Passing of the Torch

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My heart flutters a little as I walk up the steps, raise my hand to ring the bell--and the giant door opens and he is standing there.

"Good--good morning, sir."

He is not the man I remember... not that I expected him to be. The ravages of illness do that to you. His face is white and lined, the eyes show pain, though a strange light still shines behind it all. I tear my eyes away. It is not polite to stare at your elders.

"Ah, Briana. Come in." 

He has waited there for me. I know, though he does not say so. Does he also anticipate this meeting? 

I step through the door; he closes it softly behind. My feet sink into the carpeting. He insists that I precede him down the hall, though I rather would not. His steps are slow, painful. I drop into a chair, more so that he will rest than for any other reason. He takes the one opposite.

We speak of small things, of teaching and of moving and of life. Of horses. He tells me how he always wanted to learn to ride. (There are more sides to this man than I ever dreamed.)

In time I hand him the letter I wrote last week. The letter that tries (unsuccessfully) to put into words what I have learned from him. It is long. Maybe too long. I watch as he reads it. Ever the consummate teacher, he comments on a word here, a phrase there. I smile. As he gets further in, the comments slow. 

"You were considering. . . ? Many people are. They just don't know what it's called."

"Ah yes. It was all God."

"Mmm. Yes."

He nods. Brushes something from his eye. Folds the letter and puts it back in the envelope. I let a smile flicker quickly across my face. We go on to speak of other small things. 

An hour passes and I must go. It is too long to stay. Yet I know what I have come here for. And as we rise and go to the door, I know it is now.

"May I pray with you." It is a statement, not a question, and I nod, bow my head. We clasp hands and the coldness of his hand is warm. His prayer is a blessing--a benediction. As his life has been, and is.

I remain with head bowed after we say Amen. Then I lift my eyes and meet his. The light--the fire--still burns there. It will continue till life itself is gone. But I know it has passed to me as well.

"We will meet again. May it be soon." 

The torch is in my arms. From this day forward, I carry it on. 

Salt and Light

"You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.

"You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden." (Matt. 5:14-15)

The salt, the light--their essence comes from deep inside. The light is lit by someone else; the salt distilled by another. Only the impurities allowed in, the loss of a wick or of oil, keep them from fulfilling their tasks.

May nothing else slip in to taint my heart; may nothing separate me from the Source of my light!

Evening Star

Dusk.

Sun slowly glides behind distant mountains. Thunderheads glow orange, then pink, then only the edges are highlighted gold.

Tires whir on the road. A car passes. Another. Blinker clicks and I glide to the left. A moment later, back to the right. Signs flash by. The highway twists and turns.

Sometimes I could believe the walls around my heart are real. Like tonight. I can almost feel them sliding up from where they've been hidden all day. The scattered tears dry on my cheeks and the glass doors close inside; the locks click into place. I brush a hand across my face. Keep my eyes on the winding road.

Dusk gives way to dark.

Half-moon appears in the sky, as if by magic. Evening star hangs low ahead.

Why do you come here? I ask it silently. Why do you bother?

Yet I know the answer. It comes for the same reason I return. Perhaps it, too, longs to stay in the safety of some far-away mountain. Perhaps it, too, aches with loneliness after a glimpse of what it no longer has.

But we are called here by One greater than ourselves. And so we come. We shine. And we wait for the morning.

On Strength

Alaska mountains

Strength is a funny thing. Some people wear it like chain mail, but it wraps round others like a cloak--a bit mysterious, but soft and warm. It hides some people and reveals others. It's a blaze that scalds and a hearth-fire that warms. In some people, it wounds; in others, it protects.

It's not always bad, but neither is it always good. And the wrong type of strong people are scary. They are not safe. But the good type are trustworthy and protective. Astonishingly so.

The difference lies in the root (as it always does). In why.

Some strength says, "I will never be hurt."
Some says, "I choose to allow myself to hurt . . . and rise again."

Some strength says, "I will never let anyone close to me."
Some says, "I will give--and love--and care deeply . . . even when you'll never return it."

Some strength says, "I am all I need."
Some says, "I will ask for help."

