The Dancer

Stripes inch through your spine

With the twist of a hula hoop

As it kinks disk by disk towards

A surface, stoic even

To a flimsy ballerina.

Your figure droops into the

Dirt so far that I doubt my

Tylenol on your throat could

Bring back our memories of lights

Passing beside me, between 

This audience to thaw 

Before your stage, your throne. 

It’s your femur that first slides

To a crack with rifles 

Left about a lawn of cement

In the debris of this city.

I get sick with a lone

Pigeon at the sight of you.

Should I call for salt pools 

To fill my eyes instead? 

You may be rattling in this 

Winter but I still can’t—

Not since you slit the flair

Of our ribbons in the throat.

I know that was before your 

Knuckles, ten of twenty in this 

Lake of vodka, bled 

From falling into

Metal on the floor. 

But I won’t forget mom’s voice

Saying you’d bring cash from 

The glamour and noise 

Of a ninety degree day,

The same day you left—

Prodigal daughter to a family of

Bones the year she danced home. 

To Let Pain Talk

Does pain confuse you as much as it does me?

I'm not talking about how the divine can coexist with suffering but rather, what pain is. Where it is.

It's here when I have a stomach ache at 3am that fights my sagging eyelids. It's there on the West Coast when my best friend can't lift the bar of loneliness from her chest.

It scares be how concentrated it is in the hair-raising condition of the homeless man on the streets of Boston in March. How did he make it? His back folds over, far more crooked than my 96 year old grandpa's. It's in the wide-eyed slave of human trafficking with her posture forever lost. I see it when I come out of the safety of a private college's walls and remember that crucifixion is not just an abuse of the past.

But I think pain goes even deeper--do you ever feel it in its physical absence? I sense it in times of peace, when all is as it should be; when the family reunites for holidays and the kitchen is giddy with smells of wild rice soup; when I drive home from work and auburn rays hit the road ahead. This evil lingers in my every day because these days, these "good days," are a lie.

They try to convince me to be satisfied so I try to drink them up, every last drop, and savor the taste--but no! My glass shatters against this warm kitchen wall where complacency dies and we all remember to imagine true good.

Psalm 34:5

Those who look on him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame. 

Shame
Is all I can think of
And yet to know I used to see only my pride
Without realizing why.
But now I know why:
I judge the fat girl because I don't think I'm skinny enough.
I judge the skinny girl because I don't think I'm strong enough.
I judge the lazy kid because I don't think I work hard enough.
I judge the girls who date because I don't have a boyfriend.
I judge the arrogant person because I judge too much!
What a despicable creature I am.
My pride is born out of my own shame.
Is it really such a shock that I'm insecure?
We all must know that word isn't just reserved for the girls raised
In crumbling homes with name-brand shirts that cover
Skin damaged by poor diets--
It's a parasite in every suburban neighborhood, certainly
Latched onto the front door of this pastor's house.

What is my greatest fear then?
Not appearing put together?
Not being accepted by God?
Not having friends?
I'm already convinced of the answer to these questions--No.
That's obvious. What really scares me is
Not having intimacy of any kind
Or being capable of love.
They say, if I do not love myself, I cannot love others.
So here I am, needing to be loved and needing to love.

God, the shame runs deep
And drives my sour thoughts.
Relieve the pit in my stomach
That blocks the self-ignorant unity
You command I have with my family.
I'm afraid of myself--please step in front of me
So I can digest your charis this time,
Not just when my dad finishes his sermon.
Hold my pharisaic legs in place even though
I squirm to meet the standard
Two thousand years away from my rituals.
They are as useless as an inexperienced fact and
As chilling as the suicide of a man whose life had been
Preserved by his martyred friend.

So if my checklist nails you back onto that cross,
Then shred the impulse in me.
Burn this addiction to productivity
Since I can't think of a greater crime
Than mine.

The Wind

you lift the weight beneath
my sweaty t-shirt,
easing quads of lumber as
dirt bounces with some orange
chips about the wood

a rumble behind my back
dodges left and right like
the flock of sparrows who
wrestle with the sky
in futile air strikes

but you blow my body
forward toward the campus
where I sleep,
away from the crumbly
lakeside of your pond

My Love, My Glory

You're shivering in a pile 
Of people, sick from a toasted neck 
While you hit each clot on the chalky ground
And your tightened pupils wince.
Are you wearing a shirt? You've forgotten but
It doesn't matter to the infected, seething stripe,
The soldier’s decoration for your lonely spine
That folds over like the moon,
Its best hope for company. 

Your neighbor leans on you, dropping one of many
Heads that tumble into your space but you don't 
Care. Memory's in replay as you see your brothers and
Children slammed onto a cart, 
Metal, splinters, rust and all.
Couldn't they have led us quietly? 
Quietly to the moon? 
No, forgive them, forgive them. 
I don't think they know what they’re doing. 

A neighbor’s ribs land in your forehead
With every jerk of this monster, this truck as
You dream of a boy, alone and symmetrical.
Are his eyes begging for another candy 
Or to sleep without another seething stripe?
He's beaten at three years and snaps to planks below.
You open your eyes. You cannot watch. 
But now imagine this isn't you nor your brother nor
Your children but the soldier who bruised your body. 

I help you piece together the crumbs of 
My heart as that soldier thrashes before you.
You see him within my gift to you, a prism of hope,
Look at him, and lead him to your execution line. 
A church of brothers and children 
Reach for your hand that has dried up like
A raisin in the sun before 
The guns that stain your blood 
And mine.

An anchor that holds you here, 
Tearing at my core.
I weep for your seething stripe, your charred neck,
The carving of your skull, 
And the murder of your family.
I weep for the boy, the soldier that was beaten in 
A burning land that pierced my feet. 
You just don't see that my body is 
Bruised and nailed beyond a holy veil. 

An Arboreal Healing

I watch the surgery you perform

On my skinny Maple tree,
The only one in a full canopy over
Oak Street that droops its branches far enough
To reach the Mercedes cruising toward town;
The only one that gulps and gorges but
Snaps its limbs for fear of overeating as
Juice slides up and down her roots
And cautiously sprays from her throat;
The only one who ages an inch
Under the weight of two flirting squirrels,
Acrobats in that wealthy town's air,
And burps from their every landing punch.
The car’s driver, that debased dog,
Lets his fumes flare up into her lungs
Of innocence while the money slopped on
Clothes of five-year old children
Gives her the stomach of a first time sailor.
The anesthesia wears off and I look
Up to her arms traced in streetlight
As newborn leaves still float to my sidewalk
And I yell at you in your goofy blue socks—
You didn't make her better! But you watch
Me as I see her sigh out oxygen of shame

And then I learn no doctor’s tools release the

Tightened skin of a bulimic—

At least until she sees him face to face.   

