So Little Contained in So Little

I haven't been in touch because I haven't been in touch. I have been in so much contact: with car horns and taxis, expectations and fears, airplanes and security lines. I have not touched ground except when I'm with a few—Jesus, Jake, Carmen, my mom... everyone else is so close, clambering... I am afraid I will get nothing done if I spend a night emailing here and there, because an email gets a response, then we pull out our calendars, and meet and connect, and plan to do it all again at the end...

...and it all feels like hemorrhaging.

I have a little to give, I feel, and I am desperately collecting rocks on the edge of this river, in hopes of creating a reservoir of time, place, things. I cannot. Slow it all down.
I cannot

go back and describe each weekend with Jake        seeing herons on a river
swimming in the quarry to escape the heat
churning ice cream          driving through the greenest places the country has to offer
touching those places
letting it rain
and waiting to catch breath on a mountaintop in Morocco          in West Virginia
hitching a ride
watching the sunset spill pink over a silver river before the blankets were pulled down and the heat settled into the stones' accumulated hearts

and we slept there, in a tent on the ground          mosquitoes without,
the only monsters,         and Time,
to be reckoned with if they got inside to us.

Held close. Closer. Each stone.

Driving to you through the worst storm of my life, the clouds a watercolor above, and gathering from below.
At the end of it all—were your arms around me.

Is gratitude ever a product of fear? I wonder if it can go on, and know what I don't know. Love in its wisdom goes on giving what it has today, hoping its hope and loving its love.

Love, can you understand? Does it matter? Since I will be by your side in the morning.

I have fought myself: my pride and my reticence to be known, my jealousy of moments you had without me—no rewriting allowed—things God himself can't change that happened because they happened.

Oh, Love. Our all is so little contained in so little.

Broken Hearts Week

The year 2018 began with an inauspicious string of break-ups in my social circles. One after the other, one involving my heart, too, left me even more skeptical of love and commitment. I labeled it "Broken Hearts Week" on my digital calendar, and left it to repeat annually, hoping that one year would show a turned tide.

Without naming names, always my challenge here, I will express what I know to be true about the changed situations.

B. met an acquaintance a month after Broken Hearts Week, and they got married in November.

S. still wonders about the person she was so into, and why it never went further. Another relationship rose out of many doubts, then faltered in Broken Hearts Week.

R. has hope. The deep kind of hope that God pours into us, not merely the hope in a romantic interest.

M. and S. are getting a divorce.

H. and M., who had been dating for a few months, have parted ways forever, and M. is now engaged to a wonderful person. H. is off in another country pursuing a certification that is one step closer to her dream.

And I. I am learning about how to love as action, and how to put imperfect trust in a person who is imperfect like I am. I'm learning that relationships can be filled with laughter and growth.

Two Months' Recapitulation

I've been recalibrating my sleep schedule,  my eating schedule, my day-to-day life. Here is a small timeline of the summer, starting with my return to the U.S.

June 30: Back in the U.S.
July 2: Acquired a phone. (This is a long story of Sprint and the horror that is all U.S. mobile networks. Not a fan.)
July 1-9:  Borrowed cars, driving to various family gatherings.
July 10: Was officially hired at a private Mennonite school, mere minutes before losing cell phone reception for a week of camping. (Wow. What a great fit. What a great story of God working things out and me circling through frustration, cluelessness, grief, and trust. Maybe I'll write it here someday, but probably not.)
July 10-18: Camped at Wild Goose Festival in North Carolina with Jake; visited his sister in Tennessee.
July 19-31: Drove back and forth from Baltimore in yet more borrowed cars; slept at Plum Street in borrowed beds while my friends rotated in and out on vacation. This was the hardest part of the summer. I had a ton of errands to do to build a sustainable life. Meanwhile, I was searching for a car I could own, and rather uncertain as to where I would find to live for the year.
August 1: Bought a Honda Civic at Carmax. Couldn't sleep.
August 2: Returned the car to Carmax.
August 3: Bought a different Honda Civic from a different place for 1/4 of the Carmax price.
August 1-11: Stayed at Dale and Kendra's house while they were on a cruise; cared for Kendra's rabbits.
August 11-12: Visited my niece and nephew. They're so tall, bright, interesting.
August 13-15: Moved in to Plum Street
August 16-30: Work began. I was so far behind in doing all the putzing around a classroom that it takes to get a schoolyear organized. I'm still doing those things: deciding on how to grade, deciding on early units, deciding on policies, decorating, laminating, buying necessary school supplies. On a weekend in there, I coordinated Krystle's wedding day.

