being a slum-lord, lohan, prayer, and lingerie

we are still cranking away over at
our sweet rental house,
“the villa on corona”.
today, i repainted the front bedroom
because, apparently dark colors
are not the only colors that require
two coats sometimes.

we still have A LOT of work to do
before they more in on the 15th of august.
i mean, A LOT A LOT!
can’t wait to learn how to install the flooring
in the bathrooms and laundry room!
stuff like that totally excites me!

i am SO proud of herb and myself!
the place looks like a completely different house!
we have both worked really hard;
pushed ourselves.
and tried to be kind and patient with each other
in the process.

when we bought it, it was dark and old and outdated.
and now it is bright and clean and beautiful.
it is a home.
and i am so happy to have
a home to offer our family of renters.

11 more days until they move in!
it is also really fun because i have been praying
for quite some time now about our need for a community
of folks to walk along side in life
and things like these friends and their children moving in
NEXT DOOR bring
sweet promise and hope of answered prayers.

other things have happened too –
like a supper club with three other couples
who all decided, “yeah, it WOULD be great to meet every other week
rather than just every 3 or 4 weeks.”

add to this the rekindling and healing of other relationships.
god continues to be good to us
even when we don’t see it.

today i stumbled across tristan prettyman's silly song about lindsay lohan while i was on this girl's fun blog.
“lindsey, you can drink the Coke
but don’t snort the coke.”
it cracks me up.
especially because we saw her in concert
about a year and a half ago,
and she really did
talk about lindsay lohan the whole time.
hilarious.

it was sort of hard to tell after listening to this song,
but she seemed to really have a bit of a celebrity crush on the lohan.
i mean, have YOU seen her in "the parent trap"?
can you blame tristan?
having seen the film myself, I submit the following:
“no, no ya can't!”

in other news,
i learned the hard way today
that unless you REALLY know the person well,
don't buy lingerie for another person.
ever.
never.

even if the invitation to her bridal shower
suggests that she wants lingerie.
if you don't know her, bring some lotion.
Bring a candle.
heck – order her a case of massage oil if you need to
feel like you are contributing to their marriage bed experience.
and I don’t
not any more than i support healthy sex in all marriages.
but i got a little excited.
and i bought some stuff.
it was sexy.
and i am afraid,
based on the look on her face,
and a little conversation i had with her,
it was a little TOO sexy.

hmmm.
i felt a little silly.
and maybe just a little slutty.
and not in a good way.
oh well.

scrappin' on a tuesday

these are some of the pictures that herb took of me in mexico this spring.
we were on a bike ride and saw an outcropping
so we ditched out bikes and peaked over the edge
to find this beautiful piece of beach below
covered in small conch shells
i mean COVERED!
i asked herb to take some pics of me
and let's keep it real . . .
because i don't want to fall into the blog & scrapbooking temptation
of just sharing the nice and pretty stuff . . .
the truth is that herb gets kind of embarassed when i asked him to take my pictures -
like a little photo shoot . . .
not his favorite thing.
and things can get kind of weird and tense
because i like having my picture taken
and he doesn't really get it.
but he is a good sport about it.

i laid down on the shells,
right where the tide was hitting when it came in
and herb took pics as the waves washed over me
they are such beautiful pictures
they just remind me to live from the essence of myself.
not to get caught up in what others want me to be
but to really know myself
who god made me to be
get to know THAT girl
really really well
take good care of her and let her soar!

these pics just remind me of freedom
simplicity
no complications
essence
peace

do you have a favorite picture of yourself?

I Like Rocks ***elsie challenge***

today, elsie flannigan did a challenge over at creating keepsakes .
the idea was to scrap a page about something you find beautiful . . .
something that is simple and ordinary and everyday.

there are so many things . . .
kids playing on the playground
the flowers in my front yard
the vintage looking label on the brand of coconut milk i buy . . .
my husband's silly smile that he makes after he has made a joke and is waiting for the perfect pause in the conversation to say his next joke . . . .
the beautiful old wooden floors in our home . . .
so many many things . . .

but there is one thing that came to mind front and center -
(maybe because i had a picture printed and ready to go!?!?!)

the truth is . . .
i really love rocks.
when i go somewhere special, i pick up a rock.
when i am having a hard day, i pick up a rock.
if there is something i want to be sure to remember,
you get it . . .
ROCK!

we have a small and growing menagerie of these memories on our window sill.
there is the flat, round one i picked up one day and sat on the top of my computer at work - i wrote "strength" on it (just as a little reminder that god is my rock and my strength)
then there is the one my sister picked up on a walk back in 2003 over thanksgiving - when we celebrated our last holiday with our beloved aunt sara a few weeks before cancer took her body.
there is the heart shaped one i picked up in hawaii for herb the first time i realized i was in love with him . . .
and the little tiny castle shaped one from our honeymoon that reminded me of the watch towers that dotted the amalfi coast (you know, to protect the city from pirates!?!?!?!)
. . . our most recent addition is the two small white shiny stones we gave to each other during a ritual at the marriage conference this weekend.
it is my version of a modern day karin (not so sure of the spelling on this one)
the way i understand it, "karin" is the irish practice of stacking stones to mark a special moment or place or time.
ancients used to collect and stack rocks when they found some sort of victory.
the isrealites used to pick up a stone when god showed himself faithful . . .
then when they started to wonder where he was again . . .

(and i understand this can happen from time to time
when a three day trip ends up taking 40 years
and your god may or may not show up
in the form of a cloud, a bush, or an ass.)

