Others Words of Late.

How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.

Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache. It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst.

Yet I cannot tarry longer. The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark. - The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran

"Together we will take the road that leads into the West.
And far away will find a land where both our hearts may rest. " -The Ent and Entwife, The Two Towers, Tolkien

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. -Psalm 73:26

Enough of Something.

Spiritual enough.
What does that mean anyway? I'm not really sure.
I just don't feel like I am.
And I desperately want to be.

I'm not fervent. Or holy. Or righteous. Rough around the edges. Struggling and failing all over the place.
But I'm seeking you Lord. I'm trying. I am failing and trying. Is that enough? The enough that I am looking for? I am not sure what this standard I've created looks like, the mark of which I am falling so short. Short of where I think I see other people reaching. This nebulous place where one is finally there. Humble. Teachable. Righteous. Loving. Wise. Faithful. Sacrificial. Life-giving.

And here I am, claiming the words, "My soul clings to you, your right hand holds me" [psalm 63:8]. I'm holding on for dear life, hoping my fingers don't slip. Speaking Psalm 51 as my own words.

Psalm 51

1 Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your unfailing love;
according to your great compassion
blot out my transgressions.
2 Wash away all my iniquity
and cleanse me from my sin.

3 For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is always before me.

4 Against you, you only, have I sinned
and done what is evil in your sight,
so that you are proved right when you speak
and justified when you judge.

5 Surely I was sinful at birth,
sinful from the time my mother conceived me.

6 Surely you desire truth in the inner parts;
you teach me wisdom in the inmost place.

7 Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.

8 Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones you have crushed rejoice.

9 Hide your face from my sins
and blot out all my iniquity.

10 Create in me a pure heart, O God,
and renew a steadfast spirit within me.

11 Do not cast me from your presence
or take your Holy Spirit from me.

12 Restore to me the joy of your salvation
and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.

13 Then I will teach transgressors your ways,
and sinners will turn back to you.

14 Save me from bloodguilt, O God,
the God who saves me,
and my tongue will sing of your righteousness.

15 O Lord, open my lips,
and my mouth will declare your praise.

16 You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;
you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.

17 The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart,
O God, you will not despise.

18 In your good pleasure make Zion prosper;
build up the walls of Jerusalem.

19 Then there will be righteous sacrifices,
whole burnt offerings to delight you;
then bulls will be offered on your altar.

I need restoration, restoration of the joy of your salvation. I've got lots of questions and a clingy soul. It just doesn't feel like enough. But if you want a broke and contrite spirit, that I can manage. Because it's all I've got to give. So create in me a clean heart, O God. And renew a right spirit in me. While I will never be enough, you always will be.

Social Poetry.

It's nights like these I will miss. I will most definitely miss these things. Laughing- so hard my abs might actually turn into a six pack,-about inside jokes and really crummy ones. Feeling the tightness of my throat due to talking far too much, at an equally excessive volume. Sitting and standing. Standing, hovering, sitting and standing. The easy flow in and out of conversations. The chaotic but steady rhythm of shared words. Hops and foam. Winks and hugs. Social poetry at it's finest.

I will miss you Wednesday nights, and all that you entail.

My new roommates are also rolled into this whole missing business. My old ones too. Marie Catrib's and Kava House and Redux. Don't even get me started with Redux. I've been in there more than any healthy person should the last few weeks. I will also crave the night lights from atop the west side slope.

And El Matador chips. They're the bomb. You just can't deny local, salty, cheap and delicious paired with salsa.

There are so many things. So many little things that will add up to a whole lot of missing.
It's only six months though. I'm making this sound like I'm going to another planet, or to prison. But I'll be back. I'll always come back to this city. To Wednesday nights. Back to good friends and hearty laughs. Maybe not back to Yesterdog, unless ya'll join me again, then-sign me up for another link of fake meat, because spending time with you makes it worth it.

You friends, you know who you are. O, you who make me laugh and cry and love my life. Thanks for your jokes and your sincerity. For your kind words and attention to things that are good. Good like conversation and hot dogs. My hat is off to you, and my heart comes along with it.

Silent Morn

I'm listening to an acapella rendition of Silent Night on my Sufjan Stevens Holiday station [Pandora]. I'm drinking hot apple cider and eating grahams, not so surprisingly, sandwiching a layer of peanut butter. I plugged in my twinkle lights and pulled up my blinds.

It's snowing.

I woke up in the stillness of the morning to peer out at a sugar dusted street. The tree branches are precariously stacked with piles of snow. It is steadily falling around the orange street lamp, thick and fluffy, making it's way to join the multitudes making up the white veil. Everything is clean. Quiet peace.

Upon this snow's arrival last night, I had planned to take a stroll before work. I am now questioning the logistics of this outing. I have no boots. And we're not talking about a light dusting. Tennis shoes will have to do. Tennis shoes and smart wools. Also, it is currently five fifty-one and quite dark and will likely continue to be so for quite some time. What am I even doing up at this hour? I actually woke up at about five and after peeping out through the slats at this winter wonderland resolved to awake in order that I may savor the arrival of my winter friend.

The first reason for my waking was due to my right arm which has been falling asleep every night and was quite painful this morning. After some research on webMD I'm thinking I need to be tested for carpal tunnel. Yes, carpal tunnel. At age 22. It's all downhill from here. But that is neither here nor there and decidedly not the subject I wish to write about this morning. I do however thank my tingling appendage for waking me up.

I tip-toed down stairs, my brown slippered foot letting out the familiar creaks on the old wooden stairs. I scurried across the kitchen to the back window and leaned over the bench to see the hundreds of rumples in the ground blanket. I giggled and smiled like a little girl. It felt like Christmas morning. The full, welcomed silence of a new day. The flakes cutting their path in the darkness. Simply magical.

Things seen and heard while running.

The sun sinking down behind the city. Leaving it's last traces in the clouds scattered above.

A single pink mitten. Covered in grippy white snowflakes. Two year old size. Is she sad she is missing her mitten? Is her little hand cold on this very mild December first?

The moon hanging over the water near the hospital on Wealthy. It's reflection being cut by the trees growing up out of the shallow cove. Pale gold-ish silver set against a dark canvas.

Christmas lights wound around bushes and threaded into tree branches. The man creating this labor of lights is putting the last finishing touches on his pine boughs in the huge vases at the end of the driveway. It looks beautiful, and I tell him so in winded words. He smiles with a thank you. Does anyone else tell him this? His neighbors? His wife?

One of my favorite houses, on the corner of the one way street behind the hospital isn't decorated with lights. No christmas bows or twinkling strands along the roof. The single outdoor light shining upon the rounded door does not fall upon a festive wreath. It would look beautiful all gussied up for the holidays. But perhaps they are saving money. Maybe despite their gorgeous house, they are frugal and don't want to run up the energy bill. I imagine them giving their money away. Calculating the cost of decor and electricity and giving it to someone who hasn't the money for food, let alone little white lights.

We are past the Welcome to East Grand Rapids sign, and I bump into a man walking his dog. He's in a full suit. I notice as our distance shortens that he has a phone on hand. He's checking his messages. He is still at work. Tragically, just behind him around the hedge of bushes is his little girl. Happily skipping along on the sidewalk, tucking her hair behind her ear clumsily as children do. He is at work, and she is delighting in an evening walk with her father and pup.

I run past the mitten again, still lost. The moon is now hanging high over Fulton street, illuminating the landscape. And it's not even six pm yet.

All the while I've been listening to Ed Dobson talk about mercy and loving your neighbor. When Jesus is asked who our neighbor is, as usual, he doesn't give a list or an easy answer, he tells a story. In this story our neighbor is an almost dead, stripped, beaten and penniless man laying alongside the road. The religious walk past him. He will just mess up their lives, make them unable to perform their duties, get in the way of them checking off their lists. But someone stops to help. One from Samaria doesn't let anything get in the way of loving their just robbed, bloodied neighbor. And so, translated by Ed, our neighbor is our enemy. Someone who gets in our way. Who makes our life messy. We're supposed to love them too. I have a hard enough time really loving the people that I enjoy. Those who are easy to love, even that is hard for me. So if I'm going to do this, I'm going to need help. I can't love my enemies well of my own accord. Luckily, I have some help. I have an example in Jesus. I have encouragement from being united with Christ, I have comfort from his love, I have fellowship with the Spirit, and I have tenderness and compassion. I need to claim those. And love as I have been loved.

peanut butter blanket.

I haven't really been writing lately.
I mean, occasionally in my moleskin but those are typically-correction: always-things I don't want anyone else to read.
But even the short blips in my black notebook are usually just quick rants. Not really writing. Not describing what I'm noticing around me. Not solidifying daily lessons.
I'm not taking walks either. Perhaps this has something to do with it. Or walks are just symbolic for slowing down, or rather, they literally force me to do so.

This is just not right. It must stop. The movie watching must stop. The dillydallying online, regardless of my lovely new machine, must stop. And with all this stopping, something must start.
And so it starts small. It will start again, with peanut butter.

I am eating some on a soft piece of Brownberry whole wheat bread. The irregular crushed pieces give way when I bite down. Soft. Crunchy. And oily. The other half of the peanut butter is thick and sticky. Oily too, but the line between nut and oil is blurry here, unlike the bits of nut floating in this heavy blanket over my bread.

