shouts of joy

Why does this all feel so familiar?  As I forced myself away from technology today it all felt so familiar. Not the fact that I had escaped my phone or computer, not the days realization that my phone and computer are the only things connecting me to the ones I love, it wasn't even the dragging of my feet, or the ache in my right knee. After a day has come and gone with a morning voice that never warmed up, it's no place I've ever been, nor would I like to take off my coat and stay for long. But it is familiar. It's cold out there. Winter is here again. And that voice sure knows how to sink itself deep like the sharp stabbing needles of a frostbite. When does the winter melt away? When will we see a harvest? It's hard to believe anything grows in a season of ice. As I begin my season of shoveling through the familiarity, I'm blessed with this memory from some time ago: "There is One who calls you the beloved. You must constantly go back to the truth of...

The space in between two peaks lies a distance that seems dream-shattering. We look for the trail, the bridge, some kind of escape, but there isn't one. Our human eye can only measure a mean distance. The space is so far, the trek is so long, the goal seems out of any man's reach. But with time it won't matter, because it's the time that will bridge the distance, providing us a season to climb down from our peak, into the valley, through the abode and back up the next peak. It was just yesterday I sat in church. As I sat there I fought to hold in the bursts of laughter that wanted to escape during the reverence of the song service. How ironic that I, a lone high school teacher from Salem, would be sitting in a sanctuary in Portland in a row of seven of my own classmates from college. The boy on my left: a fond, old memory of camping trips, rock climbing, long weekends spent at Priest Lake, and a cousin of my best friend. There on my right: another kind of fond memor...

“Your problem is how you are going to spend this one and precious life you have been issued. Whether you're going to spend it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it and find out the truth about who you are.”  ―  Anne Lamott

There are many days that go by that I wish my awkward teenage students would just sit down on the edge of their seats and selfishly drink in the words that I have to say. But not just take the words for what they are, but read in between the lines that will give a glimpse of my story. No,  our story. I wish they would read between the lines of a young 20-something girl who wakes up every day before the sun with a passion that she doesn't quite have figured out and goes to bed every night seemingly a failure, still unsure. But one thing she knows is that she wants to love consistently and be loved just the same, to have a family of 5 or 6, a devoted husband and a warm community to raise her children with, and most of all to understand the love and patience of the Savior. I wish they'd read in between about the girl who fights their same battles of accepting and loving herself before others, trusting the power of prayer, standing up for what is truth, living out grace, ...

There are lessons to write. Units to plan. Curtains to sew. Papers to grade. A classroom to attend. MY classroom. I'm a teacher, a real live teacher! Why am I here? This isn't where I'm suppose to be. This wasn't in the sketch. No, no, no it's all wrong. Are You there? Are You sure?

Isn't it true how we study a bud of a rose, so eagerly awaiting it's unfolding, singing our praises with oohing and awing, so willingly tending to it's every leaf, ever anticipating it's blooming because we believe in what we cannot see; it will become a full and lovely thing. When it blooms in all its glory we take pride. How then does such a beautiful thing fade; slowly, slowly, slowly we look past it all, forgetting the anticipated efforts, the desire for such loveliness and the pride in what we've nurtured. Until one day we notice something amiss, and again we yearn, with much less than a second thought, for that fullness and beauty; a fullness and beauty that was never really ours.

I want to understand the power in silence then my gushing river of words might instead refresh like a gentle stream I want to understand your faith then my faith that I claim is strong enough to move mountains might instead be felt through our embrace I want to understand sacrifice then my obsession with the figure in the mirror might instead reflect deep truth in the words, "I care" I want to understand trust then the past that I've worn like old prescriptions might instead be replaced so I can focus ahead I want to understand that understanding has it's own limit then my understanding that is incomplete might instead wait with fervor for a Completeness I want to understand that until that Completeness then I must commit to do three things: trust steadily, hope unswervingly, and love extravagantly