. . . they would just pull out their rock and remember his faithfulness,
trusting that he will indeed be faithful again.
personally, if i was living a nomadic lifestyle, i am not so sure that my first thought would be "rock!"
but hey, they where under a lot of stress . . .

so, there you go.
a little random tidbit about what makes me tick.
rocks.
they remind me to god's faithfulness,
things i am thankful for,
and things i hope for.

And I Have To Speculate That God Himself Did Make Us into Corresponding Shapes Like Puzzle Pieces From the Clay

We went to a "marriage conference" this weekend.
(sorry, this term normally makes us both a little skeptical . . .)
It was really good.
I am thankful.
More later.

Reduse, Reuse, Recycle

Here is a post I found while looking back into my archives today.
I really like it so I will post it again here today.

"What Do Your Signs Say?"
Originally published on 3/25/2006

I found these signs during my snowshoe hike yesterday.
I have signs like these . . .
ironically placed in just the right spots to keep people (or even myself) from acessing and enjoying the most beautiful, stunning parts of my heart.
I have signs like these . . . destructively keeping me from entering real life.
Real beauty.
Real freedom.
Signs that cause me to stop short of running into the arms of my Savior.
Signs that cause me to look at Him and Life through binoculars.
Wondering, dreaming.
My faith and my salvation have given me abundance. Yet, I stay seated at the perimeter . . .
obeying these signs that keep me from diving in.
Looking at beauty from a distance but believing the signs that are there to keep me out.
Looking at beauty in the face and feeling forbiden to touch it.
Who taught us to erect these signs?
Whose idea was it to take us right up to the edge of real life and then say, "Don't touch!"
Our mothers?
The media?

Or perhaps it lies deeper within.
As if the result of Eve's "apple gone wrong" fiasco altered our very DNA.
As if from the moment we are born, we are inclined to engage life right up to the fences of the wild and the uncharted.
We will live and engage and play and explore . . .
as long as it is safe, and known, and guarenteed.

I don't want to look at pictures of beauty in magazines.
I don't want to read postcards about peace.

I want to run past the signs and the orange cones.

Don't give me decaf or splenda or reality TV.

I want the real thing
and I want to stand right in the bossom of it all
with head tilted high
and righteous fists raised
and glory dripping from my wide hips and oversized teeth
and say to the spinner of all lies . . .
the one who loves war and death and fashion from the 80's:

"This is mine! This is where I belong! My God sees me and knows me and likes me and loves me and He wants me right here! This is MY time and MY place and I will have peace and I will shout "NO!" to anxiety and I will shout "NO!" to being a whiny victim and I will no longer be a whore to depression & self-hatred and I will find kindness between the cobwebs of my cold, dank heart and then splash that stuff all over the place!
I will sing and dance and weep and shout
and write and cook and breast feed when the time comes
and wear pigtails & the color pink
and I will french kiss in public and talk to strangers if I want to
and go to the little kid's waterpark to ride the Lazy River beacause it brings me joy
and I will love my neighbors
and make love to my husband
and be made love to . . .
and don't you dare try to keep me out again, ass hole!"

TAGGED! (does this mean i am cool now?)

so it finally happened.
and right at the perfect time - i have 15 minutes between clients and what a better way to spend that time than to post meaningless, random information about myself?

that's right - i got tagged by this cool girl
a while back, this beauty threatened to tag me . . . but it never happened.

here we go . . .
ten random things about cara harjes . . .

1. in the 8th grade, i won a greek myth writing contest.

2. i can hold a penny in my right dimple.

3. even though i am the oldest, i am not the typical first born kid.

4. i stopped watching chic flicks during my engagement so the idea of "fantasy guy" wouldn't get up in my head and freak me out.

5. i dressed up as an artist on career day in the third grade.

6. also in the third grade, i had a surgery to correct a condition in my eyes that had been presenting as dyslexia.
this experience provided me with two important things:
a) i didn't have to be enrolled in Special School District and i was actually on the honor roll by the end of 4th grade!
b) i received a stuffed monkey from my teacher, whom i named after my anesthesiologhist, Doctor Scheker.

7. i sleep with socks on.
even if that is all i have on.
i must have socks.
and then half way through the night, i wake up long enough to take them off.
i have a perpetual pile of socks in the bottom of the bed.

8. i have blond streak of hair that is a birth mark.

9. after 9/11, i coped by learning how to Lindy Hop.
for about three years i went swing dancing at LEAST once a week.
sometimes two or three times.
i even have the cute 40's wedge, open-toed suede bottom dance shoes to show for it!

10. my mom and all of her siblings were adopted.
maybe someday we will adopt.

*** If you relate to any of these RANDOM things . . . give me a shout out! (i stole that from rachel's blog too!)

TAG: you are it:

herb!.)
kelly!.)
dave!.)

from the girl who should not be allow to blog after 7:30 pm

it woke up.
right now.
well, a few minutes ago.
around 10:45.
after a bath and taking my evening pills.
after snuggeling with herb.
after the light went out . . . for the third time.
as my tall and broad and always warm husband drifted off,
i felt another presense with me.

next to me.

not snuggled up like herb, but rather tugging and prodding.
a presense much stronger and much warmer.
it breaths the hot yummy-stink of creativity . . .
you know what i mean?
it is kind of like "sexy-ugly" or the smell of grass or gasoline.

anyway, it hummed this tune under it's intoxicating breath . . .
the hope of possibility.

full of ability dying to burst through the seams of your neatly croched socks.
ripping out of the bounds of something created to keep me warm and safe.
it is uncaring.
unwilling to take excuses.
it doesn't even have to seduce me before i am slinking out of my bed and following the heat within my own heart into the office to discover any number of endless possibilites.

books, talks at conferences, retreats, photography, a line of fun girly cards, a line of wedding invitations . . .

they all clang about in my head.
and then i see a book (not hard to do in our house) or a photo or a painting . . . .

and i stop.

because somebody already did it.
they don't need you.
the world doesn't need you to do what anyone else can do and what hundrads who are far more brave than you have already done.
and done well.

so i slink away.

but not this time.

you see, i have another pal.
even stronger than creativity.

so here i sit.
me and curiosity.
very interested in what god might possibly do through and in and around this girl.

