My friend flew from Albania to San Diego to be with her family for Christmas. The next day, her grandpa died of the cancer that had been killing him for years.

Yesterday another friend went to Ohio for a week to be a help to her parents, who are both in their late 80s. That is, her mother is in her 80s. Her father is now with the Lord. He died the night she arrived.

What marvelous timing. Such amazing coincidence.

How tender our Father.

On Meaning Well, and Never Intending To Be So Selfish

I see
a dim reflection in the mirror,
a maybe sometimes of who I want to be.
I see
an almost outline of a shadow on the wall
of someone nealy tall enough to stand up for
something worth standing up for.
I see me,
and I'm a short reality, a dew that's
drying to a vapor in the time it takes for
you to read these words.
I am both the product and the tool;
I am not a woman but a fool
if I keep staring at the nothing
that I am to conjure beauty,
drawing dreams in the sand.
Instead I'm leaving footprints so those
close enough to follow, can,
and all the rest will wash away
(it all is going to anyway).

My sister took this picture for me in Jefferson City, MO.

:: hope ::

Mingo told me about an episode of the Twilight Zone that his Major Bible Doctrines prof had them watch. It was about hell, or a hell on earth. In typical Twilight Zone fashion, it wasn't what you'd expect (I wouldn't watch those when I was a kid because I couldn't handle the unreality of it all). The character who lived in this hell got everything he wanted. His desires were satisfied before he even voiced them. He was living in a mansion, waited on hand and foot, catered to. When he wanted food, it appeared before him. When he was finished eating, the table became a pool table. In his desire-satisfaction state, however, just one shot sent all of the balls to the pockets. All the women wanted him.

I was just talking to Sonia about this picture in our conversation about longings and the sometimes-mess that happens from getting what we want. It occurs to me that hoping, having something to look forward to, not having finished the book but anticipating the last chapter, adds color instead of taking it away. We ask for things with such fervence that it would seem that the realization of those dreams would be the ultimate joy. Something in me is wondering now, though -- would it be a living hell to have nothing left to hope for?

"Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness, for we do not know what to pray for as we ought..."

:: relationships ::

What is it about bumping into other people's lives that leaves us bruised?

:: i just wanted to post a picture ::

They're worth a thousand words, as the cliche goes, but it still needs to be the right picture. Some books are full of words I'm not interested in reading, and lots of pictures don't express anything I'm thinking. Tonight I feel like I would listen to classical music and say, "Yes! That's just what I was thinking!" Or walk through a gallery and find myself in front of a painting that with light and color and image reflects the very thoughts I'm feeling.

But I have neither music nor paintings to express with me right now, and words seem to be failing too. But let me try... let me try to bottle the joy that comes from seeing one of my favorite people after almost three months of only talking... mix that with the barely-tall-enough-to-see-over-my-own-selfishness humbling that happens when I realize people love me with no good reason to... added to a homesickness that's been building through 24 years of wandering and wondering not where but if there is home at all... topped with grace as the never-setting sun that lights my day...

I'd have to say I'm smiling. And if smiling was a color, I'd paint my room with it.

I might blog more if the name wasn't so terrible. I think the people who write menus should get together with the people who name internet fads so we don't have to use words like "blog" on a regular basis.

:: sell-out ::

I have a little confession to make. I've been spying on you. That's right. You.

I remember sitting in our living room a few months ago and discovering the glories of The Stat Counter. These tricky little internet devices don't just roll numbers anymore; they also tell you the geographic location of the people who are on your site, the number of times a person comes, how long they spent viewing which pages, etc. And I thought "how invasive!" I like to think that where I go on the internet is only known to me. Apparently, I like to be wrong.

Anyways, that's not the point. The point is I've been philosophically against having one of these kinds of stat counters... until this week. (This is where the sell-out part comes in.) For 22 hours and 17 minutes, I knew exactly who was visiting my quiet little corner of this not-so-private world. You're allowed to feel violated right now. But the truth is, I think I was much more taken with you than you ever have been with me. It intrigued me to see those changing statistics. In fact, it fascinated me so much that I knew I couldn't keep it. Not only did I decide that I don't need to know, I also don't have enough hours in the day to keep up with how many hours in your day are or are not being spent here.

So until I am mature enough to handle the sucking-in-powers of the stat counter, happy anonymous reading.

:: boats and writing ::

I feel like there is this whole other life that happens to me because of writing. Like there are things you'd never know about me if I didn't write them. It made me think about boats and how much is under the water. It always kind of scares me to think about how huge a ship is below the surface, and how much of a person might be there too in the writing realm.

Then (this is not an inspired thought, but came next in the sequence) I thought: they must build ships out of the water. And at some point they must put them IN the water. I would love to be there to see that! Especially those giant box-ships that carry imported cars from Japan to much of middle-class-America's garage. So if anyone is going to a ship-in-the-water ceremony, let me know.

:: no, i don't speak chinese ::

But this is brilliant! In June, Kaitlyn and I will be flying to Indonesia. I am going there before her so as to have plenty of quality time with my parents, but we're on the same flight back. The only problem is our seating. Since we're flying China Air, we're both brushing up on our Mandarin won't-you-please-trade-seats-with-me phrases.

I discovered this morning that instead of speaking these things, we should really write a letter. Here it is (thank you, free online translating genius):

勞駕, 先生。 它似乎我們有直接地涉及您的一個問題。 看見, 您是的位子清楚地是那個在您的票。 但是, 它並且是那個我們會想參加。 因為您旅行沒有家庭並且因為我們忘記我們的報話機通信相互飛機...

它會是好如果我們換了位子與您?

something is always lost in translation....

:: numb ::

from a certain retreat in BrianHead, Utah

Why isn't my heart breaking?
Why are they weeping around me
and I am standing untouched, unmoved.
I didn't feel Your Spirit when
it swept through this place.

Am I too practiced to know Your extravagance?
Am I too ready to be surprised?
Am I too full of knowledge to be taught by
the rain, the child, the dying ones who are
desperate to know what I have been told my whole life?

Humble me. Humility doesn't come easily to
the Pharisee or, apparently, to me.

:: kierkegaard says it so much better than me ::

"Our age is without passion. Everyone knows a great deal, we all know which way we ought to go and all the different ways we can go, but nobody is really willing to move."

"Today's Christianity is a matter of being elevated for an hour once a week as in the theater. It is now used to hearing everything without having even the remotest notion of doing something."


question: is he reading my journal?

:: work ::

I know why it's hard for me to work right now: I don't believe in what I'm doing. I'm not sure where I missed the training but somehow I didn't learn to love doing a task just for the sake of doing the task. And people's praise and assertions that what I'm doing is wonderful -- that's no help either. I would rather fold blankets for an orphanage than design a magazine for a college that will never notice the difference if there's one less magazine in the archive. And it isn't about the noticing, mind you, because people might not notice neatly folded blankets either. It is, and always has been, about mattering. I want to do things that matter, beyond the small sphere I'm in.

That's all.

:: move me ::

Is it poetry to say you move me,
because you do.
I don't know when I started humming along
to that intoxicating song of
comfort-safety-t.v.
(I don't mean to say your lives are
empty but I can say that
mine was being dumped out
on the clean-sweeped streets of
the American dream).
But back to you, back to you moving me --
I owe you an apology for
letting you believe
that I am half as deep in depth as you
or half as sure of life as you.
For now I give you credit for
the reinstatement of my dream:
I finally believe again.