, and adventure- REAL children's books.
After that, I nearly forgot about the 'coping books'
Reading to siblings at the library, I occasionally saw them, but we always passed them by.
Until I blundered into the Children's Section today.

It started with a shabby brown book entitled 'No Time for Me', about a little boy named Tim. Tim's parents both work outside the home, and never have time for him and his sister Lydia. But they have promised to take him to a baseball game on his birthday, and he is counting down the days. Until they tell him that they've decided to go on a business trip to Hawaii instead! Tim, unsurprisingly, has a meltdown. The rest of the story chronicles Tim's attempts to deal with the letdown, and his parents' (belated) attempt to make amends. His father (thinks) he (might) be able to eat breakfast with Tim on Wednesdays. His mother agrees to come home an hour earlier (most) Thursdays. Tim takes what he can get.
I think there's supposed to be a happy ending, but I couldn't find it.

The next book was even worse. It's about a little boy who hates Father's day. Why does he hate Father's day? He hasn't got a father. This one is memorable, mainly because so wrenchingly pathetic.
It tells, in first person, the story of a little boy making a Father's Day project in class, for a father who left so long ago he can't remember. By the time I reached the third page, I was crying. The child's teacher is insisting that everyone has a father, and that the little boy should just mail the card he's decorating. And the child points out that he doesn't know where his father lives.
He adds wistfully to himself,
"Of course, everyone has a father. They tell me I have a father. But I wish I had a father I could KNOW."
Everything in my heart was shouting "Oh, but you DO! You do!"
The book ends with the child putting this father's day card away with all the others he's made over the years, concluding,
"Maybe someday he'll see them, and know that I love him."
The moral of the story, according to said 'coping book'?
'It's ok to be different.'
Even as a secular coping strategy, that's pretty lame.

Which is maybe why I couldn't stop crying once I'd started. Because, for that child, and for so many others, there is a well-intentioned but blind author attempting to apply a band-aid to the unmendable depths of the human heart, and no one- NO ONE to open sympathetic arms, to share the miraculous truths of Psalm 68:5 and 1 John 3:1

"A father to the fatherless... is God in his holy dwelling."

"How great is the love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!"

I continued to read- not just the infamous experiments in applied child psychology, but the ordinary children's books. There were lovely, laughing ones, (Did you know that Tolkein wrote and illustrated an enchantingly ridiculous story called 'Mr. Bliss'?) and sweet ones, and folk tales, and illustrations in everything from watercolor to collage. Many brought back memories- we are an extremely book oriented family, and read EVERYTHING aloud together, so I grew up on a wide variety of children's lit.
Some, too, were just sickening. Like 'Daddy Has A Roomate', about a little boy whose parents get divorced so his Dad can move in with his boyfriend. Worried? Don't be. It's ok (the book tells us) because Mommy and Daddy and the Boyfriend all agree that this new word 'gay' they are trying to explain to the child, means just an 'extra kind of love', and 'love is the best thing in the world.'
By the time I'd reached this point, I was sick and dizzy with a sort of headache-induced nausea. Palmistry, reincarnation, witchcraft, animism, ghosts, idolatry, Humanism, Buddhism- was there ANYTHING not being fed to little minds?
I tried to imagine the confusion facing a child who attempted to find answers about life in such a place. And television, the more common source of information, is even worse!
But, then, where else can they go? To parents who never learned? To teachers? To peers, equally confused? Will no one stand in the gap? No one?

