Secret Keeper

Today was lo-ong and I am exhausted.  Typically, I like to think I am a fairly articulate person.  A little roundabout, yes, but articulate. Not tonight. When I am exhausted I babble and then I apologize for babbling in that awful self-deprecating way. We'll just call it a Monday. 

Words and language are funny like that.  They help us know what we are about, especially when our receiver listens well and graciously.  As I listen to my clients, I know we're digging some sort of therapy groove when I hear them say something and then see them cover their mouths- frightened by the taste of: "I think my mom is a liar" or "I am scared of my own sister" It's courageous to let such words free, they are near and dear, and speaking them somehow makes them truer than we may like. 

And so words like these fell on me tonight, some softly, some thumped hard.  I cannot cover my ears.  I am open and calm but I know my eyes are always curious, and if the speaker is ready, I can beg for more. " I just don't think she wants us that much." Thump! Thud! Crash! Ouch, I want to say. But it's not about me, is it? 

So, I say, thank you for telling me your secrets, which are, perhaps, the most tightly-wound kinds of words.  Like coils and springs.  You cannot contain them all alone, but they just might stretch between us and be alright.  And in the meantime, I think, you are brave to keep this all together, all these coiled and twisted words.  

"Confessing all the secret things in the warm velvet box

to the priest-he's the doctor

he can handle the shock"

-Peter Gabriel 

The Arc Camp and Amelie

I have a knack for winding up in really random arrangements. The startling thing is, I usually don't realize that it's a little odd until I'm up to my neck in a pickle, realizing that I should have run while it was pooling at my ankles.  If this sounds concerning, it's really not. It's more just funny. I am wide-eyed and chatty and a bit of an open book, but not altogether naive and reliant on friends who say things like, "Sarah, if it's weird after fifteen minutes, you don't have to do it."  (dear friends, thank you for that, by the way)

During my school/work limbo, it was through such a roundabout way that I worked at the ARC camp with special needs children.  Hey, I thought, I like little ones, and while I didn't have experience with this particular population, I felt confident.  If you promise not to pass judgement, I'll tell you that I never felt particularly drawn to working with special needs children, so I saw this opportunity as a means to render a match. For better or for worse, I can be pushy with myself that way. Sometimes it makes life rich, sometimes after much hammering, I realize that "oh yes, square pegs really do not fit in round holes." 

I admit, I am ashamed that in working with these campers, I ever imagined I could make anything happen at all.  A bit embarrassed that I actually thought, "oh let me use my skills to provide them services." 

Well, when I type it out like that, it really doesn't seem so shameful now does it? After all, that is why one gets hired for a service position, and helpers in particular always experience this sort of rub.  I guess, as I am processing, the greater issue was that I marched (first faux-pas, never "march," it's obnoxious), right into my camp counseling duties and forwent opening myself up to them.  Unknowns are daunting and sometimes that very human diffidence is easily compensated for by control. But, let's do ourselves a favor and try to learn from the newness rather than keep it in line. I am not preaching.  Hindsight is 20/20.

On day # 1 of camp I still was so arrogant as to assume that my expectations might be the real thing.  By day # 2 I realized I was wrong, not to mention I was plum tuckered out.  By day # 3 I was ready to quit.  The past 72 hours had been marked by tantrums, dirty nine year old diapers, food allergies and compulsive swearing that made me wonder whether or not a mis-diagnosis had occurred. Terrets, perhaps?  Truly, I had never seen or heard anything like it. Oh yeah, add in 100 degree heat.  Every. Single. Day. My life felt as repetitive as all get-out.  Like a nightmarish routine.  And I think routines in general are nightmarish, even without tantrums and food allergies. 

One day, mid-June, I came home from camp in desperate need of a hug, chocolate and a glass of wine. Apparently, I also needed to watch the movie Amelie. If you've never seen it, please do. It's artsy and eloquent and wonderful. It spoke to me that sweaty June day because of a particular clip explaining Amelie's desire to help.  Helping, for Amelie, has to do with a) love and b) simplicity.  Nothing more, nothing less. She does not seem overburdened by deep care or deep concern, she just follows a pull to give of herself, and nothing has ever been easier. She keeps to her pure little way and it is lovely. 

I tried to carry this with me the next day at camp.  You know why? Because Amelie fit so perfectly with the Arc Camp.   Here I was, given this great opportunity to help in a very simple sort of way in part, because I was working with very simple individuals. I was doing quite menial tasks, but if I was patient, and present, and if, for one little boy, I drew 28 hamster wheels, life was perfect.  The next moment it might be imperfect, but then I drew hamster wheel #29 and it was perfect again. 

