This Is Goodbye

At least for now...I am leaving this blog live in case anyone stumbles across it and is encouraged or likes what they see. Find me on Instagram or Facebook if you are looking for me. :)

Well Then

Or, a not-so-well-thought-out post that just kind of rambles, because it has been over six months since I wrote anything, and anyone who still reads this likely believes that I'm dead or missing in action.

Everything is turned upside down right now because this lovely little school doesn't have kids.

So I have been here since August (well, all summer really), trying to figure out what a teacher does with nobody to teach. It's been interesting.

I visited my best friend a lot over the summer, also visited family, took a class for my certification. Got a very mischievous ginger kitty from said best friend's family. ^_^ Read new books, enjoyed them, got new plants (currently have an African violet, an aloe vera, a basil, and a viney thing). Tried to recruit kids with not a whole lot of success.

Continued to repeat that last sentence indefinitely this fall. Did finally register one child officially for the January semester--yay!! Also heard that two will not be able to come back till next fall--hrmm. :/

Created a school website, chased my (proverbial) tail in circles over various projects, some of which were accomplished and some of which weren't, and here we are at the end of September and I have received a tentative offer to do a long-term substitute position somewhere in Georgia (the level of secrecy regarding location is both amusing and frustrating, you'd think it was classified CIA information). For various reasons I said yes (with my board chair's approval) and so I sit here and wait a final decision that will launch me southward, at least for a short period.

But I did talk to one of my eighth graders from last year, just yesterday, and she is in academy and doing well and enjoying herself. Which, I like to think, she would not be if it hadn't been for what we'd been able to do last year. So it was worth it, however it turns out.

I know this time will be, too. Some things just take longer to see results than others.

When Love Shatters

It's a drippy, foggy week before Christmas and I am on a trail run in the woods behind my house (family's house, my second home--or maybe my first). Feet pound rhythmically and the questions fire beside and behind them. And foremost among the questions is one:

Why does love break?

Because I'd said before, I told it to my parents, what I'd been thinking for months now: Everything I touch shatters. The friendships, the love, the relationships, community, everything. Everything breaks, sooner or later, when I've touched it.

Why? All I did was love them. All I did was care. And it shatters. Time and time and time again, it breaks. Is it worth it, to keep loving? Is it right, to keep reaching out, when it will only cause them worse pain later? (And that's not even counting what it does to me.)

So my feet pound the trail and my heart pounds questions. The trail slopes downward and I break to a walk to save my knees. My prayer drifts out, mist into mist. "Why, God?"

And just like that, there's an answer that stops me cold; my feet freeze in the trail and I grab the nearest tree and hang on, like the force of the thought might knock me over if I'm not careful.

Love always shatters. 

Always?

Always, on earth. Because Love will always be colliding with evil. And that causes shattering.

The lyrics of a song drift into my head: "Love's like an ocean..."

Those waves--they roll on and on across the deep, strong but peaceful, gentle--until they reach the shore. That wave breaking, it can break you, it can kill you, it can drive you under, make you feel you're drowning. But it's not the wave that does that. It's the wave breaking. Striking the rock. Clashing with something completely opposite to itself.

Like Love. Like Love always is, always will be, as long as there is evil in the world.

Love's collision will break others, will break itself, will create a million pieces out of things that looked whole. But the only alternative is to abandon Love and choose evil. Because there is no middle ground, no safe walled-in place, not in this case.

And perhaps, as we choose, it's worthy to remember that sometimes, breaking is the only way to healing.

Love by the Wayside

I have wondered, in the dark damp days, Can love be wasted?

I see it lying by the wayside, after all, in the ditch, like a tossed away rag, like a child given up for dead. It looks wasted. It looks used-up. It looks dead. It looks as if it would be useless and inefficient and half-broken and hopelessly out-of-date, even if you could and did revive it.

But Love is not a rag and Love is not even a person. Love is greater than all of these.

