Summer

I love it when the days are long,
when spring has relinquished sensitivity
to summer's passionate, unrelenting fire.

I love it when darkness flees at 5:30,
and sunset's golden train slinks away
reluctantly at half past eight.

The skies grow cumbered with clouds, heavy with the summer monsoon
and the air is thick with the sticky
foreknowledge of rain.

I love it when the days are long,
when jasmine's botanical myrrh pervades the air
like a sudden I love you.

A Psalm of Smallest Proportions

All at once I was a dust mote,

suspended

in the river of Your light streaming

through Time's window.

I was no longer the center,

just existing in a small way

to make You more visible;

drawn by Your brightness,

arrested by Your glory;

all at once I was a dust mote,

suspended.

Unraveled

Without Time, Life would rise up and slay us.  There isn't a body that could survive two World Wars and the aftermath of Vietnam at once.  It's too much.  What heart could endure at once the joy of several children's births?  Eyes could not cry enough tears to assuage the pain of a broken heart without many nights of a wet pillow.  The delirium of falling in love would leave us incapacitated if experienced like a wave crashing down on top of us. 

I never understood the importance of Time.  It served me in its fashion, providing terms of measurement for my life, if nothing else.  Often it crawled like a slug in no hurry when I wanted it to race.  Often it was gone before I could look it in the face.  It is fleeting, in a fickle sort of way.  They say it passes at a constant speed, but I'm not convinced. 

Trying to understand Time is like trying to see a bird's eye view of a road that you're standing on.  The best and brightest can only use their imaginations.  It stretches out behind and before us, bending and twisting to block our view.  There is no going back, and wild blooms snatched along the way quickly become dried blossoms, a relic of yesterday. 

Only God is outside of Time because only He can bear it.  He alone can take on the brunt of thousands of years of slavery, heart rending melodies and love stories in one glance.  Only He is strong enough to see the expanse of human frailty and the swelling buds of trees for a thousand springs at once.  It would be our undoing.  Our hearts would melt, and our very frames explode with the weight of a thousand sunsets. 

Count it good fortune that your grief endures many days.  You could never bear it all at once.  The deep anger, confusion, frustration and piercing pain could not be borne at once.  But God has given Time as a great softener of blows, and you are not allowed the full force of great grief.  It comes slowly.  Though it feels like your life is ebbing away with each heartbeat, you are being spared the unspeakable pain of a grief that would devour you, but for Time's staying hand.

Count it good fortune that children are born after nine months of longing.  Each day, your love for them swells a little higher, a little fuller.  The anticipation grows as they do, until it is time to meet them and let their small fingers curl around yours.  A human heart could not endure the swelling of that love in a single tidal wave, leaving a world of underwater rubble. 

Count it good fortune that Love comes on tiptoes, knocks you off your feet and carries you off a hostage.  Arresting your thoughts and rendering you vulnerable, it twirls you until you're dizzy.  Be glad it doesn't happen all at once.  Though each day be unendurably long for waiting to be together, it is better than colliding with the narcotic force of a thousand days with Love in an instant. 

Count it good fortune that books are read one page at a time, and tulips break their way through the winter ground once a year.  You could never hold the magic of a dance, the woeful cry of a Beethoven symphony and the laugh of a child at once.  The capacity of a human heart is limited, and so Time becomes the great gate, allowing one second through, never two at once, lest our mortal fabric be unraveled. 

Grateful for a God who made Time Life's sieve so our human hearts could bear it,

Little Miss Sunshine

When the Sun Rises

Tyler Johnson, a pastor In Arizona, said something once that I hope I never forget. He said that we are far more wicked than we could ever believe, but we are far more loved than we could ever dare hope.

When I think about what he said, I think of a sunrise on a barren, war-torn landscape. It's as if you saw something on the news, a tragedy that made you want to cry and yell and ask God why someone would do this. Then your face flashes on the screen. This is not a hardened criminal whose face looks like all the others. It is yours. You have wrought this with your own hands. At that moment, there is horror and disbelief. You're such a great guy. People tell you so! How could this have happened? Surely there's some mistake. Great guys don't do things like this. Not this. Not you.

I remember my moment of horror and disbelief.

It had happened at a birthday party. My birthday party. I was opening presents and reading cards. There was a present from my brother and I opened it. I don't even remember what it was now, maybe a movie. I thanked my mom, who protested that it was my brother's gift. I remember looking at him and saying, Well, it's not really from you because Mom paid for it. It was derisive, condescending, flippant. Looking at my brother now, he's a great gift giver. He's generous and he has good taste. I look back on that moment with horror. He couldn't have been more than 8 years old at the time. I took what he'd given me and deemed it illegitimate. I, in my insensitive, black and white view of the world, told him that he hadn't paid for it, so it was really Mom's gift to me. I did this to the person I would instantly give up my right hand for. I did this to the person that made my last two years of university better just because he was there too. My brothers are two of the people I miss most in Australia. How can we hurt so deeply the people we love best?