Peanut butter is a blanket for me. A security blanket. It never gets old. Ever. If I totaled the amount of pb eaten in my lifetime, I think it would be appalling. I went through a jar by myself in about two weeks if that gives you any idea. We're talking in terms of tons here. There was about two weeks my junior year of college where I ate pb & j's and goldfish crackers exclusively. And I still love them. I think I could eat one everyday for the rest of my life. Which is a little bit unlike me. I never order the same thing at restaurants. I shy away from tradition. Routines and schedules typically fall by the way side. Consistency is something I desire but don't always achieve. Except for my love of peanut butter. That-that is consistent. And unending. And simple. I mean it's peanut butter and jelly for pete's sake. We're talking the patron sandwich of children.
And I love it.
With a passionate, unconditional love.
And now comes the "moral" or the story, full of maybe-s and perhaps-es that are so common in my writing. And so...

Maybe just like walking, peanut butter is kind of symbolic. It's a reminder that although I love change and adventure, there's a part of me that likes the familiar. The comfortable. And peanut butter is a way for me to subconsciously admit that.

Or perhaps, it's just plain delicious.

Squirrels.

The squirrels are taking over the city.
They are having councils in front yards all over east town. They're running around like crazy.
I think this is bad news for us. I think they know something we don't. And it has something to do with snow.

Equal parts.

I'm listening to Christmas music. Yes, you sticklers, it's before Thanksgiving but I don't care. I love it so much. I feel so young and excited. All it takes are a few strands of twinkling white lights, some pine. Throw in some sparkles and snowflakes and I'm done for. Totally and utterly flung back into a childlike state.

I helped some friends decorate their house tonight. I mean, it wasn't even my house and I helped hang lights and hook ornaments. What a blessing to be invited into that. We drank decaf coffee, sat on the floor, listening to Christmas music unashamedly, all the while talking about the upcoming Holidays, upcoming decisions, and upcoming changes. There's something so freeing about sharing. About giving a piece of your life and receiving a piece of someone else's. I'm finding I am most refreshed when this happens. When I have a safe place to speak and I can also be a safe space.

A lot of times when one speaks their mind,verbalizing their inner dialogue, we call it "sharing". I use that term all the time, thanks for sharing. Thanks for sharing your heart. But who is the person who's receiving the sharing? The sharee? The receiver? But that's not sharing. Sharing is when both people win. When you split a cookie, when you share a piece of cake, both people win. It's even. Unless of course one person is a pig, but then it's not sharing, at least not really. When truly sharing, both people receive and both people give. And I love that. It makes me glow like a Christmas tree.

I celebrated Thanksgiving with some friends tonight too. It was a great night needless to say. There were a few moments where I looked around, and felt like a proud mother, despite the fact that most of those in attendance where my age or older. It was beautiful. People standing here and there, food all over the counter, glasses in hand, couches filled. People sharing laughter and stories. Sharing the feeling of a stuffed belly. We brought food and ate food. And it went further. So much food was left over. I think it even tasted better because it was shared.

Moral of this story-I love sharing. It's good and beautiful. Sometimes rare, at times hard to find. But o, the treasure when found. Friends, thanks for sharing life with me. For listening and speaking, equal parts. For cooking and eating, equal parts. Giving and taking, equal parts.

Imperfect Birds

Anne Lamott has a new book coming out April 2010 titled Imperfect Birds.
The countdown begins.

California. Here we come.

God.
I just really want this.
Please just make this happen.

This is not a usual dialogue me and God have. This kind of request, if it ever gets voiced, is usually followed up with a..."but whatever you want it what I really want." You know the whole, "Delight your self in the LORD and He will give you the desires of your heart", deal where if I just want what he wants, if I'm delighting in him, well-then I'll be happy.
Not this time. Not this prayer. I just really wanted it.

And the funny thing is, it happened.
AND I'M MOVING TO CALIFORNIA.
I'm not excited at all...if the all caps aren't a dead give away.

I'm going to be working at Alliance Redwoods in northern California. An hour and twenty mintues from San Fransisco. Twenty minutes from the Ocean. In the redwoods. The REDWOODS.
And as if that alone wasn't enough to make me drive 2,323 miles, I'm going to be working with fifth and sixth grade kids, facilitating high adventure activities and teaching outdoor "science" curriculum.

Somebody pinch me.
It's exactally what I want to be doing at this point in my life. I'm sure in a few years I'll embark on a new path, with a totally different focus, but for now, it's undoubtably, unquestionably, exactally where I want to be. My usual indeciveness didn't even make a peep when I called back with an emphatic, "yes" to the job offer. It just feels right. A teensy bit frightening, but mostly just right.

I leave the beginning of January, after the first of the year. Bringing in 2010 with a move across the country. I cannot think of a better way to start next year.
I know I'll most likely be working a lot of hours.
I know there will be days where I wonder what in the heck I am doing.
I'm sure there are days were I will be lonely. I'll miss the people who really know me, I'll miss my favorite places in Grand Rapids, I'll miss my family.
But despite all that, I'm so freaking stoked about this next step. I'm thankful for the blank space beneath this newly titled chapter.

So to quote the O.C. theme song, [ingrained into my memory thanks to Rach, Ro and Jenn who decided to watch all the seasons AGAIN our junior year]

California.
Here we come.

Waking up.

I just listened to a podcast about "waking up". This is something often used metaphorically to describe a change. A switch. A new, sort of abrupt beginning. And it's usually a positive thing.

Except here's the thing, waking up in the literal sense really sucks.
I'm a morning person. I LOVE mornings. But the opening my eyes and getting out of bed part, really, really lame. Annoying alarm clock, also lame. But I digress, so this podcast talked about "waking up" to God all around us. To noticing him in the mundane. In the everyday. In those around us who are "Jesus-y" and those who we want to punch in the face. This is an idea that I've heard often. Not to leave love in the church on Sundays, to do the Jesus thing for an hour or two and then forget about it the rest of the week...yadda, yadda, yadda. But I guess you could say, despite it's seemingly common place occurrence in my life, it softly shook me awake. And although my run was slightly tiring, this awakening wasn't nearly as annoying as my alarm clock thankfully.

I briefly hit snooze while showering, eating dinner, driving to the library, grabbing my parking ticket and heading inside. And I almost made it to the door, hitting snooze every nine minutes.

Almost.

After I had walked past her, a woman asked me if I had the time. I fumbled around, finally locating my phone in the black hole that is my ridiculous purse.
"6:39" Smiling and starting to turn.
"That's not the question I wanted to ask you." I knew along what vein the rest of our dialogue would be. I thought of the granola bar in my purse and knew I could offer that. But her story took a different spin. Her car broke down and she needed to get home. She also needed to pick up her baby. Just a few dollars for a cab and what not.

When I was in Los Angeles, working with Center for Student Missions, they told us never to give money, but to try and physically meet the need. Buy food, buy bus tickets, etc. So I started asking her questions, awkwardly, not really knowing what I was doing. But somehow the questions came out.
"Where do you live?"
"Could I buy you a bus ticket?"
Finally it hit me. Duh, Jen. Just give her a ride. Slow down, notice the opportunities in front of you, and give her a ride.
"I could give you a ride?" I suggested.
"Well aren't you on your way to do something in the library?"
"No, it's fine. I can do it right now."
"But it's a long way, it's all the way on 7 mile."
"No, really I don't mind. It's really no big deal."
"Well..." my heart sank. She was stalling. I offered to give her what she needed. A ride home. And she wasn't taking me up on the offer. "Just go and do whatever you are going to do in the library and I'll try something else and if I can't find anything I'll take you up on it."
"Okay" and with one last feeble attempt I added, "I'll be inside in you need me."
I have a feeling she won't be there when I leave.

I don't tell this story to make myself look good. Or to make someone else look bad. I'm writing it because it just happened and I think it might hold some meaning-so here goes. Number one, I woke up. I for once stopped worrying about my agenda and schedule. I finally had the clarity to notice a need and have the courage to actual offer up a possible solution. Number two, sometimes, the world sucks and we get burned. I don't know this woman's story, but when I mustered up the courage to make myself vulnerable, it hurt to know I was being lied to. Being played. But here's the thing. I'm going to do it again. Hopefully anyway. Because maybe once, just one time, a ride will really be just what someone needs. And I'll be able to offer it up. And once I get over the annoying, unnerving buzz of the alarm, it will be a good morning.

Bicycle built for two.

Riding wobbly down the street were two on a tandem. Helmets completed their matching outfits of bright orange zip-ups and brown pants. They seemed to be twins, this couple riding their two-seater. Seemed to be. Her pants too tight and too long, his pants too loose and too short. One bearing glasses, the other without. Their strides different, their hair different. Had I heard their voices, they too would have been different. So much alike, and yet distinct. A metaphor for the perfect couple, clad is hunter orange and chocolate bottoms, wobbling along on their blue bicycle built for two.

GR

Grand Rapids is the best.
Does everyone feel this about their own city?