Some strength says "I."
Some says "Him."

Because to be truly strong, to be soft yet strong, this is the greatest kind of strength. And the greatest kind of strength can only be gained from the One who is truly Strong.

Oh my friends, as you go into this world today, this dark and broken and angry world, have that true strength. Don't go weak, but don't put on that chain-mail strength. Just don't. It's not worth it. It's not worth the pain to yourself, or to others.

Take His cloak instead.

If Truth Never Triumphed

There's been a shooting today, in the city I've known as home for the past eight years.

"Domestic terrorism"... "ISIS"..."violence"...

These words were never supposed to exist. Period.

We cry, "Why this little city? Why this little town? Why those children? Why these husbands? Those mothers?"

And we cannot know the answer. Because evil has no answer but the selfish core of selfishness. Evil is its own entity. And deep inside, the most hardened of us still know that it is a foreign entity. Evil is not supposed to be. 

This hatred of evil, this hatred of pain, this burning anger at things that are just wrong, this is one of the strongest indicators that we were made for another world.

But here, and now, truth, integrity, love...they battle today. And more often than not, they lose. In little ways, and in big.

Truth forever on the scaffold,
Wrong forever on the throne.

And so I have a question for you today--and a question for me. Why do we choose truth? Why do we choose integrity? Why do we choose love?

Do we choose it because we think life will be better when it triumphs?

What if it never overcame? (not, that is, that we could ever see...)

What if it never won? (not that our children, or great-great-great grandchildren, could ever enjoy...)

Would we still choose it now?

IRL: Absentia

Trail at a nearby state park

Well, I'm here now.

And mostly unpacked.

Actually pretty much all unpacked.

And dealing with a serious case of writers' block. In case you couldn't tell. ;)

Getting ready for school, visiting friends (and having friends visit), working out a routine for the hundred-and-ten things you suddenly have to do when you're living by yourself, and generally trying to be an adult--it's all filling up my days.

But I am slowly but surely getting some ideas for blog posts. So hopefully I will be back sooner rather than later. :)

Oh, How He Loves

We meet "virtually" at the end of a long week--she walking along a creek in the rain, I sitting atop a warm rock in the sun (by another little creek). Almost 200 miles apart, but still beside each other in heart. Sisterhood is like that.

It's been a week full of joy and full of sorrow, for both of us. Full of the joy of serving, of giving unashamedly, of pouring into other lives. Full of sorrow from others' pain, of staggering under the hundred-ton weight of someone else's hurt. Sometimes second-hand sorrow is hardest to bear.

We share (much-abbreviated) prayer requests and though we laugh at each other and with each other, our hearts break for each other and for our friends. People I haven't even met set my heart throbbing, make me close my eyes as if to try to block out the agonizing reality of the darkness that has set itself against them. I ache to wrap my arms around each one, hold them tight, tell them You ARE loved. YOU are loved. HE loves you--and through the darkness, through the pain--He'll never, ever let you go.

And that night as I go home, half-reeling from the overwhelming need to be loved that resounds through the hearts of this broken, pain-throbbing world, I can't help but think, this must be a glimpse into the heart of God.

'Cause if I love these people so much--people I've never or only barely met--how much more must He love each one of them and each one of us--His children--when He knows so deeply and so intimately?

Wow.

"Behold what manner of love the Father has bestowed on us, that we should be called children of God!" (1 Jn. 3:1)

You Matter

Rallied by one young prince's victory, a thousand men of the Israelite nation rush from their hiding places, armed with sticks and shovels, to pursue and to destroy their enemies. Successfully.

Ranks of young men file into ships, to land at Normandy Beach and to scramble and battle their way inland in a desperate struggle to free Europe.

Suicide bombers train for days, weeks--only to destroy themselves in a final explosion for what they believe is the right.

We are obsessed, we humans, with being part of something bigger than ourselves. With fighting for the right. With the ideal of the stalwart hero who battles and struggles and finally, though his death or through his life, wins. We want this. We crave it. It is part of both our deepest fears and our deepest dreams. It constantly drives us upward toward glory, or downward toward greatest loss. 