Here's what Amy Carmichael had to say:
"...At my feet a precipice broke sheer down into infinite space. I looked, but saw no bottom... only unfathomable depths... Then I saw forms of people moving single-file along the grass. They were making for the edge. There was a woman with a baby in her arms, and another little child holding on to her dress. She was on the very verge. Then I saw that she was blind. She lifted her foot for the next step... it trod air. She was over, and the children over with her. Oh, the cry as they went over!
Then I saw more streams of people flowing from all quarters. All were blind, stone blind; all made for the precipice edge. There were shrieks as they suddenly knew themselves falling, and a tossing up of helpless arms, catching, clutching at empty air. But some went over quietly, and fell without a sound.
Then I wondered, with a wonder that was simply agony, why no one stopped them at the edge... I saw that along the edge there were sentries set at intervals. But the intervals were far too great; there were wide, unguarded gaps between. And over these gaps the people fell in their blindness, quite unwarned...
Then I saw, like the picture of peace, a group of people under some trees, with their backs turned toward the gulf. They were making daisy chains. Sometimes when a piercing shriek cut the quiet air and reached them, it disturbed them, and they thought it rather a vulgar noise. And if one of their number started up and wanted to go and do something to help, then all the others would pull that one down. "Why should you get so excited about it?...You haven't finished your daisy chains. It would be really selfish," they said, "to leave us to finish the work alone." ...
One child caught at a tuft of grass that grew at the very brink of the gulf; the child clung convulsively, and it called, but nobody seemed to hear. Then the roots of the grass gave way, and with a cry the child went over, its two little hands still holding tight to the torn-off bunch of grass...
Then came another sound like the pain of a million broken hearts wrung out in one full drop, one sob. And a horror of great darkness was on me..." -Amy Carmichael

Daisy Chains... are so many things. Why is it that the Church in the U.S. is, as a whole, more concerned with new carpet, and lighting fixtures, and the latest sound systems, than it is with discipleship, with discipline, with the sacrificial commitment to reach human souls? Why is it that your average Christian is expending so much of his energy agonizing over political battles, and elections won or lost (or even football games won or lost!), yet gives so little of himself to battling principalities and powers, and winning human souls? Why is it that in America, the wealthiest nation in the world, we have money for new cars, exquisite home decor, and namebrand clothing, yet can only spare a few dollars, if that, to support those who DO wish to go out and serve? Why do we have time for televisions, and computers, and magazines, and newspapers, and a staggering range of hobbies, yet only moments to spare for studying God's Word- much less for actually teaching it to others- even less for building the relationships, for investing the interest and affection which make God's love a visible reality?

It's a hard question to ask- and, although sometimes I'm desperately frustrated- long to grab the American church by the shoulders and SHAKE it into wakefulness- the truth is, I'm equally guilty. As sinful people in a broken world, none of us will ever do 'enough'. I'm willing to bet that Peter and Paul and all the rest of the Apostles made mistakes, missed opportunities, lost focus, and got sucked into the seductive pastime of daisy-chain weaving at some points in their lives. And those guys were SOLD OUT to God. So, our chances at perfection are somewhere below nill.

BUT WHY ARE WE SO SATISFIED WITH THAT?

I sat weeping among the children's books because of all of the loose ends in the picture the world was painting, because of the crushing weight of those millions of lives, shattered from their very beginning, because I sit in class with those children every day, and pass them in the halls, and for most of them, it's too late. Oh, I know- it's never over till you're dead. But there is a spiritual deadness and hardness that increases over time. And in so many of the people around me, I see that a window which was open ten, fifteen years ago, when they were facing the world wide open and full of questions, is now tightly shut. Who can say when, if ever, it will open again?

But I was also crying because of the deep, heartbreaking realization, coming yet again, that my own hands, on a day to day basis, are filled with daisies, and my fingers, with the force of long habit, are weaving stems and leaves in and out, in and out, as though nothing on earth were more important! I cried for the thought of that child, falling into endless emptiness with nothing but a grass-tuft to cling to, which, had I been more faithful, might have stood safely on the solid ground of Truth. There is no balm for this kind of ache. But, neither is there any 'if' in God's Kingdom!
There are only the present and the future. What will I make of them? What will you?
It remains to be seen. I pray that God will show us the gaps to stand in, subordinate the thundering, importunate 'WHERE?' to the stern discipline of 'HERE!', wherever 'Here' is.
What terrifying, wonderful responsibility it is to guard the gaps for little folk whose "...feet are so uncertain and feeble...", to stand where "...the ways are so steep and strange.", to serve a God who said: "I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children."(Matt 11:25) "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these." (Mark 10:14) "From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise." (Matt 21:16).
I cannot begin to comprehend it! We follow a King who not only