The view heading west on 196 early on a sunny fall morning is delightful. The sun is glinting off the blue glass Varnum building. The river is sparkling. O man. It's just great. The other day, at dusk, I was driving over the bridge on Fulton with the blue bridge to my left and the city, bathed in that evening glow, breath-taking. I experienced another phenomenal sunset on a run through East GR two days ago. Leaves everywhere. The sky bright pink.
The best view of my beloved city is heading east on 196 right there by Lake Michigan Drive. As it slightly descends, heading around that curve, and a panorama of the city is framed by the trees. Gosh, it's beautiful.
I've almost gotten into several accidents because I can't stop looking.
Mmmm. I love this city.

Sheets of pink, presents of gold.

I celebrated a birthday with a friend last night. And it might as well have been my birthday because I feel like I received a gift.

The evening started with a drive out to Grand Haven. The big fat sun making it's way into Lake Michigan. We ran around throwing frisbees, bare-foot, and I realized how it's been much too long since I've been on a body of water. The waves crashed in, rolling under and over each other as the last bit of sun plunged out of the cloudless sky and into the lake. We made our way to the pier with the little red house. I have no idea what the other two were talking about because I was lost in the water. It was washing up onto the wet sand, leaving behind a sheet of gold and pink before it was absorbed into the beach. Add a few more friends, head to Kirby grill, and things just keep getting better and better. I ate a pizza with pesto, feta, artichokes, red onions, tomato and pineapple and had a creamy, dark lager while we laughed and chatted. Shuffle board and covers, poorly done, were our dessert. The original three then park our car in a church parking lot. Not so stealthily made our way to Rosy Mound, climbed stairs and hills and descended to the beach yet again, this time with the moon at our backs and the sky littered with twinkling lights over head. I turned to my friend, "This is exactly how it should be."
Life that is. It's risky, and a little brisk perhaps, but o, is it beautiful. This was exactly how it should be. We sat under the twinkling sky, talking about life and questions and doubts, finally snuggling into our lovely mummy bags after a Happy Birthday song to bring in a 24th year. I woke in the morning to a runner and barking dog, fog rolling over the ridge to the east like the fog coming off the hills in San Fransisco. The sun was creeping it's way up, making a line of rainbow colored light on the opposite horizon. For breakfast, we went to Morningstar Cafe, drank good coffee and ate delicious meals surrounded by brightly colored broken plates and the hum of conversation. We asked questions about life and decisions and futures on our way to Mars Hill, and ended up praying for these very issues as soon as we sat in the plastic chairs. Just saying "Yes", we agreed is easy in theory, and more difficult in practice. To be continued conversations about hope and faith and waking up. I sit here, tired, most likely from lack of sleep and the exposure of deep seeded questions. And yet, I feel like I too opened a birthday gift.

A gift of refreshment. A gift of friendship. The presents of nature, gifts of creation. I opened a little bit of community, thoughtful questions to my own thoughts and comfort in a shared quest. The vibrance of it all leaving behind a sheet of gold and pink like the waves on the sand. It was my birthday too yesterday. Thanks for sharing.

Sarcophagus Sanctuary.

Since the purchase of my mummy bag, and the return from my summer adventures, my bag has become somewhat of a sacred place. I go out of my way to create any opportunity to sleep in it.
'No, you take the couch, I'll just sleep on the floor.'
'Oh, you can't find your basket of blankets that's usually right by the couch? Well I guess I'll just use my bag.'
'O shoot, my sheets are probably dirty. Guess it's time to sleep in my bag.'
You get the idea.
I even slept in my bed, on top of my covers, in my Kelty bag for about a week. It's really kind of weird, I know. But I love it. Wriggling into the silky grey and green cocoon makes me feel childlike, safe and snug.

On a camping trip last Spring, one of my hiking companions did not have quite the same experience. There were six of us in what I believe was meant to be a four person tent, ah the joys of camping, and I had the honor of being stuck sleeping next to the kid who hated her sleeping bag. And I mean hated, well, maybe what I actually mean is scared. She was scared of her bag. She writhed for several hours. She was suffocating, sure she bought a kid's sized bag, absolutely undone by the fact that she couldn't assume her usual night time position she affectionately refers to as "the lizard". It would be quiet and then a flurry of swooshing as she trashed in her sarcophagus, trying to ward off the coming death. Death by nylon. It was hilarious, especially if you know her, and if from your perspective, a mummy bag is the best possible option for nighttime slumber.

The camping world adopted the term "mummy" from the Ancient Egyptian burial tradition to name this efficient sleeping gear. All too fitting to my friend who felt like she was being buried alive that chilly May night. Anyway, the Egyptians tightly wrapped their dead in strips of linen. They also shoved a chemical called Natron in the corpse's hollowed out chest, pulled out their brains with a hook and stashed treasures in their form fitting caskets. Yes, so it's a little weird. And sleeping in something named after such a disturbing tradition is a little creepy. Except for the stashing of treasure part, I could get used to finding a diamond or a cool mill stuffed in the lining of my bag. [Hm...maybe I should call REI and pitch that idea...] The reason they wrapped their dead so tightly with cloth however, was to protect them. The salty-concoction and the taking out of the organs was to prevent rotting and to hurry along the crisping process. But the strips of linen, along with the body-shaped sarcophagus [resembling my modern day sleeping bag] was for protection.

I think I'm feeling a little bit of that Ancient reasoning here in 2009. Although I'm not dead, I feel safe inside my bag. Tightly wrapped and neatly packaged in my own little sarcophagus of synthetic batting and nylon.

Alright that sounded a little creepy. Perhaps my own little cocoon is better? Whatever the word choice, I feel at home sleeping in there. All zipped up.

So invite me over, and forget about the blankets. I just need an excuse to sleep in my mummy bag, my little piece of home.

Despite October's Numbers.

I need to write more.

Maybe not here.
But somewhere.

Turning Right.

I am driving toward the library on Reed's Lake in order to catch up on some over-due reading.
[Remember that whole discipline thing? yea. About that...]
It's a warm fall evening, the trees resplendent, dripping with gold. I'm having trouble catching my breath and decide to go for a walk instead. I need to clear my head, and if I've waited this long to read what's another couple hours eh? I park at D&W and start wandering. I don't really have a plan figured out, no route established. I know these streets so I'm just wandering, not in a loop, but back and forth, doubling back and crossing over. The leaves are magnificent. Casting their warm yellow glow, almost outdone by the fantastic sunset. Almost. I let my mind go, here and there. Meandering just as freely as my feet. I reign it in for a quick prayer now and again, but I can't seem to hold its attention for long. As I'm intently studying the hot pink highlight on the clouds through gaps in the orange foliage, I tilt my head back and breathe deep.

I'm excited about thoughts of...well something. Something I will not publish here. My ideas seem as quick to change as West Michigan weather, and I've decided to "treasure these things in my heart" instead of talking about it with everyone because then I have to once again explain why nothing ever happened. Anyway, I'm getting away from the real lesson and beauty here...

I tilt my head back and breathe deep. I can feel passion bubbling up inside me like a slow leak. Not explosive excitement, but that quiet joy and deep peace. It's what I've been feeling like I've been missing. And it comes at the thought of another one of my crazy ideas, which just might, hopefully, turn out to not be so crazy after all. As the sunset diminishes, I think about my route back to my car. I need to turn north, and any of these next streets will do. I start looking to my right, waiting for one that looks pleasant. I finally see one, lined with small trees that are a fleshy orange and yellow, like the skin of a peach. It's gorgeous. I hesitate. Pausing, I look down the sidewalk ahead of me. There are a few green signs signifying other options further down the way. Should I keep going? Maybe there is an even more beautiful road up ahead. I start to move forward, just barely shifting my weight, and then abruptly turn and head down the aforementioned peach colored street. In that brief pause, I decided that this road was it. Maybe there was an even more picturesque road further down. But there is a beautiful road laid right out in front of me now.
So why would I continue along, missing out on something I know is beautiful, just because there might be something further down?

And what if their isn't?

What if this road, right here, is the most splendid path I could take? And I passed it up because of a feeling of "what if"?

O, how superbly this moment applies to my life. I have no way of knowing what streets lie ahead. Am I going to base my decisions on a hypothetical red lined street in the future? Or am I going to head down the road to my right-because it is breath-takingly gorgeous, saturated in warm colors, beckoning my to come and taste its goodness?

And there it is again, settling over me like a blanket. Bringing welcomed warmth, like the first days of spring sunshine. That still tranquility, beautiful inaudible rest.

Elephants.

O, how quick I am to forget.
Isn't there a verse about that, "Be quick to forget, slow to speak and slow to become angry"? Oh, wait. No, that's quick to listen. I would feel a little bit better about my memory lapses if that were the verse though. If only scripture would endorse my faults and make my life easier. In some ways, it does simplify life. But mostly, this is not my experience. That is for another day altogether. I was going somewhere with this...

ah yes, my forgetfulness. I'm actually fairly embarrassed by my [frequent] tendencies to forget. I make light of it, often making fun of myself, calling myself a "flake" or a "space cadet". Names others have assigned to me unfortunately. Sometimes the truth hurts.