I have been finding footing, figuring out how to do all the normal things in new ways with very little continuity or routine to reward me. There has to be a better word than "busy."

It must be said that almost none of these things was done without help and support. The first draft of this post had each person's name and what they did for me this summer. But I hesitate to post it, because I know you did the things with no expectation of praise in this life. I think you did it because you love God and because you love me, and I will not hear differently. I'm so, so grateful. I will list some of the names, though, because I feel I must for my own sake:

Jake, Dan, Mom, Coley, Bethany, Elizabeth, Sarah, Carmen, Kendra, Dale, Christine, Luke G., Sara G., MJ, Leah, Krystle, Monica, Chadwick, Cathy S. Thank you.

Three Years' Worth of Valentine's Day Posts

Valentine's Day 2016

I received a Valentine's card from Johnny D. at work. He has Down's Syndrome, and doesn't read. He chose the card especially for me, though... It reads, "You're still the reason I can't wait to get home each day."

I bought chocolate-covered strawberries to share with the Bible quiz team, but forgot to bring them to practice. I ended up eating them with roommates.

In the car on Saturday, Charlene gave me one of her silk roses, sharing her gift from another friend.

My aunt and uncle gave me and my cousins beautiful flowers. Uncle Ralph made a special trip to my cousin's house to drop them off, and I got them when I went to cousin lunch. What a delight!

It is bothering me that I did not give anything thematic this weekend. I barely got places on time. I enjoyed the fruit of others' labor, and ate well and drove a lot, and hope it was helpful. But I didn't think far enough ahead to write a note or buy a gift. The one thing I did buy, I forgot to give, and ended up eating myself. (I am so serious: I just finished the last strawberry.)

Valentine's Day 2017

I was a million miles away from everyone I love. It was chilly and rainy this week. I went to French class at the end of the day, and home afterward, and probably did an hour's worth of work and watched a show on Netflix before getting ready for bed.

Did love cross my mind? Maybe in that self-pitying way that asks, "where is the love owed me?" But I can't remember.

Valentine's Day 2018 

I participated in nine parent-teacher conferences for at-risk students. I spoke very little in these meetings. At some, there were 14 adults, including parents, teachers, administrators, all sitting with a student to say, "We care about you. We see you're failing. What is going on?"

I stayed on campus to attend the school play, and to discourage disruptive behavior in the audience. Then I struggled to keep my eyes open long enough to get ready for bed.

I was tired, but happy to find at the end of the day that some of what I had done was loving. 

November Dedications

Wednesday, 1 
Today is dedicated to having enough.

Thursday, 2
Today is dedicated to Thor and the refugee Asgardians.

Friday, 3
Today is dedicated to that group of women who prays for me and laughs at my jokes. I thank my God every time I remember you.

Saturday, 4
Today is dedicated to the Enneagram.

Sunday, 5
Today is dedicated to Hay Hassani's thrift clothes. You are so reasonably priced. Thank you.

Monday, 6
Today is dedicated to Monica, who sees the Kingdom of God.

Tuesday, 7
Today is dedicated to the Apostle Paul, who preserved the Gospel from extra conditions.

Wednesday, 8
Today is dedicated to every bank everywhere that actually does their job. So, that would exclude my bank in Morocco, just to be clear.

Thursday, 9
Today is dedicated to Tyler, who sympathized with me at odd hours while I was grading instead of sleeping.

Friday, 10
Today is dedicated to "The Crucible" movie, which saved me from actually teaching.

