without ink

I love fishing.  Venturing north, the thought of catching the big one and the accompanying thrill is enough to drive countless people to insanity….fishing on an icy lake in the snow in my case.  But after the fingers thaw out, I am itching to get back on the water. What draws me out of the warmth and shelter of the cabin in hopes of redeeming a day on the lake must be the mystery and the potential that each day of fishing holds. My attempt to conquer and coax what has its own agenda to momentarily meet mine always proves more difficult than I initially surmise. Regardless, I do my part in putting everything in place to catch one…and then I get a first class lesson in patience and humility.  

Being out on the lake is a great place to wait. It is so breathtaking- the shore encroaches the forest, the loons belt out a beautiful melody, and now and then a bear will amble out of the wilderness to try its own luck at catching a snack. Every once in awhile the wind settles and the sun pokes its head out from behind the clouds, and I am able to catch glimpse of the fish beneath the water. As I observe them burrow in the mud and spook at the motion of the boat as they dart away, I feel like I am peering into a foreign world, one in which life and constant motion, even though unseen, abound. I wildly throw my line into the water, repeatedly and with fervor hoping to catch sight of a trophy fish chasing my minnow. But, more often than not, the minutes pass, the water becomes hazy again, and the aquatic life disappears from view. Hours later when I haven’t even had a bite, I find myself discouraged as I am weary of casting countless lines into the water without a single response. The vision I once received of the vitality lying just below the surface has escaped me, and I swear instead that there are no fish in the entire lake. Then, unexpectedly, there comes a hit on the end of my line, so clear and strong, there is no doubt what is on the other end. When my desire to catch dinner meets with the identical desire of my rival, the tug I feel on my line is enough to send me into orbit with excitement. Reeling the fish into the boat with a huge smile on my face, I am delighted knowing that one of the many requests I have cast into a pool of endless depth has been answered. For the moment my work is encouraged, and all of my unanswered attempts are summed up in the catch, making all the efforts worthwhile.

I guess it’s a good thing I like this pastime because I seem to be constantly fishing for answers in the depth of the character of the one my soul loves. Taking whatever wishes, feelings, and other random musings I can conjure up in the haphazard tackle box of my deepest desires, I throw them all overboard in what seems at times like a foolish act. And even as I sit in silence waiting for that fateful response, I sometimes begin to wonder the same thing. But as a fish jumps in the waters nearby, I recall that there is abundance of life beyond what I can see. He is constantly stirring the waters, receiving my requests, and waiting for the perfect time to respond with a catch that never fails to take my breath away.

One of the worst feelings is being misunderstood. As humans, we use synonyms, euphemisms, analogies, stories, humor, and attempt after attempt to explain the unique circumstances that dictate our various perspectives. So much of our speech is aimed at justifying our actions and thoughts, hoping that someone else may temporarily step into a fraction of the fabric of our being, all for the purpose of clearing up misconceptions in order that we are able to receive empathy and understanding from others. Yet, the complexity at the interface of emotions and articulations, the complicated relationship between each individual’s spirit, heart, and mind is one that demands a very skilled interpreter. Discernment and wisdom in both reading and understanding others can be learned, for sure. But there remains an untamed element inside each of us, comprised of longings and ambitions, fears and qualms that we ourselves do not even realize makes its abode within us until it is drawn out surely and carefully.

I think we are under the impression that we are the ones who know ourselves best. However, I am not sure I am so quick to embrace this philosophy of self discovery. On days like I’ve had this past week, I have spent a great deal of mental energy trying to figure out why I have felt the way I have. Although there has been no cause for rain in my own emotional forecast, the skies hold a dull grey hue, and gloominess has, for whatever reason, been a thick stratus hovering above my head. My fickle heart has busied itself confusing my mind as it has taken a sabbatical from the logical nature that typically governs it. Instead, my heart seems to be an active participant in a game of charades in which each emotion is selected at random from a bag of adjectives. I have frustrated myself at best and exhausted myself at worst. Clearly, I need some back up to help me figure out my diagnosis!

I love the way the psalmist puts it when he says “deep calls to deep at the roar of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your waves have gone over me.” At the end of the day, I tire of trying to figure myself out, so I take a seat on the edge of a beautiful canyon. As I sit, I allow the entirety of my emotions to be swept away in the power, majesty, and glory of a huge waterfall, plummeting to unsearchable depths; the mist that flows up creating rainbows that dance in the sunlight. And the massive roar…oh, the beauty of the sound. The echo of the depth draws out of me the depths of my own being that I neither know nor understand. My ears begin to hear a line clearly arise out of the noise of the cascade; I can’t decipher exactly what is said, but as the breakers and waves of goodness and peace inundate me, I finally know that I am heard and understood. Although I feel like an alien in my own body, in light of Him, my frustrations fade. And things make sense.