Sometimes . . .

Sometimes
It snows.
For weeks on end.
And you're are not used to that.
Because even though you live in Colorado
It doesn't really snow that much in Denver
At least not THAT much.

And your body hurts.
All the time.
Because let's face it . . .
You are sick.
And that makes you sicker.
But it is true.

You have lots of little infections
that somehow jumped into your body.
It isn't your fault really . . .
I mean, who gets Lead Poisoning and Lyme Disease on PURPOSE?
Nobody.
That's who.

There I said it.
Did you catch that?
I ever so subtly slipped in two of my little illnesses.

I walk through life . . .
sometimes behaving like I'm sick . . .
because I AM sick . . .
but pretending that I'm not . . .
because I don't want to be sick.

But sometimes you turn 25 and you get tired
and your body aches
and you don't want to return any of your phone calls
even to your friends
and you can't think clearly anymore
not like you used to.
you're brain feels foggy and murky.
and you are certain you have a brain tumor.
and you tell your sister this while hiking through the mountains
even though you should probably be sipping tea somewhere
but you won't
no, not for at least two or three more years.
because you just won't slow down.
why would you?

you continue to work your crazy therapy job
dealing with clients you are not yet qualified to deal with
in the name of "helping the underdog"
by providing inexpensive therapy. . .
and because you are too tired to research your options
and find another job.
but that doesn't strike you as odd.
you just assume everyone is too tired to find another job
even though they are exhausted.

and on the weekends,
you babysit to pay for your high-rollin' lifestyle
that requires things like
paying rent on time
and gas for your car
and eating.
you know, luxuries.
things that your $12/hr with a master's degree won't pay for.
and you don't mind.
sure a bigger paycheck would be nice, but you just figure this is all a part of life.

clearly, you are making really good choices for your life at this point.

and sometimes your digress.
because you have a brain tumor . . .

ANYWAY, you tell your sister about this brain tumor
as your hike through the forest.
because it couldn't be anything else.
i mean, when did you have to start pausing between words
because you can't think of the next one?
clearly, the word-chooser-part of your brain is broken.
with a tumor.
and your sister . . .
oh, she teases you.
endlessly.
because sometimes that is just what sisters do . . .

so you have this "tumor" and it is really too bad
because
you used to be so smart
and you don't feel smart anymore
and you can't pick out the words that you are grasping for
and you used to have such a nice vocabulary.

So you do what any exhaustsed, worn out individual would do:
you start a book group to reclaim your vocabulary!
And you just chalk it all up to being a little misplaced
and even a little depressed
from finishing graduate school
and turning 25
and all of a sudden being an adult for the first time in your life.

But that was almost five years ago.

Turns out somewhere along the line
you must have eaten paint chips
and forgotten about it.

Note to self:
Don't eat anymore paint chips.

And sometimes
even if you weren't sick
you DO just feel a little depressed
and that's okay
you aren't apologetic about that.

i mean come on . . .
you are a Christian so you know
this was NOT the life we were designed to live . . .
at least not ALL of the life we were designed to live.
and that IS depressing.
it SHOULDN'T feel "right".

But even though sometimes your are okay with being depressed,
Sometimes, it makes you even more depressed.
And sometimes, you even start to despise yourself for it a little bit.
Okay, a lot of bit.

And sometimes you know
That all of this crap that you are and that you feel
Is not real
It is not true
Sometimes you know that it is all a veil.
It is covering something that is more real.
Things like joy and kindness peak out from random corners and dark crevices.
Creative things pour out of your brain and your mouth.
And you know there is more.

And sometimes that depresses you because you can't seem to grasp the "more"
But sometimes
It brings just enough hope.

And then
Sometimes.
Just sometimes,
After the ground has been covered in snow for a full month,
You look outside of your window
For no reason at all
And you see
Grass.
Flat, tired, wilty green-ish grass.
But grass none the less.
And you cry.
Because you had forgotten that
While the snow may come . . .
While it might pile itself real high up all around you . . .
It melts.
And there is grass beneath it.


(*a fun song recommendation for today . . . well, okay, not fun . . . actually kind of melodramatic . . . but quite insightful and clever and sometimes, if you are feeling overwhelemed by a month's worth of snow . . . very comforting . . . because somebody else feels that way too . . . check it out!)

By the way . . . the song isn't really about snow or february or wood chopping or flower bulbs . . . . and neither was this post.

None of Us Our Free

Today's Song: None of Us Are Free
The Voice: Solomon Burke

The Thoughts:


as we enter into Advent, we try to put on our old school jewish hats . . . we try to imagine what life was like as they anticipated the messiahs first arrival.

again, we look back and see a people who spent generations in exile . . .
then in slavery . . .
then wandering . . .

they lived a life without a foundation. without safety.

there is a long history of unfortunate things that happened TO the jewish people . . .
but there is also a long, painful story to be told of the constant push and pull between god and his people.
from the beginning, we see this.
and all through the old testament.

i remember sitting in my old testament class during my second semester of seminary . . . i had just graduated from college, where, despite (or perhaps because of) my high involvement in a campus ministry, i left feeling completely disillusioned in my faith. it was rattled. i had arrived at a place where i had too much evidence to deny god's existence . . . i even saw that he was good . . . and that he loved people . . . but i had too much evidence to the contrary to believe that he loved ME.
still, i left college and went to seminary to study the bible and counseling.