Love is a seed. A seed that never dies because it is a piece of the very heart of God. And so when it appears used-up and dead and thrown away, that is the most magical time of Love. 

Because that is when Love grows. It sends out a root. It anchors itself deep. It brings out leaves, more roots, stems, and, eventually, it blooms. 

Oh, the birds will try to snatch it away. And the thorns will try to choke it out. And the winds will try to blow it away and sometimes they succeed. You know what? 

They only blow it somewhere else. Where it's dropped, and it looks dead once more, and then, bit by bit, it revives. 

Nothing that God IS will ever be wasted. Ever.

May He give us courage. Not only to be the seed, but to accept it. Not only to grow again, but to nurture what comes to us. Not only to love, but to be loved.  Because Love is never wasted.

Christmas Home

It's almost Christmas.

That makes twenty-three Christmases I've been through. That's a lot of holidays. A lot of "Jingle Bells" and "Silent Night." A lot of packages. A lot of readings of Luke chapter two.

And I am home for Christmas. But not really. Allow me to explain...

Once upon a time, all of us were little. And once upon a time, all of us wanted nothing more than to grow up. To be on our own. To forge our own path into the wild, beckoning, rosy world.

Then we got there. And of a sudden it wasn't so rosy any more.

Everyone tells you of the bills to pay, the job to hold down, the lack of "freedom." But those are the easy parts of growing up. Bills can be earned. Jobs can be fulfilling. Freedom is a relative thing.

Nobody told eight- or ten- or thirteen-year-old you of the pain you'd encounter. Of the friendships you'd lose. Of the times you'd want so desperately to cry--but you couldn't. Of the long walks in the woods just trying to find your heart and maybe put two pieces back together again. Of the suffocating darkness that would strike at you from every corner. Nobody told you about all that.

I'm still not sure if they didn't tell us because they didn't know--or because they didn't know how to explain--or because they'd tried so hard to forget, that they did forget...

It doesn't really matter. We're here now, and there's a part of us that desperately wants to go back, to be a child again, to go home. But we can't. There's no turning the clock back. There's no stepping backward.

What does Christmas really mean when you realize you will never be home for Christmas again? That there's not a place in this world that is your true home?

Maybe--just maybe--it's remembering that once, two thousand years ago, a Baby was born into a world. A world that, though He'd made it, would never, ever be His real home. Yet He chose to be born here, He chose to live here, He chose to die here--

So that, Someday, we could go Home. Home for Christmas. Home for eternity.

Because it wouldn't have been home for Him--without us.

Story

Bible class is always the hardest.

Oh, and I know why too. *Someone* isn't happy with any focus on the Bible or on our relationship with God. And thus it increases my prayer life, not knowing what I'm going to talk about until Friday or Sunday! ;)

This last week, praying (again) for inspiration, especially after stumbling across a revealing Bible journal entry by one of my kids, I was impressed by a thought:

Story, Bri. 

What story? I don't have stories.

Sure you do. 

THOSE stories? Oh my kids love stories. They don't care what it's about either. The magic words "I'm going to tell you a story..." get them all quiet and staring rapturously, no matter how uninteresting the story itself might be. But...really God?

Those stories.

 On my walk, I started thinking...God redeems everything. Every fall, every stumble, every pain and tear shed. And He has wired our hearts and souls for hearing stories. Even His Word is primarily stories. Perhaps story--our story--our testimony of His faithfulness--is the primary way He redeems the past.

So why should we be reluctant to tell, even though it may be raw and unpolished and stumbling? Why should I hesitate to share how He has worked and is working, even if it isn't "amazing"? Maybe, just maybe, the common everyday life stories of God's little and big providences are what we are missing.

Maybe, just maybe, some more of them should be told.

What's your story today?
What's mine?