I had been furrowing my brow far too much about what to do and why to do it and how long the tantrum would last.  This tantrum was lasting, yes, but it would also pass, and in the meantime, my hand was on his shoulder. 

And a hush:

You are loved. You are touchable.  You are human and you are worthy. 

To my Arc campers: Thanks for loving me back.  You are dear, and far more patient than I. 

Tension

Dreaming has always been like refuge for me.  Not night dreams, but day-dreams, idea-dreams, schemes and dreams, under-the-oak-tree sorts of dreams. Castles in the air.   The dreams that left me doodling in the margins as the teacher concluded her instruction with, "Right, Sarah?" It's true.  Sometimes I still drift and have a hard time staying on track, in the lines, whatever you want to call it. Frankly, I'd just rather skip down the rabbit trail, and yes, I know that's not practical. 

It's occurred to me that in spite of this dreamy jibber-jabber that can, on good days, congeal into thoughts and voices and opinions, its hard for me to own them out in the open.  Maybe that's why my dreams feel so safe.  When I write, however, these voices come alive as dear to me as any in the real world and I must allow them autonomy.  They push themselves onto the page, shatter my dreamy world, and seem altogether more assured than the person that wrote them or conjured them.   Perhaps that detachment seems a little heebie-jeebie, but it's there. And honestly, I think that's what makes the writing, the words, the process such a gift.  It is not of me, but it is in me and somehow it all works out. 

That's all a little mysterious sounding, isn't it? Let me turn the corner.  For all my fogginess I also like to break things down, pull them apart, understand why and know better for next time. So, here is my psychoanalytic self on my sacred dream world:  tension is painful for me, and quiet, internal creation provides solace and outlet without bumping up against opposition. Awkwardness, I can handle because typically I can find a way to diffuse...normalize....what have you. Tension? Real, raw, in your gut kind of tension? H-a-t-e it.  It makes me want to just close my eyes and tap my heels, crawl into a corner AND pull the covers over my head.  All at once. Now, I understand this can make the whole vulnerability thing tricky.  Yes.  But I would also say that vulnerability is just as hard for everyone in his or her own way. It's one of those human things. 

So for me? Sometimes I don't get to hold the key to peace gates or make differences into similarities, or do dot-to-dots until everything makes its way into some bizarre and cosmic whole. I don't get to be Suzy go-with-the-flow, iron it out, make a joke, smile real big, sing-a-song...because before I know it something that's all sorts of dishonest might make it on that list, and I just wouldn't be true anymore.  And I think I desperately want to be true, don't you?  

So here's to choosing sides, making boundaries, all the while mustering the courage to SAY what I'm thinking like my narrative voice that leaps out on the page with such candor and ease. Besides, tension isn't always all bad.  As my friend Hillary once told me in the throes of disquiet: "Sarah, tension can be loved when its like the passing note to the most beautiful, beautiful chord."  I don't know where she got it and I think I was crying too hard to ask, but I am grateful she said it. 

Thanks for reading my self-talk.  I hope you can find yourself in it, too. 

New-ish Grown-Ups

Yesterday evening I celebrated the 29th birthday of my friend, J.  I am not calling her J like I do when I talk about my clients,  that would be weird.  J is her nickname because she is petite and sweet and to-the-point and it has fit her for as long as I have known her. All honorary invitees to this party were total foodies (that does not mean FAT, that just means we appreciate different tastes and flavors and the like)  so we dined well: chile quile (I don't speak Spanish, but it's pronounced kee-lay), homemade guacamole, and a creamy/cool dessert. 

Moosewood Enchanted Broccoli Cookbook, I tell you. Add it to your collection, it'll change your life. Additionally, everytime I go to steam those little green trees, I think about the way Moosewood touts it as mystical and it makes me laugh because if we're going to anthropomorphize broccoli it would totally be boring. Does anyone remember that book: "How to be Perfect in just Three Days? " Part of the process was broccoli three meals a day. I don't remember if he reached perfection, but I do recall my entire third grade class tying broccoli to a string and wearing it around our necks for three days. There was nothing enchanting about it. 

