Maybe we’re all undiscovered artists

11
Apr

If you ask me if I can paint, I’ll tell you no.

But it isn’t true.

Ask me if I’m an artist, I’ll shake my head.

But it isn’t true.

I see pictures in my mind, my eyes a camera to freeze the slant of light coming through my window, the odd placement of a torn shirt in treetop, the wind blowing through a cornfield, my daughter in a crazy self-picked outfit flying down the road on her bike.

My words describe these pictures in the stories I write, wrestle down that one feeling and pin it to the mat. Even in my conversations, the right word is important, and sometimes only a word-picture will convey the idea in my head.

YOU are an artist, you with your art classes, composition knowledge, knowing how to use and pronounce “gesso” (or even just knowing what it IS). I can’t be an artist. How presumptuous of me to even think I could be, in any medium, in any form.

Wait, though.

What if…?

If we strip away the mystery, the intimidation, the pressure to make something that looks like something else, the ideal of perfection, the definition of it being someone with one ear wearing a beret, we are all artists.

We’re just too fearful to pick up a brush.

Do you consider yourself an artist in any form of the word? Don’t dismiss this idea – sit with it for a minute. Many different things can be a form of art…you might be an artist and not even realize it.

This is a linkup with Lisa-jo Baker (http://lisajobaker.com) and Five Minute Friday. Check it out and you’ll see all sorts of different posts. These short posts on Fridays are a fun habit I’ve gotten into.

The guy on the Mat

10
Apr

Today I’m over at my friend Bethany’s site for her new series Sacred – the Dark and the Light. I’d love it if you’d come check it out. If you click this link, it should take you over to her site: http://bit.ly/1jwcsRx

Here’s a little sample to get you going…

There’s something about a cliché that makes my eye twitch.

…Maybe not literally, but you get the idea.

It’s the same with Christianese and those answers all neatly packaged that serve nothing except to shut down conversation. If I can shut you up with a tidy answer, then I don’t have to entertain your idea as valid. If I lift the drawbridge, then your issue with a certain doctrine or theology shall not pass.

Dontcha wanna come read more? Hope to see you there!

A reminder when we’re surrounded by dry bones

8
Apr

A valley of dry bones.

Decay

Death

Loss

A life broken down

Hot wind swirls the dust into the air, diffusing the sun, invading lungs. Any move to reposition, to turn your back to the wind shifts your uneven station. Try for stable footing and kick up more sand, amplifying desperate rasping cough. Pull your shirt over your mouth, try to filter out debris, find the good air. All around you are bones and little else, lifeless, evidence of the Final Destination.

////

The building didn’t excite me. I figured if I was going to visit another church, I should at least make it worth my time and do something different, but if the building was any indicator, I was walking into something that had a different name but was just the same ol’, same ol’.

People wore name tags.

The former pastor latched onto me and told me (three times — he’s getting on in years) the same four tidbits about his wife and about the woman playing the piano. He also hugged me, which made me wonder if he thought I was someone he knew instead of a complete stranger.

They had kneelers. We didn’t use them in this service, which both disappointed and relieved me.

The pastor wore a collar.

The guy who sat in front of me must have had some chips stashed in his pocket, Napoleon Dynamite style. The smell of cool ranch kept wafting back to me.

They passed the peace. They did numerous call and response-type readings. They did a Kyrie Eleison (and not down the road where I must travel). The congregation fully participated in the service, if only to pay attention and stand or sit as dictated by the bulletins in our hands.

Sun lit the huge stained glass window, which hadn’t been visible from where I had parked and entered the building. That window was a form of worship in itself, the way it painted bright color blotches on the wall and filled the whole room, all the way up to the soaring roof, with gentle light.

I didn’t expect to have any need met that morning. I just wanted a change of pace from the mega-church I attend, wanted a sense of rhythm and tradition. I wanted to be reminded that the Church is wide and the little mousehole I inhabit is not indicative of the mansion of faith expression.

I didn’t expect God to show up — I didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on Him.

/////

Maybe it’s a normal passage used during the Lenten season.

Maybe it is dictated by church calendar or a book of the order of service that this denomination uses for all services.

Maybe it was a fluke.

That morning, I came to church having just worked through an art journal that focused on a passage in Ezekiel 37, the valley of the dry bones.

[Let me just say, as a general rule, I don’t spend a lot of time in Ezekiel — or any of the minor prophets for that matter.]