I forget where I put my car keys. I forget to call people back. I can't remember anything involving numbers. I forget what I learned in Anatomy, of which I took three different courses. I forget names, places, authors, artists, what I ate for breakfast, where I put my sweatshirt, which box I packed my scarves in [currently, the bane of my existence]. Regrettably, I consistently forget birthdays and important events. [Sorry loved ones] I'm constantly overbooking myself-because I forget previously made plans.

Sunday, I was reminded of something I had lost sight of-how good it is for me to walk. I read my profile write-up non-sense for this blog. And I wrote that, "I'm following my feet." Except I haven't been walking anywhere.
Really Jen? Must you literally walk to, "follow your feet"? The answer is emphatically, yes. Yes, I must literally walk. It reminds me of my smallness. My boundaries, limits and mortality. Again, really Jen? Just from walking? And again, I say yes. It makes me slow down enough to think. To think about what I'm forgetting.

It seems I am quick to forget the importance of Christ. Of Community. Of conversations and writing and breathing and reading and memorizing and praying. I am so quick to forget. I've heard that "elephants never forget". Maybe I just need bigger ears...?
Anyway, BBC says it's true.

"Elephants can certainly build up a memory over the years and hold on to it"

They also stated that,

"The older and more experienced the matriarch, the better she is at recognising old friends"

I'm not an elephant, but I hope that as I get older and more experienced, the better I am at recognizing 'old friends'. Some of these 'old friends' that I am so quick to forget. Like birthdays and where I put important things. But more importantly, my need for grace and community. The necessity of scripture, prayer and walking. Because after all, I am 'following my feet'. A simple pedestrian, following the adventure of The Way.

Discipline.

I really dislike the idea of discipline. It is a vile word. It makes me feel constrained, controlled and inhibited. It seems so "old school", tight and itchy like a wool turtle neck sweater. The official definition from dictionary.com doesn't help this negative reaction to the word.

dis⋅ci⋅pline /ˈdɪsəplɪn/ –verb
+ to train by instruction and exercise; drill.
+ to bring to a state of order and obedience by training and control.
+ to punish or penalize in order to train and control; correct; chastise.
Synonyms:
+ chastisement, castigation.
+ see punish.

Drill? Control? Punish or penalize? I don't think I want anything to do with that. It's all very unromantic and regimented. And yet, I think I am going to begin a season of discipline. Allow me to explain this, because so far, this appears to be the last thing I would want to do.

This idea of discipline keeps coming up. I was talking with a friend about wanting to be in love with God. About wanting to genuinely love people. I want those things to come naturally. I want to posture myself as a bringer of love, peace, forgiveness and grace. But let's be honest here, that's not natural. Well at least for me it's not. Much to my annoyance. Another thing I'm not a natural at is running. I'm a wheezer, I'm ridiculously slow, I have a little more padding than most born-runners and I can fairly easily convince myself that staying bed is better than lacing up my sneakers. I will say this though, I love it. Absolutely love it. Need it. Crave it. I seriously have withdrawl affects at times.

It wasn't always like this. I remember many days while training for my first big race, wondering what in the world I was doing, trudging through the snow, wet, sweaty and cold, breathing like an overweight smoker climbing a flight of stairs. After many mornings and miles, a funny thing happened. I started to enjoy myself. I started looking forward to my treks. They were rhythmic. Wonderfully predictable and at the same time gloriously unpredictable. I was completely alone and yet surrounded by the city. I felt a sense of accomplishment and release.

I went for a run today on some trails in a park just down the street. Thank the Lord because I was beginning to really, really hate the suburb loop I've been doing. I actually laughed out loud as I turned a corner and an uneven wooden path rose, fell and wound away in front of me, covered in yellow leaves, bathed in golden light from the fall sunlight. Absolute bliss.

To get to the point, it took time to fall in love with running. It took discipline. As much as I hate to admit that. And so perhaps, perhaps part of falling in love with something takes some level of discipline. In order to begin to just love people "naturally" I need to continually make choices that are compassionate. Maybe it means volunteering consistently. Or unloading the dishwasher. Or writing letters. In order to fall in love with God's word, I need to have a little discipline and read it. Consistently. Not just when I feel like it.

So maybe it's just about consistency? Because when something becomes a part of you, part of the fabric of who you are, you miss it in it's absence. Like when I don't run. But I need to return to discipline because-I'll let you in on a little secret- I suck at consistency. Just ask my family and friends. So even if consistency is where it's at, I still need to invite its annoying Uncle Discipline along.

And so it begins. This dabbling into discipline. I'm worried about becoming legalistic and rule bound. Losing the mystery, spontaneity and excitement of it all. It's just a trial period. If I start wanting a buzz cut and uniform I'll pull the plug. But for fun, let's just see what happens. I'm hoping the end will result in an addiction to love and Love.

Saturday Night Fever.

Dancing freaking rocks. I love shakin' my groove thing. And I mean LOVE. I used to be nervous about it. Self-conscious. And then Bottom 40 happened to me. Bottom 40 dusted of my dancing shoes. Or maybe uncovered the sleeping "tiny dancer" inside of me. I cannot get enough.

Friends, please continue to get married so I can hit the dance floor.
Okay, I guess don't get married just so I can dance. Get married because you are madly and deeply in love and want to spend your life together. That is such a beautiful thing. I had the wonderful opportunity to see another perfect match tie the knot tonight. One Meghan Farley and Keith Disselkoen. Now Mr. and Mrs. Disselkoen. In trying to describe their union, spirit-filled is the only word I can come up with. Continually referenced was the couple's character. Their hearts. The fingerprints of God in their relationship. It brought me to tears multiple times. Because of the sweetness. The goodness.

Someday, I would love to have a day like today. Celebrating a strand of three chords. Being with friends and family, looking at a man whom I deeply respect, and telling him I want to share my life. Start a new chapter with someone who brings out the best in me, and helps me love people and Jesus better. I don't know when or if this will occur in my life. But I really do hope so. Husband, I don't know who you are, but I'm excited for that day. And I'm praying for you.

Until God aligns our lives, I'm going to dance like a crazy person okay? My feet are sore, my sweat is drying, I think I'm dehydrated and I probably should stretch before bed. I could have kept dancing all night I think. Acting like an absolute fool on the floor. Shakin' and groovin', singing at the top of my lungs. I feel free and uninhibited. Sometimes I'm rockin' and other times I look like "a retarded string bean" [to quote The Wedding Planner-which I unabashedly adore]. But it doesn't matter-I'm just dancing. I can't freaking WAIT until I get to work it again. Bring on the tunes my friends, and I'll be there to shake it.

The New Deal.

Learning is always fun in the baby stage.
After a quick tutorial on the really expensive garbage disposal, I wondered when I was going to start forgetting all the information I've been receiving this week. There are so many little details.

Rinse the third pans.
Date the six pans.
The lever needs to be in the manual position to start.
Pull the pin to open.
Bleach and hot water to remove pickle scent.
Flip the cheese. And the soup.
Listen for the timer.

You get the idea. I need to start writing this stuff down. I'm loving it though.
I love the rhythm of the day. Early mornings start with prep activities, readying ourselves. Then the lunch rush begins. For two-ish hours it's controlled chaos. Orders being taken, numbers announced, sandwiches wrapped, soup delivered, smiles given. The time flies by while customers eat delicious creations. Then things begin to slow down. Customers trickle in. We can breathe again. We continue to wind-down, turning the music up, cleaning up, and preparing for the next day.

I wonder how long I will love it. Is it just because it's challenging and new? I usually get psyched about anything in the beginning. Which is part of the reason why I really don't know "what I want to do" because I always change my mind. And honestly, I end up liking something once I get started doing it. I mean, I always loved my classes at the beginning of the semester. And then time passed. And the newness subsided. And it was monotonous. I've felt this way in almost all my jobs. Activities. Etc, etc.
So maybe I'm just addicted to new. The dewy, sunrise of another experience. I get withdraw headaches in the afternoon without it. Er, wait, that's coffee. I guess I just get a restless headache and it takes a bit longer to set in.
As time continues and the number describing my age continues to grow, this fixation with new beginnings could become problematic. Disconnected and nomadic? Unstable perhaps? Then again, maybe it will just lend itself to a lot of different experiences and fun.

Bah. Who knows. But for now, I will sleep. And wake up pumped for another sunrise.

Rough Chopping and Johnny Cash.

I should be working on sleeping because tomorrow will be a long day but I need to write this while it's fresh in my mind.
_______

I took a short nap today and in my sleepy-waking up fogginess I laid on the couch wondering what life was all about, and why I couldn't just sleep all day.
I'm not sure I've obtained the answers. But I did learn a lot tonight. 4th Street Deli opens tomorrow and I will be there. Behind the counters. Doing who the hell knows what, and I'm nervited. [nervous+excited] Tonight, we prepped. O, the joys of prepping! Perhaps influenced by the book I'm currently reading Take This Bread by Sara Miles, but working in a kitchen is sublime.
I rough copped.
I made shrimp salad with a handful of celery, and onion. A sprinkle of this. A glob of that. Mixed it with my gloved hand to the lyrics of Queen's Fat Bottomed Girls.
The kitchen smelled like oregano, chicken, mayo, cilantro and hot soapy water.
And the earthy, musty smell of sweat. Which, I actually really enjoyed. Reminiscent of the summer perhaps, but honestly pleasant for whatever odd reason.
I made cilantro, lemon pesto and tomato garlic vinaigarettes. One part white balsamic, three parts oil. Watching for a slow drip off your gloved finger. Constantly blending.
I wrapped jalapeno, wheat and tomato bollos.
I de-stemmed parsley with Johnny Cash.
Yellow cutting boards for chicken, blue for cooked meat.
Always sanitize to prevent cross-contamination.
Watch out for the back splash at the dish washing sink, don't use the XL gloves and tie up the neck of your apron to save your shirt.
O, and the purple handled wisk is the spongy one.