50 Shades of Grey : Response

I'm a Christian and can avoid certain culturally mocked viewpoints with very little difficulty at all. After all, I wouldn't want to be labeled as a pompous idiot trying to enforce my ideas on the whole world. But there comes a point where 'culture' becomes so unhinged from rational, moral sanity, that something must be done. 50 Shades of Grey is a massively drooled over novel about a young, innocent, and apparently intellectual girl who becomes involved in a sexual and violent relationship with an older man. It is now being made into a major motion picture on Valentines Day, of course, when we celebrate sex and the most uncomfortably alluring desires of the flesh. Not. Valentines Day is a day to celebrate love, a feeling only higher beings can possess that has solely to do with sacrifice not obsession and self-gratification.

If you've found yourself to be one among many people who are engrossed in this book or merely have heard of it and feel unsure of how to respond, I'd ask you to take time to dwell on some of these questions.

• Does anything in you feel like you're doing something wrong when you read this book or watch this movie? If so, don't avoid it -- let it fester.

• Do you want to be treated like an individual with a thinking, respectable mind and character? If so, don't watch this film. You're advocating the development of a certain way of thinking.

• Would you want your daughter to be? Mother? Sister? Cousin? Friend?

• Do you think that sexual abuse is okay? There may be consent in certain abuse situations (although that's another topic and could be debated as brainwashing) but even the participating in a movie like this encourages the exploitation of human beings. Don't forget that human trafficking is real globally and in the States.

• Do you think that eating disorders are okay? Many of these come from struggling with body image which relates directly (even if subconsciously) to the media. A film or book like 50 Shades of Grey tells women that their worth is in their sex appeal -- their body -- their image. 

• Do you think you are not mentally affected by watching excessive promiscuity? 

• Even if this film is not damaging, how is it a positive use of preciously God-given time?

• How would you feel watching this film with Jesus?

• How else but in practical ways are the servants of Christ to separate themselves from culture?

• Do you take Scripture at its word in your life or only when it feels good to follow?

• Love is sacrifice: God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us (Romans 5:8).

• Think on what is pure: Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things (Philippians 4:8).

• The role of men is to lead and provide for their families as opposed to taking from women physically: But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever (1 Timothy 5:8).

Christ came to cleanse us from sin, to heal us from impurity, and to help us flee from lust. He has given us himself, his Spirit, and I beg you to hold tight to him for the limited span of your life and to pray for one another that we may be aware of our desperate need for Christ.

The Road to Awe

Warmly lit pea pods split and
Glaze the mushroom cap in your hand as
You try. You mix and mash to the plucking of the harp
On your sphere of copper moonless nights
In time but not in motion,
A compass off the globe that spins
Again, again, again,
But won’t land because of the
Mixing and mashing of your hands.

You beat the harvest
To wrench apart your crispy arms
Into lines of churning ink and blood,
Their stains circle you
You, a body in a slinky,
Bound to the harp ticking your head
Ears stuffed, sound gone, you continue
To serve the charred black on your ring finger,
Master mark of all.

Her gown has wilted among your garden of weeds,
Her body was not yours
To cling to the soil beneath her bruised and
Beauty feet
That lingered in the snow for far too long
As you would say.
Her body, mostly bone, in yours,
Your orange arms flex but still those bones
Drain her flesh to rest with earth.

You mix and mash, pluck and beat
Exasperated souls until mercy climbs perched
Into your focused lap and says,
‘It’s time’
To drop your sword and microscope
I hope you let your shoulders sag and be
Carried on.

Quotes from David Copperfield

During the absurd amount of down-time I found myself in before summer work began, I purposed to develop my Renaissance womanliness through physical exercise, horse riding, engaging in artistic projects, meditation and prayer, writing, and reading. Unhinged by the prospects before me of which book(s) to choose for the summer, I collected a grand total of five, the first of which I have now completed: the lengthy eight hundred paged David Copperfield. Below, I've recorded some of Dickens' most entertaining as well as thought-provoking quotes!

1. Betsy Trotwood
   (With the Murdstones) 'You'll excuse my saying, sir,' returned my aunt, 'that I think it would have been a much better and happier thing if you had left that poor child alone.'
    'I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked,' observed Miss Murdstone, bridling, 'that I consider our lamented Clara to have been, in all essential respects, a mere child.'
    'It is a comfort to you and me, ma'am,' said my aunt, 'who are getting on in life, and are not likely to be made unhappy by our personal attractions, that nobody can say the same of us.'

I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt would sustain, from living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with Mrs. Crupp; but she disposed of that objection summarily by declaring, that, on the first demonstration of hostilities, she was prepared to astonish Mrs. Crupp for the whole remainder of her natural life (476). 

(To Uriah Heep) 'I am not going to be serpentined and corkscrewed out of my senses! 

2. Mr. Micawber

    I cannot say - I really cannot say - that I was glad to see Mr. Micawber there; but I was glad to see him too, and shook hands with him, heartily, inquiring how Mrs. Micawber was.

    'Thank you,' said Mr. Micawber, waving his hand as of old, and settling his chin in his shirt-collar. 'She is tolerably convalescent. The twins no longer derive their sustenance from Nature's founts - in short,' said Mr. Micawber, in one of his bursts of confidence, 'they are weaned - and Mrs. Micawber is, at present, my travelling companion. She will be rejoiced, Copperfield, to renew her acquaintance with one who has proved himself in all respects a worthy minister at the sacred altar of friendship.'

Now I am convinced, myself, that things cannot be expected to turn up of themselves. We must, in a measure, assist to turn them up. (387)

3. Steerforth
Why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy-headed fellows may gape and hold up their hands? Let them do it at some other man. There’s fame for him, and he’s welcome to it.

Oh, of course! It's no fun, unless we take them by surprise. Let us see the natives in their aboriginal condition! (281)

4. Miss Mowcher
(To David) Try not to associate bodily defects with mental, my good friend, except for a solid reason (430).