IRL: A Thursday (Head Teacher Version)

It's 7:50 and I finish my e-mail to Mom and step outside my office. Turn on lights, unlock the front door, re-lock the inside door. Check over my lesson plans to make sure I have everything. Go back to the office. I've been here an hour now, been up for three and a half, and there are probably at least eight more to go. They'll fly, though--I know that much for sure. Having no more than half an hour of sustained "focus time" on one element of one subject makes for a fast-moving day. (Yes, I set it up that way on purpose...)

At four the kids will probably be gone (earlier if I'm lucky), and I'll have (hopefully) finished most of the grading while I wait for them to leave (perks of having a class of only six students!). Then it's attendance records, final grading, and plugging in the grades, organizing some sort of structure out of the chaos that seems to plague my steps (regardless of what others may see), and making phone calls as I drive to see my horse, hopefully leaving before 4:30 so it's not too late when I get back. I think most of what a principal/head teacher does is phone calls and e-mails. And paperwork. And putting out "fires."

If I'm lucky, I'll get to River's "house" by 5:15 or so, and spend a while with him before leaving around 6:30 for the drive home (in the dark, trying desperately to stay awake). I'll get home around 7 or a little later--wash dishes, take a shower, eat an apple and some peanuts (my superfoods), make tea, and crash on the couch to call my parents, drink my tea, spin, and try to recharge my batteries. Music practice until sometime after 9, and then bed.

And that is a day in the life. :)

What It Means

"Still Path"

"What does following in God's steps mean to you? And what happens when you do follow in His steps?"

Good questions, dear friend. I've been pondering them all week.

And as I sit here at the near-end of a week of rain, listening to music to fill the silence in my empty house, worn from a week of late nights and early mornings, trying not to think about how I miss my friends, overwhelmed with a hundred responsibilities, it's a little hard to see the light as I usually do. But I can say one thing with confidence.

For me, following God's steps means two words. Or actually, four:

Caring more. For healing.

More than is comfortable. More than is convenient. More than is necessary. More than others have. More than others will, or could, or should.

And yet, just caring isn't enough. You can care, and break. You can care, and wound. Horribly. And then it is better not to care at all.

So true caring must be always focused on healing. And that means receiving everything--every heartthrob, every touch on the shoulder, every smile, every tear, every note on the to-do list, every e-mail, every meeting, everything--from the ultimate Healer. Because as people, we are the Wounded. And without Him, we wound.

But praise God, with Him, we can heal.

What happens when I follow? Loneliness. Exhaustion. Emptiness. Sure. You read my third paragraph. But so much more. So much more. When they don't fill (because they never do), He does. Sunsets and stars. Full moons and foggy mornings. Flowers in the fields. Cool breezes. Storms sweeping down across the lake. Thunder and rain. So much beauty it literally hurts. Richness.

And, ultimately, a dream of the certain Victory to come. That's what it means.

IRL: Triumphs

There are days when I just love being a teacher.

Days when I go to church and get hugs from my kids and words of affirmation and encouragement from families.

Days when our Bible class is filled with questions and searching and going back to the Word for answers.

Days when my six kiddos are sprawled in the window seats reading their Bibles (for some of them, it's probably their first time having personal worship every day), and the sun streams in, and piano music floats in the background, and for a moment all is quiet.

Days when they get ridiculously excited about our lesson on a strong literary character.

Days when I bring a problem to them for class discussion and they solve it themselves (with a little help).

Days when I watch them get involved at church and my heart swells with joy as if I were their parent, not "just" their teacher.

Discouragement is one of my biggest setbacks--and it's something the devil throws at me almost daily. And so I hoard up these moments and days and look back on them.

"But I will remember the years of the right hand of the Most High." (Ps. 77:10)

Day Breaks

The sky is pink and orange over the eastern horizon.

I lean against the window seat and watch it. There's a moment of stillness in the hectic pace of life. The color shifts and fades and grows again, almost alive.

A thousand heart-stirrings surge inside. Someday I will have to leave this place. And though I love it here, I hope I leave soon.