It was glorious. My feet slipping and sliding on the floor, clumsily dancing with the others in the kitchen. A hive full of activity, smells and tastes. Colors and textures. I can't wait to prep again.

My Favorite Part of Me.

I just dropped some serious coin into my car today. If it wasn't such a sweet ride... I'd be a little bit upset...

Anyway.
Due to this little mishap I also missed my second job meeting. For the first meeting I was almost late and parked in the wrong place. I'm off to a good start.
Let's just say it was a rough day.
I felt like it was the worst day. On days like these, I think about how much of a loser I am. I make terrible decisions. I'm flaky and unorganized. Everyone is a better writer. Everyone else has their life together. I have no skills. And I'm slightly unbalanced. Just slightly.
How do I get to this place?
Sometimes I honestly think I am unbalanced after episodes like this. But maybe it's good for me. Good for me to be reminded of my loser-status. Beneficial to remind me that I'm not that special, talented or wonderful. Shane and Shane pretty much sum it up with,

What it is I’m trying to say
Is you are my favorite part of me [Holiday, Pages Album]

I've got nothing.
Without Jesus. He's the glue that's holding this whole thing together. So I guess what it is I'm trying to say is that I need some balance. I need something good in me. And I find that in a guy who lead a revolution a few thousand years ago, bringing a new way and redeeming this feeble attempt I am presently making to live a life that means something.

I've been reading this almost every day lately, and since it holds more goodness and wisdom than I could write, I thought I'd put it here:

Isaiah 55

Invitation to the Thirsty

1 "Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost.
2 Why spend money on what is not bread,
and your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good,
and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.

3 Give ear and come to me;
hear me, that your soul may live.
I will make an everlasting covenant with you,
my faithful love promised to David.

4 See, I have made him a witness to the peoples,
a leader and commander of the peoples.

5 Surely you will summon nations you know not,
and nations that do not know you will hasten to you,
because of the LORD your God,
the Holy One of Israel,
for he has endowed you with splendor."

6 Seek the LORD while he may be found;
call on him while he is near.

7 Let the wicked forsake his way
and the evil man his thoughts.
Let him turn to the LORD, and he will have mercy on him,
and to our God, for he will freely pardon.

8 "For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways,"
declares the LORD.

9 "As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts.

10 As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,

11 so is my word that goes out from my mouth:
It will not return to me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.

12 You will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
will clap their hands.

13 Instead of the thornbush will grow the pine tree,
and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.
This will be for the LORD's renown,
for an everlasting sign,
which will not be destroyed."

Dog Conspiracy.

So I never grew up with a dog. I don't really know what to do with myself when a four legged friend approaches. But apparently they know what to do with me.

Now, I'm not really a big animal person in general. They just seem like a lot of work and I'm not a huge fan of hair or slobber. Or the smell that accompanies most animals. But dang it, dogs are growing on me. I hate to say it, but it's true.

It all started with a German short hair pointer that I watched, much to some of my friend's surprise, last year. It was incredibly well-behaved, relatively odor free and a great walking partner. I try to be polite when a guest in someone's home, and if they have a dog that means not running or shouting when they bombard you. And let me tell you, I am a magnet. I swear they pick me out. It's got to be some sort of conspiracy.

I was at Prudhomme's house and Kota could not get enough of me. I was greeted rather aggressively at the door, and awkwardly tried to get him to stop jumping. I always just end up half-falling, half-walking, flinching and blinking, trying to be assertive while whispering commands they've probably never heard before. Let's just say it doesn't usually go well. I sat down and he continued to lick my hand and sniff me. I politely rubbed his head a few times in the hopes he'd leave. But he stayed. To avoid the hot, sticky, wet tongue, I continued to play with his ears as we chatted in the living room. He was kinda soft. And it was kind of fun playing with his ears.

I don't think I'll be running off to the pet store anytime soon. But dogs are everywhere. And they love me, so I might as well get used to it. Shoot, at this rate maybe I'll even own a dog someday.

Until then, if you keep it up dogs, you'll wiggle, shed and slobber your way into my heart, which has probably been your plan from the beginning.

An Ode to Ohio

the open road
white lines and yellow flashes
black dashboard
thick grey clouds, heavy, cold
burning trees and golden fields
red barns
corn soldiers
small towns and football stadiums
rusty metal
chipped paint
brick businesses and neatly lettered signs
a tractor driven by yellow gloved hands
a friendly wave from the mailbox
blue skies peaking through
hot sun, cool air

steady beats and addicting melodies
stick shift and steering wheel rhythms
stories, written and lived
stringy caramel
chocolate, melty and creamy
unbridled laughter
uncontrolled joy
deep full breaths

impulsive, felicitous praise

First John One Four.

"We write this to make our joy complete."

Commercial Property.

It started raining this morning. I re-thought my earlier resolve to go for a run but decided to strap on the shoes despite the weather. It turned into a very slow jog. My heavy feet made slower by my heaviness of heart. A heaviness that has been lingering, even a run unable to remedy today. The uncomfortableness was dulled slightly, but not cured.

I was listening to Ed Dobson and Rob Bell's tag team sermon titled Bread and Baskets from a few months ago. I always manage to laugh at some point while listening to a podcast and running, probably looking like an idiot. I volleyed back and forth between listening intently and brooding over the 'typical' questions as of late. I was trying to help the listening side win, but the brooding team kept taking over. It is an epic battle trying to sort through this mess that is my mind. A task I would wish on no one. It's really brutal sometimes. Most of the time really. It never seems to really know what it wants, and is so good at producing a counter-argument. While in the middle of one of these battles, I stopped and was integrated back into my surroundings.

I was passing a church building. I noticed the strange rounded roof first, and then looked at the sign and wondered what denomination it was. I read about their services, part of their "creed", all stickered on a large white board. There was another large board at the edge of the lawn. "Commercial Property for Sale". You can call Thun Champassak if you are interested. Commercial property. Right next to it was a Grubbs and Ellis sign advertising another commercial property on the market.

Rob and Ed were talking about the early church. Ed just finished reading this passage-

They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved. Acts 2:42-47

How does koinonia turn into commercial property?
I cannot begin to describe how much I need Sunday mornings. The last two have been vital. But church isn't Sunday morning and four walls. True fellowship, true community has nothing to do with buildings and stuff. The church isn't about the piece of land it sits on, it's about what happens on the square of grass. The empty shell of a church I saw this morning, it's commercial property now. Because that is not the church. The sign out front may say so in blue and gold letters. But the real church is a living, breathing, moving thing that when really happening, can't be bought or sold. A reminder that brings excitement and comfort.

The Fellowship of the Story.

['I wish it need not have happened in my time,' said Frodo.
'So do I,' said Gandalf, 'and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for me to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.']

['And now', said the wizard, turning back to Frodo, 'the decision lies with you. But I will always help you.' He laid his hand on Frodo's shoulder. 'I will help you bear this burden, as long as it is yours to bear.']

['I will take the Ring,' he said, 'though I do not know the way.']

-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

I have been lost in another world as of late. I read The Hobbit earlier this summer, which was enjoyable, but I have been consumed by the Fellowship of The Ring. I started it Tuesday, and find myself reading every chance I have. Like so many other books, so many other stories, I'm drawn in. I forget what's going on around me.

When I was younger I used to sit in our living room and read, so lost in the pages on my lap that I would fail to hear questions, to the great annoyance of my family. Dorky, but true, I used to read while walking the aisles of the super market with my Mother. I found myself reading while walking down the street to the library a few weeks ago too while I was reading Mudhouse Sabbath. Some things never change.

I love story. Tolkien writes, 'They [elves] seem to like them [music, poetry and tales] as much as food, or more.' Now, for myself, that's a close race between tales and food, and I don't think I have quite an 'elvish appetite' for music, poetry and tales. But I love them all the same. As I've been drowning in Tolkien's words, I want to fall in love with another Story. Tolkien's chronicle is laden with the themes of this other Story, dripping in symbolism, turning me back to it.

What about God's story? Am I enthralled in it? Can I not wait to turn the page? Does my light stay on at night as my eyes strain and droop because I cannot wait to uncover another history, taste another adventure?

And then I began to think about my life. My story. But here's what I came to. It's not my story at all. I'm so wrapped up in wanting to write my own adventures. Wanting to pen my own tales. At then end of the day though, they will merely be words on a page. Here's the thing, it's about my chapter in a story that's far bigger, older, longer, greater and more beautiful than anything I could come up with. My story matters, but only when read in the context of His. When fitted and grafted into the tales before mine and the chapters to come after, and the ones being written now. Then my small story is rich and meaningful.