5. Agnes
(To David) Perhaps it would be better only to consider whether it is right to do this; and, if it is, to do it.

6. Mr. Chillip
'Strong phrenological development of the organ of firmness, in Mr. Murdstone and his sister, sir' (776).

7. Miss Mills
(To David and Dora) 'Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of spring, which, once put forth and blighted, can not be renewed... The gushing fountains which sparkle in the sun, musst not be stopped in mere caprice; the oasis of the desert of Sahara, must not be plucked up idly' (448).

8. Dora's aunt (Lavinia) and David
    'We have no doubt that you think you like her very much.' 
    'Think, ma'am,' I rapturously began, 'oh!--'
    But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp canary), as requestion that I would not interrupt the oracle, begged pardon. 
    'Affection,' said Miss Lavinia, glancing at her sister for corroboration, which she gave in the form of a little nod to every clause, 'mature affection, homage, devotion, does not easily express itself. Its voice is low. It is modest and retiring, it lies in ambush, waits and waits. Such is the mature fruit. Sometimes a life glides away, and finds it still ripening in the shade' (554).

9. Descriptions
Of Mr. Peggoty: It was a warm, dusty evening, just he time when, in the great main thoroughfare out of which that by-way turned, there was a temporary lull in the eternal tread of feet upon the pavement, and a strong red sunshine (437).

Of Mr. Dick: I parted from him, poor fellow, at the corner of the street, with his great kite at his back, a very monument of human misery (465). 

10. David's Reflections
(About Steerforth) In the keen distress of the discovery of his unworthiness, I thought more of all that was brilliant in him, I softened more towards all that was good in him, I did more justice to the qualities that might have made him a man of a noble nature and a great name, than ever I had done in the height of my devotion to him. Deeply as I felt my own unconcious part in his pollution of an honest home, I believed that if I had been brought face to face with him, I could not have uttered one reproach. I should have loved him so well still--thought he fascinated me no longer (421).

I had considered how the things that never happen, are often as much realities to us, in their effects, as those that are accomplished. The very years she spoke of, were realities now, for my correction; and would have been one day, a little later perhaps, though we had parted in our earliest folly. I endeavored to convert what might have been between myself and Agnes, into a means of making me more self-denying, more resolved, more conscious of myself, and my defects and errors (762).

Freshman Year

Freshman year. Freshman year! It doesn't matter how you say it -- you know the connotations. Freshman year is lonely, freeing, uncontrollable, and most of all, a time when you decide how you're going to react to adulthood.

In Massachusetts the impermeable clouds would somehow end up in my daily footsteps. Snow came on Monday and again on Tuesday but on Wednesday, a far heavier weight fell in the persistent cage of clouds. It's April and everyone says it's going to snow again. But I'd believe them if it were July. I'd rather brace for the splinters, the knives, tearing at me than expect them to give up only to be left with sickly knees and palms mixing gravel and blood.

I binge on carrots and taste hummus. The Oreos don't tempt me but the home-baked cupcakes seem to be closer and closer to me each time I reach for another carrot. Why can't I just forget the voice that rides along with me? Being five pounds overweight and mentally free would be so very much better than wearing a thin, sleek body and hearing this voice. I hate the voice. But I need the voice.

The scale tells me "115". I don't think it's correct. I'm not that girl who loses twenty pounds in three months.

But maybe I am. The voice plays its cards well until I start speaking first. I start reading before it can bring me to the mirror. Those who look on him are radiant; their faces shall never be covered with shame (Psalm 34:5). Comfort me, Lord. Bring me joy.

But the clouds are winning. What has it been, 179 to the clouds and 1 to the sun? Maybe not quite. 120 to 60? But even on those 60, I still didn't have any friends. Still, I thank you God, For you equipped me with strength for the battle. (Psalm 18:39).

My counselor asked me, "Emily, what do you want?"

"I want to be happy. I want to laugh."

 I work to find something funny about the sour, ironic clouds: they make me need you, God. I work to find something funny about my social life: I suppose I'm actually far ahead of most other kids. I work to find something funny about the ice cream I just had to buy: it is tasty.

These days, they punch me harder than I've ever felt. But I am safe. We are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:37-39).

I've come home now and just realized that the summer heat I've greatly anticipated makes me sweat. It makes my face as red as a tomato. 40 hours a week doesn't seem so great anymore either. BUT I'm going to seek joy as "the lives of believers are in the great drama at the focal point of universal history" (Grudem)

Your Village

Orange kicks in the musky dirt
Charred dogs grow
Into your winter home;
Home:
Belonging to the stubbed toes
Of your kid,
Balding men and women
Praying in the village that spins
Before a train divides you from
The fickle roads outside,
Lit by neon, not the breath of
Your backyard.
Don’t forget,
The glaze of sugar on your
Forehead
And the turning boys and girls,
Balloons of your city’s streets.

Wasted

Eat that February sky, why can’t you?

Its clouds bake under the sun

you’ve chosen to forget.

Why can't you

just swallow the cough medicine

you hate?

The pasteurizing fluid swims

in a single glass on the counter-top

alone

and green like a protein drink

or the brussels sprouts from last night’s dinner.

But you're downstairs because

if your nostrils caught a whiff

you might gag.

See the moth balls on the windowsill;

if only you’d pick up those hands,

clutch a dustpan,

and tell your retirement to remove them!

But I watch you lie downstairs,

burning less calories than when you sleep,

with peeling skin atop those thighs

as milky as over easy eggs.

I hear the snow in April and

see that medicine of vomit, still,

my eyes itch from the moth balls.

Did you even hear your alarm?

The Artist

The Artist’s yellow page

turned blind

and skewered the lullaby.

There he awakens the chambers and

merry slaves prostrate

but dismayed,

their white-collar competitors,

addicts of the sinner’s page,

lose their giggle at the taste of quicksand.

Their condition—their end—will cement

while the slaves play a lyre for

the Artist.

Suffering Brothers

You feed me lies

My pockets emptied by a meter where

Coins curdle down my esophagus,

Brother you watch me

Placid but parched

Liquid rises up to your chin

Like the yeast in grandma's kitchen

But she tripped, remember?

Sighing in the hail, you hold

Your knobby brain that

Chuckles on phlegm and pain

I take an eraser to your face and

Mark that smirk away

Honey, remember grandma’s bitten lip?