Spring? Like a bird about to hatch from the shell its grown accustomed to, I give a little peep to see what might be the answer. Poking my head out a tiny bit, I am eager to emerge from this season but not quite sure if I am ready should the current conditions change. The warm breeze and clear skies are enticing, but I am not so quick to let my guard down. Oh, who I am kidding…my hopes are up and life is in the air.

What seems like an eternity has been spent in a season in which each day seemed to get colder. Occasionally glancing at a calendar, I was painfully reminded that winter was long from over. But, even though dear ole Jack froze just about everything, from some hot spring within my spirit, I was reminded that the choice of the season was to either brave the blistery conditions and tread the tundra, hoping to find beauty or to stay hidden inside my warm and sheltered abode until the months of discomfort and pain passed.

It’s perplexing- how many times when I feel left with nothing, I find myself later walking away with arms of abundance.  Going a year without desserts only intensified the taste of ice cream of my tongue. A time without fellowship has left me with a deep appreciation for companionship.  Water is never entirely appreciated until one experiences the parched body produced by the desert.  Being selfish people, we are quick to forget that the one who gives and takes away does not do so whimsically but rather carefully, lest we become spoiled and complacent.  And like a bratty child, when our tightly gripped toys are taken away, we scream and cry: Unfair! Unloving! Yet, to guard against the taste of blessings growing stale, the child is isolated so he can rediscover a thirst for his daddy’s embrace.  

The contractions are over as winter births life. The desert turns to oasis, the howling wind to birds singing.  Though I rejoice in the change of season, my focus changes not. The winter will come again.

the other day i had a ‘whoa’ moment. i sat eight stories up in a doctor’s office waiting for the physician to consult with me, when i decided to take advantage of the eagle eye view. the sky was clear, the sun was shining, and the world was in action. my mom used to say things like, “you’re too big for your britches”…and man, did she hit the nail on the head with that colloquialism. most of the time i think that i am nothing less than hot stuff. it’s when i ascend in an airplane, or in this case, an elevator, that my size and relative importance again become quickly realized. people become specks, cars diminish to children’s play toys, and what i thought before to be a sprawling neighborhood is reduced to geometric shapes and patterns. as i see the outline of my apartment, my ego deflates. i am so stinking small.

taken aback by the magnitude of the world, i am most amazed by this: the magnitude of the one who rules over it all juxtaposed with the intimacy and fellowship the same one desires from the very things he created. a man walks down the street, the very hairs on his head numbered. traffic, a continuous flow…each turn of the wheels accounted for. my bedroom window…every tear i have shed, not gone unnoticed. the imbibition of god’s vastness is literally too much for me and i have to pull myself away from the window to accomodate my reeling mind as i sit down. if moments like these are not cause for praise, i am not sure what would summon emotions of wonder and amazement…and gratitude. the goodness of the god who paints the sunrise and calms the storm is the same nature that descends to our level and longs to know us, to walk with us, and to love us.

tonite as i am unwinding from a long week, my tired eyes meet his for a brief moment, and i am seized by his grace. caught up in affection that will not let me wriggle from the strong arms that hold me, my efforts of trying to escape desist. in his warm embrace, i rest. by his breath, i live. for his glory, i write.

I recently received a Valentine-themed promotion from a restaurant titled “Share the Love.” On the inside it reads, “love is meaningless unless shared with someone else.”  I didn’t give out any Valentine cards or gifts this year, but as an expression of my love for you, I will share what was on my heart yesterday….something that can’t be contained in a greeting card or a box full of chocolates.

Here’s a Valentine’s challenge: love yourself less. Straight out of the womb, we begin pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, being bombarded with offers to take us and our dreams to “infinity…and beyond!” The only catch is that you must devote yourself completely to the virtue of self-esteem.  Consequently, we feed each other’s egos, surround ourselves with people who “love” us but really who just tell us what we want to hear, and nurture self-esteem’s brainchild: pride.  As the monster matures, it causes mutiny against, well, everything.  As a result, we get a culture full of self sufficiency, self righteousness, self actualization, self assurance, self indulgence, self entitlement…heck, even self-checkouts!