Because we are. We are part of Something Bigger. We do fight for it. Every day. 

The question is: What? What am I fighting for? Am I the hero fighting to free Europe, to rescue Israel from the Philistines? Or am I the suicide bomber who destroys not only others, but himself, in a blaze of terror?

There are only two sides. The side that destroys, and the Side that renews. The side that wounds, and the Side that heals. And one of the essences of the Gospel is just this:

YOU MATTER.

Your life matters. Your choices matter. YOU matter. More than you can ever dream. Because in every choice, no matter how small, no matter how insignificant, you fight. Because every time you choose the good, evil loses. 

And so in a hundred little choices, in a hundred little prayers, in a hundred little surrenders every day...we fight.

By His grace, choose the good.

"Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life, to which you were also called and have confessed the good confession in the presence of many witnesses." (1 Tim. 6:12)

Canaan Bound

Source

It seems all the stories start the same.

"It was just an ordinary day. . ."

Maybe that's because it was. Until. 

Mine was. Or I suppose, I should say, it was an ordinary night. Until...

Wait--the whole story--you haven't heard it. It's a long story, you know. You don't mind? Well, let's begin, then...

Flat roofs are meant for stargazing. I've always been up there nights, as long as I can remember, maybe even more once I had a family. The breeze skips by, touches your face like a lover's hand; the stars twinkle and flash overhead; sometimes the moon burns a hole in the sky. A whisper-smell of jasmine, a far-away owl's hoot. You just can't sleep for long, not in so much beauty.

The moon was full that night, and it threw a halo all around. I've hardly ever seen a moon that bright--seemed you could scarcely see the stars. I'd fixed a bed up top of the roof, threw down a blanket or two at the end of a long day. And I lay there, hands behind my head, staring up at that sky and a thousand questions running in my mind. Don't even remember what they were about, really.

I guess I dozed off despite myself. When I woke the moon was half across the sky. For a moment I wasn't sure what had woken me--but I knew there was something. Then I heard it. Music. But unlike any music I'd ever heard before. It started soft; it took a moment before I could make out... words. And what words...

Get out of your country
From your family
And from your father's house
To a land that I will show you.

If I'd had questions before, they paled in comparison to my questions now. This was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. All I knew was here. All I'd ever known was here. My family, my father's house--it was all I had. My inheritance, my life, my hope for the future. To leave all this--for an unnamed land?

But the music swelled and grew and pulled at me. Somehow I knew it was for me. I remembered how God--the great YAH--had spoken to men in the past. Was this how He spoke? This beautiful but so uncertain way? Would He not be more specific, not give more directions?

I will make you a great nation;
I will bless you
And make your name great;
And you shall be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you
And I will curse him who curses you;
And in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.*

The music faded. Only the moon remained, and I found myself on my knees, knowing I bowed before the Creator of All. Was it enough--His promise? To leave all I knew, to begin in a new and hostile place, knowing no one, with no family, no inheritance, no life?

"I will go," I whispered, though deep within a part of me recoiled from such a life-altering decision. "Tomorrow I shall tell them. We shall go."

* Genesis 12:1-3

IRL: Summer Begins

• Quiet days at the office...
• Reading Pilgrim's Progress, Hinds' Feet on High Places, Captivating, and To Kill a Mockingbird...
• Long-distance book clubs...
• Arranging new songs...
• Google Hangouts with friends...
• Beautiful new lyrics stuck in my head all day...
• Honeysuckle and privet-scented nights...
• Catching up and talking with little brothers and friends...
• Planning a weekend trip to my "new home" to order books, have meetings with the pastor, meet (even more) people, and start getting ready for July...
• Poetry
• Music
• Delighted with others' joy :)
• Solo hikes in the rain
• Thunderstorms

"There are different kinds of happiness," she said. "There is an exuberant happiness, that comes bubbling up and bubbling out--like Old Faithful. And there's a quiet happiness, like when you're hiking with your family at 5,000 feet. And there's a bittersweet happiness, missing the old and being grateful for it, standing alone in the rain, driving by yourself across the mountains. But they're all happiness. All to be embraced."