Here, let me show you what came out of that attempt:

So when the pastor (a woman, also something different (and refreshing) that you don’t see all the time) began her sermon and focused on Ezekiel 37, the valley of the dry bones, my heart gave a start.

Why, out of all the entirety of the Bible, was she working from this text on the one and only time I’d ever stepped into her church?

/////

It is so easy to concern ourselves with the micro, the zoom-in, the close-up. We get so focused on the inner workings of one system that we forget about the whole organism.

In terms of church, it is really easy for me to focus on evangelicalism. It’s what I know. It informs my worldview in ways I’m not even aware of. It’s the subculture I’ve lived in my whole life. I can’t stress enough the ways this influences me without me meaning it to — it’s the same way you can’t hear your own accent when you’re around other people who have the same accent. Only when you are around someone with a different accent do you become aware that there are different ways of speaking…and you still think you don’t have an accent!

There have been so many hard things happening in the evangelical world and so many ways in which I feel like the entrance door keeps shrinking and shrinking, even for those who have been allowed in previously. There seems to be less and less room for conversation, less consideration of the conflicting sides of issues (without simply waiting until it is your turn to make your argument) and the merits of a differing conclusion, and suspicion about the true state of someone’s faith should they want to have these discussions. It is disheartening, demoralizing, and to be honest, it makes me want to crawl into bed for a month of Sundays.

This is why it is so essential to zoom out.

Instagram: tclmn

As much as the evangelical church has a corner on the “right way” to believe, there are other, long-standing (longer-standing, in fact) expressions of faith. These are usually viewed with condescension in evangelical corners, or a raised eyebrow about the validity of the parishioner’s real relationship with God, but these non-evangelical congregations tap into something evangelicalism doesn’t — a sense of history, tradition, and world-wide connectedness. There is a whole history of church movements that I am largely ignorant of, and each movement has an arc — a rise and a diminishing — within the larger story of faith.

I don’t delude myself into thinking that all the answers are simply in a different denomination, something mainline or even non-Protestant (is there anything that is non-Protestant that isn’t Catholic???). I know enough about church life to know that the church, whatever church that is, is made up of humanly human people. There is no perfect church.

However, as a visitor, upon hearing the pastor preach on a fairly obscure verse that I had been focused on in the days leading up to that visit, I have to tell you that I was reminded of the size of God, of His movement and activity in places I will never know about, in people I’ll never encounter, in expressions I might not recognize at all.

God’s crazy like that.

And me, with all my angst and grappling and raging, I am just one dry bone that God breathed into and brought back to life. There is a whole valley around me, other bones God is working with, breathing into, bestowing His Spirit on. He is big enough to handle it.

Thank God for that.

What is your faith tradition? Does it satisfy your desires for expression of your faith? What are ways you incorporate your faith into daily life?

What makes a writer?

4
Apr

It’s not smudged pencil on the chubby part of your hand.

It isn’t teeth stained from endless cups of coffee and tea.

It doesn’t depend on long hours staring out the rain-washed window of an industrial loft or countryside cottage.

We’ve created a cloud of mystery and intrigue around the writer’s life, made it full of drama, angst, darkened corners and visits from a fickle Muse.

It can be this way, but also, it is often more mundane than this…

Trips through the slush to the office supply store for more printer ink when feels like you were just there a week ago.

It is forcing yourself out of the toasty covers into the cold morning. Click on the coffeepot, the red illumined button the only light in the house except the nightlights in your kids’ bedrooms…and the hallway…and the bathroom.

The blue-light of the computer screen makes you squint until your eyes finally adjust. In a while you’ll be unable to see the child who emerges from the darkness and makes your heart jump. You’re suffering an alternate form of snow-blindness — screen blindness (related to the screen deafness my children experience if I try to talk to them while they’re watching a show).

This slogging through, grinding it out, is what it looks like for me, but inside the tedium are moments of soaring —

a scene that writes itself,

an connection you didn’t see when you first wrote something but now can be developed into something more complete,

a dialog or exchange that rings with truth,

the glorious satisfaction of scratching that writer’s itch that remains at your outside edge until you sit down to write.

No matter what ends up happening with your writing, if you do the hard work of writing – whatever the topic, whatever the genre, whatever the mode of expression — you’re a writer. Write true. Write bravely. Write beauty, even when it’s ugly. The world needs your words, your voice. Enrich our human experience with your perspective. We need one another. We need you.

