(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

“Fall is my favorite season in Los Angeles; watching the birds change color and fall from the trees.”  David Letterman

The other day I had this sudden memory: at the ranch, the grass in the spring used to grow so high my sister and I would lie down and hide in it. We’d build imaginary worlds in that tall grass. Every year is surprised us how easy it was to get lost– playing hide and seek with mom when she called us for dinner. “We’re right here!” we would giggle-yell back to her. “Where?!” she would call, neck craning to find us, maybe up in a tree somewhere. Cade and I would lie on our backs and laugh and laugh, pleased with our disappearing act. Why was it so fun to “fool” mom? Probably, because most of the time she knew exactly what we were up to.                  Thoughts of life on the ranch comfort me, yet I am left with an after-taste so unlikely; that which feels like the carving out of a hollow void somewhere deep (in my stomach?) After a long day of relentless interaction, of hopeless attitudes and grid-lock, I am ready to take a hot bath and rewind the clock, focusing my memory on my childhood of dreams.  I miss those days, not out of regret, or because I want them back, but because of the concentrated simplicity and wonder life was about. Sure, the quasi-isolation of country life made for a quirky jr. higher and, when we moved to town the year I turned fifteen, I began my first year of high school estranged and vulnerable.  I remember a new feeling that came over me my first days of high school, the thought that I had missed out somehow, even though deep down I knew I hadn’t. It was that I had been doing different things my whole life: packing the row boat with sleeping bags, snacks and flashlights for an island sleep-over, riding bare-back through the pistaccios, drying the clay pots we had made from the lake mud on the ski dock, collecting weeping willow vines for our home-made ropes, baskets and tiaras…    

Is it my childhood or the shelter of childhood that I find so irresistible?

I was thinking today,  about what the bible calls “doing good.” And then it hit me: the only times I become “weary in doing good” (Gal 6)  is when my motivation is to do good for myself.  Funny it works that way. Funny how contentment is so intricatly tied to the level at which we are willing to serve others.  As products of today’s society, we equate contentment with happiness, and thus head off in (often times lifelong) persuit of it.  We think, “the right job would make me happy,” and then I will be content… “yes, if I am happy, I will be content.” But sadly, this is a superficial understanding of what life is about (one I constantly fall prey to)– making what we want for ourselves what God wants for us; foolishly thinking we know just the thing to put our hearts at ease. We become the center of it all, our little world, experts in providing for ourselves. “Oh, I don’t feel good today”? I’ll go buy the perfect running shoes and I will feel good. “Oh, that was rude. she hurt my feelings”?… I’ll eat a carton of Chunky Monkey. Ah, all better!… yes yes, Until tomorrow. Whatever band-aids we stick to our wounds only get soggy with the next rain, leaving us once-more exposed.  

It feels so much better when I allow God to shift my focus, making Him, and the business of helping other’s, the source of my contentment. When I turn from the natural desire to become an attention-deficit-seeker-of-instant-gratification, I can feel a whole new world opening up; suddenly I see the faces of those who need me, dark corners that need light, and relationships that are waiting to go deeper. As I begin to respond, to turn around and emerse myself into this world of others, I feel something break deep inside me. Now cracked open and exposed, I am the way I am supposed to be. Now others can witness a testimony; my version of what life with Christ is honestly, to get a peak at a heart that beats with nicks and scrapes and even deep wounds, but beats for God just the same. A heart lacking bandages, stitches, crutches, diversions or feable human attempts to renew what once suffered great pain; and then God who stands guardian, champion and ultimate healer of a heart so real. This is contentment, to be broken and exposed, yet encased by God. This is the not-so-far-away peace I must choose in order for God to be found in me.

….sitting on the edge of a cool morning, blankets pulled up just enough to allow my arms out– giving my hands permission to type. I look out onto the balcony and see the same grasshopper that startled me last night; he must have camped out last night just to greet me now, to give mock a “good morning” with his best grasshopper-smirk. Hopefully he’ll leave soon. He doesn’t know how afraid I am of him. (You know that I have a terrible fear of grasshoppers)

It is this on this cool Saturday morning, however, that with the clean white light pushing through my orange drapes, I realize why I love mornings: they are the turning of the page. I am never quite sure if this morning or the next (or the next) will present a new chapter, an unforeseen twist, or a break in the flow of dialogue. But whatever it is, I want it. I sleep because I want the morning to come, in anticipation of what’s next. I awake anticipating change and the miraculous freshness that follows– welcoming whatever might be waiting, offering up to God any new opportunities this day might bring. The rise and fall of the day, ending what was and starting anew: morning:God’s gift to the tired, the weak, the perseverant, the hopeful. Mornings have become for me a physical representation God’s promise of provision. Each morning brings with it a tide of redemption, renewal and rebirth… just for me, a tidal wave of grace, for one (undeserving) person.   Thank you Lord.

“I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me” Psalms 3:5

My new writing place. 

In an attempt to simplify my Internet life (yes, to my shame & embarrassment it has taken on a life of it’s own) I am packing my bags in the Myspace, Facebook and Xanga residencies, and starting afresh here on WordPress.

To my committed followers: I write for you, thanks for tracking.  TBC

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