"It is what it is"

What does that really mean? Nothing. It's an excuse to stop talking to me. An excuse to stop thinking about what's right and what's wrong. When all the while, the reality is that it can be what you make it. But no one has ever told you that. No one has ever told you that you are capable of good. Or maybe you just never listened. I wish you'd listen now.

Keepin' it Real

Well, how do I keep my faith real? What do I keep believing in? And when do I ever need to "keep believing," anyway? I am not faced daily with the notion of needing anything. It is easy sometimes to hide behind my physical needs: as long as I am rested and fed, I am somehow complete. But it's not the whole truth, and this complete feeling is sometimes a delusion that masks the reality of my needs. I need need need Christ's assurance of my ingrafted status as a Child of God. I need it tangibly and I need it every day. I need Christ's definition of my identity again and again, solid reminders that I am full of value, enough to motivate his dying on the cross for me.

Somehow, hearing it isn't enough; it takes more to realize my identity and my dependency. And though I don't mind admitting that I am pretty thick-skulled, I've noticed that plenty of people have difficulty understanding the day-to-day implications of actually believing that what Jesus said is real: that he is the light of the world, that he gives living water, that he has come to heal the sick, that he has made the last to be first. You know what keeps it real to me? Asking Jesus to help me when I have a need.

Today I asked Jesus to calm my heart down. I was in deep need: I kept thinking about a situation that worried me, and I couldn't muster a good attitude while I was at work. A good attitude is half the reason I was hired, so it is, in a sense, my bread and butter. I went to the back hallway and paced up and down, praying for something to help--anything at all. God changed my attitude. I didn't just put on a brave face: I was transformed, I turned a corner, something... I have no idea, because it was a miracle. But that's not all. This miracle today, while it may sound minor now that I've written it down, was a pretty big deal to me. The thing is, it's just one of a lot of things the Lord has done for me! I'm serious! He's reassured my heart about an upcoming trip to Mexico, too. Mid-August, I'm planning to take two of my neighbor kids to Mexico to see their family for 10 days. I wasn't sure how I would ever be able to afford the time off work, let alone the spending money it may require. But I'm going to do it. And I feel complete confidence that it will all be fine. The Lord knows exactly what I need, and before I see it, it is good to know that He's already allotted a way to meet my needs. How does he do that? When I reassure myself with the fact that he is indeed my Provider, I wonder why are there some people starving? How can I claim this promise when others have more faith and still don't have what their bodies need? Are their hearts full?

__________________________


Poverty sometimes comes and sits beside me.
Sometimes at dinner. Sometimes as I walk to my house.
She has come to my place of work, stood in my alleyway.
She has looked into my windows, standing on the porch.

Poverty sometimes comes and sits beside me.

And sits silently. Letting me look at her eyes, sunken into a skin-covered skull.
She does not resist my kindness: she accepts my rations.
She sucks them clean to the bone.
And still she is not filled.
Her hair grows thin and wispy above temples exposed to the sun and baked dry.

She cannot be pacified with mere anything.
She must be rebuilt: refreshed with rain and rekindled with mirth.
And maybe she will show her sisters that she has been made new.
And maybe they will never go thirsty again.

Weddings are Exciting

Right now Lachelle and Brian are sitting in the middle of the living room surrounded by table placements and little nametags. Both of them are talking with their respective mothers on their mobiles, discussing guest placement.

Brian: "I thought about putting J___ in that table.... well no, because he lived in Bolivia..."
Lachelle: "If I had known M___ beforehand I would have put her next to T_____..."
Brian:"Do we need an extra spot for them? What if they bring their kids? Do they have two kids?"
Lachelle:"I was going to put Aunt G____ with R____, but she won't be with family, then. Wait 'til I tell you about my week..."

If you can, imagine it all simulataneously taking place.

To my right are lots and lots of boxes and things without boxes, waiting patiently in the queue to be moved across Lancaster to their new home. The mountain grows. Lachelle's to-do list grows, and can be found in small segments in any room of the house. One on this table reads:

--Ask Mom
--Cheese
--Song
--Ages of Kids

Haha! If there was ever any doubt, I have a pretty cool life, with pretty cool people in it.

The Fourth of July

My dad turned 50 on the fourth of July, and everything worked out to visit him and my brother, Megan, and Aida. I have to give a shout out to my fruit salad, as I had never successfully made one before. If you've never tried it, don't say it's easy. All kinds of fruits don't mix together well, and who would have thought that orange juice from concentrate is the best base mixture? Not me; that is to say, allrecipes.com has sort of bailed out all of my cooking events.

My brother manned the grill, and Aida did her best to keep herself posted on all the goings on in all the rooms of the house while still watching Phineas and Ferb. She's nearly four. But she acts and speaks like an older child. I often feel that she sort of skipped toddlerhood in favor of childhood; and I wonder just as often if that is a healthy thing for a person. Either way, she's adorable and more interesting than ever. She's at the time in life when she has a working understanding of most conversations and can participate in them to a fair degree. Yet she still manages to ramble on about E.T. and Elliott, her imaginary friends who are, by turns, her fiance or her brother, or non-existent even to her, making you out to be the insane adult.

After dinner I presented Dad with his card and a print-out of "Every Season" by Nichole Nordeman. I have loved that song for a long time and decided that Dad's gift would be an experience rather than a thing to fill his apartment. So I sang it! I've rarely performed alone, and never for a close crowd like that. It felt like I was holding my heart outside my body for a minute and a half. But as I finished, I felt like it didn't even matter if they had liked the song or not. I think I was real. And I now think that that is more precious than I had ever suspected. I see now what George MacDonald was talking about as he repeated that the Lord is not a harsh taskmaster: He teaches humility in creative, not torturous, ways.

For Lachelle: A Dirge and a Dance

Today I ended the hallway in your room instead of mine.
My thoughts danced in there like we danced
through the living room and into the kitchen,
making shadow puppets on the walls!
In your room singing and strumming,
papers flying from a wellworn desk between
open windows. So much daylight!
And a Saturday morning of sitting and talking.

Now as "miss" turns misnomer
and maidenhood ends, I see the lustrous leaf
which will shoot upward:
the orchid in the dining room window:
this bloom is over and done.
The leaf promises a more beautiful one!

For you, so unhappily close to your birthday that I hope you never see it

Watch this, Dad!
I can hang upside down for a whole minute!
I can run faster than yesterday, and braid a knot of twine into neat rows.
I can say whole strings of sentences backward without ever looking at a page!

And you can send my words back to me without ever looking at them: change the subject to something that interests you.
And I will still wonder if you will make it to the banquet
Through the snow and the ice
And the deer that haunt the roads and keep you from getting here tonight.
And I will still believe that you really wanted to come, somewhere inside.
But couldn't. But couldn't.