i sat in that class, and for the first several months, i was overwhelmed by god's harshness.
the way he punished.
the way he doomed.
the way he cursed.
and even destroyed.

line after line. chapter after chapter.
i was disgusted.
with him.
but the more the people messed up, the more he gave them a second chance. consistently . . .

what an interesting sensibility our god has.
he really took the spiritual, internal reality of his beloved people . . . spiritually enslaved.
and he caused them to have a very external, tangible experience with it.
wow.

we are spititual slaves to anything that is not of god.
on top of their unfaithfulness to god . . . their adulterous hearts . . .
they would eventually become actual, physical, human slaves to an empire that did not, and would not confess god's name.

that is like the ultimate object lesson.

they were enslaved
and they longed to be free

it makes me wonder . . .
what am i enslaved to?

I Am An Orphan Girl

My hope is that this pursuit of Advent's meaning can become an open conversation . . . whoever you are, if you read this blog, throw in your two cents. Let's explore this together.

Todays Song . . . .

We all have a wandering place inside. It is in our souls. It has become a part of our DNA, even, I think. Really. I think that somehow, if it is possible, the results of sin (a spiritual reality) have influenced and changed our physical reality. I know this is not a new thought - but it still just kind of mesmerizes me! We are so intertwined - body, mind, and spirit. Those guys at the YMCA really knew what they were talking about!

That wandering place is different for everyone . . . but it all goes back to "the big apple caper" that I talked about yesterday. Let's not blame Eve . . . . if she didn't do it, I am sure you or I would have. That must have been SOME apple . . . no, that was some lie that she believed! She believed that God didn't really loved her - that he was not setting limits to protect her, but rather to deceive her. Oi! So she bit in . . . and now there is a breech between Him and us.

And so we wander.

Like Jacob and his tribe.

Like Moses and his stragglers.

We wander.

Even though we are connected . . . to others. Even, now, connected to God again . . .

We wander.

As we walk into these first days of Advent, I think it is only right to get in touch with that wandering side of ourselves.

The Israelites, after they entered the Promised Land, still had to wait about 400 years before the promised King would arrive. They anticipated. They yearned.
And they had been yearning for generations.
That is an entire lineage - generation upon generation - of wandering and wondering and yearning and even some disappointment.

And just like disease has found its way into human DNA, I believe that after all of those years of feeling unconnected and unfulfilled . . . first in Egypt, then the desert, and finally "safe" but waiting for a king . . . a wandering heart and a constant feeling of being lost has also made its way into our physical makeup.

So, let's not skip ahead to the elation of longing being fulfilled that comes on December 25 . . .

I think we can really appreciate his arrival more if we first get in touch with how much we long for him.

We won't know the impact of his redeeming qualities if we are not aware of what it is that needs to be redeemed.

And now, the creative therapist in me gets to ask some questions . . .

* Imagine that your "wandering orphan" lives in a part of your body. Where would your orphan be? What color are the walls there? What does the temperature feel like? What does it look like? Is there a smell? Any sound?

* What is your wanderer looking for? How would your wanderer know they have found what they are looking for?

Before I leave you with the song. . .
I found this website yesterday . . . looks like they might be writing a weekly advent meditation.
(jennifer, is this where you went to church in nashville????)


Orphan Girl
I am not sure who wrote this . . . it is sung by Gillian Welch and Emmylou Harris . . . . and others, I am sure.
I suggest you find this on iTunes . . . it is good to hear the aching in these ladies voices.

I am an orphan on God's highway
But I'll share my troubles if you go my way
I have no mother no father
No sister no brother
I am an orphan girl

I have had friendships pure and golden
But the ties of kinship I have not known them
I know no mother no father
No sister no brother
I am an orphan girl

But when He calls me I will be able
To meet my family at God's table
I'll meet my mother my father
My sister my brother
No more orphan girl

Blessed Savior make me willing
And walk beside me until I'm with them
Be my mother my father
My sister my brother
I am an orphan girl

What Is It We Are Waiting For?

The cool thing about yesterday's Advent mix up is that we just bought ourselves a week to explore the back story.
Why do we acknowledge this time of anticipation?
Why do we celebrate a child's birth that took place 2000 years ago?

I have a few thoughts on all of this . . .

Keep in mind a few things . . .
A) It has been 7 years since in sat in my Old Testament seminary classes. So, I know that I might have some of the Biblical details mixed up. I will try to clarify those as I study more this month.
B) These are my thoughts and words about Advent . . . please enjoy them, use them, pass them along . . . but please don't preach them, publish them, or claim them as your own.

Now that we have all of that cleared up . . .


From the time I became a believer in Christ (in my late teens), I can remember feeling disillusioned during the Christmas Eve service at church. The day would go great up to the point that I sat in the dim old church; squirming around in a creaky wooden pew. We wrapped last minute gifts . . . or in my case, we made our last minute gifts and prayed they would dry on time! And then mom made homemade waffles and ham. After washing down a great day with a tall glass of egg nog, we drove to church.

Eventually, I saw Christmas Eve as a time of worship rather than a special night to wear my new dress and oggle at the women who wore fur coats to the late service.

But I always left feeling sad and overwhelmed.
It was clear that what was being said was important.
What we observed was important.

I knew it must be important because there was a 20 foot tree at the front of the building and hundreds of poinsetas placed strategically around the room. The choir, robed in Burgundy and gold, sang songs learned especially for that evening - often times in Latin. Now, I don't know about you, but in my world, if a person makes the effort to learn something in Latin, it is a pretty special occasion.