Forgoing perfection, writer Barbara Kingsolver pays much homage to the processes of life. About letting things transpire organically, trusting that the basics which we so often neglect, suffice as cultivation. I love Barbara for this, and I loved last night for this too. I'll try to explain. This particular house I was at, is always a little wild and random.  Nothing is really set up just so, or has to be this way or just like that. The conversation lulls and then we go outside, wave to the neighbors, talk about tattoos, go back in. Time seems to take its time- slow and lazy and dawdling the way grownups told us not to.  The dishes stay undone and the dogs (all four) play. All is well, and I like it. I know that I'll go home when it's time but for now, I'll stay and drink sweet red wine.   To my friends in the yellow house, please keep inviting me over.  I like laughing with you. 

Things move along.  We step from one decade to the next. And I think I'm realizing that new things, or stages, or days, are more new-ish, not just plain new.  Take age for example.  Do you recall when age became very apparent to you? I do.  I was probably four.  Excuse me.  I was probably four and three quarters.  Additionally, I was a girl.  That small wrapped up bundle was a baby. The gray-haired woman with the old man was a grandma. My cool single babysitter with the poufy bangs and painted fingernails was a teenager. And the tall(er) woman next to me that made rules and kept me safe was a grown-up. 

I'm a twenty five year old grown-up, and last night J became a twenty nine year old one. I feel sort of grown-up on the inside, but I am not a very skilled rule-maker and I don't have many people I need to keep safe. Maybe that's coming.  Mostly, I feel like I have bits of all of my 4 year old and 9 year old and 15 year old (even thought I tell it to go away) and 21 year old selves in me all at once.  Something tells me it's probably not a good idea to leave them behind altogether even though they might be unattractive, lest we forget who we were (are?). If we do, they'll show up, in the middle of the night, drenched in loss: "I don't like feeling deserted."  

Unexpected company. Let's invite them in, out of the rain,  so they don't stalk us. 

We are new(ish) each day but the journey has mattered. And continues to. You know: that year we learned things aren't as they seem. That year we lost hard. That year we realized we can't always deliver. It adds up.  I guess it makes sense we wrinkle up too with all that baggage tucked away in our heart and soul. I just sure wish we didn't. Perhaps my 32 year old self will be okay with it :). 

Paying Attention (to paper towels and other things).

I use way too many paper towels.  Last spring, I house-sat for a lady who is a committed eco-friend. I am not.  I am probably more in the camp that wears the "love my planet Earth" t-shirts.  I know that's kind of embarrassing and I'm working on not falling into trends quite so readily.  Marketer's dream: yours truly.  For what it's worth, I haven't actually bought any of those t-shirts or the tote-bags pictured below, I just think they're cute sometimes. 

Anyways, this gentle friend of the Earth used seventh generation cleaners, and didn't have cutsey note-pads,  but most of all she didn't have any paper towels in her kitchen. Not in her kitchen, not in her pantry, not in her bathroom, not in the mudroom ( I looked). Nope.  No back up paper towels.  Instead she had a basket of colorful hand towels that I grit my teeth to dirty, but then remembered oh yes, there IS a washing machine, and it IS just lemonade.  All in all, her house was lovely and the dearth of paper towels made it all the lovelier. 

Ever since then, I have paid more attention to the amount of paper towels I use and am embarrassed. Microwave a potato? Wrap it in a paper towel. No time to mop? Spray a little Clorox, swish around the paper towels with my foot ( you know you've done it too).  Got two minutes? Spray the countertops and swipe 'em clean. Maybe I just need to calm down and not wipe things so much or something, but it's kind of second nature.  Regardless, I am spending way too much money on paper products and continue to give HEB grocery stores my livelihood in return for those little point coupons that amount to oh, three dollars. 

So when I eat up these paper towel rolls, it makes me think about bigger and more abstract things  (I'm totally normal, promise). As much as I try to be a good steward of the things that have been given to me, hence entrusted to me (yikes), and give back and share like we sang about in our pre-school performances,  I am still an avid consumer.  Of paper towels, yes.  But of other things too.  Of pretty and comfortable and illustrious things that do wonders for my ego so I might feel quite in control and quite in charge. Two news-flashes: a) I am not. b) Pretty, comfortable and illustrious is American code for debt and waste and consumption. Read: Anxiety. 

 Tricked? Are we all tricked into this grandiose business of striving but never actually arriving, all the while forgetting to empty out, breathe in and perhaps enjoy the view.  Only then are we grounded, feet on the floor, eyes open wide and deep enough to receive the unspeakable joy that comes about in our awe and interest, serenity and curiosity, gratitude and love. The things that make us human, for crying out loud! Only then in great grace and wisdom, after we have opened up, can we give back.  Cheerfully. 