'clothed Himself in vile man's flesh that so
He might be weak enough to suffer woe." (Donne), but who

"...took the children in his arms..." (Mark 10:16)

Most days, I just feel a huge aching in my heart because MY arms aren't big enough. I can't reach far enough. I want to hold them all, shelter them all, and instead, am constantly letting go, watching their lives brush against mine, and slide away again.
And yet, in Texas, shattered by the pain of 'deserting' a truly special group of kids, and not merely saying goodbye, but of sending them back at the end of the week into brutally abusive and hopeless homes, I realized that even though my arms AREN'T enough, even though I can't protect them, can't train them, can't LOVE them the way I long to, HIS arms are eternal and limitless- His power to protect, His faithfulness to shape and instruct, His love and comfort are an unfailing source.
And even though I only have a week, or five days to impact them, HE has a lifetime!

It seems to me, in this precious moment of clarity, that for a God not merely so mighty, but so tender, we can afford to let go of our 'daisy chains'; the thousand everyday, useless things that fall to ashes, or less, at the least searching glance from Eternity, and hold to- or rather be held BY- the One "in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge." (Colossians 2:3) [You will NOT find 'the treasures of wisdom and knowledge in the Children's section of MWSU's library.]

"For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be the glory forever." (Romans 11:36)

Flight And Flame And Melody

When Grandpa was diagnosed with cancer a week or two ago, I asked my mother how Grandma was dealing with it all.
"She seems to be holding together pretty well," Mama replied. "But this is a bittersweet time in her life. Having him with her now- not knowing how much longer she will."
I was struck then, because, had I been describing someone's emotions upon realizing that the person they love most is terminally ill, I think I would have said only bitter, and left out the sweet. And then I thought about it more, and realized, especially as things were shifting wildly about in my own life, that she was right. These are bittersweet times. Not only for Grandma, but for us all.
Of course, when a person is sick, we are immediately reminded of the transience and fragility of life, but the truth is, that element was always there, whether we were noticing or not. Grandma has Grandpa now, but doesn't know how long she will. My family is together now- but a year from now, who can say? Tomorrow isn't a promise, and today, even, is a strange and solemn mystery. So, the times are always, always bittersweet. It is why Shelley wrote:

'...We look before and after
And pine for what is naught
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.',

why Francis Thompson, in describing a chance encounter with a girl commented:

'She went her unremembering way,
She went, and left in me
The pang of all the partings gone,
And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul
Could mourn that she was glad.
At all the sadness in the sweet,
The sweetness in the sad.'

Springtime, too, is a bittersweet season- perfectly attuned to the bittersweetness of this season in life. I spent about three hours today hiking around outside (in SHORTS and a T-SHIRT!!! :-) ), and all the world was dim, and fresh, and maddeningly new, but clouded with uncertainty. The sodden turf, dark and rich as an oil painting, the trees bursting and swelling with the very beginnings of leaves.
Geese swung out across the cloud-mottled sky, their lines and formations endlessly crossing and recrossing, stragglers winging in to join the keen heraldry of hoarse, wisful bell-cries. And all I wanted was to join them, and go somewhere, anywhere but here, with the work to be done, and the decisions to be faced. I felt a wrenching hunger for that grace, that beauty, that adventure which geese are on their migrations. To be able to FLY! I ran along the ridge of the hill as far as I could follow, but they were gone, with new flocks sweeping into sight, like a dark, smooth-feathered armada, long necks curved out in purposeful expectancy, black wings beating the air. And then, I could have wept with the frustration of it! Only imagine- to race forever into the long grayness of the sky today- to leave melting snow and muddied earth below like a distant tapestry- questions and confusion and indecision miles beneath, and feel only the sure guidance of an inner compass, and the wind-currents bearing one up! How can one stand to be always earth-bound and ground-crawling?
But as I perched on the log known as the Thinking Place, and watched flock after flock vanishing into the distant cloud-walls of the horizon, awash with the unbearable longing for impossibility which characterizes Springtime, I recalled (and I realize this is an impressive source) a scene from 'The Sound of Music', in which Maria, overwhelmed by confusion has fled back into the Convent. The Mother Superior says to her (and I had always thought this was painfully trite- as it probably is):

"You can't just run away from your problems... You have to face them."