Having fallen into this trap myself, I am thankful to have been rescued out of a pit of destruction.  About a decade ago, I had a massive heart attack. Conviction pierced me as an arrow much stronger than any in cupid’s quiver, and my pride was deflated as I realized that I am unable to do one thing for myself- and that is to earn god’s favor. Giving myself over entirely to jesus christ to save me from god’s wrath towards my unrighteousness, I began to find my rightful place in the universe as I threw off self esteem and embraced the personification of humility.

Free from the delusion that formerly enshrouded me, I am able to receive an efficacious love that surpasses trite sentimentalities….a love that does not require us to continue striving in our own efforts, but one that lovingly beckons hearts and calls us to rest in the work that has already been accomplished on the cross.

Whew. Today has been a breath of fresh air. And I don’t mean just because it’s nice out. You know the type- your whole body screams for a return to the atmosphere after being submerged in water too long. Except I’m not trapped in depth. I’m suffocating from superficiality.

I remember when that song “Barbie Girl” came out. Maybe the reason it was so popular is because we can all relate to a world of make-believe…a sea of plastic. In fact, we become so accustomed to this world of imitation that after awhile we don’t even realize that we are the ones wearing the masks. We are fake, hiding, and yearning for something of depth while at the same time shrieking and shirking from the possibility of true substance. So, we deceive ourselves, believing that it is safer and easier to remain as actors and actresses.

Oh, the discomfort and discontent that is sure to be elicited from fellow plastic beings as I remove my mask and lay aside the things I hide behind. Exhausted of pretending, I dare to be real. Knowing that many will misunderstand and resist my attempts to persuade others to dispose of their own masks, my efforts will not be deterred. The liberation I have experienced demands compassion for those continuing to abide in fabrication.

To an avid scuba diver, merely skimming the surface as a snorkeler is smothering. Only when one dares to take a risk and dive in headfirst can he discover what he only dreamed of from the shore. No words or descriptions can suffice…only by means of removing the water-wings, the things that keep him safely on the surface, is he able to experience the colors that are more vivid, the view that is more breathtaking, and the life that is more abundant than he could ever hope. Or imagine.

I didn’t realize it was snowing this morning until I walked outside. I was actually glad to see a fresh couple inches on the ground.  The stale snow had since become compact and treacherous being trampled and refrozen into a layer of ice across our parking lot. The flakes were not big this morning but were falling quickly and with volume! A wintry breeze dancing across the fallen snow picked up resting flakes and mixed them with those already suspended in the air before tickling my face, welcoming me outside.  Finding myself transported into what seemed a winter wonderland, my mind was soon also carried away.  I find the most breathtaking aspect of a snowfall to be the stillness that is ushered in at the cue of the falling flakes. Striving and bustling pause and creation momentarily holds it breath, transfixed by the newness that descends upon the earth.  It’s as if each delicate flake delivers an ounce of peace to a fallen and broken world, allowing whomever chooses, to escape oneself and get caught up in something….bigger. 

A reminder of our relative insignificance.

A reminder of the connection we have to the earth as humans.

A reminder of an insuppressible desire to have meaning beyond waking up every morning and going to bed at night.

There is hardly another image I can think of that more accurately represents purity.  The whiteness of my surroundings is irreproducible.  It is breathtaking and pristine and, for a little while, unblemished.  Ugliness is concealed.  The day is new…. And so are his mercies as he blankets the filth of yesterday. 

The beauty of a snowy landscape is only a fringe of his robe.  We surely cannot handle the perfection and purity that he desires to give to us.  As we are blinded as the sun reflects off a fresh snowfall, surely we are unable to handle the perfection and purity that he promises to give us as he washes us “whiter than the snow.” I look once more out the window sighing and thanking the illustrator for another portrait of his great love for us.

Attempts at studying this evening have lead me everywhere….everywhere except the very material that needs to be studied of course.  Fighting the desire to chase rabbit trails in my mind, i finally succumb and find myself writing for the first time in what seems like eternity.  Tired, wore out, and sick of memorizing and regurgitating, i let my hand lead me as i have nothing particularly in mind to write about. Improv. I guess that’s what I’ll call this.