The second sort of sunrise is also filled with disbelief, but instead of horror, this disbelief is mingled with awe. Instead of a war-torn landscape, the sun rises on the place that can make you cry with relief and joy and every good feeling you've ever felt. Coming home from the worst day at the office, you're at the last fringe of your rope. You failed to see the email from Bill, which made you late to the impromptu meeting. Dean was upset because your presentation to corporate wasn't up to par, and Mary is still waiting on the monthly report. Did you actually get anything done today? Then you get home. All you want to do is curl up in the fetal position and sleep for a week. When you walk in, the house is silent for a brief moment before it erupts into cheering and laughter. There's your sister and your parents and your best friend. Suddenly you're being serenaded with Happy Birthday and being charged to blow out every last candle. You realize, in the weary haze your life had become, you'd forgotten your own birthday. Then your grandparents are walking in with your aunt and uncle and Dad is telling you how much he loves you. You're at a loss, still a little disoriented. In answer to your puzzled look, your best friend tells you that your parents decided you needed a little extra love this birthday and decided to throw you a party. The transition from being broken, weary and alone to loved, wanted, and celebrated takes a few minutes.

I have had many moments of disbelieving awe. I come to the One who has it all, my arms full of community service certificates, report cards, letters of recommendation, things I think will bring me into His good graces. As I'm alphabetizing my supporting documents, going over my speech, scrambling to fix a stray strand of hair that has become unruly, I see Him. The sun rises. I see that where I am, report cards and letters of recommendation have no place. I see that, defying all logic, His Son has paid for me to come home. There is no need for resumes, He's just glad I'm here. The One who created the lion's roar and the cello's song is glad that I am with Him. Suddenly a great love, the greatest love, washes over my flaws and mistakes. All that I thought He wanted from me has been replaced by one word: LOVE.

There is no room for report cards and letters of recommendation where the Father is. All that matters is, did you come by the name of His Son. Only when you come that way do all of your moments of horror disappear into forgetfulness and the dark places are filled with light. There is no restoration unless the Prodigal comes home. You are far more loved than you could ever dare hope. Just come home.

Hoping you come to the second sunrise,

Little Miss Sunshine

Literary nights with peppercorn cheese

I don't think you know this.  I, Little Miss Sunshine, LOVE the library.  I love how it's calm (even though it makes me want to do cartwheels and whistle sometimes), I love how if you shook out the words from every book into a big jumbling heap on the floor, you'd be swimming in them.  I love how you can almost find a book about anything!

Sarah, my compatriot, being a good English major and fitting general friend requirements for LMS, also loves the library.

We got library cards last week.  And we took pictures.

One of the many posters on the library walls advertised a local writer's reading night.  Being the girls we are and liking the things we like, we went.  When we arrived, we found ourselves the only ones in tennis shoes, the only ones in jeans, and the only ones under 55 (I'm being generous).  We looked at each other, picked and seat and listened.  One after another, local authors read short fiction, poetry and things they had written about their lives.  There was a woman with white hair and a black headband and great elocution who read her poetry that's been published and awarded, and she kind of had a pointy nose.  I liked her rhythm.  A man who loved his dog wrote from the perspective of his dog during puppy class.  A couple people wrote about romantic intrigue and a couple wrote about travels.  And they had peppercorn cheese. And wine, which we didn't drink, and crackers and more cheeses!  The peppercorn was the best.

When I hear people reading pieces, it makes me want to write.  I don't know if it's the competitor in me or the creator in me, but I see something good and I want to try it for myself.  Their next reading session is in October or December or something.  Sarah is a writer, so she has buckets of things she has read and could read.  My bucket is empty, save blog posts and university stuff, but maybe I'll write and write and write and something will be salvageable.  I hope it is poetry, but that's ambitious.

In the meantime, or the nicetime, Sarah and I are job hunting.  Guns propped on our shoulders, camo clad, we are stalking our prey.  Cafe?  Library?  Or the confusingly ambiguous "Early Years Project Officer"?  Whatever it is, we want to make some travel money.  People keep telling us we just have to see the rest of Oz (Australia), but their next sentence isn't, "So we'll just buy you a ticket and put you on a train".  I think that means we need a job.

We're house sitting again.  They have a dog.  His name is Attila.  He's not scary, just big and loud and labradoodly.  The house is grand.  Old, dark wood everywhere and sinky red carpet.  We sing at the top of our lungs so we don't get intimidated by the bigness of this house.  It's always interesting to see what people have in their pantries.  When you're house sitting, it's ok to snoop in the kitchen because they say you can eat their food while they're gone.  These people have a fetish for pasta and sauces.  Plum sauce, fish sauce, mayo dill sauce, balsamic vinegars and pestos and tomato sauces.  I think we're going to be all pasta-ed out by the time we leave this house.

And we have FRIENDS!  I mean, we had friends before, but I mean we have friends our own age!  How do I know this?  We got an invitation!  People don't invite you to things unless they like you, right?  We're going to a bonfire tomorrow!  I don't even know what to wear to an Australian bonfire that starts at two in the afternoon.  Should I be going for "spring is here, I feel sun dress-y" or "skinny jeans and a cardi because I'm an intellectual" or "I'm fun and athletic, so I'm wearing shorts and a hoodie".  So many things to say with clothes!


Love from the beach,

LMS