Love-Lambs

"Taking it all in," means different things for different people. Consider the great island of Manhattan. Some visit awestruck by the architecture and the swarms of bodies climbing into the same subway car.  We might, for example, count how many languages we've heard while perusing the MET, or how many indie-bohemian-chic boutiques hem in Brooklyn's corner. Others are more inclined to feel the energy, experience the rush, or ponder the meaning of one's small self between the hustle and flow of this insomniac of a city. Regardless of our processing preference, I've found most never fail to mention the pizza. Let's be honest- food is a sincere love. 

Which is why I'm writing tonight.  About sincere love.  Like pizza which is most concretely cheese and tomato and starch, and most abstractly an Italian art form, love is best when it's both.  It's entirely simple (mozz+tomato+bread) and entirely complex (who knows anything about Italian cooking?). Give me a brick oven pizzeria in the West Village and a four cheese pie? "Buon Appetito!" I'm in love. 

I haven't found him (you know, not to be cheesy but, "the one,") yet, but I tell myself he is coming as quick as he can. And maybe, just maybe, the hold-up has to do with the fact that he's been stumped by this mozzarella of a mystery too. I once experienced a break-up/breaking off/ending of a dear relationship (read: most painful), in which I pleaded with this person who didn't love me back to tell me why he ever referred to us as "we" if in fact, he didn't love me the way I loved him.  I know it sounds pathetic, but it was the real thing.  He would always talk about OUR plans and where WE were going and what WE would do and how WE were different than everyone else. Did he not understand the significance of these pronouns? "Everybody wants a we!" I cried to him.  It was sad. As he shook his head, I felt bare and I never wanted to see him again.  We did not go together anymore.

 

And that's what it comes down to doesn't it?  Belonging.  Even before the philosophical truth that love is this astoundingly simple and complex wonder of a thing like light or wind or water, we first understand that we belong to our beloved.  I am yours, you are mine. Not like a possessive ownership thing.  Ugh, no. Then it gets all objectified and twisted and narcissistic. But a BElonging, the long-awaited peace tailor-made to fit your longing.

 

I have found myself, these past few weeks, increasingly grateful for the complexity of my God's love for me. He is Abba Father, and Messiah King and Counselor Friend and the Captivated Lover of my soul.  Some nights, I am in such great awe that I might lift up my hands, or open my heart, or pray for purpose with greater purity and gumption than the night before.  Or quite simply, I might just thank Him that He is my shepherd and I am His lamb, and He is gentle with my stubborn bleating self. And I will roll over and sleep well. We cannot help but be found by the depth of His love. It seeks us out, beckoning, "Come, come, you belong with me."   What sweeter words do we know?

Grace Blankets. And, Happy New Year!

Nope, not Waco.  This is a bit of River Road in Topsfield, Massachusetts which is the town over from my hometown.  I took the picture last January when I was home for the holidays. Growing up, I loved River Road because the grassy pastures folded and rolled the way I imagined the moors in the English countryside did.  Why exactly I had an interest in English countryside is past me,  but when I decided to study abroad in Scotland and saw that the hills and pastures did, in fact, look like my American muse, the real and prettier thing made me homesick. Funny how that can work. Sometimes, I still get homesick for the River Road hills. 

I have spent some of this morning thinking back on the space between the time I took this picture a year ago, and the time now and my eyes well up.  My 24th year was so hard.  I have no pretty way to say it because it felt so raw most of the time.  And we all know that raw can be refining at best, gut-wrenching at worst, and the in-between can feel, just, well, lonely and orphan-like. At least for me.  I really have no idea who reads this, so I won't make slush all over the page.  I will say, however, that in spite of the way I walked into each day frightened to take another step, my God led me, and the way was opened. The ground?  New and rocky- but solid and good and NEW.  In spite of feeling quite vulnerable, exposed and altogether deserted, I woke up with the conviction that I am dearly loved--beloved in fact, and perfect for the One who matters.  And in the midst of happy and sad tears, I found myself believing more than I ever have in my whole life that He who has promised is faithful.  Thanks be.  

So, I have no idea what 2010 holds.  None. I have my wishes of course and I sure hope it's better than last year, but I don't really know.  I figure the odds are in my favor, since the ebb and flow of life and history and time, is usually a good news-- bad news-- good news--bad news sequence. Regardless, I am intent on being at peace; peak or valley, mountaintop of joy or depth of sorrow.  In fact we are called to be this way because in and throughout Grace abounds! And that Grace in His Glory covers over the earth, like water over the seas. Or, perhaps, as Grace was once described to me, as snow covers the hills.  As lovely and green as those River Road hills are, I'll tell you nothing compares to their snow-covered perfection. The snow falls, and it blankets.  The messy, muddy, dried up brown stuff underneath? It's no matter.  The snow is absolutely pristine and pretty, so the hills are too. Can we take on perfection like the hills do? 

Whatever this year brings you, and before we run full force into it with our resolutions and the like, may we be still for a moment in the perfect warmth of our Grace blankets.  And may we thank the One who wraps us up so tight. 

With that, Happy New Year!