 
Life is full of improv. Just when i think i have a thing or two figured out, the blindfold is removed, and i find myself in circumstances that are foreign, or at the very least unexpected.  The beauty of spontaneity is that the true colors of a person cannot be masked in the midst of the unknown.  Living in the unknown robs us all of our comfort and our sense of autonomy over our lives- a humbling experience to say the least.  While at times i grumble about now knowing about what comes next, for the most part I enjoy a good mystery. As fun as it is to get to the end of a book, it is this sense of mystery that keeps the pages turning furiously and awakens somewhere deep within us an inherent sense of dependency…..turning each page in a desperate attempt to get one chapter closer to the conclusion of a good story, extrapolating what is understood to situations that are not, and madly rushing about until this mystery is solved!   

 
A good author knows the value of surprise and mystery and is able to construct a story in a way that leaves the readers guessing until the end.  He engineers the conclusion to culminate in a manner causing the reader to inevitably give props to the author’s technique of summing up all intricate details while simultaneously not forsaking the grander scheme evident between the lines of the story.  The good author loves delighting the readers. And the author is delighted as the readers discover what he has written for their enjoyment. 

 
Well, friends, I am in the middle of a true page-turner.  Unable to flip to the end real quick and check out how the story ends, I wait, watching and praying, realizing that i am part of the cast in this one.  The author writes from first-person perspective, but for some reason has chosen me to play a part in a great novel that is sure to be a best seller.  The character I am playing has experienced seasons of despair, turmoil, brokenness, dependency, revelation, healing, and joy….and intense growth.  But, through the journey of this incredible story, has developed a deeper understanding of, reliance upon, and love for the author. 

 
And that deserves two thumbs up, way up.

Today was a lonely day. I’m amazed by situations in which I’m surrounded by many people yet still feel alone. I waited all day for someone to notice me, to make an effort to acknowledge my existence, to say my name. Perhaps I’m strange, but it seems that in circumstances such as these, the utterance of my name would bring relief, would be soothing, would even take the edge off the loneliness. Isn’t it true that hearing one’s name sounds sweeter when it rolls from the tongue of someone who takes an interest in us…someone who we admire very much….or perhaps someone who we didn’t know even knew we existed!

The other night I took a walk. You want to talk about a beautiful evening. I’ve never been so great at art, but as I was walking, I picked a weed with a thick tassel on the end and imagined how it would feel to paint the sky- the strokes flowing easily, transmitting the beauty of the masterpiece found only in the mind’s eye of the artist, and the colors blending together yet somehow maintaining their individuality. Dusk approached, and as I changed directions, I was captured by a stunning sunset. Small clouds spotted the blue, purple, and pink swirled sky as the sun seemed to hide behind a larger cloud. Beautiful rays emanated in all directions from the covered source of light…penetrating the sky with hints of its glory. My spirit leaped with ecstasy at this divine whisper of love.

My God speaks in a still, small voice. He has called me by name to come to himself long ago, and the beauty of his voice draws me nearer as I yearn to hear him say my name again…..again…..again. My loneliness pales in comparison to the comfort I feel as I am brought back to the realization that because he delights in calling me by name, he is constantly and sweetly singing over me, waiting for me to quiet myself long enough to hear His voice.

He whispers. Are we listening?

in times like these, i wish my heart would speak. I find myself fumbling for the words to do my feelings justice, but no matter the amount of times i consult my thesaurus, pause to collect my thoughts, or make some futile attempt to artistically phrase a rush of emotions, my linguistics fail me. the only thing i can utter is ‘thank you,’ and even it seems inadequate.

As the beautifully painted leaves fall off the trees at the first signs of winter, I also observe such a remarkable season of my life coming to an end. A chapter is closing; a page is turning. My heart is heavy. Yet, my heart is full of gratitude for all of the love, kindness, and hospitality given freely these past several months. I am thankful for the many lessons, conversations, and personal growth ordained by God. I am thankful for an amazing job and living situation. But, I am most thankful for the body that I have experienced and been counted as an indispensible member of since arriving on the scene- one that works in harmony, lifting each other up in prayer and encouragement, spurring each other on in the faith, holding each other accountable, and being used as a conduit of the love that flows from the son’s hands.

I am so grateful for tears. When words do not suffice, the water pouring from my eyes tells the story of the manner in which i have been touched here in huntsville. Every tear that falls is a prayer offered to the greatest God for a period of restoration and retreat in my life. My breathing gets shallow and rapid when I think about how much He loves me…how He understands the entirety of my emotions without me having to utter a single word….how He has woven together a beautiful tapestry that I am only seeing a piece of. As I depart, the one with whom I am deeply in love, goes both before and behind me. Crying and exhausted, I cling to His neck. And He carries me.