They had my attention.
It was clear that Christmas was important.

But I felt hard pressed to be changed in my heart by what had happened in Bethlehem so many years ago. Even as an adult, it has been hard to celebrate something that I don't really understand the origin and importance of. Easter is much easier for me. As violent and agonizing as the story is, I get the whole, "he died for your sins and then overcame them" thing.

What has been more difficult to grasp is the process of "waiting" and "anticipating" that Israel went through so many years ago. It is hard to imagine a time in history when people believed the Savior would come . . . they just didn't know when.

The time of Advent leads up to the crescendo of Christ's birth!
But the message that was told was always too big to fit into an hour long service. There were not enough candles or choir robes or words in the Latin language to sufficiently communicate the message. It was like pouring the Pacific Ocean into a Dixie Cup.

Even if it had been possible for them to sufficiently convey the message in one hour, my heart could not hold it; my mind could not comprehend it. Because the Christmas Story is so much longer than what can be told in one hour. It has so little to do with stars and wisemen and mangers. Those are, in my opinion, vivid but gratuitous details that we have grasped tightly to, with the hopes of creating some symbolance of order out of this holiday.

Most sermons are based on 9 or 10 verses of Scripture. That is, if the pastor even uses Scripture anymore! But this message, really, requires the back story of the entire Old Testament and hundreds of years of relationship between God and man to fully appreciate the significance of a young, unmarried girl who risked her life because she believed that an angel told her the child in her belly was from God.

It doesn't do much good to anticipate Christ's arrival if we don't really understand why we need him. You can't yearn for somebody that you don't know. You can't really celebrate the homecoming of a loved one if you didn't miss their absence in the first place.
I suppose that is exactly what the Isrealites did.

By the time of his birth, Christ had been prophesied about for decades. Some people yearned for his anticipated arrival. Sadly, many people lost hope that he would come at all, and the faithful anticipatory crowd tended to be limited to prophets and others who were considered to be the town crazies and overall burdensome to those who just wanted to live their lives without obligation or boundary.

Why did they need a Savior? Why was this Emmanuel's arrival such a big deal? Why were they anticipating him for so long?

We can trace this all the way back to Genesis. From the time Eve's lips tongue tasted lies mixed with apple juice, we needed some help.

We needed a Redeemer. We were disconnected from God after that whole fresh fruit fiasco, and humanity as a whole was desperately in need of a means of repaying an infinite debt.

Later, the nation of Israel is formed in the form of one polygomist who had a falling out with his brother, so he takes his wives and all of their children away from their homes out of his own fear, and ends up in Egypt, where they are enslaved. All of those people suffered because he was a bonehead. Perhaps he was feeling a little like Miss Eve at that moment.

Yes, I am thinking we need a Savior. Because, don't we all make mistakes like this? (. . . the answer . . . it is "yes".)

Later, there is this whole locust and blood thing . . . kind of gruesome. They finally get out of dodge one night after an angel goes through town and knocks off all of the Egyptians. So, they are free, but far from home. So God earmarks a kid with a lisp to lead the group of ex-slaves to a "promised land". But what should have been a three or four day walk takes 40 years.

These people are wandering around and without a King. They cannot go home and they cannot go to the "promised land" due to political unrest. They don't have a poltical leader to protect them.

And they are desperate for one. Why?

A king, a good king, will represent and protect his people. A good king has a voice that is respected and heeded. A good king helps to maintain order and justice.

This is something we all need. And without a good king, we are either unfairly reigned (a dictatorship) or reigned with a weak hand and left to our own devices. There was disorder and injustice - and they longed for someone to come in to guide and protect them.

One problem is that people have historically been disinterested in resolving the breech between themselves and God. It seems much easier and more comfortable to just keep things the way they are.

Israel needed a king. We need a king. The reality is, they had one - from the beginning, God has been king.

But they chose not to follow him. They did not respond to his direction.

So, God promised them a king they might respond to.
A human king.

And so, we wait, like they waited.
We look inside and we see the ways that our souls are just like the state of Isreal back before the Savior was born . . . scared, without direction, and burdened.
It becomes just a bit more clear that this kid whose birthday we celebrate next month, might actually be worth the wait.

Look inside . . . And ask . . .

How do I need to be redeemed?
How do I need to be led?
How do I need to be protected?

These are the reasons a Messiah was promised and delivered. If we don't know why a Redeemer is significant in our lives, then we have no basis on which to anticipate Christ or to celebrate his birth at the end of this month.

And we are left with a belly full of nog and an empty heart.

Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll . . . and Apparently, Some Truth

They were looking for the Messiah to come on the back of a white stallion. Heck, I bet they expected he would be a grown-up. But he was the baby of an unmarried Jewish girl.

Not quite what you would expect.

But then again, God rarely chooses the obvious path.

I learned that, once again, several years ago when I stumbled upon this song.

A man who is cloaked in rumors about his sexuality, integrity, and drug habits . . .
he saw truth.
and he sings about it.

Let us look for God, today, in places we would never expect Him to be.
Like, for instance, in our hearts.

Still working on my reflections for today . . . going back to the begining . . . thinking about WHY we need a Messiah in the first place.
Whoa - there is just a lot to think about!
But I want to give it sufficient time to make sure I am saying things that are true . . . so, I will try to get that up this afternoon.


Have a great day!