It strikes me now as stingingly true. I can't run away from my problems. Nor can I fly away from them. Somehow, they have to be faced, in spite of my indecision, and second-guessing, and irrational terror of commitment to any course. I am beginning to realize just what terrible responsibility it is to be a woman, rather than a little girl- though I still can't understand which category I fall into.
This is such a transitional, 'middleish' time.
It seems now that even at my most serious I was merely a child playing games- and I shudder to think of what damage that child's happy carelessness might have done.
So, bittersweet.
But even in these mad, yearning Spring moments when I am only a bird without wings, terribly earth confined; a fire without burning- no quick, hot, dancing loveliness of light; a song with no tune, no notes to rise and fall and soar on, in all these times- in the strange, incomprehensible bittersweetness of life, HE is flight, and flame, and melody to me! He, and He alone! Could a God who made Springtime and the burgeoning mysteries of cool wind and reviving life be any less?

"My faith burns low, my hope burns low;
Only my heart's desire cries out in me
By the deep thunder of its want and woe,
Cries out to Thee.

Lord, Thou art life, though I be dead;
Love's fire Thou art, however cold I be:
Nor heaven have I, nor place to lay my head,
Nor home, but Thee." - Christina Rossetti

"In the shadow of His wings
I will sing for joy;
What a God, who out of shade
Nest for singing bird hath made;
Lord, my Might and Melody,
I will sing to Thee.

If the shadow of Thy wings
Be so full of song,
What must be the lighted place
Where Thy bird can see Thy face?
Lord, my Might and Melody,
I will sing to Thee." -Amy Carmichael

'Wait' Is An Answer

When we taught five day clubs this summer, and we were teaching the children about prayer, we would ask them "Does God ALWAYS answer our prayers?" And sometimes they said yes, and sometimes they said no- but if they said yes, we would often go on to ask: "What if I prayed that God would give me something, or show me something, and NOTHING happened? Did God still answer my prayer?" And, once again, sometimes they said yes, and sometimes they said no. But, hopefully, by the time we had finished teaching, they had all recognized and understood the fact that God DOES always answer, and that His answer might be 'Yes!', and it might be 'No!', or it might be 'Wait!'.
'Yes' is always an exciting answer to receive- and even the finality and clarification of a 'No' can sometimes be a relief, and a way of moving on ahead to something new. But 'Wait' is slippery. It hardly feels like an answer at all in many situations. Fortunately, feelings have nothing to do with it. 'Wait' IS an answer, and God has a right to give whatever answer He knows is best. It is for me to learn to embrace the wild, terrifying liberty of accepting that I DON'T need to know any more than He chooses to show me, or see any further ahead than He illuminates. Simply to 'Wait upon the Lord.'
And even when things seem to be in a desperate muddle, His 'wait' is all the clarification and information we need.

Confusion tightened at my throat:
Should I forbear, or should I gain?
The answers that I gave by rote
Were distant miles away from pain.
They fell upon my anguished ear
As songs the deaf but strain to hear.

I gazed and gazed, with clouding sight-
Once, wept a bitter haze of tears-
Once laughed, although my throat was tight,
And head was dizzied by my fears.
I could not guess, nor could I see
Which way the knots were leading me.

But He who weaves the tangled strands,
And sorts confusion, drew me near.
He took my knotted hopes in hands
Which gently worked the tangle clear.
My answer comes not soon, nor late:
The clarity He gave was, 'Wait!'

Oh, God, when my life seems one mass of desperate tangles, teach me to remember that You, and not I are the weaver. I look about me, and I see only the nearest, shortest sections of thread, seemingly of conflicting colors- of no pattern at all, or of no pattern which makes sense. But I cannot see very far. You have the loom, and the whole tapestry before you, and every thread is in its place. I know that You make all things beautiful in Your time. I am willing to WAIT- to be woven into a place, and in a manner which I cannot understand. It is not for me to squirm out of position, or dictate to You the proper manner of working Your loom.