Old age and purple knees beat

Sweat into eight cozy cousins

I thought you drew 
My poison—the change
In my wallet—for your experiment but
You needed cash, raw cash,
Or so the president had said

I'm 19

An hour and a half ago, I turned 19. My idyllic teenage youth is gone but I never lived the dreamy life of Bella Swan or a Nicholas Sparks character.

In light of this, I'd like to find for myself as much as I can to be thankful for (certain words new this year in bold):

1. the money to spend a year at Gordon
2. the best family and extended family
3. the opportunity to have Snickers
4. Charles
5. nature, hiking the Adirondacks
6. color and art
7. new jobs and stretching experiences
8. joy not being dependent on happiness
9. Lord of the Rings, Jane Eyre
10. the warmth of the sun
11. the car accident
12. "I See Fire," Needtobreathe, Lifehouse
13. Indian food, Chipotle, spices, mangoes, chocolate, stir fry
14. Katie, Stephanie, Julia, Rachel
15. Camp K-9 dogs and staff relationships
16. friends who teach me about myself and who I want to be
17. the chance to ride Quinn
18. God seeing me as flawless despite my sin and pride
19. hope continually increasing toward death

God has given me such gifts but my life is not mine to do with as I please. The true measure of my life is looking on him for then I am "radiant and my face will never be covered with shame" (Psalm 34:5).

The Source

I eat on the porch swing, a rotten sky above. There he is, droning in the kitchen as mother clutches the staticky volume in one hand and pounds dough with the other. My baby sister plays in the fireside touch of my father's uncertain company.

Here I am, silent in the past, tasting the French nutcracker of my dreams. I hold my boyfriend's smile. It holds my thoughts. And my thoughts hold the embrace of a Prodigal Father. 

But they can't shield me from the burnt cider that slapped my adolescence. I choke on the lie of life. Jilted and ashamed, I see it name its price: me. 

My stilettos snapped. Their glitter, a ghost. My remains drip to a southern clot. 

It's 3:00 and children come off the school bus with atrocious posture. They pick up their pace as the nervous sun bows its face to me. "Why me?" you ask.

"Why me?" I ask. 

FDR speaks on the scratchy radio again and again. He sees me in my misshapen corduroys and overgrown toenails, hopeless, and I realize that I'm the flaw, the lord of melancholy thoughts. Mother still listens to the radio so I ask her, "Why?" 

She tells me, "There's a chance," and I feel the shame in doubt. 

Until the Beginning

Hands

Anxious hands

Filter soil where exhaustion bellows from the sea
Lauding the earth that scares her breath
Is she

This girl, this bane of gravity clinging a ledge
Stitches wear thin
The clasp upon her collar sheds
Marble falls past her quaking, tipping toes
Falling, she falls in a shrieking trench
Of joy, at the fingertips of hell
But look—

A sallow hue hangs on her pack leader

The waterlogged worm in trepidation and
Her pigeon sisters clad in flame

Fly overhead

Knuckles breathe as
She sees harbingers of jubilee sail!

Esther's Pride

The potter’s mossy strokes balance there, my guide among the dead. There, my eyes flitter softly toward the virid buttered plant. Anger crunches with the naked grass beneath my head. It’s nesting in my diaphragm - the moldy foam seething but not at God; no, nor at you. Its righteous nails meet my own paling, now pink blooded thighs. My lovely, you could never be the object of this dancing wrath for you, you are always protected here inside my chest. You were the fly that buzzed buzzed buzzed for his enchanting mate; you were all the colors; you were the breath in an icy bane. But not the baker’s loaf, left untouched for months. You couldn’t be.

A moral soul groans inside of you but no innocent one. If you spoke in truth, how have you evolved so apathetic? If in riddles, how thumps a true heart? When the clock’s luster was all but gone, I squirmed to know yet this indifference, however conceived, became a gift. Although a barnacle on my mind, you no longer squander my feelings. Liberty appears in the expectation of an infection. They say the child loses her swinging pigtails when her fickle man absconds but I never give away what I know will be forgotten. My desire in part becomes a letter beneath a sunburnt stampede but this horcrux has a sister not dark, not sinister: love independent of you. 

How did that hour hand lay a vanguard between the baker’s loaf and my eyes? It ticks, dust snowing from the iron; ticking, I hear it now. God, take me from the zany, debauched mediocrity. Mirth survives his humanity but God, please your face? 

My overgrown nails extend into the stratus, their harvest bewildered. Each grasp eludes my senses though my eyes can testify that the dewey shapes remain. This confused kinesthetic assays the topography. Ah, the virid buttered plant atop the lawn is now inside evening’s lair. But how can my body acquire harmony in the first dimension? A pillow beneath me, green blades tickling me, I let sleep beset. 

But then I realize I've forgotten to look at the stars. 

The Immortal Romance

My dear, why such intensity?
Why taunt me with your righteousness,
You conniving, rejecting girl?
I’ve wept and waited, wrung out limp,
Never to feel you in my grip.

Hear this, my one precious angel:
If I could but stop the heavens
Time strangled between these palms,
Would you dare hand me your all?
Or remain holding up this wall?

There you are, rabid blood pumping,
Secluded by a spineless plea.
Your fists clenched tight slowly open,
The haze displays a marker’s trace,
A look of horror on your face.

My mind is set, you’ve told me so,
This love may never come to pass--
If love perchance it is at all.
For though I beg to feel your lips,
You’ve given them for holy sips.

Elsewhere your mind has gone, dragging,
Yanking your roped up heart along.
A desert, my left rib, now cracks
But northward knows to look for you
Where red was sucked to join you two.

Revelation

a single fruit or three clouds?
children eat.
the sunless rays of existence
ascend among obsidian.

see, a myrtle tidal wave
awakens these nauseated chambers.
what twistedness lies here?
dismayed,
we idle captives prepare for war.

peeled eyelids flaked to dusty trash
reify
depravity munching on man,
a flock within a sanded cage.

but watch the orthogonal scene:
red, black, pale,
swallowed in the wake of white prints.

Courage ≠ Willingness

Stepping out in courage is difficult but maybe it's extra difficult because we are forgetting a critical part of it. Being bold for Christ isn't just saying to yourself, "I have to do this. I'm going to do this because I have to!" while grinding your teeth. It's not starting to speak for the Lord while looking at what others think. The moment you take your eyes (heart) off Christ, you will sink. You will get distracted. You will get self-conscious. You will fail. The moment you lock your eyes on him, you will find success.