Linking up today with Lisa-jo Baker (http://lisajobaker.com) and Five Minute Friday.

Not All Gloom and Doom

2
Apr

I come from a long line of jokesters. Not so much on my dad’s side, but my mom’s side of the family is thick with smart alecks, tricksters, goofballs and what Grandma used to call “turkeys”.

When I was probably ten or so, I was in my room and my mom called to me in a frightened voice from the bathroom. She said there was a squirrel in there and I should bring her something from my room so she could defend herself.

I didn’t bite.

First off, there was no way I was going anywhere near the bathroom if there was a squirrel in there.

Second, she’d messed me with one too many times, so now any claim of something unusual was suspicious.

She used to pop out at us from behind doorways. She’d short-sheet our beds. I’m not sure but I think she swapped out the sugar in the sugar dish (which we rarely got to use so it added to the impact of the joke) with salt.

Beyond pranks, though, my mom is known for being FUNNY. Funny with an edge sometimes, but funny.

Because of all this, poor Mom was left to handle the fake squirrel on her own, and she had to admit defeat when she came into my room and admitted there was no squirrel. You might think this was the end of her pranks on me, but all this really did was up the ante on the jokes she used in the future, taking the whole thing up a level.

*end backstory*

All of this to say, I recognize that it was gotten pretty heavy around here, and I don’t want you thinking that it’s all gloom and doom all the time. Because it was April Fool’s Day yesterday, I thought I’d list for you the pranks my family pulled. I can’t (and won’t – some of these are so lame I don’t want them to soil my good reputation) take credit for all of these; my kids got really into pranks this year around. *sigh* They’ll learn some good ones eventually.

Here we go:

Spray water on someone’s bed.
Put the toothpaste cap on really tight.
Fall down in the hallway.
Water down someone’s coffee (or try to and get caught in the attempt).
Fall down in the kitchen.
Put on a silly dress and funny hat and tromp through the house.
Fall down in the bedroom.
Tell everyone there’s a deer at the front door.
Put a turkey decoy in the front yard and tell everyone there’s something in the front yard they have to see.
Slip a book into someone’s pillowcase.
Balance a wad of play dough on the top edge of a door that’s partially open. Get people to open the door so it falls on them.
Ding dong ditch (or as the case may be, knock knock ditch) your family, the more doors and the more times, the better.

A Bigger Trick

This was something I did to a group of friends probably five years ago, and since it had been long enough, I thought it was safe to use again but just on my family. It’s the old trick-’em-into-eating-something prank, but unless you don’t like bananas, it isn’t a gross trick.

First, take some graham crackers and crush them into crumbs (using a plastic baggie works best). Set aside.

Slice a banana into segments and then slice those down the middle.

Next. cover the banana segments in peanut butter. Getting the peanut butter to stick on the slippery side of the banana can be hard, but sometimes you have to commit if you want a prank to work.

You will now put the peanut butter covered banana mess into the plastic baggie that holds your graham cracker crumbs. Shake it around to cover the banana. You may have to press the graham crackers in so they stick and form a nice, believable coating.

And so now once you get enough of these put together, you’ve got a pan full of fake chicken nuggets. We don’t eat nuggets much at our house, so they are a treat (eww — why???). I had some real nuggets in the oven, so I told the kids these were homemade but I hadn’t had enough chicken so I had to supplement with store-bought nuggets. As he was coming to the table my oldest son, “Rex”, said that I should make those bananas with the peanut butter and graham crackers sometime. Mwahahahaha.

They don’t look exactly like chicken nuggets, but when you pretend the pan is hot, use a spatula to serve them onto the kids’ plates, and they smell real nuggets cooking in the oven, it makes it more convincing. You may have to sell it a little, but that’s part of pranking someone and being committed to your craft. Here’s the end result:

Lest you think no joke is off limits, I do set parameters around what can be used as a joke. Here’s what I tell the kids:

It can’t hurt anyone.
It can’t ruin anything.
It shouldn’t make the person embarrassed or feel bad.

These guidelines will change as they get older (or maybe not), but at this stage they need some guidance about how to pull a prank without humiliating someone or destroying our house.

Overall, it was a fun day without too many obnoxious moments…but we did have to put the kibosh on jokes after supper so we could get our homework done. And so far this morning, my coffee has tasted just fine.