The Christmas Song
by Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds

She was his girl, he was her boyfriend
She'd be his wife, and make him her husband.
A surprise on the way any day any day
One healthy little giggling, dribbling baby boy
The wisemen came, three made their way
To shower him with love while he lay in the hay
Shower him with love, love, love
Love,love,love
Love,love was all around.
Not very much of his childhood was known
Kept his mother Mary worried always out on his own
He met another Mary, who for a reasonable fee,
Less than reputable was known to be
His heart was full of love, love, love
Love, love, love
Love, love was all around.
When jesus christ nailed to his tree
Said oh daddy-o, I can see how it all soon will be
I came to shed a little light on this darkening sea
Instead I fear I've spilled the blood of my children all around
The blood of my children all around
The blood of my childrens all around.
So I'm told, so the story goes
The people he knew were less than golden-hearted
Gamblers and robbers,
Drinkers and jokers, all soul searchers
Like you and me, like you and me
Rumors insisted that he soon would be
For his deviations taken into custody
By the authorities, less informed than he
Drinkers and jokers, all soul searchers
Searching for love, love, love
Love, love, love
Love, love was all around.
Preparations were made for a celebration day
He said eat this bread but think of it as me
Drink this wine and dream it will be the blood of our children all around
The blood of our children all around
The blood of our children all around
Father up above
Why in all this hatred do you fill me up with love, love, love
Love, love, love
Love, love is all around
Father up above
Why in all this hatred do you fill me up with love, fill me love, love, yeah
Love, love, love
Love, love, and the blood of our children all around.

Days of Anticipation

"And do this, understanding the present time. The hour has come for you to wake up from your slumber, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light. Let us behave decently, as in the daytime, not in orgies and drunkenness, not in sexual immorality and debauchery, not in dissension and jealousy. Rather, clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ, and do not think about how to gratify the desires of the sinful nature."

Today is the first day of Advent.
Growing up this meant that the songs we sang in choir at church began to change.
It meant that at some point, our family would probably be asked to walk an embarrassing, long walk down the long red carpeted aisle of our 100 year old Presbyterian church; one of us, probably my dad (he is the man, after all) or me (I was the one who enjoyed the sound of her own voice) would read a passage from the Bible.
Then one of us, probably my brother (because he was little and cute), would reach up to the elaborate brass candelabra and light a candle. White or purple, depending on the week we were asked to participate.

Advent, they say, is a time of preparation.
The only preparation I took part in during this season was making sure my lipstick matched my tight red sweater.

As the trees loose their leaves and the sun peaks later and sets earlier, they serve as vivid symbols of what happened with Israel before Christ was born.
Quite literally, there was famine and war, due to the lack of a king.
Life was sparse
and dark
and lifeless.
There was a yearning for more.
Much more.

In my soul,
and maybe yours,
there is also famine and war.
It is colder.
Darker.
Much more stark than other times in my life.

And so I find great hope in the promise of this advent season.
Maybe hope like Israel found when they heard that after hundreds (400, I think) of years of leaderless war, that a the promised king might finally be arriving.

It is a time in my life . . . as it was for Israel . . . that is filled with anticipation
wonder
desire
and perhaps a little fear.

What if the king is not coming?
And if he does,
what if he can't help us?

In the end, we find out that it is a bastard baby child that is the promised king.
Not quite what they were hoping for.
And then, later he rides into town on an ass . . . just like the ones he was born amongst . . .
instead of the white horse that a king would ride . . .
and then to top it all off, he gets killed.
Well, not just killed.
Crucified.
The death that is saved for the most vile of criminals.
Super.
Kind of sounds like a trifecta of disappointment and even more despair.
Turns out, it actually is not.
This God of ours has a wild imagination and He gets his work done in the most interesting of ways.
After all, He IS the Creator . . . an artist . . .
and us creative types tend to be a little reckless and unconventional in getting to our intended destination.

But we are not there yet.
Let's not skip ahead.

Right now, we are in a season of promise.
We don't know what is to come . . .
But we hope.
We anticipate.

Things are darker . . . quite literally, as our sun comes for such short visits these days . . .
and for some of us, things are darker inside.
Death.
Disease.
Disappointment.
Depression.

And as we are surrounded by stark darkness, we hear a quiet promise . . .

Things are about to change.
A Savior is coming.
THE Savior is coming.

Here was stand, surrounded by darkness . . .
Yet, we can, should we choose,

anticipate . . .
wait for . . .
watch for . . .

a bright, abundant source of light and life.

Today, should you choose, think about a way you might choose to participate . . .
to daily hope and watch . . .
during this time of waiting.
This time of watching.
Should you need ideas, let me know.
I have a few.

For me . . .

I have a few books stashed here and there.

And I am going to go find a few Paperwhite bulbs today to plant . . .
in rocks . . .
to remind me that life can come even in the most desolate of environments.
And I am going to watch those ugly bulbs everyday . . .
and see what they might do.
I am going to plant them in a glass container so I can watch their roots begin to grow.
Anticipating,
believing,
that they will in fact . . .
come to life.
No, they . . .
we . . .
ARE alive here and now . . .
we just don't appear that way.
We just don't feel that way.
Instead, we hope they (and we)
will bloom.

I also have the desire to put a big old piece of butcher paper up on a closet door for doodling and writing words and verses that stand out during this season of anticipation.
Have not passed that one by Herbie yet . . .
we'll see how he feels about having a collage on the front closet door!

And, finally, I am going to try . . .
to write in this blog daily throughout Advent.
About what I see as I wait.

How do you think you might posture yourself during this time of waiting for the Christ child?

It might be easy.
Your life might be dark and dizzy and volatile.
So, the promise of a peacemaking king might make perfect sense to you.

But maybe you are enjoying life.
Maybe things are easy and breezy.
How nice for you!
And if they are, what might you do to listen to that voice deep inside,
quiet as it may be right now,
that says,
"I need a Savior"?