Saturday, 11
Today is dedicated to the book Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson

Sunday, 12
Today is dedicated to the taxi driver who spoke beautiful French, and encouraged me to keep learning.

Monday, 13
Today is dedicated to this carpet next to me. It witnessed my attempts to create two unit plans in one hour, and it remained beautiful.

Tuesday, 14
Today is dedicated to the parents of my students. Thank you for trusting me so much.

Wednesday, 15
Today is dedicated to the English department. During high-grading weeks, I sometimes feel like we go through war together... separately.

Thursday, 16
Today is dedicated to the "Time Until" app. Five days.

Friday, 17
Today is dedicated to naps. Naps on the way to work. Naps on buses. Naps on couches. Naps that save first my life, and others by extension.

Saturday, 18
Today is dedicated to Amicitia American School, Fes, who knows how to host graciously.

Sunday, 19 
Today is dedicated to Luke D., who made me laugh until I cried.

Monday, 20
Today is dedicated to the substitute who will have the joy or sorrow of my classes tomorrow.

Tuesday, 21
Today is dedicated to Tyler, who flew across an ocean to hang out for a few days.

Wednesday, 22 
Today is dedicated to couches, windows, and sunshine, and anywhere the three meet.

Thursday, 23 
Today is dedicated to you, Lord, who graciously gives us good things.

Friday, 24
Today is dedicated to a pair of cat earrings; to my brother and sister-in-law; to Tyler; and to the little girl selling tissues next to the train station.

Saturday, 25
Today is dedicated to "Stranger Things" and leftovers.

Sunday, 26
Today is dedicated to comings and goings; may God watch over them all.

Monday, 27
Today is dedicated to the working printers.

Tuesday, 28
Today is dedicated to sentence diagramming; I wish I had known how fun you were when I was in seventh grade, myself!

Wednesday, 29
Today is dedicated to G period. I look older because of you. But I love you, and will keep forgiving you right before class, at 1:40 PM every weekday, and right after class, at 2:30 PM every weekday.

Thursday, 30
Today is dedicated to Shanti and Nissa, who listened without judgment, and kept my phone through the night.

Love is Like Clothes

One event in a speech meet is the impromptu speech. A student chooses one of three random topics, and has seven minutes to think through and perform on the topic. They can divide the preparation with the speaking however they choose, but they are advised to stay on topic, be organized, and say something meaningful.

Mohammed was a roly-poly, bespectacled sixth-grader from another school. I can't even remember which topic he chose, because he prepared for all of 30 seconds, then spoke for 30 more seconds, somehow managing to find time to chew on the edge of a folder in his hand and stare at me uncomfortably for several seconds. When he was finished, my mouth was agape with his disregard for convention and his absolute failure to say anything of value.

Later in the day I conferred with another judge who had also had a round of impromptu that included little Mohammed. His topic was "love." I wasn't even there to see this sub-par performance. The presiding judge told me about it, and I could just imagine the rest.

Mohammed prepared for perhaps a minute or less, then got up with his wide eyes behind his wide glasses and said, "Love is... like clothes. You put it on... it keeps you warm."

He may have said a few other lines before his reserves were exhausted, his eyes grew fearful, and he quietly ended with, "that's all. That's it," and made a quick exit.

The impromptu speakers were notable, many of them, but this little guy... he was the only one to say something truly worth remembering. Love is like clothes. Love is like clothes. Love is like clothes.

Love is like... clothes.

How to Get Over a Crush (And Lose Your Soul)

1. Fixate on the bad instead of the good.

• Think about one word to apply to this person, the worst thing you know about them, and repeat it to yourself like a mantra when you start to slip. Any trait that is negative will do: awkward, judgmental, poorly-dressed, oblivious.
• Think about the annoying things they do. 
• Think about the worst time(s) you've had together. 
• Go so far as to think about your crush's undesirable family members: who needs them around? 