Not for another school. Not for a marriage or for another job. Someday soon, I hope to leave because I'm not allowed to be here longer. Because only a short time after that, I'll stand and watch another sun rise. Watch a day break in which I know there'll be no end.

Soon, He will come. And the sunrise won't compare.

Oh, may the Day break soon.

But in the meantime, may it break in my heart every morning, as I watch the sun rise.

First Night

It was night when I became a guardian.

To you that might seem inconsequential--a little puzzling, perhaps. But we have only experienced night three times in six thousand years.

That was the second time.

It was also the reason I became a guardian.

You see, in the beginning, I thought about guardianship and decided not to. It seemed a very difficult job--and not only difficult, but wearing.

Then that night came.

It fell suddenly, like a shadow from some gigantic monster, a darkness almost smothering in its heaviness. From one side of the city to the other, we pressed into the Father's throne. The air vibrated with emotion. Only once before had this happened--and we could not imagine what might make it happen again. We did not know what fear was, then, but I daresay that fear was what we felt.

The Father was weeping. There had been tears of joy when the stars were made. There had been shouts of welcome when humanity was placed. But only once before had we seen sorrow. We glanced at each other, and pressed closer. He looked up.

"My children." The sound was flat, and almost dull, shot through with a pain I could almost touch. "My children--" and His voice failed. He only motioned. And we looked, and we saw.

The darkness. Oh, the darkness. If we had thought it was bad here, it was a hundred times deeper there. And as the days passed it grew worse. The planet itself seemed to groan. The ground, to shriek. And they were deaf. Deaf to the pain. Deaf to--to everything. They thought they saw, they thought they heard--but they saw only a flicker, heard only a whisper. When the light is gone, you do not know how deep the darkness is.

The light returned to the city. But not to Earth. Not to most of it, at least. I watched and the pain tore into me like so many knives (those, too--I had not known them before that night), till I could no longer stand it and I rushed into the Father's presence.

"Is there not something I can do?"

His eyes were full of pain, but gentle. "Yes. Yes, there is. But it is hard now."

"I do not care. Whatever it is. Anything to ease that pain."

"Anything?" He whispered, as if to Himself, and I thought He blinked away a tear. "Yes, my star, there is something for you. Look." He pointed. "See that one?"

"Of course. She is only a child. How can a child live in such a dark place? She will die. Oh, my Father, she will die!"

"She would," He said, with a smile, "if not for you. Will you go?"

I only bowed my head in response. He laid His hands upon me, and gave me blessing enough to last the years. And so I went into the night, and I became a guardian. And a star.

Little Things

Memories. Memories make a lifetime.

"Do you remember that Sabbath when we were all so tired--and we came to your house--and we made spaghetti and random tortilla things--and sat and talked--and played in the hammock?!"

"Do you remember that evening when we had that snow day and we all came over and had popcorn and hot chocolate and tea and talked?"

"Do you remember when we sat on the lawn and looked at the sunset?"

"Do you remember..."

Yes, I remember. How could I forget? Last semester I had the great privilege of becoming "mom"/"big sister"/"twin sister"/general-carer-for-of-people to a rather large group of college students. Many of whom I'm still in touch with, still their sister, still even called mommy on occasion. (All this, by the way, makes me ridiculously happy).

And I've noticed something. As we re-connect over the summer, and as I hear and recite with them the times most precious to us, we remember the big things--but it's the little things we really remember. The times when we felt heard and loved and we felt safe and cared for. The times when we looked another in the eye and said or just felt: "You too?!'

Those are the times we remember. And usually they were tiny times. Spur-of-the-moment thoughts. Words said that seemed to take no root at all. A quick invitation to a few friends. Popcorn and tea. But they are what sank in deep. 

I'm increasingly convicted that we are not called to great things. We are called to a hundred tiny little things. God alone does great things. But He does them through our tiny actions.

May I do little things in His love. 

"Don't look for big things; just do small things with great love. ...The smaller the thing, the greater must be our love." (Mother Teresa)

Passing of the Torch

Source

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)