As I am writing, I am reminded of an anecdote that Kierkegaard uses to illustrate, well, something of much richer significance than the parallel I'm drawing, but I don't remember his profound point.  I just remember the story, and it went like this: 

There was a  man riding home in a carriage on a dark and cold night. In his little carriage he arranged pillows and lanterns so he might settle in comfortably and enjoy the ride. The burning lamps, however, made the stars dim, and it was a beautifully starry night. He didn't see the stars. 

Poor old man! He was occupied with lanterns and pillows rather than the star-show. His view was lacking. And his world stayed small. 

Some people might say its okay, to be careful and stay safe, and keep gathering things around us, and do perfunctory things obsessively like use paper towels.  And maybe it is just okay. Promise, no judgement. I totally would have nested my carriage like Kierkegaard's friend.  But life is miraculous, star-shows and all and like Wendell Berry says, can we please not give up on it?  I'd rather sip out of a simple, cool and clear glass, trusting that it will in time run over again, instead of fretfully gulping down some scroungy mixture I know I can concoct whenever I need it. Hello, acid reflux. 

So, here's to paying attention in 2010.  To what we use and what we grab and what we hoard. Are we full? Are we open? Are we gracious? Or, are we skrimping by with our three dollars worth of HEB points?  

Look up! Look Down! Look All Around! There are star-shows.  Promise. 

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! 

Blessing Hearts

I'm a fan of Southern culture. Now, if you are a born-and-bred Southerner (I am not), the charm may be less conspicuous to you.  Yet having grown up in a quite lovely, but altogether rough around the edges corner of New England, I will tell you that I like the niceties.  Some Yankees that I know (slash die-haaahhhd Red Sox fans slash avid skiiahhhss slash Hahvaaad grads) are quick to call the friendliness phony.  It very well might be. But, it also might not be. Besides, most days I like warm and friendly people and unless you catch me in some nightmare, I usually am one.  So, to my Down-Easters, I say: "Don't worry, they don't want anything from you."

I'm not even sure that a memoir would do the differences between Waco, Texas and Boxford, Massachusetts adequate justice. Sometimes driving around, I'm obliged to re-articulate to myself how it is again that I ended up here, because it just feels, so, well, random.  Remember, Sarah? Remember?  You were working in that cube and you felt like a caged bird or something, and you wanted an adventure and liked the idea of cowboy boots, and "y'all" and social work and here you are. When I tell myself that story, sometimes I feel pretty cool and fly by the seat of my pants, and sometimes I feel like a flake. Maybe there's not a difference.

I sound flippant.  Let me clarify.  Even when I feel my feathers in the wind, I am filled with divine peace and gratitude. I am convinced that God led me to this sweet little spot in the center of Texas, and has graced me abundantly with community that has helped me to heal and trust and believe in a God that has come and is coming and wants me to be a part of it all. 

Still, the culture shock is funny.  And I'll be frank: as much as I'm a fan of southern hospitality...the "m'ams", and the "dowhat now's?" , and the little grocery baggers who say these things to you as they help you out of the HEB, I still miss many things about my roughish and rustic New England town. Am I allowed to miss it and not want to go back? Because I do.  I deeply miss it but am quite content staying right here. 

I'm also hopelessly nostalgic so sitting with the memory can be fun. Let me indulge for a moment:  I liked that the houses were all two-story clapboard colonials. I liked that there were lots of windy roads and stone walls, and town commons, and things and places and buildings established in the 1600's. And, no offense to barbeque or anything, but I liked that there could be things at a party besides well, just that.  Or beans.  There will be always all sorts of beans as long as I am in Texas. 

So, this brings me to the real reason I started writing. The point, if you will, though I usually hate dragging in the point. I used to think the expression "bless your heart" was really odd.  If you didn't know that it's Southern, I'm here to tell you it is.  Sort of like the equivelant of "wicked" in the North.  Perhaps, such expressions could be a greater metaphor for their respective regions. I won't go there.  

I first heard "bless your heart" when I was at my friend Lauren's house in Memphis.  She had a rash on her arm, and her mom kept looking at it and "blessing her heart." I'm really not a literal person, but I did keep thinking, why is she saying that?  And like many idiomatic enigmas I come across here in the South, I first, wonder if it's a Southern Baptist thing. But, "bless your heart" is not.  It's more of a thing that you say with a smile and an emphatic twang and it's mainly just for fluff. I never really liked bless your heart because I thought that it meant something bad or gossipy or rude was on it's heels.  Not that I never participate in these things, but if we're going to be sassy, let's call it what it is and not guise it with the blessing of the heart. 