2 Timothy Quotes

The saying is trustworthy, for:

If we have died with him, we will also live with him;if we endure, we will also reign with him;if we deny him, he also will deny us;if we are faithless, he remains faithful—

for he cannot deny himself (2 Tim 2:11-13).

Despite its initial appearance of simplicity, the structure of these verses is incredibly impressive. Paul writes these contrasting clauses in great order. In the first line, he aligns death with Christ to life with him; our perseverance for him with his devotion to us; our rejection of him with his rejection of us. But the power comes in the last line, where Paul is no longer comparing ideas. There is a difference in the final clauses. If we fail to follow him, he will still pursue us. This may seem confusing since in the line prior, Paul says that if we deny Christ, he also will deny us. But there is a difference. Christ denying us is part of his justice. His character requires him to deny us at the final hour if we remain apart from him. BUT his character also requires him to love us forever. For that is what God is—1 John 4:8.

... [The Lord's servant must be] patiently enduring evil, correcting his opponents with gentleness (2 Tim 2:24-25).

 Not "[The Lord's servant must] patiently endure evil" but "[The Lord's servant must be] patiently enduring evil"—further indicates that we will face evil. 

A Foreign Perspective on Love

When asked, people, even Christians, would say "love" is a need. "I can't live without him." Love means a personality match. "We just click, you know, it's not just attraction, it's that as people, we connect really well." Love is physical attraction. "Okay, it's not all about how she looks but I don't think I could honestly be interested in someone who's not at least somewhat attractive." Love is happiness. Love is ... you get the idea. All of these things are good and honestly quite practical. But we can't forget the essence of love. And we most certainly should not get swept up in emotions and forget that love is not about us.
In all these examples, we see how "I need him," "I connect with him," "I like the way he looks," "I feel happy with him." Love becomes all about me. But that is a very inaccurate statement. Love, by example, ought to be rooted in selflessness.
Personally, I've at times heard this before but really thought about it in a new way. I shouldn't like someone just because he's the perfect guy: he's a strong Christian, he's an ESTJ (for the shamefully non-educated viewers, click here to learn more), he's smart but not too much smarter than me, he's mature, he doesn't melt from the pressure of meeting my family, he's nice to look at, he's 6' even, he's not a coffee-addict (okay, now I'm getting into the pathetic nitty-gritty details but you get the point). Although these are important for a successful marriage, they may not be the most important aspects of love. Instead, I should think, can I give up my life for this guy (John 15:13)? Can I sacrifice for him? Do I see his life as more important than my own?
Wow. That's not how my mind naturally tracked. Culture has pushed my own sinful brain even further down a track away from God's view. We should be thinking about others first. What will that person benefit from this relationship? Am I Mr/Miss Right for her/him? Or am I just on the hunt for the perfect woman/man for myself? It's a matter of changing our entire outlook on life. We ought put others' lives in front of our own. Sacrifice means selflessness. Selflessness means love.

http://www.boundless.org/2005/articles/a0001371.cfm

Tomorrow's Fate

With one day's passing comes the sorrow of the next.
An autumn chill frightens the mortal body.
A mind confused, lost in endless wanderings,
And footsteps that cannot free her trapped soul.


Unable to move, to find the next step,
She stumbles, crawling in constant circles
At last shivering alone in the fog,
Fear dripping from the looming black pines.


Her huddled figure while cloaked
Remains ever unshielded from the mist.
Death approaches for she was consumed
Not by a hopeful breath but by the flesh.


But why punished for what she never knew?
Who's duty was it to anoint this soulless being!
You have been given but one task and fail.
It is daunting but those who shy away are untrue. 


Don't be blind to the war that rages on.
For your mission is to fight unrelentlessly.
The time is fleeting; become an offering 
Amidst this life while awaiting the next. 


The cross of the past, the glory ahead,
The needs of today will push you on for while
Pain casts a shadow on this land it is
No match for the power that destroyed death.


Inspired by Romans 8.

Obedience

Who is the Spirit? Do we really know? A few months ago I would have said some Sunday School answer like, "The part of the trinity that helps us make the right decisions". Something vague and probably something that certainly didn't do him justice. But this spring our youth group started a series on the Spirit by Francis Chan which has made me feel his presence a lot more - which I've found both annoying but truly satisfying. It's almost like when you're a kid and you know you're parents are watching you, expecting you to say something kind, and you're just in agony because you want to the right thing but it's just... hard. Last week, I was with some friends when one said something kind of rude although it was still a joke. I didn't really feel irritated but somehow returned the comment with a offensive joke of my own. Right after I said it I realized what a stupid thing it was to say. It wasn't funny at all and it was sort of the joke that, although not meant to be serious, could still hurt. So I sat there with my friends for an hour or so miserably feeling like a jerk. When we were wrapping up, I felt like I should apologize. The difference between Christians and non-Christians is not in their sin but their response to their sin. I had acknowledged my sin but I had to confront it. I had to ask for forgiveness. A few months ago I wouldn't have recognized this as the Spirit. But by this point I knew it was his tugging on me. I'm not sure why the thought of apologizing seemed so awful but I really didn't want to do it. I suppose I just thought it would be really uncomfortable. Somehow the 'perfect moment' didn't just show up so I went on my way. For the next full hour I don't remember saying a single thing. I was engulfed in sin, drowning in my own evil. I wrote on a paper, Feels worse than people say when you screw up. Really feeling my sin right now. It was a wretched feeling. I just felt like crap. I saw my friend later in the day and the moment was perfect. She was all alone and in the easiest position to approach. I wasn't looking forward to the next few minutes but stood up and walked over anyway. That feat alone felt like moving a mountain. Eventually the words burbled up, "I'm sorry about what I said." She looked up, confused, and said, "What?" After explaining, she sincerely told me that it was no big deal. Driving home, a few minutes later I felt as though the day had gone from rock bottom to completely worry-free. I was happy. The Spirit asks us to do difficult things - but they're well worth it!

The Walk

The following is a memoir I wrote in 2011 about my faith for school.