Be our focus, God.
Not that we are confused, but that You are the Sorter of Confusion.
Not that we are hurting, but that You are the Comforter.
Not that we are harried, or worried, or stressed, but that You are Stillness, the Prince of peace.
Not that we are sinful and weak, but that You are Holy, and a transformer of sinners.
Not that we feel uncertain and directionless, but that You are THE Way.
Not that we are bewildered and conflicted, but that You are unchanging, and eternally in harmony.

'Just to love You'

"Sometimes in Dohnavur, we, who dearly love the little children about us... have looked up... to see a child beside us, waiting quietly. And when, with a welcoming hand held out to the Tamil "I have come," we have asked "For what?" thinking, perhaps, of something to be confessed, or wanted, the answer has come back, "Just to love you." So do we come, Lord Jesus; we have no service to offer now; we do not come to ask for anything, not even for guidance. We come just to love Thee." -Amy Carmichael

I read this story in Amy's book, 'Rose from Brier', and passed over it without much thought. But this weekend, at the Laborer's conference, something said (and I cannot even recall what) brought the phrase "I have come...just to love you." forcefully to my mind. Since then, I have been thinking about it constantly.
How often do I come to Jesus 'just to love Him'? It seems that I am always coming to complain, or to confess, to share, to question, to thank, to argue, etcetera- but how often to love- to simply adore, wholly, and nothing else?
There is a time and a place for coming and saying "Father, my heart is breaking- oh please, please, give peace, give comfort, or I cannot bear!" There is nothing wrong with coming to Him to say "Lord, give wisdom, give guidance- there are clouds over my path, and I stumble through a dark place, and cannot see where I should go! I am bewildered, God- show me Your direction!" And even, sometimes "Lord, my desires are before Thee- either give me that which I long for so desperately, or give me the strength to go without!"
But, do I always come to tell Him this, and beg Him for that, and never simply for Him, and for nothing else? Am I always the five year old asking incessant questions, rather than Mary, sitting at His feet to listen? Am I the crowds demanding advice, demanding blessings, demanding miracles, demanding healing, and never the woman who came and poured out perfume, who clung to Jesus, not expecting anything, but wanting only Him?
Not nearly often enough, I'm afraid.
Early on in this semester, we discussed at Navigators the difference between following Jesus for what He could give us, rather than for Himself.
I really like what Thomas A Kempis wrote on the subject:
"Many love Jesus as long as they meet with no adversity; many praise Him and bless Him as long as they receive some consolations from Him. But if Jesus hide Himself, and leave them for a little while, they either murmur, or fall into excesive dejection. But they that love Jesus for Jesus' sake and not for the sake of some consolation of their own, bless Him no less in tribulation and anguish of heart than in the greatest consolation. And if He should never give them consolation, yet would they always praise Him and always give Him thanks. Oh, how much is the pure love of Jesus able to do, when it is not mixed with any self-interest or self-love! Are not they all mercenarie who are ver seeking consolations! Do they not prove themselves to be rather lovers of themselves than of Christ who are always thinking of their own advantage and gain? Where shall we find a man that is willing to serve God dsinterestedly?"
Where indeed? In all honestly, I am not that person who is willing and able to serve God with no thought of self. I am far too prone to make my primary concern MY mistakes, and MY challenges; MY uncertainties, and MY needs; MY desires, and MY questions. And yet, I WANT to be different. I want to come to You, Master, not for anything You can show me, and not for anything You can give me, but only for You. 'Just to love You'!
God is reaching out across the world, individual, by individual. I don't have to have all the answers. I don't have to figure out the future or the past. All I need is to keep COMING to Him- for guidance, for conviction, for wisdom, of course- but most of all, before anything else, for Him! At His feet 'Just to love Him'. Not to tear my hair in confusion, but to open myself to His love, and serve Him completely and openly where I am TODAY!
If I will only keep coming, coming, coming to Him, at the proper time He will go through me as He sees fit.
The center of God's will is wherever I am, whenever I am sincerely worshipping Him and glorifying His name. It is safe to rest in His special promise to me ( "I, who made all of these, am perfectly able to direct them in My time"), safe to come to Him 'just to love Him', and for nothing else- not for any of the things I keep thinking that I 'need', or 'need to know'.
If my stresses, and worries, and concerns for the future make me introverted and introspective rather than extroverted, Christ focused, and unselfish, they are destructive, not valuable, and the argument that says 'You have to think about this now so that you'll be ready to make a decision' is merely a Hellish lie!
I want to love Him. I want to be a faithful servant where I am right now, right here, and let my tomorrows rest in His hand, where they have always been.
Lord, teach me to come like a child, wanting nothing, asking nothing, but 'just to love You.'