The danger in all of this is that you begin to play tug-of-war with your thoughts, because this person is objectively good, probably; and thinking on bad times together might tempt you to think of the good times; and there's the chance that the crush's family is actually really nice. Don't let your sense of justice interfere: are you here to be just, or to get over the crush? Okay, then, because, when the truth fails you...

2. Make stuff up.

Create a false memory, and think about it until it's real in your mind. Let yourself completely believe that your once-hopeful significant other is a terrible jerk who would kick puppies and mislead the elderly. Let it rankle inside you and fester until the mere thought of the other evokes a sour taste on your tongue, and you despise the mention of their name.

"But, I don't understand. Why can't I just feel nothing?" you ask. 

You poor, sad little baby. You have to feel something. You're in kind-of love with this person. They've gotten to you. They've touched your heart—they can't untouch it. If I could feel anything except rage right now, I'd say sorry, it's a tough break. You don't get to choose indifference at this point: only to love or to hate. I'm telling you, if you don't want to love them, better get started on growing that hatred. It works. I'm not saying you'll be okay. But it works.

"But what if I don't want to lose my soul?" you ask.

I might be able to help you, if certain criteria are met: you and the other person are:

• alive
• eligible
• within conversational possibility

This route is the hardest of all, because it takes the most work, the most courage...

here it is:

the secret that shouldn't be a secret:

You can get to know the person.

Just act like you're... you. Don't be exciting; be a person. Take an interest in the other, and see what happens. I'm telling you: it's the worst. You're definitely going to overthink it. Find your zen place, and stick it out. Don't be too careful to avoid deep subjects, either. Just let those happen, too.

Here we come to the worst part: you have no idea what will happen to you. There are a few obvious options, like you could realize you don't really get along with that person; or you could make a genuine friend. But a million other possibilities await you, too.

The difference between having an actual relationship with a person versus having a crush is that one involves the other person. Relationships are risky, but rewarding. Having a crush avoids both risk and reward.

When I Love You

Don't worry, Little Heart. I love you even in the dark.

I love you in the light of day,
safely tucked into the crowd.
I love you in the summer's shade,
when breezes run along the ground.

I love you as the clouds grow big,
brooding and alive with rain.
I love you when the results are rigged,
contempt's cup full, its dregs you drain.

I love you when you're sick and sleeping,
or when you're numb from grief's hard blow.
I love you when you're lost, and it's raining,
surrounded by country not your own.

I love you when you don't remember home.

I love you when the electric's dead,
the bulbs are blown,
the house is cold.

I love you while the stiff wind blows,
when you feel useless and alone:
when you watch too much TV, and make bad decisions about what to eat, and hate yourself for it all day long, dreading the hard work that hangs over your head.

I love you, Little, Feeble Heart.
I love you even in the dark.

Your Good Gifts. You're Good Gifts.

Sometimes gifts come at exactly the right time, and make the deepest impression. I usually don't choose the right gifts to bring to parties, and sometimes I give up. I can think of two weddings where I just FORGOT to bring a gift. But I don't want to do without gifts. I need them, and so do you. In celebration of gifts, here's a list of some of the most important ones I've received.

I listened to the Pocahontas soundtrack, and discovered that I loved to sing. Who thought that would be a good gift? An aunt and uncle I haven't seen in 20 years.

I take up this notebook, and realize it, too, was a gift to me. I am so grateful for it. Blank sheets for my pulsing heart to glide along; blue lines to bring its rhythm true. Slow alignment.

An argyle t-shirt dress I wore with tights for two years. I had very few growth spurts. And as ugly as the garment sounds, I can assure you it was totally in style mid-nineties.

A down comforter I slept on before I even reached home.

My current cell phone.

Yesterday's pancakes.

A pair of heart-shaped earrings.

Spontaneously plugging my tire, filling it with air, and telling me it would be alright.

A plastic to-go mug filled with hot coffee when I left your house for a long drive home. I still use that mug.

After moving into the apartment, with far less help that I needed (read, just my mom - her moving help was one of those gifts that you can never repay), the two of you bounded up the stairs with smoothies for my mom and me.

