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.