"If what we call love doesn't take us beyond ourselves, it is not really love. If we have the idea that love is characterized as cautious, wise, sensible, shrewd, and never taken to extremes, we have missed the true meaning. This may describe affection, and it may bring us a warm feeling, but it is not a true and accurate description of love. Have you ever been driven to do something for God, not because you felt that it was useful or your duty to do so, or that there was anything in it for you, but because you love Him?" -Oswald Chambers

As The Misty Bluebell Wood...

This is one of those blog posts that keeps on happening lately- or maybe is the only sort that ever happens. That is, it is a post created not so much for the reader's sake, but for my own. Things keep occurring that need to be analysed, and labeled, and sorted out- or perhaps just EXPRESSED- and somehow, many of them find their way here. And, that being said...
I am writing this, partly for those of you who knew that I was planning on leaving the country this summer, and will be shocked to learn that this has changed- and partly for myself, because I knew that I was leaving the country this summer- and every other summer for the next fifty years or so. Not to mention Spring and Fall and Winter! And now, my shock at the changing nature of things is equal to, if not exceeding your own!
Let's start at the beginning, shall we?
When I was at CYIA last summer, I met a Taiwanese woman. We talked a bit, and she was excited to discover that my greatest dream was to go to China- her homeland- as a missionary. We continued to see each other from time to time, and after a while she broached the possibility of taking me with her to China on one of her trips back, to help her teach English. It sounded like a fantastic plan- to spend a month in the place my heart most yearned towards, with someone fluent in the language and culture, doing the thing that I would quite possibly be doing for the rest of my life! What could be better? So, I gave an enthusiastic yes, though I expected it to be two years or so before our trip actually took place.
In December, my Chinese friend approached me and asked if I would be open to going with her to China THIS summer, for the month of July or longer.
I could probably say quite honestly that this December was one of the worst months of my life. Things got more confusing afterward, but the very newness of all the hurt, and dawning uncertainty made it nearly unbearable then.
Perhaps some pieces of a journal entry I wrote later that month sum it up best:

Dec 21, and Dec 23:
'Something has changed... and I can't go back. It's not that God's calling seems to have changed, but rather, broadened. I feel that I'm standing in the middle of a wide open space- one point from which a thousand narrow paths are radiating, and He has said that I may follow Him in any of these directions... I'm afraid of this seeming crossroad, whose inexorable answer is 'patience'. And afraid as well of myself- I dare not choose- or even take a step in either direction! I haven't the courage, or, much less, the wisdom for such staggering responsibility! I'm afraid of my own eagerness to snatch at the life I want, and afraid of learning what HE wants! But what DOES He want? If only He would thunder it from the heavens and leave no doubt!...Instead I sit here, straining to catch the phrases in His silence. Is it possible- IS IT- that I really am free to follow either path? And if so, WHICH????... What terrible in-betweenness this is! A sort of... purgatory...'