When we were in Vegas over my birthday, you gave me a card with a cat on the front. I'm bound to say no more in public, but I still laugh when I see it on my dresser.

You gave me your bed when you moved out, and it is far superior to my old one.

You, grandma, trusted me with a responsibility recently. It was so small, setting up something decorative. I could have forgotten about it. I have only since realized that you entrusted me with a piece of your happiness.

You took me seriously when I sounded crazy, more than once, and became indignant for my sake.

You gave me some headbands I use all the time.

You trusted me with a secret. I have kept it.

You gave me frankincense, my favorite scent in all the world. Always available to me now.

This list... it's killing me. It's hard to tell where it ends. It doesn't end. I meant to focus this on the material gifts you've given me, friends, acquaintances, strangers! But I cannot separate them from the immaterial that have been so dear to me. Thank you.

Dear Keats

You say touch has a memory.
How to exorcise it?
You think on a good many things.
Sit and think. Sit and think.
How, do tell me, do I move on on on
On on on
And still think myself capable of loving ever?

Love was not a game to me,
Or was it? Of course not, my mouth tells me:
nothing tastes sweet.
Only the bitter things draw me,
and people not at all.

Beer, and shoveling this unbelievable mass of
snow that has graciously transported me
from my home planet to one resembling Hoth.
And all its beasts are in my head
as I shovel on on on on on
the pile topples.

I miss you, dear. And the idea of you, and
your hand on my back, your shoulders
such a sweet place to rest my head.
Your slow kiss on top of my hair, the
kind of kiss reserved for babies,
whose heads need kissing, you know.

Self Love: Let This Be My Death Knell

[written in March 2014]

Sometimes I re-read my blog posts (way oftener than you'd think) to re-acquaint myself with myself, because I forget who I am so easily. Sometimes I address my wider readership (i.e. hey, Mom...), but more often I am writing to an imaginary person who has never met me, but wants to get to know me: someone who is doing research.

Said imaginary person is delving into the depths of these writings, looking for nuances and stuff, to get to know me. And it occurs to me today that that person is me. I am the one for whom I write, not for a long-distant, blog-reading, unknown-to-me, in-reality-creepy lover.

A worse fact of my narcissism is that I was at dinner a few nights ago, with five students laughing together as someone read their horoscopes in Chinese. In the interest of conversation, I asked them to read mine and translate it. "The lion looks like he loves everyone. But the lion loves himself."

In my heart, "Lord? You wouldn't speak through a horoscope, would you?" But it's true: I love myself, no matter what I say. Even writing this is vanity. I am in love and hate with myself. Jesus said that we have to find a way of loving others as much as we love ourselves. He knows that I love myself, that my own comfort and care is at the top of my priority list unless repeatedly otherwise stated.

Just Your Typical Fairy Tale...

I came across this thought in a student's research paper on Marilyn Monroe:

It started out as a typical fairy tale story of one young girl dropping out of high school to be with an older man with hopes that they would live happily ever after. That was not the case.

I plan to submit the idea to Disney. If that fails, Dreamworks. If that fails, I'll go straight to Michael Bay, and maybe he can combine it with some robots and other forms of banal failure.

Oversimplifying Love, Probably

No Future Together

I found out about their break-up a week after it happened.
He said he didn't have those feelings for her anymore.
After 18 months, and countless little and big decisions to be together,
he saw no future together, after all.

---

Tonight

My grandpa has become a child again.
As my grandma cuts his meat, he looks up at her and smiles.
I wonder if she ever thinks about
how they're headed in different directions.
I wonder if she ever thinks about
how little she's getting out of the relationship.

---

Love

When is it ever the right time
To stop being selfish, and live for someone else?