So, I've found a new-found love for this expression.  Do you want to know why?  On Christmas Day (yes, I worked on Christmas Day), a seven year old boy came into my office.  He is the quiet type that speaks with insight when he does in fact, speak.  And unfortunately, in the chaos of my work environment, I get to listen less frequently than I wish.  He said: "Miss Sarah?"  I said, "Yes?" He said: "I made something for..." I looked up, and he was pointing at me.  I said, "What do you have?"  He showed me this: 

And, I melted a little bit.  What do you even say besides, "I'll put it up on my door!"  I have never met a more sincere blesser of the heart.  He's allowed to say that one :) 

Resting for Christmas

Okay so we are not the most meticulous cookie decorators, but I think they turned out so fun! Sprinkles make everything look better! 

This past weekend, I rested.  While one of the downsides to working in a residential setting is working on holidays (hello 8:30-5:30 Christmas Eve and Christmas Day), one of the upsides is flexible scheduling.  This being the case, this past weekend was my Christmas weekend, and I was able to take Friday AND this Monday off in lieu of my Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  

I made new friends. I slept (until 9:43 am). I downloaded new music (Noisetrade- JJ Heller, PLEASE check it out). I prayed. I baked. I wrote.  I ran. I got a pedicure.  I read.  I ate Chuy's. I drank Shiner Cheer.  I laughed with Brooke. Life is good, and I can't help but ask myself, "How did I get so lucky?" 

More Christmas cake balls! Yum!  Do you know they sell these at a local coffee shop for a $1.50 EACH?!?! 

And as I retired for the evening still with some bounce in my step, Brooke said, "your eyes look brighter!"  And, as I looked in the mirror, splashing water on my face, I thought, yes, they do.  My job is tiring.  I listen a lot.  I problem-solve a lot.  I diffuse a lot.  And I attempt to soften the blows of deep and raw and very human need.  

Now, I'm not complaining or doing that melodramatic martyr thing-- promise.  But I will say that it is helpful for me to remember that the level of stress and crisis I deal with is not so normal, and it might be good for me to remember to sleep a little longer, and self-forgive a little more. 

Peppermint frames, for my kids to put their pictures in.  Just arrange mints on a baking sheet, bake at 250 and they melt into these perfect and festive wreaths! We are even thinking of decorating our tree with mini wreaths! 

Courtney knows all the latest books to have on your shelves, and she recently gave me: "Sabbath" by Wayne Mueller.  Apparently, Lifeway Christian Stores won't carry it because they call it "dangerous."  I say, that's a) ridiculous and b) quite a shame.  Mueller reminds me that the refusal to rest is quite arrogant-- contrary to the inclinations of my good little American self: " 'Remember the Sabbath' means 'Remember that everything you have is a blessing.' Remember to delight in your life, in the fruits of your labor. Remember to stop and offer thanks for the wonder of it."  This life, and all its nooks and crannies-- from conversation to melody to vegetable enchiladas, is one great big gift, and I have no business taking it for granted. Mueller reminds me that it is wise to reflect, and just plain dumb, to take in great stories of pain and suffering without grieving.  Sponges are hardly helpful when they aren't wrung out. And besides that, we're not robots--we're little ones and big ones that are capable of much, but still very small in the vastness of this great big world.  And in the same way that plants and animals and other living things need the basics to keep on keeping on, sometimes we must take ourselves on back to the basics.

So, I am grateful for the things and people that wrung (not wore) me out this (very long!) weekend.  I feel fresh. 

"Better is one hand full of quietness, than two hands full of toil and a striving after the wind."  

-Ecclesiastes 4: 6

God With Us

I listened to a sermon recently by Corey Widmer, the pastor of my former church in Richmond, Virginia.  You can listen to the sermon, "Searching God" here.  

Everytime I listen to him, I wish that I listened to him more; it makes me remember and miss home, and more importantly takes me to the crux of the Gospel- the outlandish generosity God has shown a broken and bumbling people.  Moreover, he outlines our calling to live in such a way that is a response to this radical love shown to us.  

This sermon in particular comes from Luke 15- the parable of the lost sheep and the parable of the lost coin.  In short: God rejoicing over our coming to Him. Rejoicing doesn't even go far enough. He is ELATED! that we are His, and the world stops when we finally put our bags down and let Him love us.  In this, I find the essence of a deeply relational, profoundly personal God. When I read this passage, I believe more than other times, that indeed, not a moment goes by when my Heavenly Father is not one with me- in his mind and on his heart so much so that I might be "engraved on the palms of His hands," like the prophet Isaiah says. 