So, when my friend approached me about China this summer, I only felt more confused. My first, internal, reaction was 'Oh please- not now! Not now, of all times!' But then I was ashamed of the weakness- and of myself- and sick of the confusion. I remember sitting there thinking, while she watched me, patiently, for an answer, that here was a way out- a swift thrust of the knife- biting the bullet- no more wondering, and pacing, and pondering. Here- now- I could cross my Rubicon, and there would be no going back. Only the simplicity of a certain wound. One aches for closure after a while. I lectured: 'Sharon- here's the opportunity of a lifetime- the thing you want to do more than anything in the world! Don't be foolish! What does it matter that your current state of being is 'emotional puddle'? Things will get better- just decide, and get it over with!' So, when I turned to my fried, and said, in a strained voice, that I would love to go to China with her this summer, it was about much more than this summer only. It was a symbol. A gate I had finally found the strength to shut, and lock behind myself- or so I thought. In actuality, it was only the beginning of a very wild, and bewildering ride.
Things DID get better- for a little while. Many of the external issues which had dogged my steps in December were peacefully resolved. The tumult died down a bit. I found that I was able to feel a certain sense of excitement about the adventure of spending a summer in China. But some part of me- that part which had thrilled, and sang, and swelled to aching wonder- which I most longed to invest in prayer and anticipation for the trip seemed utterly limp and dead. Some vast portion of my heart was lifeless, detached- more joyless than I'd been in years. It didn't make sense! But I couldn't lecture myself into joy- or argue, or persuade, or harangue. Joy seemed so distant as to be entirely out of hearing. So, I bit my lip and reminded myself that emotions were irrelevant and misleading. (Which is true.) I turned back to the letter I'd written in my journal the previous January when I first began to feel drawn towards Asia, and repeated the words over and over again 'feelings have nothing to do with commitment', 'feelings have nothing to do with commitment'. The letter said, in part:

"...You and I are such transitory things against God's kingdom- in no way to be weighed beside eternity for billions enslaved by darkness. It seems to me that Jim and Elisabeth Elliot achieved something far greater with their 'brief tragedy of flesh' than any Hollywood happily ever after could have. And really, the Church and her Bridegroom are to know a happily ever after so joyful and eternal that the tears of this earth signify no more than the villain's doomed efforts to 'get the girl'!"

I wanted so desperately to be again the girl who'd written those words with such stern assurance of direction. And yet- and yet-
I couldn't shake the relentless feeling that something was wrong. And I didn't know WHAT was wrong! Logically, it should have been right, and more than right! Friends experienced in ministry had been advising me during the past year to start spending as much time overseas as possible. This was the PERFECT opportunity. I was pretty sure that the finances would fall into place, and had some money of my own saved to make support raising more feasible. It was a clear, logical, intelligent, wise, and beautifully simple plan, at least in its abstract construction. And my friend was sure to flesh out the details at the right time. So, I kept ploughing ahead with it, painting on the smile and confidence I knew I OUGHT to be feeling.

But then, one night, I was lying in bed remembering and praying for my 5 day club kids (something I don't do often enough, by the way.) And that slideshow of 'moments' began playing through my head. I could see little Elizabeth peering up at me through long lashes as she finished asking Jesus to forgive her sins- Rebecca jumping wildly as she recited a memory verse, 4 year old Christian enfolding my hands in his chubby ones and whispering 'DON'T go away- I'll miss you too much!', Evan and his small friend rolling their eyes at me when I got 'too silly', Gracie shouting 'Australia!' when we asked her what sin was, the hurt in eight year old Rachel's face when she said she hated herself, and asked why God had let her be fat, Patrick clambering in the branches of a tree, Jamal stumbling across the parking lot with slumped shoulders, his Bible clutched against his chest (one of the darkest memories), the kids at Margaret Ree's giggling at my inability to spell their names for the attendance sheet, the thrill of triumph when Eric, who has Down's syndrom began trying to do the song motions, and answered a question about the lesson correctly, 16 year old Jose asking shyly if you could come to club no matter how old you were, and, for some reason most unforgettable, the sight of little Juliano, one of my 'problem children' peeking at me from around the corner of the apartment building when we were packing up our materials. "Juliano" I called, "Aren't you going to say goodbye?" He glared, and shook his head, and I turned away- but the next moment he had catapulted himself into my arms. I spun him around in a circle, and then, laughingly, said 'I'll miss you'. But I looked down and he was crying, his tiny face scrunched into excruciating seriousness. "Why do you have to leave?" he muttered. "I hate you for leaving!" Then he tore himself loose, and one of the most ornery, unpredictable, precious seven year olds in the world ran behind the building, and out of sight...