Advice to Men in Search of Ladies

Prompt: Give advice to the opposite gender

• If a girl treats her friends poorly, don't expect to have better treatment because you are a boy. Eventually, you will be in the same stressed and demeaned boat. 
• Asking a girl out takes incredible bravery. If the girl rejects you, it could be a test of strength: how do you react to rejection? Are you going to withstand the roller coaster of a relationship? Or, she may not be that into you. (And, impossibly, there's a good chance that she doesn't even know which reason it is.)
• Don't let some rejection stop you forever.
• Don't always take other people's advice.
• Sometimes you are going to need other people's advice.
• George MacDonald said that men should marry women whose faces are not stunningly beautiful. Age and wisdom will then add beauty, whereas stunning faces fade with age. (I know he said this in earnest, yet part of me would be irate if I were his wife reading that.)
• It is possible to pay for the meal, and open the door, and still not be a gentleman.

The Horror/Honor of Needing People

After special needs week at my favorite summer camp, we were in the midst of group debriefing when someone began his story with something like: "Despite the fact that these people have been dealt a horrible hand, they are still cheerful..." I don't remember what else he said because I got all hung up on the word "horrible." What was so horrible about needing help with things? Even things like going to the bathroom. Or what was so horrible about smiling all the time? Or what was so horrible about occasionally bursting out in shouts or song? Or what was so horrible about pacing a lot, and needing to be calmed down by other people? These situations are not average, of course. But were they horrible?

We're afraid to need each other. We're afraid to have to bear ourselves in the most vulnerable way, like needing to be helped in the bathroom.

As we told stories at the end of the week, I know several of us were surprised that the sights and smells of the bathroom did not repulse us more. I know we were surprised that we felt incredible accomplishment, and incredible humility after helping to wipe another person. It's a matter for gratitude to the one in need that we were able to be so materially helpful, so intimately trusted.

Each of those most vulnerable people are able to bestow upon their helpers a valuable gift which cannot be repaid. Who is greater in the Kingdom? The person who has no choice but to be vulnerable (like widows and orphans in a patriarchal society, or the meek, poor in spirit, persecuted, Matthew 5), because God says he will personally plead their case, bless them, give them the earth for an inheritance; or the one helping the vulnerable person, like the good Samaritan, who fulfilled the requirements of the Kingdom by loving his neighbor as himself?

We have to become like little children, Jesus said, trusting implicitly. We have to acknowledge how we cannot help ourselves, and smile up at our Father, and say, "thank you for wiping me."

To be honest, just writing that makes me uncomfortable. But... vulnerable ≠ horrible, in fact, it may be the opposite in light of eternity.

Uncouth Thoughts for a Young Lady

I was so nervous right before the semester started. I'm teaching a subject in which I've never had formal, university training: the Bible. I mean, I've been a student of the Bible all my life. But to conceptualize how to teach it, well, I was in an uproar. The day before classes were to begin, I could barely breathe, I was so frazzled. I was sitting in a teachers' meeting, and a word came to me, which I believe was from God. Ever so gently, he said, "settle the f&*$ down."

++++

When I fall in love,
I don't want my heart to stop beating at the sight of him.
I want for him to see my heart, and to long for it to go on beating at all costs.
I want to do the same for him. I want us to help each other to live.

++++

I'm so glad that I am not thinking about moving this year. I dread it, really. Although, tonight, I was helping a friend gather his apartment together a wee bit, as he's preparing to move tomorrow, and it wasn't so bad. He's made sure not to collect much stuff. And he has help from people who love him. He said that it costs over $200 to hire movers. $500 if you have a piano that needs moving. I've never had to pay that. I hope you never do, either.

++++

I lied tonight. I ate out at a restaurant, and ordered a chicken dish from their "specials." It was still pricey, though. And when I got it, I couldn't really taste it. Not really at all. And it wasn't that I lack the ability to taste, which I questioned. It was just that it was an unimpressive, low-quality entree. The server came around to ask how it was, and I smiled and said, "very good, thank you." Lies.

But, really, what was she going to do about the food? I was embarrassed for her. But I didn't have to get the whole rest of it in a to-go box to spare her feelings, did I?

Hopes for Heaven

In "The Matrix," the computers created a paradise for people. But the people knew something was wrong. And many killed themselves, unable to reconcile the incongruity of their sense of inner wrongness with the rightness around them. I hear an insatiable crying out to be whole and holy.