Did you make it through April Fool’s Day without any serious mishaps? Do you have any good pranks you’d like to share?

A favorite story and a guest post

28
Mar

I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bathe.

Thus begins the passage from C.S. Lewis’ Voyage of the Dawn Treader that has stayed with me and resurfaced many times over again since I read it as a child.

Today I am guest posting on the Story Sessions website. Story Sessions is a group organized by Elora Nicole that challenges people to write the hard things, be brave, and push our writing to be its best. It is open to anyone who wants to subscribe and become a better writer. I had no idea what a great thing I had stumbled upon when I signed up. I am so honored to be included on their site today, and I’d love to have you come read the rest of my post.

Here’s the link: http://bit.ly/1myIEqT and thank you for coming by today!

Just one word

27
Mar

Can you name one teacher who saw something in you?

Or can you remember a coach who pushed you to improve, knowing your potential?

Do you have champions in your life? People who claim something – call it out – about you before you’re able to see it in yourself?

Calling to you quietly,

Singing over you with words you dare not repeat,

Dreams you dare not claim as your own,

Bolster, buoy you with unearned confidence, trust, and opportunity.

Secret poems written in scrawled pencil, smudged by the hurry to get it down and tuck it away in its safe place.

Songs hummed over and over inside your head, only aloud when the woods or parking lot afforded you safety and solitude.

Have you heard the whisper?

Let it draw near and echo in your ears.

You are mighty.

You are beautiful.

You are powerful.

You are fierce.

You are loyal.

You are true.

You are not alone.

You are not finished,

And no matter where you are right now, God is not finished with you yet.

If you can hear just one word (which is really more than a single word, but it is a single thought) today and let it ring mightily in your ears: you are loved. Now. Here. No modifications or improvements required. You are loved.

||||

Question: Is there someone who makes you brave, calls out the best in you, someone who makes you be the best version of yourself? How do they accomplish this feat, and how can you do it for someone else?

This is a link-up with Lisa-jo Baker, who just happens to be having her book come out next week. If you want to linkup, read other posts, or find out more about her book, here’s the website to click: http://lisajobaker.com

I’m Taking Death and Suffering Personally

26
Mar

Every death I hear about is now personally connected to me, whether or not it is actually someone I’m close to. I’m not arrogant enough to think I will maintain this level of sensitivity, but right now I embrace all hardship and suffering as an affront to my own person. And death and suffering are suddenly everywhere.

In the past six months…

A friend I had in college died, leaving behind a husband and two children. This was a healthy woman, a woman my age, a woman I had not talked to face to face in more than a decade. I felt her loss keenly.

My uncle is considering drastic steps to combat his multiple, complex health issues, and I count his suffering as one of my own.

My sister-in-law lost her grandmother, and I grieve almost as if it had been my own grandmother.

My grandfather passed away and even though he was 94, it was quick and unexpected.

And now, after a controversial decision and a drastic reversal by a hugely respected charity organization, the level of polarization within the Christian community was revealed.

What are these dark thoughts of inevitability, impending doom and constant bracing for the worst? What is it that makes my heart feel clenched and heavy?

My sister named what I could not: despair.

Isn’t that Melodramatic?

Despair sounds like a pretty drastic word. I think of it being used in a scene from Princess Bride when the albino henchman with the raspy voice starts telling the heroes their location: the Depths of Despair.

I used to be aware of danger, but didn’t bother with the possibility of it coming to me. We bought life insurance, but didn’t really discuss the possibility that one of us would actually DIE. It was all theoretical, and to dwell on it felt pessimistic (and honestly, it really didn’t occur to me to dwell on it anyway – it just wasn’t in my mind). There’s almost always something positive to find, even in the midst of hardships. Sometimes you have to zoom waaaay in to notice it, but the positive is in there somewhere.

Is this what was meant in Romans 12:15, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep”? Have I only chosen to listen to the latter all these years, ignoring the challenge to enter into weeping?

Weeping makes me all red, puffy and exhausted. It makes my throat hurt. I’m not a pretty or dainty weeper, and it might be paired with wailing when it happens. It is probably uncomfortable for any parties who witness the weeping, but I’m glad to say that it is only a small number of people who have been subjected to it. (I’m sure you’d be happy to have avoided it if you knew what it looked like.)