I was pondering this, watching the sun setting over the suburbs and a plane flew over head. I watched the blinking lights, secretly wishing I was on it. Going somewhere. Anywhere. I watched it. And then the sound came. Quietly at first, and then rushing upon me after the plane had all but passed. When planes are not in view, you have to wait until you hear the roar of their engines before you can find its path. Sometimes I think I can see where my story is going. And sometimes I just need to wait until I hear it.

It's not my story.
It's God's story.
And I'm waiting.
Trying to wait.
To hear what's next.

Autumnal Dreaming.

Still a little foggy, I just spent the last hour drifting in and out of a peaceful slumber in the back yard of Andy and Jenna home, my house for the time being. My dreams were filled with forests, mists, mountains, grassy knolls, elves, wizards and Black Riders. I'm making my way through the Fellowship of the Rings what can I say? I can say this, with that being said however, I'm not sure if all the details in this post are real or a result of passing out in the sun for an hour or so while reading Lord of the Rings.
[Speaking of dreams, listen to this song by clicking on the black play button on the right side of this page, thanks Caleb.]

I brought my trusty companion, J.R.R. Tolkien with me to Centennial Park in Holland because I needed to get out of the house and delve into an adventure even if it lay between the covers of a book. There was something in the air this morning too. I opened the window while I made pancakes [whole wheat and oatmeal = delish] and coffee [from Common Grounds] and crispy breeze blew into the house. The sun coming through the front window. It was a day to be surrounded in it.

Read leaned up against an old oak tree in the sun. Perused the library.*
Wandered the streets, passing under three large trees extending over the sidewalk, yellow in color. Fall. That's what I felt in the air this morning. I'm waiting with baited breath. Don't get me wrong. I love summer and this warm weather is spectacular. But I've got some sweaters that are calling my name. I want to have reason to wear my smart wool socks, watch a football game, sit around a bonfire in a hoodie. I want to break out my scarves and maybe finish the one I started making last fall. I'm ready for the leaves to change. Ready for the clean, sharp breeze to begin to blow. I'm ready for my favorite season.

Funny that my favorite season is about death. And the coming winter months, which I mostly dislike. The Autumnal season is short in Michigan, but it is my favorite all the same. It's about change. Change from light-hearted fun to somber, thoughtful coziness, unsure of what the next months will bring. Perhaps an analogy to life at present? Perhaps, perhaps.

I've got an itch, and the only cure is more autumn.


*Which on a side note, I figured it might be easier to get a library card in the quaint town of Holland than say the large city of Grand Rapids. No. I can't unless I can prove with my driver's license or a bill that I live here. Which I can't do, and no, to answer the librarians question, I'm not sure how long I'm staying and whether or not it's permanent. In Grand Rapids they said they could just send it to your address and that would be proof enough that you live there. Brilliant. Libraries are a beautiful thing, except for when you can't use them. Lame. O, and she told me that I need to change my GRPL card because I don't live on College Ave anymore. Which I won't be able to do because I still have no proof of address. But let's just keep that between you, me and the Herrick Librarian. I have some items checked out at GRPL. :)

READ THIS BOOK.

I read this really great book called Mudhouse Sabbath by Lauren F. Winner. Which already received honorable mention in a recent blog. You should read it this book. It's good. So good, that I wanted to record some of the quotes I wanted to remember before returning it to the library.

On [Kashrut]

"...I have found myself thinking about what food I put in my body, and where that food has been-in whose hands, in what countries-before it got to my plate...this reflecting on and participation with my food leads ultimately back to Him who sustains, provides and feeds...The table is not only a place where we can become present to God. The table is also a place where he becomes present to us."

On [Avelut]

"...'Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One, Blessed is He, beyond any blessing or song.' [the Kaddish]...even in the pit, even in depression and loss and nonsense, still we respond to God with praise. You do not have to feel praise in intense moments of mourning, but the praise is still true, and insisting upon it over and over..ensures that eventually you will come to remember the truth of those praises."

On [hachnassat orchim]

"...We are not meant simply to invite people into our homes, but also to invite them into our lives...Having guests and visitors, if we do it right, is not an imposition, because we are not meant to rearrange our lives for our guests-we are meant to invite our guests to enter into our lives as they are...Like my apartment, my interior life is never going to be wholly respectable, cleaned up and gleaming. But that is where I live."

On [tefillah]

"...Sure, sometimes it is great when, in prayer, we can express to God just what we feel; but better still when, in the act of praying, our feelings change. Liturgy is not, in the end, open to our emotional whims. It repoints the person praying, taking him somewhere else."

You know. I just need to buy this book. So I think I will. But in case it takes me awhile I'll have a few of the quotes stored in cyberspace. Thanks world wide web.

Mini-sabbath.

So this is what sabbath feels like.

It started with a little Born Ultimatum. I love Jason Bourne and Robert Ludlum. A simple dinner and some hanging of laundry. After that I found my paint and brushes.

I stood out on the back porch and swirled the colors. Yellow and red and a hint of brown. I love laying down paint on the white canvas. The streaks of red and bright yellow that didn't quite blend, adding depth and dimension to a flat surface. It looked a little bit like the skin of the peaches I peeled for a cobbled together peach cobbler. I could have added more sugar, but it was improv, so I'll let it go this time. I continued to paint while my evening treat baked. I took the warm peachy goodness out of the oven and decided to go for a run while the base on my canvas dried.

I started jogging around the suburbs, immediately giving them dutch names and disliking the well-manicured yards and roads with the same names for their predictability. But after a bit, I just stopped thinking about that. I drew my breath in and out. The muscles in my legs warmed up as my feet rhythmically hit the pavement. The heat dissipating with the setting sun, and my tension along with it. Despite the fact that my muscles are working, flexing and tensing, I feel at peace while running, relaxed, like I have space.

After a quick shower, and a struggle with the three remotes, I put in Sabrina. One of my favorites. It's so whimsical and romantic. Audrey Hepburn a waif-ish beauty. I too want a dress with yards of skirt and way off the shoulder. I slowly ate my peach cobbler while I Sabrina Fairchild writes to her father from Paris, "I have learnt how to live... How to be In the world and Of the world, and not just to stand aside and watch. And I will never, never again run away from life. Or from love, either..."

I need to take time to create something. To paint. To cook. I need to run and indulge in a black and white film and some jazz music. I'm making a pact with myself, I will do something beautiful at least once a month. A few hours to create, to breathe rhythmically, create space and peace.

Here. Or There.

Remember all that talk about community? It's all over the place. I just spent the evening with my dear friend Laura. It's been months since I've seen her and if felt like not a day had passed. We stopped in JP's, grabbed some beverages and walked the sidewalks lining the cobblestone streets. We sat in the park on one of those slatted wooden benches with the decorative iron sides. It was so nice to hear about her life. To tell her about mine. A friend who I can be honest with. A friend who is a true friend. I missed her. We said our goodbyes to the ridiculous number of squirrels running around the park and wove our way through the neighborhoods talking about what it's like to be "big kids" now. It's weird but strangely exhilarating. I feel like I haven't really started yet, I'm working into being a big kid. I need to make a decision on whether to stay, or to go, before I can really embrace this non-student lifestyle. Through a big picture window we saw some college-ish aged guys and girls around a table in a flowery wallpapered living room. Community.

Before my blissful evening with my best dutch friend, I played Frisbee with my brother in the newly cut grass. I talked through the pros and cons of moving across the country, he listened, and then I asked him what he thought. As I talked through it, I decided. I'm going. Why not? If I don't like it I can always move back right?

And then I spent time with Laura in Holland. I've joked before about west Michigan, especially this area. Kids are born, grow up, and move in next to their parents, have kids, then they grow up and move in next door. After walking around with a kindred soul I see why. It's a great place. Holland is quaint and homey feeling. Like a well worn sweater. I liked how it fit. After our walk we sat on another bench under a glowing street light. Hope students, and older couples passed by, orange Gerber daisies blooming happily in a flower bed just past Laura. I sat there wanting to have a coffee date with Laura every week. I want to laugh and talk with her on Thursday nights, walking around Holland. I wanted that consistency and richness. I want to have a wallpapered kitchen and a dining room table trimmed with friends and good conversation.

And again. I don't know what I want. I can't even decide what to do this weekend. And I want someone to tell me what to do next. But here's the thing about being an adult that I'm realizing more and more-I call the shots. Bleh. It's kind of cool knowing I'm running the show [well, not really but you get the idea] and I absolutely abhor it at the same time.

So all of this to say just as I think I have peace. Just as I think I make a decision. I change my mind. One thing I do know is this, I'm blessed beyond belief. I was reminded yet again, of the gift of friendship. Laura is a gift. She is another invaluable piece of my community.

God, work this community, here, there, and everywhere, into something beautiful. Something strong and warm, comfortable and heavy, sewn together in order to wrap me tighter, tighter into you.

Some of that Jesus in you.