At that point in the 'remembering', I sat bolt upright in bed, and nearly blurted out loud: 'I want to teach five day clubs this summer!'
Lying down again, with a sigh, I reminded myself 'Ah, but you're going to China this summer instead.'
I then admitted something which I had been fighting for weeks not to accept. 'I DON'T WANT TO GO TO CHINA! I want to teach clubs!'
Once it was out in the open, I was shocked. That couldn't be true! It wasn't in 'the plan'! What was wrong with me? Why did I not want the thing I wanted more than anything else? All I could say was, helplessly, 'It's just not RIGHT somehow! I need to teach clubs!'
I held out for nearly two weeks (stubborness is a virtue, right? :-D ), then tentatively broached the subject to my parents. To my relief, they were enthusiastic. My mother admitted that they had not been happy at the thought of my leaving the country this summer, but hadn't wanted to disappoint me.
So, after hovering, and arguing, and agonizing for yet another week, I emailed my friend telling her that God wanted me to be somewhere else this summer, and this wasn't the right time for me to go to China, with her, or with anyone else.
She was very supportive, and for a few days I felt relieved of a huge weight.
But now, questions have begun to set back in again. I can't seem to let well enough alone! Did I make the right decision? I was so sure, at the time. Was I guided by feeling, rather than Biblical wisdom? Could I have been wrong? How could I NOT go to China? My old friend, 'Confusion', is back, and leaving chaos in his wake.
You see, although I know I shouldn't look so far ahead, I can't help but feel that whatever is going on is about more than just this summer. I suppose I had made this summer's visit to China such a symbol of so much else I was willing to leave behind, that I can't untangle it enough for my decision to NOT GO to not seem equally symbolic and significant. But, as this just goes to show, so much can change in a year! I guess that right now, all I can do is continue to stay in the Word, focus on Christ, seek Him faithfully, do my best during what's left of the semester, and when I teach this summer with CEF, strive to teach to the heights of my ability and far, far beyond.
A quote from John Piper, which I shamelessly stole from a friend tonight after being painfully convicted by it admonishes:

“When we are trusting Christ most authentically, we are not thinking about trusting, but about Christ. When we step out of the moment to examine it, we cease what we were doing, and therefore cannot see it. My counsel for strugglers therefore is relentlessly: Look to Jesus. Look to Jesus in his word. And pray for eyes to see.” - John Piper.

So, even though I find myself increasingly struggling with two, seemingly conflicting sets of desires, and two, apparently mutually exclusive futures which both demand attention, it surely is safe to say as David did:
'All my longings lie open before you, O Lord... My times are in your hands...in your light, we see light... since you are my rock and my fortress, for the sake of your name lead and guide me... I [say] to the Lord, "You are my Lord; apart from you I have NO GOOD THING!' (Psalms 38:9,31:15, 36:9, 31:3, 16:2)

And as for next summer, and the next summer, and the summer after that- GOD KNOWS WHERE! Be it Iowa, or Czechoslovakia, Texas or Sierra Leone...

Oh- by the way, for those of you who are glancing back at the title and wondering what bluebells have to do with all of this, here is one of many marvelous poems by Amy Carmichael, which has been convicting and encouraging me lately:

'As the misty bluebell wood,
Very still and shadowy,
Does not seek for, or compel
Several word from several bell,
But lifts up her quiet blue-
So all my desire is before Thee.

For the prayers of human hearts
In the shadow of the Tree,
Various as the various flowers,
Rest at last in silent love-
Lord, all my desire is before Thee.'

Christ, teach me to 'rest at last in silent love'. 'All my desires are before Thee'. What do I have to lose?