I grew up in the church. Dad was the senior pastor; Mom, the faithful pastor’s wife; my brothers, the family members I suppose my childhood self would describe as “the ones who make me laugh.” It was a chilly Sunday morning as we sauntered into the front doors of the church. Dad held the door for us while mom led us into the lobby. For as many tall adults as there were, I never found myself intimidated. I knew each and every one of them. This is of course was one of the perks of being raised as a pastor’s kid or ‘PK’. Seventeen-year-old Elliot, thirteen-year-old Jeremy, and I scurried off to our separate Sunday Schools.

But church now, what exactly was that? Oh yes, the place where I sing songs with my fifth-grade Sunday school buddies and sit next to my mom, drawing a new variation of a horse or Pegasus every week as the pastor gives his sermon. The place where I’d browse the library with my brothers to escape adults who were friendly but to me it often felt like they just wanted to interrogate the pastor’s sweet little children. As irritating as these questions would seem, they also gave me special attention. I didn’t even have to try and I still had people talking to me just because of who my dad was. I liked church. 

Growing up, I followed my brothers’ every lead. If they wanted to go on a hike, I would too. If they wanted to play football, I would learn. But there were some things that my ten year old self simply could not track with. The faith of my brothers, particularly Elliot, was on a completely different level from mine. Elliot is seven years older than me. It was not as if he could fully grasp the glory of God, but what he could do was further understand the convoluted essence of grace given by the unseen. I yearned for this but just was not yet capable of it. 

In my teens I was baptized by Dad. Prior to the highly anticipated day, I felt it important to know when I asked Jesus into my heart, assuming that that is something people generally ought to be able to answer at their own baptism. Thus, in an effort to know more about my own spiritual growth, I proceeded to ask Mom. Remembering a particular moment when I prayed with her in one of our homes in Chicago, I asked her if this was the time.

“Mom, how was it that I came to know Jesus? Was there a moment?” I asked, entirely unaware. “Was it that time when we sat in the hallway at Jefferson and we prayed together?”

“When was that?” she responded. “I remember that you prayed to accept Jesus in first grade with Debbie Hara at Hinsdale in Pioneer Clubs. She told us afterward that you had had some kind of response.”

Apparently not. I had had some recollection of a moment of prayer with Mom but had no memory whatsoever of the prayer that is for many people ‘a life changing experience.’ The prayer of surrender and acceptance is extremely important and representative of their spiritual walks. For me, it had passed in one ear and out the other. I don’t even remember it. At the young and exceptionally vague age of “six or seven,” as Dad recalled, I couldn’t understand prayer much; no one could have. I had been told since I was a young child that Jesus died for me and that I must pray to believe in him in order to go to heaven. So I did. But I certainly did not think more than that into the depth of the experience. How could I? My age held me back from such lofty thoughts.
I don’t believe that I truly knew Jesus at the time of this prayer. Years passed as I dutifully followed my family to church. I liked church: it was fun. But did I internalize the pastor’s message? Did I understand the meaning behind the cross? No. I merely followed one of the many patterns of my family for years, this being that Sunday means church. But throughout my twelfth year all of this changed.

My heart found its way into an unfortunate but ultimately beneficial pitfall. How it happened or exactly when it happened, I cannot say. I can say, though, it revolved around one word: doubt. After all of these years of going to church every single week, I finally came to the age that I had to question the beliefs of my parents. Hearing the same message over and over had made me dull to it. I had grown older and didn’t just accept something as true like I had as I child. I questioned what didn’t make logical sense. And God certainly did not make logical sense. After all, I could not see Him! Perhaps this is the curse of growing up; or of the familiarity of something. Or both.

I sat on these feelings for quite some time. How was a pastor’s daughter supposed to tell her parents that she’s not sure of God? I couldn’t imagine what the conversation would consist of. My imagination ran wild.

“Mom, Dad, I’m not entirely sure that I believe in God.”

“WHAT?”

I couldn’t tell what their reaction would be. Would they freak out? Would they be angry? Would they try to act nonchalant? I had no idea. All I knew was that they would be devastated, heartbroken. So I kept my feelings hidden, something I am quite accomplished at. If I don’t feel comfortable with people knowing something, I just don’t tell them. As time progressed, I felt something bothering me. I knew I could leave this earth at any moment. If I died tomorrow, would God accept me into heaven? If not, I would go to hell tomorrow, or even today! How is a twelve year old supposed to handle that kind of pressure? Then I would continually remind myself, “Emily, calm down, you’re okay.” But in the end, I was willing to risk a bad reaction from my parents in order to know more about how I can be sure that God exists. I felt this strongly enough that while walking up the steps one day, I hesitated. Spinning around I heard the words coming out of my mouth, “How do you know that God exists?”

Mom jumped on the question with her answer apparently ready to burst out, “I think that through the stunning beauty of creation and the way in which a human heart responds to its beauty. The power of love that human beings can have for one another and that that there is more than a biological explanation for those feelings. I would say that a profound sense of grief that we experience at death. When a life ends, it feels wrong and abrupt.”

I agreed with all of this. But how could a person be sure? I just didn’t feel sure. “Yeah... that’s true” I said. “A lot of people doubt all of that. Like they believe it but they also doubt. Even some people in the Bible doubted.”

“There is no conclusive proof. That is what faith is all about.” Dad heard the conversation and chimed in, “You have to have faith no matter what. Even if you choose to believe in no god.” “And back to the question about why God exists,” Mom continued, “suffering in the world, no matter if it’s innocent suffering or suffering as a result of sin, I think everyone knows that it feels like something has gone wrong. That it shouldn’t be this way. A lot of people get mad at God because there’s the feeling that something used to be right and now its wrong and God is to blame. But this only proves that there is a God all the more.”

“How can you be satisfied with this though? I agree, but how do you feel settled?”

“I feel satisfied in that what I can see is consistent with and overwhelmingly supports the proposition that there is a God. The things I mentioned support God’s existence.”

“Haven’t you ever doubted that God exists?”

After a pause she responded, “No, I haven’t.”

I felt no more satisfied after this conversation than I had been before. Most of what she said was true. I already believed it. It makes sense that God exists. I knew this. I just felt hesitant. I felt unsure that I can find a God I do not see. Why couldn’t he just slam open a door or light up the sky some night when I asked him? Right, “you shall not put the Lord your God to the test” and “There is no conclusive proof. That is what faith is all about.” Okay, so that makes sense. I knew why God couldn’t explicitly make himself known, but still, why not help me out a little? Couldn’t He just make me feel his presence a bit more?