We all cry for wholeness and holiness.

When people say heaven is going to be boring - oh, my - how deceiving such a picture can be: harps and separate clouds, and white robes. Please.

I would bet that heaven will have work: good, difficult, satisfying work. We will work together, never lonely no matter where we go. If we walk somewhere without a friend by our side, the trees themselves will be our companions, so intimate will be our connection to the world around us. We will have no fear, and no more darkness, for we know that the Lamb on the throne will be the light of the city. And when we have been tired out by our work, we will lie at the foot of pine trees, on beds of fragrant pine-needles, and take our fill of satisfying rest. And wake up again, as in the arms of a lover, attentive and quiet. And the day begins.

We will live in knowing (and every moment, knowing) where we belong and whose we are. And we will climb high mountains where the air does not thin. And we will dive to great depths where the pressure will not damage our brains, which will finally think clearly, and our eyes will finally see fully.

The difference - and it is too great not to be spoken! - is that our sense of inner wrongness: our shame, greed, pride, fear, moodiness, lust, will all be cleaned away. In its place will be a song of love to the One who gave everything he had. A song of love to the one who was shamed for love.

I Rock Your Baby Son to Sleep

When you announced that you would be married instead of going to college, I felt giddy with joy. Not, mostly, for noble reasons: it was putting together a wedding at such a young age; I must have seen a hundred movies with weddings and flowers, and rings, and kisses. Part of me was sad, too: we had planned to be college roommates; we would have made friends and histories that entwined forever.

So what would our lives look like at this distance? Occasional visits, always something shared deep down: separating histories, but a wire that kept our hearts moving in the same direction. Praise God! I have not lost you, friend. And I have gained a whole family of friends because you chose so bravely:

--------

I rock your baby son to sleep
Slanted light from the hallway
A CD plays a lullaby
Mellow-sweet, a gentle moment.

Suddenly, a pang tells me
how blessed you are among women;
that even to endure a thousand
crying, up-and-down nights,
bottle-or-no-bottle nights,
is worth his trusting, sleepy heart,
his fingers twirling his cropped, blond hair.
He snuggles into my arm and my side.

If I remain single and childless,
tonight I felt I’d miss
half the stars in the sky.

Never one for greed, I hope,
I delight in seeing your faces as
the skies unfold new grandeur before you:
the word “dog,” learning to run,
then the rock-step, snapping fingers,
sharing toys with his new brother.

A Beautiful Thing

Please tell me this is normal. Have you ever looked around your classroom, and thought, "I love all of these people. Just the way they are, just because they're here, I love them"? This has happened several times in the past few days. I am calling it the honeymoon stage, to which, until recently, I thought I was immune. I've noticed that it primarily happens when the students are quietly following along as we read, or when they're quietly writing. This must be how parents feel when they look in on their sleeping children, and a rush of joy, euphoria, gratitude, and love envelopes them. It's a beautiful thing.

Thoughts on the Law and Love

I asked Patrick, "What is the purpose of the law? Is it to protect private property?" I had heard that in some movie.

He replied, "No, at its core, it is to protect from injury."

That reminded me of how Jesus is the fulfillment of the law, because he loves.

Love is patient, love is kind. It doesn't envy anyone.
Love does not boast. It isn't proud.
Love doesn't dishonor anyone; it's not self-seeking.
Love doesn't get angry very easily, and it keeps no record of when you mess up.
Love isn't glad when evil wins, but rejoices in the truth.
Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.

For now, we know in part. But when completeness comes, we will know in full. (Based on I Corinthians 13)

So, love fulfills the law. Love does not injure. Of course love does not injure. It does more than not injure: it protects. It doesn't just stand outside the gates, refusing the hurt anyone. It enters in, persevering. It slays the dragon. It finds the lost one, and it won't fail, either. 


But love can't be forced. It has to have a will behind it. So, technically, people can reject love. And if they're doing that, they're prone to injure others, and are in need of the law to minimize injury.

Until we know in full, it looks like we have the law to fill in where people reject love.