Other translations of the verse mentioned above use the word “mourn” and today I feel the burden of the world, and a sense of mourning.

Some may say that word too is dramatic, too extreme for the circumstances.

I disagree.

Mourning is just right.

/////

There are events so significant, their scope so broad in impact that mourning and despair are the only appropriate words.

Tonight, I am focused on the betrayal so many believers feel, on both sides of the issue. Some felt so betrayed by World Vision’s decision to allow gay married couples to be on staff that they withdrew their sponsorship and condemned both the decision and reiterated their abhorrence for homosexual people. People on the other side of the issue got their turn to feel betrayed when the organization reversed its decision, and asserted that they’d make sure their employees signed a document agreeing to a specific lifestyle code.

It feels like the final glove has been thrown down in the ongoing battle. Knives have been drawn in a fist fight. There is no room for middle ground anymore. How can either side try to meet in the middle and agree to disagree when the reactions have been so extreme? Such vehement spewing of un-love in the name of love makes me question if there can be – or should be – reconciliation after such a display. Where can we go from here?

Despair.

Fracture.

Heartache.

Sorrow.

Sorry I don’t have a tidy end to this post. I would ask that in discussing this, we all keep each other’s humanity at the forefront of our minds, and treat one another with utmost respect in any comments we offer, knowing that we come at this from very different angles.

One Eye on the Sky

21
Mar

It might be spring in Minnesota.

I say “might” on purpose.

We have safely passed the boys state hockey tournament, and that seems to be a good sign, since there’s almost always a snowstorm during the tournament.

The DNR records say that there have only been a couple historic snowstorms in March (2007, 1997, and 1985 if you’re curious) so it is possible that I’m overreacting in my hesitancy. Just because it’s…

STOP>>>

The above post was begun two days ago.

Yesterday, it snowed more than two inches. Heavy, wet snow that blew around and made a mess of the nice clean pavement we were so excited about.

STOP>>>

Now we’re up to the current time and it is 40-some degrees, sun is shining, birds tweeting in the trees. It seems like one should be able to relax into believing it is truly spring.

Except that I can’t.

I can’t believe it and get sucker punched once I relax. And by sucker punch I mean another foot of snow, or an epic ice storm, or a Noah-esque flood.

STOP>>>

Ooookay, for real, now we’re really up to the present time and it is 20 degrees and it is forecasted to be a slushy, icy mix of nasty over night.

Why do I even listen to these forecasts? It’s not like I have some major cross-country travel plans. I’ll probably stay within a five mile radius, and maybe not even leave my house (who am I kidding? I will leave the house. We need milk, eggs, and there’s always a reason when you have a need for a fountain-drink…every day).

‘Is this going to be an ongoing, herky jerky post about the weather?’ you may be asking yourself.

http://mrg.bz/D8JWTr

Well, I am in Minnesota, so the weather is like a person. We all like to talk about her behind her back. It brings the rest of us together to gossip about her, like “Did you hear that they got another six inches of snow and had to close I-94 out west? That’s crazy!” You can say this to just about any total stranger here, and you’ll be able to keep a conversation going for a solid three minutes without ever knowing the person’s name.

To answer your question though, because, Dear Reader, I am a mind-reader and I’m sure that’s what you were asking yourself in not so many words — No, this is not going to continue to be about the weather. Shall we move on?

The way I feel about the weather is the way I feel about life right now.

Just without the hopeful expectancy of spring thing.

This is unlike me, because I tend to be a blind optimist, someone who sees possibility in the most hopeless circumstances, someone who can find a positive angle in almost any situation. It’s like I need the positive, to be without it is something I get frustrated with and remove myself from. Most people have friends who they might categorize as an Eeyore friend, someone who leans towards being mopey, negative, down-on-their-luck all the time.

I don’t have many of those people in my life.

It’s not that I’m actively anti- Eeyore when I walk around all day. I’m just not drawn to them, nor they to me. We’d probably drive each other nuts, because our approach to the world is so very opposite.

Thing is, I’m starting to see the merits of being more Eeyore-ish.

Waiting for the other Shoe

My family’s been listening to a book-on-tape (but they’re CD’s now – did you know that? It doesn’t have nearly the same ring as “book-on-tape” does it?) of The Magician’s Nephew by C.S. Lewis. Near the end, there’s a statement that goes something like this:

In life you’ll find that when things go bad, the tend to go on getting worse for a while. But when things start looking up, they go on getting better and better.