And making matters worse, Mom hadn’t ever even doubted. What was wrong with me? Why was I doubting something that everybody else seemed to happily accept without question? I wanted what they had. I wanted to believe in God with my entire being but I just... didn’t.

Looking back, I struggle to find any event that changed my walk to a real walk of faith. But I know it was after this period of doubt that I came to know Jesus as my Lord and Savior, not in a child’s faith, but in the lifelong faith of a yearning young adult. Somehow in my stage of confusion God had picked me up and given me a confidence in his existence. Has every moment since been filled with the same willing faith? Yes. But have I felt eager about God in every moment since? Certainly not.

I’ve found that there are two parallel paths lining up to make the walkway of faith: the intellectual path and the feeling-oriented path. If they are not lined up, a person cannot be filled with a sincere faith. My season of doubt was a crisis of my intellectual path. But what I was experiencing now was that relating to my feeling-oriented walk. God exists and I was completely confident in that. I knew that for the rest of my life and for all of eternity I would be confident in that. Yet I remained stuck; lost in what felt like an endless jail sentence. I wasn’t able to break out to feel his glorious splendor. My purpose in life was on hold because I was not letting the Holy Spirit fill his role in me; I was unconsciously shutting him out, and thus wasting my time on earth. Instead of following the call, I was vacantly staring at my shoes, wondering how I could make myself useful.

Nevertheless, he pounded through my confused outer shell and broke inside through a series of rather wonderful moments. These ‘moments’ are not any conclusive set of events in which my faith grew by some numerical value. They are merely times in my life at which I remember feeling touched by the Spirit. 
A few years back, our family took a vacation to a cabin in Michigan. We had a splendid time together apart from one instance in which Dad took me out sailing. He was fully confident in his sailing abilities, but they proved to be severely lacking when the boat capsized in the middle of the lake. 
When the wind caught the sail, I quickly realized that the boat was going over. With my only thought being that I needed to get away from the boat in order not to be caught underneath it, I slid off the boat, plunged into the water, and took off at top speed away from the boat. Sadly enough, I had no time to consider the fact that a sailboat has a sail, meaning that the boat would not rotate one hundred and eighty degrees when it tipped. The sail caught the water, spreading out across the rippling waves.

While I thought I was successfully fleeing from a terrifying experience of being caught underneath a boat and unable to reach air, I did the opposite. As I swam, I went right underneath the sail which was flat on the water. The poles that fixed it in position kept me from being able to get it out of my way.

Before any more time passed, I lost track of thought. I honestly thought myself to be drowning. I sat lifeless in the warm summer water and was somehow completely at peace. I remained entirely un-terrified, even while thinking my life was ending; and all the while, I only thought of one thing: Jesus. His name came to mind and I mulled it over and over before I felt myself being literally tugged.

After Dad had slipped into the water, he remained next to the boat; in between it and the sail. Quickly springing into action, he grabbed under the bar that held the sail down to pull me out. My life jacket kept me close up to the surface so he had to tug again and push me down and then up before I popped out.

Its odd to imagine myself sitting happily under a sail and satisfied with death. Only seconds before, I had swam with all the vigor in me to get away from such a fate. After realizing I was beneath the tarp, wouldn’t it have been sensible for me to swim quickly somewhere, anywhere to get out from under it? Wouldn’t panic have overtaken any child who was lost and felt doomed? But no, I had laid comfortably surrounded by the name of Jesus.

Feeling safe with Jesus even in a time of what naturally would have been horror brought me closer to him. The miraculous irony of the situation has forever brought me back to the sailing story, meditating on its depth.

It seems that often it is only in times of great need to we really call out for help. I find that throughout my walk, I have managed to call out to Christ more and more. Not only in times of need to I

call to him, but in times of complete satisfaction of worldly pleasures, I call. I need him always and not only when I feel desperate. My weak soul is constantly in a state of need.
Even after experiencing such comfort as I did in the sailing incident, I fell again into the pitfall of straying away from walking with my mind centered on Christ. I believed in God and continued ‘walking the walk’ by acting like a good Christian girl, but I didn’t live my life orbiting around the Lord. A family inspiration, Jim Elliot, refers to this as “a slacking desire.” He says,

How easy it is to lag spiritually at such times! Though there is challenge among the saints to stir them up and Sundays are crowded with jail and street meetings there is a very decided tendency to let the days slip through your fingers.... Oh there is time to read and seek God, but my desire slackens. Lord, uphold thy lily-saint. Stay me, Jehovah, for Thine is a strong right arm, and mine so weak!

My spiritual path was lagging during my middle school years, some of the most exhausting ones I have ever lived. Emotionally, I had felt maxed out. Although my family atmosphere was great and church was fine, school was not alright. Adults from church  would ask,

“How are you?”

“Good,” I’d reply without thinking. My poor twelve year old self never extended the bleak conversation with a “How are you?” in return. I merely endured the lifeless silence following my “good” and walked away. Perhaps blaming my attitude on school seems silly but it felt accurate. School was miserable, making me feel “unhappy” as Mom recounted. The circumstance left me no gap for learning. Teachers followed the stupid demands of the students, thus teaching nothing to those of us who wanted to make use of our time. But this unhappiness came over me because I allowed school to rule my life. Of course I desired complete satisfaction in Christ but had difficulty feeling it.

Lord, uphold thy lily-saint.

And he did.

After, a spiritually enriching experience of worship I made Him more dominant in my life.

Even in the midst of the chaos I felt at school, I found peace at church. As I forged ahead on my middle school years, I followed my youth group to a winter retreat. During one worship session, the band introduced me to Hillsong. All I knew of Hillsong at the time was that they wrote a song that had profoundly moved me: “From the Inside Out”. As the band played this song and worshipers surrounded me zealously praising their savior, I felt helpless as the words penetrated my heart:

Everlasting, your light will shine when all else fades

Never ending, your glory goes beyond all fame

And the cry of my heart is to bring you praise

From the inside out

Lord, my soul cries out

I distinctly remember closing my eyes and seeing the light. It literally exploded in the sky, reaching to any of the darkness that welcomed it. This darkness covered everything on the ground and below. But the light descended to the desolate wasteland, offering its pure, glistening rays to the scorched earth.