During advent we use language that rejoices over the coming of our Savior: "Joy to the World!"  I love this season dedicated to love and longing, I picture God's people, linking hands, smiles bright, "We are ready!" "We have been waiting!"  "Come to us!"  

But what I think is funny is that in our imploring and our exultations, sometimes I forget that it is not we, the receivers that have an ounce of anything to really offer.  "Welcoming" brings along with it this idea of hospitality and graciousness.   It is fun to welcome a beloved friend into a home cozy and lit with candles- soup on the stove, bread on the oven. At least it is for me.  I like giving and offering parts of myself to people that I love.  

But may we remember in this season, that despite our humble exclamations to the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace: "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel!" It really is He, who is coming after us. And while in His graciousness and lavish love, He finds our offerings and preparations perfect, they are pittance to His glory. 

I am reminded of a quote by Simon Tugwell my best friend Chelsea shared with me a long time ago, and while I never think of it as advent-y, for some reason, it is today:

"So long as we imagine it is we who have to look for God, we must often lose heart. But it is the other way about: He is looking for us. And we can afford to recognize that very often we are not looking for God; far from it. We are in full flight from Him...and he knows this and has taken it into account. Where we thought finally to escape him, we run straight into His arms.  Our hope is in His determination to save us, and He will not give in."  

Emmanuel, God with us.  Amen.  

Favorite Things.

I try very hard not to get too attached to material things. Recently at a staff meeting, my boss made the point that an individual's bank statement easily translates into his or her value system, and I cringe when I hear this because I know mine reads sweaters and ballet flats and dangly earrings far more than it should.  It's a work in progress.  More accurately, I am. (a work in progress, that is). 

Nevertheless, sometimes I think it would be fun to have a favorite things store.  The mood would be altogether whimsical and earthy and delightful-- think free spirit meets quirky bookworm all in a quiet, bucolic setting.  And twinkle lights.  There would be twinkle lights. 

So, I've decided, here are a few of the things my non-existent store would have: 

1. Fabric. 

I spend hours in fabric stores and I can't even sew.  I want to learn someday, but even before I do, I will still buy fabric.  I lay it on top of my dresser, and tuck the jagged ends under.  I pin it to foam board and frame it to hang on my wall. I drape it over the back of my desk chair. Layers of fabric make rooms look lived-in and warm, more approachable even. Some might say that the mish-mosh of prints and patterns is haphazard, but like I said earlier, I'm all about that work-in-progress.  And besides, who ever said perfection was completion? 

2. Tea 

No, not tea like sweet tea or, in the North what we'd called "iced" tea. But, hot tea poured into tea cups and boiled in a real teapot.  It's proven to ease tension and stress and gets to include things like chamomile and lavender (yes, please). AND, I would put those inspiring quotes on the tea bags, that say things like, "love what is ahead by loving what has come before" or "let things come to you."  I mean, talk about warmth. 

3. Pretty Paper Products 

I hope that letters never go out of fashion.  I think about how Jane Austen's characters lived their lives in hopeful anticipation of the mail carrier.  Great and terribly important topics were broached with the ink pen.  I find it funny how the most ill-fated news, like the Mr. Collins' engagement proposal or the deceitfulness of Mr. Wichkam is padded with fluffy words like "felicity," "tincture" and "lamentation."  

While I am grateful for the convenience of our cell phones and emails, and even more, the exclamations and innuendos of dear ones that live far away,  I still like opening envelopes, and smiling to find the familiar script on the enclosed pages. 

And please, can we not use the term, "snail mail?" 

4. Used Books 

When I lend out books, I like people to mark them up. This is what I say before handing them over: "Underline the important parts, dog-ear the pages, sign your name, and date it too." I try not to sound neurotic when I say this, but I really like people to do it.  I think that's because books are very living to me, and I think they change me the way relationships, and conversations and all beautiful things can change me.  And the way people respond to the written word, does something in fact, to the words themselves. Lifts them off the page.  Gives them color and dimension and body.  

So this store of mine, would have plenty of books-- tattered and worn, because those are the colorful kind that hit you just so. And wasn't it Frederick Buechner who said, "The story of any of us, is in some measure, the story of us all." 

I think so. 

5. Earrings 

I know it's frivilous, but I love face-framing little jewels like these. 

I think there would be other things, like perfume and candles and recipes to share.  But for now, this feels like a good start :).