It’s not a direct quote, but that’s the basic idea.

Right now, things are in a downward trend. It seems like things just keep piling up on top of one another. Rather than expecting things to turn around or start easing up, I have started to wait for the “other shoe to drop” and since nothing has specifically happened to me yet, it’s probably going to drop on my head.

I know with my brain that God doesn’t make bad things happen.

I accept that the world has a lot of pain and brokenness, even while it has beauty and joy.

However, with this series of events, my heart has become more superstitious, waiting for the next bad thing to happen, preparing that it will happen to ME, and keeping an eye on the sky. It’s not that I don’t trust God, I just feel like He’s asleep at the wheel right now. I’ve got top watch Him from the corner of my eye, keep my abdominals flexed so I am braced for whatever will come flying at me next.

And I don’t like it.

If only there was a nice, neat way to wrap this up, a good lesson that came from it or a tidy way everything worked out.

There’s not.

It might not work out nicely.

That’s the truth of it. And to face that square on is a scary dose of reality that I’d rather avoid.

Floating Together

17
Mar

Lately I’ve been fixated on an idea, trying to find the right way to express it.

That’s not as easy as it sounds, even in general, but you see we’ve also been on Spring Break over here.

We didn’t go on any exotic trip to distant lands, but we stayed plenty busy.

I hope, then, that you’ll indulge me if my expression of this idea is less than beautiful.

I’ve been thinking about the body of Christ, the fellowship of believing people.

When I began picturing it, probably because I have three elementary-age kids, I thought of gack…

(Or is it officially Gak with a little circled TM after it?)

Start with Jello,

Goo,

Slime,

Flubber,

Something smushable, physically both solid and liquid, translucent or opaque, a state of plasma.

Gooey and messy, mesmerizing even while it is a little bit gross.

This is the mystical body of Christ.

Okay, not the gross part, but stick with me for a minute.

Imagine an enormous, floating state of suspension off in space somewhere.

And you’re inside of it, along with a LOT of other people.

This is how I picture the body of Christ.

It’s not a physical body, of course, but the community of believers aiming in the same direction, aimed at resembling Him more and loving more fully.

Don’t try to google map it, you won’t find it.

Don’t bother making a pilgrimage, you won’t get there.

It is what happens when you understand that there is world full of people who fill the air full of holy moments, full of whispered hopes and tear stained prayers.

These people are your people.

Their theology may look different.

Their details may not line up with yours.

But when the brush of angel wings pass by, they feel it.

When the Spirit settles heavy in the room, they know.

These are my people.

Maybe the image of a river current works better for your stomach than the idea of being surrounded by and submerged in breathable Gak. I can’t blame ya.

Let’s go with the river idea (but I have to say that the tangible, textural surrounding of plasma, almost like being “underwater” in a ball pit has a sense of a full-body hug, which does work for me).

A river…Ahhh…that’s nicer.

Like a quiet river, the body of Christ carries me along when I can’t paddle myself. Their current lifts me and I lean back into the knowledge that they can pray on my behalf. They can believe for me when my belief is reduced to a pebble. There will come a time when I can carry someone else along, hold them up so they can safely drift. Right now it is my turn. It is my turn to trust their prayers will be heard, since I cannot form them on my lips. I trust their candles, their worship, their long obedience that will pull me further down river until I can regain my footing and my strength.

My own lack of activity does not diminish or detract from the river itself. I am still an addition, and I am enveloped before I need ask.

I glide along beside them, safely held until I regain, or form in a new way, the faith I’ve always had.

Even though this post has a sense of lightheartedness, I mean this in every serious way.

There are days when too many things are piled on top of an already heavy burden.

There are days when God’s hand seems withdrawn.

Sometimes, I want to take issue with God and the slapdash way He’s running the place.

Sometimes I don’t want to think about Him at all.

In these times, be they long or short, I have a sense that I don’t have to muster up faith. I don’t have to pep-talk myself into belief. There is a whole ball-pit, Gak blob, river full of people who can do that for me. Until I can do it myself, they can float me along, regaining my strength, hope, optimism, trust.

And if you’re one of those people in the river, I thank you. I hope that one day I will be able to carry you along on the current of my belief, and I hope that is soon. Until then, I won’t struggle. I will allow myself to depend upon you.

Don’t let me get water up my nose, okay?