Marriage: A Tool For the Depraved? VOL. 8

When I worked in the treatment center, we had a young man who came from an abusive family. We're talking unimaginable amounts of trauma and damage. This boy was wounded. Deeply. To the core. He didn't weigh more than a 100 pounds, and yet he was so disruptive and destructive that we could not control him. Eventually, we got to a point where we had to hire an extra person to work the milieu so that there would always be an extra pair of hands to make sure he was taken care of. That is a big deal. In a place where the client to staff ratio was 1:4, this child had 1:1 attention during every one of his waking hours. It seemed like the perfect opportunity for him. We told him I love you. We joked around with him. He was loved. He was given choices. And second chances. And 17th chances. And three meals a day. All luxuries he had not been afforded before.

After several months of treatment, and a month of very good behavior, I got permission to take him out for a reward. We went out to a mexican restaurant. He ate fried ice cream until he could eat no more. He was accelerating in the program. Growing. Healing.

Three days later, he ran away and was brought back to the facility in handcuffs. He lost control that night and had to be physically restrained. After spending the last of my fun money that month on chimichangas and fried ice cream, I was called horrible names and even bit so hard I had a large bruise.

It was like he did not know how to get better. Like he didn't want to get better. And the people who wanted to help him were his enemy.

Melanie's comment from last week about the paralytic in John 5 is beginning to make sense.

In so many ways, I am that teenage boy. I have everything I need before me for full life. And yet, I flaunt my battle wounds (small in comparison to those of other people) as an excuse to stay stuck . . . to resist change.

Last week Herb and I were joking around about scapegoat . . . "Sorry, I had a bad day, so I can run this red light." "You know, I just got in a fight with my boss, so I am going to punch you in the face." "I had a colonoscopy today, so, I just wanted to let you know I won't be paying my taxes this year . . . and I am going to put whoopie cushions on the chairs of all of the judges in the Supreme Court. But don't blame me, I had a tiny camera shoved up my buns today. It isn't my fault."

This week and last, my prayer book has been guiding my to scriptures and sacred readings about our part in the process of God's healing and forgiveness. Melanie was right . . . there is a level of responsibility in healing. At some point, we have to say:

"I want to get better."

What Do You See?

Yesterday I read about the paralyzed man who was brought to Jesus on mat. My guess is that he was hoping to be healed.
I tried to imagine what life for this man might have been like. A motionless life - so clearly set apart from the rest of people. And then God in the form of a rabbi approaches me. I am very clear about what my need is. To move. To be physically healed. And if this man is God, then I can only guess that what I need is even more clear to him.

My entire existence has been focused on understanding why I am paralyzed and trying to no longer be paralyzed. So, we approach Jesus for healing. And he responds to the request. But instead of acknowledging that I am a motionless man lying on a mat being carried by other men, he tells me my sins are forgiven.

It is only an after thought . . . a response to the men around him who are chiding him . . . that he adds, "Get up, take your mat and go home." If those men had not been there challenging his power, he wouldn't have addressed my need. He would have left it at forgiveness.

My mind is overwhelmed as I consider that Jesus seemed to be unconcerned with the man's paralysis. He only healed him in order to appease the crowds - to prove to them that he had authority and power on earth to forgive sins. He was only concerned with the forgiveness of this man's sins. He seemed disinterested and unconcerned at best about the man's physical needs. And not only was he unconcerned with healing the obvious, external need - it was a piece of cake to do! It took so little effort.

Why is this? Why can it be so easy for God to change our circumstances and yet He doesn't even seem to take note of them. He sees the need and yet doesn't address it. It would seem, then, that the things he values for us are completely different that what we value. How do we begin to desire and love the things that He desires and loves for us?

I love "three day reads" . . . it is so indulgent and satisfying.
This book stirred a place inside that I have grown out of touch with in the past few years. Perhaps it is because my one big pleasure has distracted me from small, simple pleasures. Or perhaps my heart has forgotten what brings me joy. But this book caused me to revisit the question, "what are the small pleasures that I find joy in? that i am reminded of God's love and of the joy available in this life."

some things that give me pleasure:
slow gut-filled music, cooking, watching people, laying in the grass, grazing used cd stores . . .

if you had a year of pleasures, what would you partake in?

Community

This is the lovely Latonya Still. She ranks high on my list of friends. Her beer drinking, book reading, batgamon playing hub-a-roon-dawg, Kevin Hamilton, graced me with these words a month or so ago. He thought he might have offended me, so he wrote me an email to let me know what was going on in his brain - this quickly turned into him debriefing his recent viewing of American Beauty with laninjanator and his anger and confusion about men and women and justice and feminism that followed. What he didn't realize is that as he emoted, he spoke words that I needed to hear at that very moment. It is not easy being a woman married to a man these days. And had I still been single in a few more years, we all know that my plan was to move to Tahiti to become a lesbian and own a sno-cone stand. We have so many awful examples surrounding us about how men focus on themselves, leaving the women who love them in the dust. We see this in our fathers, our pastors, our presidents. It has been hard for me to learn how to fully give my feminine self to my man of a husband. Kevin did not know this. How beautiful, when people listen to the nudging of the Spirit AND have the courage to speak boldly and truthfully into our lives . . . without fear or disclaimer. It makes a difference.

"be thankful for herb.
he is rare.
he is trying to be rare.
he does not want to be "kevin spacey" (from American Beauty)
he does not want to be twisted and tormented.
he is different in his mind.
he is trying to be.
and that is a gift to him and to you and to his community.
i love that man because there is a hope for goodness and God -
which is not our modern american man!"