It's wicked hot right now in the dark living room of my brother and sister-in-law's house. [I think I will begin to call her just "sister" for it's easier and I like it better] I just moved in last night. I didn't sleep well, but hopefully tonight will be better, if I ever get to bed that is. It's late. And I just got done celebrating Miss Rori Jean's birthday. It was a surprise party, but like all surprise parties she ended up finding out that something was going on. I think the next time I try for a surprise party it's going to be a surprise for all the guests too. Invite them over all individually like it's just going to be us and then when they get there tell them it's a surprise party for someone else. That way it won't slip. So if I ever invite you over to fix the sink or something, you'll know.

Man it's hot. I'm sweating. I also just experienced the phenomenon of liquid coming out of my eyes due to one Rachel Prince. I just located her blog. I've been waiting to find it for quite some time and finally when I asker her about it last night she said, "It's somewhere in cyberspace." I lost it, laughing hysterically, which seems odd now that I type it but I guess that's just something that happens with really great friends. I miss her. Anyway, I found her blog. And read one of her posts. It was about our road trip which was a fantastic summary I might add. I miss her. She is the reason for the leakage of my eyeballs. The words she typed, about me, they humbled me. To a place of tears. And the funny thing is I would say most of the same things about her.

Justin Haight asked me this summer, "Who is your community?" and the first thing that popped into my head was Rachel Prince. Which seems odd, because she's one person. I'm not sure that can really be a community, one other person and little old me. But if I could create my utopian community, it would be Rachel multiplied. She listens to me. Really listens. And asks questions so she can understand further. So much so that sometimes I don't even get the chance to ask her a question about her life-I'm too busy answering her questions. She asks me hard questions too. And tells me the truth. During this past year when I doubted so often, she is one of the people that grounded me. She reminded me of truth when I needed it the most. She claims me as a friend despite my annoying habits, inability to be consistent, my consistency to be perpetually late and forgetful, my thousand questions, my wishy-washy thought processes and my ups and downs. And the crazy thing is that all those "despites" listed, I don't feel bad about them when I'm with her, because she loves me that much. She is beautiful. Her soul radiates warmth, and an intense and genuine pursuit to know your heart. She is silly and deep, wise and inquisitive. She is gorgeous, truly captivating. And she's my friend.

I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.
It is right for me to feel this way about all of you, since I have you in my heart; for whether I am in chains or defending and confirming the gospel, all of you share in God's grace with me. God can testify how I long for all of you with the affection of Christ Jesus.

And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.

I wish I could take credit for penning these words. It seems that Paul understood what it was like to have a friend like Rachel Prince. Or perhaps we were both just able to see some of God's goodness, smeared all over our friends, and some of God's beautiful mess spilled into our lives because our friends let him move into their hearts. Yes, yes I think that is it.

I love you RP.
Please keep being my friend. I need some of that Jesus that lives in you.

Really?

I saw a book today titled:

How To Raise An American
1776 fun and easy tools, tips and activities to help your children love this country

sick.




Seriously?
That was my reaction. Do we really need to "teach" our children to love this country? Aren't there more important things to instill into your children. Like, I don't know, scripture perhaps? The picture is priceless too. The nice little house with the white picket fence and the white kid happily riding his bike delivering papers. WT my friends. WT.

A Lovely Cup.

I rented Mudhouse Sabbath by Lauren F. Winner yesterday on a recommendation of a very wise and wonderful woman named Pam Bush, who had just finished reading it. And now, not feeling so wise nor wonderful, I would like to recommend it to you. It is fantastic and I think I'll copy some of her quotes in a post before I return the book, but it has been good for me to read.

It is just what I needed. This morning I wanted to keep reading, but I needed to stop and process for a quick second. I always have this inner battle where I want to keep reading something, but I want to write about the words and phrases that impact me, and how it relates to my life. It's like when you have the flu and you have fluids coming out of both ends and have to decide whether you are going to vomit or...you know...
Do I write or do I read? Do I puke in the trashcan or the toilet? Same kind of thing. Except that the former is a much more enjoyable struggle, obviously.

So I took a moment to stop and process. I need to do more processing than I am currently while in this season of waiting. Thoughts and emotions are coming and going. Bubbling and building. And they need to be captured, reigned in from time to time and organized. So that is what I did this morning.

_____

I'm sitting at Kava House with a huge ceramic mug full of coffee. It's the low, wide, flattened kind of mug, the huge mouth full of a dark, chocolaty colored, goodness. It looks stark against the clean, bright white of the cup and saucer. I'm breathing. I walked here. I'm drinking coffee. I'm wearing my favorite off-white pajama shirt with the buttons down the front, chacos and my blue Sierra Designs coat that Tommy gave me is hanging on the chair behind me. I just read a good portion of a great book. Those are a few of the things that quiet me. That bring me back. Center me. Clean out my mind so that God can live there a little bit more fully.

Being in Grand Rapids, talking with people, and for some reason seeing myself through the eyes of those who know me well, I've been more cognoscente of whether or not I am walking the walk and talking the talk. So often I've been feeling like my lips and my heart are speaking different languages. Especially in my current stage of life. I'm figuring out my inconsistencies because I'm often times a walking contradiction, in my thoughts and ideas. I have rebelled and pulled more than ever before in my twenty-two years of life as of late. I mean I'm not doing anything absolutely ridiculous. It's really pretty tame. but it's this internal resistance. A skepticism, a readiness to argue, a propensity to keep one critical eye open. I want to be slightly rebellious and test things. Again, it's mostly harmless, but it's there none-the-less. And I'm starting to realize that it's silly. I'm finding some shreds of truth. Truth in tradition and they way things have been. There are reasons for things having been established the way they are. Perhaps I just needed to find this out myself. I needed to discover holiness in certain things. Feel the goodness. Taste the bitterness of those things that don't bring beauty and reflect the character of God, in order to taste the sweet things.

For some reason throughout this journey this passage:

"Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable-if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things." Philippians 4:8

has been on my tongue and in my thoughts. I'm trying to figure out how I want to live-how I want to be-and really, to justify this new "inner rebellion" going on. Whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, praiseworthy. So what are those things? I can use colorful words and have social beverages and waste hours on facebook. What if I'm looking to my own interests instead of to the interests of others? That kind of selfishness doesn't encapsulate Philippians 4:8. And I'm finding that while I don't think it's necessarily wrong, the occasional expletive, while fun, isn't always lovely. Or pure. Or excellent. And I'm realizing it because I feel it. Not because I've been told it's bad. Not because it's "unchristian"- but because those things sit in my mouth, filling it with a taste like stale, old cigarettes reminiscent of the taste on my lips after the Bottom 40at the Holiday Bar. It sits in my stomach like greasy, deep fried, clam strips we had in Boston on the hot fourth of July afternoon.

I want to practice those activities that are praiseworthy and noble. But I know that's not always going to happen. And that's the crappy part, or maybe the beautiful part because that's when Jesus steps in. Now, chances are I'm probably going to have a glass of wine and waste time on damn facebook. Let us hope however, and that my days and moments are filled with things that bring me closer. Closer to Jesus. Closer to the pure and the lovely. I want to speak words of truth. Listen intently. Take walks. Read and write. And have a cup of coffee or two. Because today-that is what brought me to an encounter with Truth. And that my friends, is lovely.

Sitting next to beating hearts.

There's a lot of talk about church lately. I've been a part of numerous conversations, what is church? And there's this movement away from church. That church can be found anywhere. And I've agreed. I've had moments where I've resisted the formal idea of church-possibly because it's hip and cool [let's be honest], but partly because sometimes gathering with a bunch of strangers within four walls doesn't seem quite right.

I came back down to Grand Rapids for the first time in several months, my first stop a Sunday morning service. As I was driving I realized it had been awhile since I'd really been to church, let alone the place that came to feel like home while in college. I sat in the grey plastic chair next to my friends Katie and Dan, reading the white lyrics projected on the large cube screen, and I felt whole. I was simply passing air through my throat, moving my lips and tongue to create the shapes my eyes were reading, with hundreds of other people, and it was profound. Profound for many reasons, but connecting with God in a deeply personal way, and in a very communal way, at the same time was powerful.

As of late I question why things are. And if I can't find an answer I am resistant to its presence. But this Sunday morning I was reminded, once again, that I need to stop arguing and just accept the fact that it is good. The church is flawed. And I think I can "have church" while sharing a meal with friends. But I need this communal gathering. I need to gather with other people. I need to praise and admit my weaknesses in song. I need to sit next to other beating hearts and hear scripture. It keeps me connected to my Creator. No matter my arguments or my "but what about?" statements- it's good and I need it.

Music for the soul.

Alright.

I fell in love with a few artists this summer, a few of them being:
+Josh Garrels
+The Welcome Wagon
+Jose Gonzalez
+Lady Gaga

Okay just kidding on that last one.

But in all seriousness if you have a pandora account make a Welcome Wagon station right now. [or just buy their albums] I'm currently working on my resume, sending out emails and surfing the world wide web in the hopes of finding employment, which isn't always the most enjoyable experience in the world. But my heart is happy because of what my ears are hearing.

I couldn't hold onto this beauty without sharing it.
...What else do I feel this way about....?

That's for another day, another blog.

Peacock Feathers.