Cheap Cigarettes and Holiness

Something about these sweet simple words by rosie thomas stir a deep place inside of me:

so much for love
guess i've been wrong
but it's all right
cuz i'm moving on
i've got my car all packed with cassette tapes
and sweaters and loose change and cheap cigarettes
i'm gonna drive through the hills
with my hand out the window
and sing 'til i run out of words
i'm gonna stop at every truck stop
make small talk with waiters and truck driving men
i'm gonna fall asleep in the back seat
with no one around but me and my friends

it's gonna be so grand
it's gonna be just like my wedding day

i've had enough of love
it feels good to give up
so good to be good to myself
i'm gonna get on the highway with no destination
and plenty of vision in mind
and i'm gonna drive to the ocean
go skinny dipping
blow kisses to venus and mars
i'm gonna stop at every bar
and flirt with the cowboys in front their girlfriends

it's gonna be so grand
it's gonna be just like my wedding day

so much for love
i guess i've been wrong
but it's all right cuz i'm moving on
i'm gonna drive over hills
over mountains and canyons
and boys that keep bringin me down
i'm gonna drive under skyline and sunshine
drink good wine in vineyards
and get asked to dance
i'm gonna be carefree and let nothing pass me by
never ever again

it's gonna be so grand
it's gonna be so grand
just like my wedding day

These words stir a place inside . . .
A place that knows more about life and God and love than I do.
A place that is longing for real things and recognizes them when they are found.
What is so spiritual or real about drinking good wine and packing up loose change & cozy sweaters?
Surly there is nothing holy about a sweater. Unless you don't keep moth balls in your closet.
But this idea of packing up your favorite sweaters to keep you warm and mend your heart . . . there is something very spiritual about this.
I like this image.
I get it.
It has to do with healing and growth and hope.
And I do think God is in that sweater. Somehow. Not in a "everything is God and God is everything" sort of a way . . . there is a word for that which I learned in Seminary, but my mind does not hold non-intuitive, non-experiential information. So, you'll just have to figure it out yourself. But I think God is in that interaction between me and my sweater. When we seek comfort, whether we are seeking him as the source of comfort or not . . . we are seeking comfort . . . and when we seek comfort, I think he shows up too . . . just in case we choose to call on him. Because he so wants to comfort us.

He wants us to find joy in the simple things. In dancing with strangers. And when we blow kisses to the heavens, i think he catches them and puts them in the pocket of his beautiful patch work robe. Right next to the grizzley bear.

If God is an ocean, there is nothing more he wants than for us to skinny dip in him. Naked. Free.

He wants us to get in our cars, on our bikes, on our pogo sticks and drive, ride, or hop away from anger and sin and drive and drive until we see new life on the horizon. heartache and pain can come along for the ride. he will take care of us.
And somehow, maybe somehow, these sweet pleasures bring us joy not just like our worldly wedding days . . . but also like our wedding banquet we will share with the lamb.

Take Two of These and Call Me in the Morning

What Herb and I need is God. We need him to weave sense out of the shards of our hateful comments, our tears, our pain. We need him to show us the light of our laughter, our kisses, and our tender kindnesses. We need him to unload the baggage we brought into this union. But Herb clings to his sleek red Jack Spade bag . . . and I refuse to give up my vintage teal and yellow paisley suitcase. We need him to massage us back to health and knead us into one. We need to confess and repent and forgive. We need to laugh and thank and play and pray. We know. But we stand here . . . intimidated? Or perhaps prideful. More likely, we stand here hindered by our own integrity, if that is possible. We want to approach God. We need to. But resist, for fear of treating him like a dose of Maalox . . . carelessly dumping heaping spoonfuls of the holy one into our predetermined drink of choice and expecting smooth and easy results within moments. We don't want to treat him this way . . . so we don't treat him at all.

The Grizzley, Our God, and Oompa Loompas

i am reading a book called Story by steven james.
it is james' interpretation of what scripture might look like. yes, look like. and i don't mean that in the post-modern, psycho-babble sort of way. i mean, he uses words to paint pictures. he explores what god's story might litteraly look like if we could see it.

i am loving the journey he is taking me on. begining in genesis.

he takes: "in the begining God created the heavens and the earth . . . " genesis 1:1

and shows me this:
you clothe yourself with daylight.
you wrap the stars around your waist.
crickets chirp from the folds of your garmets.
grizzlies growl from the deep hidden pockets of your evening robe.

where do you set me upon yourself?
am i an earring, dangling in the moonlight?
am i a necklace, flashing by your breast?
where do you slip me on?
where do i fit into your tale?


and i think this:

i love the image of god's evening robe. i picture it as a thick billowing quilt made of burlap like the rocky mountains and silk like the adriadic sea . . . stiched together with tropical vines. hints of piercing bright blue like the eager eyes of my husband and the deep indigo sky of the evening i married him. specks of the grey from the coat of kelly's beautiful dog, and though i don't understand the purpose of pets, i love that kelly loves her dog. threads of the many shades of green from the lush rolling hills of the midwest. cinched with a rope braided of the cream of my newborn baby cousins and the chocolate of my sweet friend latonya. i love imagining that god keeps a grizzley bear in his pocket. and there the bear stands, dwarfed by god's glory but set freed by god's closeness to know his own wild roots. i like to wonder where and how and why he might choose to slip me onto himself, despite his perfection without me.

i love james' descriptions. but for some odd reason, when he describes eden . . .

"adam was one note, eve another, and god a third. and they were woven together in a melody of relationship none of us has ever come close to recapturing. we hear faint echoes of that original song. but we haven't heard the whole thing. not for a long, long time."

. . . i can't help but imagine the scene from willy wonka and the chocolate factory where the children are receiving their initial tour of the magical land. and while the idea of a dark (not milk) chocolate river is heavenly, i don't imagine the the "original song of eden" was sung by oompa loompas.