So I spent a month in the backwoods of Maine. And when I say backwoods, I mean the middle of nowhere. If you know me well this won't surprise you, but I think I took four showers over the course of a month. I mean I averaged once a week right? I didn't wear deodorant all month, wore the same clothes most days, walked around sporting some prickly legs, and rarely looked in the mirror.

And it was absolutely marvelous.

Soon after I got home I met a friend, and some of their friends for dinner. It was someone I hadn't seen in awhile so I felt this pressure to appear like I had it all together. Whenever I see people from my youth, or recent past for that matter I have this desire for people to say, "Wow, Jen looks great" as I walk away. Does anyone else experience that? I worry that they'll think, "Wow, Jen really fell off the wagon since the last time I saw her..." but back to my previous train of thought. I spent about thirty minutes trying to figure out what to wear. The turqoise tank top over the purple one? The jean skirt or the capri pants? Perhaps the gym shorts? I put my hair up. I put my hair down. I put my hair up. I put my hair down. I felt myself feeling all stressed and worried. And annoyed that I was feeling that way. When I finally pulled myself out of the house, I had a great time catching up on life. As I drove away though, I felt this weight come off my chest. Not only did getting ready take me forever, there was this aura of competition in the evening. This fakeness. Vying for status. A covert jockeying for position, and the picture perfect life. I sat there, jobless, kind of homeless [if you ignore my rooves belonging to my parents], weari- hand me down clothes [thanks Rori and Danielle], sporting unbrushed hair and flip flops I've had for about five years [say yes to kenos]- feeling very inadequate. I turned over the key to my car, cranked The Welcom Wagon to drown out the rattling of the faulty air conditioner-belt-thingy and let the wind from my open windows blow the sludge from my thoughts.

I don't like this lifestyle. Struting around like peacocks, trying to display our together-ness in our feathers.

Currently, I'm sitting in a hotel room in Chicago and have seen my fair share of peacocks in the past couple days, and half the time it was my own reflection staring back at me in mirrors and windows. And after browsing rack after rack. Running my hands over hundreds of different fabrics and flipping a fair share of price tags, I was enticed. If only I had that cute olive high waisted skirt and that white blouse. And maybe add a pair of pumps. Or two. I want to have a pretty tail too. I want to have a list of accomplishments in hand, ready to display. I want to have pretty hair and a snappy, put together wardrobe. I want those long lost friends to say, "That Jen. She's going places." But by places they'll mean places of societal success. And I'm not sure those are the places I'll really want to be.

What was so refreshing about being in Maine, utterly ignoring normal hiegyene practices, was because there was no pressure. No pressure to measure up to an unseen standard. I didn't have to fluff my tail and evaluate how it compared to other tails. Instead of worrying about matching clothes, shoot- even remembering to change them, I was able to spend that time with the WILD one crew. I was able to share stories and hear stories. And ask ridiculous questions to which I mostly got answers like, "Where do you come up with these questions?"

I guess what I'm getting that is that without all the outter fluff, you have time to focus on things of substance. The things that at the end of the day are true and good and lovely. How am I loving people? Am I listening to what they are saying? Am I genuinely interested in their life, what's important to them? Am I taking time to to be still in the presence of the Creator? How am I challenging people to become their most whole selves? Am I seeing beauty in the trees, in the lakes, in the brief moments of sunshine, the early morning moose sightings, the bald eagles? Am I uncovering treasures in the words of profound thinkers and passages of scripture, and in the lives being written around me?

I want to run away to the back country again. Away from this pressure of society to look right, to achieve and wash my hair. I want to throw away my razor and wear ten different shades of blue in one outfit. But I can't bring myself to do that in normal life. So I'm trying to find a balance. I'm not sure if their is one, let alone if there even should be one. But maybe tomorrow I'll take a shower. And then put on the clothes I wore yesterday and strap on my smelly, very un-city-esque chacos. Throw on a little deodorant and stop to tell the doorman to have a good day with the time I would have spent brushing my hair.

Ramblings of a whiner.

I've been reading other people's blogs since I've had the luxury of internet access again. And it's great. And I'm jealous. I envy their whit. Their word choice. The clarity of their voices.

But I'm still going to write. Because it makes me feel more connected with people. [what?] It's strange how typing on a keyboard makes me feel more connected with the world. I find myself looking at photo albums over and over again on fb. There is comfort staring at this flat screen. Maybe it's due to the fact I was mostly disconnected from technology this summer between a faulty computer and being in the back woods of Maine. Call it what you will, but sitting in the midst of family, all I want to do is blog. What a loser.

And I'm still going to write because I need to process. Something which I feel like I haven't really been able to do since arriving in the mitten state. You'd think that eighteen hours in a car with one Caleb Barrows would have been sufficient. It was truly about eighteen hours of talking about the summer and life. Learning to drive a stick shift and stopping at Niagra falls were just icing on the cake. Many thanks to you sir, for your questions and listening ear. I don't think a trip on 90 could get any better. Worth much more than $17.50.

I've realized something though. People don't really care.

Here's the disclaimer, this will probably come off sounding whiny. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be the center of attention. But there is this shift that takes place as you get older. People ask out of social responsibility. You ask, "What's new?" or "How was _____?" to be polite. The answer doesn't really matter.
But at the risk of being needy...I want to express the lessons learned. I want to tell stories about my "co" and the kids. About being with Rachel in San Diego. What it felt like walking around Portland. It's hard to express what really happened to people who weren't there. You can carry the lessons with you, take certain things-memories, pictures, quotes, music, inside jokes, but the experience stays there. The experience stays with the people. We've shared it-and it's ours. But it belongs only to us. Which is sad. And sacred at the same time.

Saturdays.

Something magical happens on summer Saturdays in Pentwater.

This morning I went for a short jog with my Dad which ended in a long swim in Lake Michigan-warm and crystal clear blue.
A coffee stop, some window shopping and bananas for breakfast.

The beach was absolutely packed. Bright umbrellas creating pools of shade, the edges of their colored pie slices flapping in the steady breeze. The sun was beating down on tan and pasty bodies alike. The sun and the sand and the wind and the waves are like a magnet...and I wanted to say equalizer for some reason...but that is not the case. Equalizing in the sense that so many of us seem drawn to this place. This love of water and warmth. And yet it's one of the places that feels most competitive. Because you're walking around in the equivalent of your underwear with strangers, some of which look much better in their underwear and some who look much...well...different.

Dinner consisted of grilled zucchini, tomatoes, onions, tortillas and hummus. Ice cream and fireworks finished off a beautiful day spent with Dad, Grandma and the masses. As I sat their under the bright explosions, so close the sound was deafening, I felt an itch. The propulsion to go. Even after a day of bliss, of paradise on the coast of Lake Michigan, I am not at rest. As I've been telling people, "I feel a move coming on."

I'm not sure where or how or why, but I need to go. Again.

If anyone has any suggestions, connections or couches to sleep on, please-I'm all ears. And for those curious, hopefully over the next few weeks posts will continue, stories of the past two months will bleed into each entry, and there will be some semblance of an update before the next adventure begins.

Or perhaps it has already begun. And magic is not held to simply Saturdays and Pentwater, it's everywhere. And I'm going to chase it down.

[And "punch life in the face". :) ]

And then God meets me.

I'm not sure if I have something to write tonight. But I have a few hours off and I won't be able to do this for another three weeks so I might as well take advantage of it, yes? And I'm sure my mother will be happy. Too much has happened these last two weeks to recount all the beauty and relay all of the stories.

What has been most profound is my utter desperation for help. I began to discover this disconcerting truth while in Oregon. I cannot do this on my own. On my own, I am selfish, rude, judgmental and unloving. Deep down, I am a jerk. And yet, and yet there is something moving me toward good. There is a Good that propels me to do good.

I'm spending four weeks with high schools students. Supervising hot dogs burnt over a fire, dishes being washed, rinsed and sanitized, mediating conversations, explaining how to tie knots, scheduling transportation, facilitating group activities, processing events, asking questions instead of telling answers, entering into their lives. And wow, I'm so ill equipped. I don't know if it's okay to pour the bacon grease in the fire, what we are going to do all day tomorrow, how to answer life's deep questions or be a perfect example of Jesus. And at the same time, I'm being used.

My most lame attempts are being redeemed into something meaningful. At least that is the hope right? I am poor, weak and weary. I need help. I need Jesus.

28 You, O LORD, keep my lamp burning;
my God turns my darkness into light.

29 With your help I can advance against a troop [a] ;
with my God I can scale a wall.

30 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.

31 For who is God besides the LORD ?
And who is the Rock except our God?

32 It is God who arms me with strength
and makes my way perfect.

33 He makes my feet like the feet of a deer;
he enables me to stand on the heights.

34 He trains my hands for battle;
my arms can bend a bow of bronze.

35 You give me your shield of victory,
and your right hand sustains me;
you stoop down to make me great.

36 You broaden the path beneath me,
so that my ankles do not turn.

Psalm 18:28-36


68"Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel,
because he has come and has redeemed his people.
69He has raised up a horn[d] of salvation for us
... to enable us to serve him without fear
75in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.

Luke 1:68-69, 75

I start to question..."but wait...?" "is it just...?"

And then I remember how I can't do it alone. How ill-equipped I am to love well and live well.

And then God meets me. And helps me along.