Describing what this and many other powerful songs have done to me is a challenge. I don’t start sweating blood or enter a state of semi-consciousness, but I might get shivers. I feel safe, like I’m untouchable with Christ. I feel like I’m where I belong as if no where else could ever be more satisfying. I am touched by the Spirit.

This one event did not change my heart forever though. I knew that I must rely on the strength of the Lord to persist though the chaos of this life. “A man’s thoughts dye his soul” Marcus Aurelius said. If I would pour myself into the Bible as consistently and often as possible, I would be able to live by it more. Even when my desire slackens, I must pick it up. It’s a brutal internal battle. The devil sweeps me away from the Word, pampering me with the comforts of the world, while the Spirit whispers that I might I call unto Him.

I never second-guessed the little voice I heard

It's just a whisper, that sounded like a scream

I ain't never felt so free

Remembering these lyrics from the Rinehart brothers of Needtobreathe, I run to Him, embracing his Word. The freedom that comes when I break the binding of that book and listen to the whisper is indescribable.

God works in mysterious ways, I remember thinking. He’ll use pain and suffering to bring us closer to him. He’ll use misery to help us to grow. He did this to me through my interactions with one of his creatures.

Horses are a huge passion of mine that became even more involved in my life in November of 2010, the year I met Snickers. Seeing her one day over the fence, I felt like I’d been hit with a brick. That horse is breathtaking, I thought. Immediately I decided I would do whatever it took to become her partner. Attempting to control my momentary overload of beauty, I casually walked over gave her a pat. Sheepishly peering about to see if anyone would notice, I snuck her a treat.

It was months later before I realized something critical about our relationship. As we spent more time together, I found she would have good days and she would have bad days. But only on one of those bad days did I realize that God was working in my life through her. As I brought my halter out to get Snickers on a stormy and foreboding spring afternoon, she didn’t walk toward me. In fact, she walked away from me. Suddenly I felt awful, overcome as though my heart had dropped into the caverns of my stomach. Snickers hadn’t just made me upset. She’d made me angry. How could she do this to me? Had I lost her or would she ever come back? Snickers, just turn around and say you’re sorry. I’ll forgive you.

She kept walking, further and further away. I sat in my bedroom that evening, coming back to devotions after my awful day. I obediently read a Psalm or two and then threw my Bible aside, ready to enter into a mode of prayer. Or something like that, as I began drilling God on why he’d let this happen. Snickers is what I’d always wanted. She is beautiful and wonderful and I want to ride her. I want to train her and own her. I want to be successful with her. And I want her to be mine. What else could you have in mind for us? Eventually, I paused, all out of questions or declarations as they may have been. Maybe I shouldn’t have treated my Lord with this much disrespect. I didn’t know why he would have caused this to happen but he did. I sighed and gave up: Lord, what could you be teaching me through this?

My answer came not through that night of prayer but through Snickers, the one who had started all of this mess. God used her as his instrument to speak to me. Soon after the unfortunate day, I returned to the barn, with a slightly bitter attitude as I walked to get Snickers. She came out right before I got there. She stood still with her ears dead set on me, her eyes plundering through the depths of my soul. I felt like I did when I first saw her, overcome with such splendor, before it suddenly struck me. God, is this how you feel when I give you the attention you deserve? I felt like I’d struck gold as I walked up to her. My relationship with Snickers was a parallel to God’s relationship with me! When I came to him, willingly and eagerly, he felt happy. He felt overjoyed, just like I felt all of the times Snickers had come to me. As I had ignored him over the winter months, he had felt upset and frustrated, like the day Snickers had walked away from me. Seeing her in this new light helped me in my walk.

As I held onto this tangible way of connecting to God’s love for me, I grew to love him more. Why had I ignored those longing eyes that my patient master turned to me with? As Jonah 1:6 points out, I was sleeping: “What do you mean, you sleeper? Arise, call out to your god!” God is so present but yet so distant and I had allowed myself to let go of God’s driving force in me. Although I wanted him back, I wasn’t using my eyes. I was blindly calling out in my sleep but not bothering to wake up. My walk has been filled with these valleys since; these ups and downs. As much as I’d love to be completely on fire for the Lord, I do not always feel so passionate. I don’t know if this is entirely my fault though it seems to be a trend of believers. Since we are not perfect neither will be our faith; it is tainted. But when I seek him out and call his name, I find him.

Whether it takes a slap in the face, or a gentle whisper, God wakes us up. I received more than one; and through all of these experiences, God was speaking. He is present and alive.

Previous to an assignment for school I had had much respect for martyr Jim Elliot; however since reading his biography, I discovered a new found inspiration. The assignment was to read the biography of any noteworthy person so after Dad brought home a pile of excellent biographies, I chose Shadow of the Almighty by Elisabeth Elliot, his wife. Sadly enough, the only reason it stuck out to me was because it was shorter and thus less material to read than the others. But my laziness turned out to be beneficial because this biography has been one of the most amazing journeys to follow along with.

Despite his occasional slackening desire, Elliot’s life is an incredible example. Every believer has the ups and downs to their faith; no one’s faith is consistently strong for their entire life. Initially reading the biography, I felt intimidated reading many of his thoughts because he was so in tune with Christ! He bluntly and verbally turned away from unhealthy social events because he was meant to be “in the world and not of it.” He spent abundant time reading the Bible, even to the point of allowing his school grades to drop a bit, in order to remain A.U.G. or ‘approved unto God’. He put God’s glory and his relationship with the Lord above everything else. He went through college consistently eager to get overseas and share the gospel.

Fortunately, though, a piece of commentary within the text by his wife reminded me that he was no particular hero. He was just a man like any other.

Jim's aim was to know God. His course, obedience - the only course that could lead to the fulfillment of his aim. His end was what some would call and extraordinary death, although in facing death he had quietly pointed out that many have died because of obedience to God. He and other men with whom he died were hailed as heroes, 'martyrs.' I do not approve. Neither would they have approved. Is the distinction between living for Christ and dying for Him, after all, so great? Is not the second the logical conclusion of the first?

I later read a chapter in which Jim said, “Missionaries are very human folks, just doing what they are asked. Simply a bunch of nobodies trying to exalt Somebody.” Both husband and wife worked together saying the same thing: no believer is more special than another and each is fully capable of greatness. This soothed me.
Combining Jim’s inspiring “greatness” with his humble attitude, I felt stronger. I felt more capable knowing that I didn’t need to be an incredible person to be useful for God. This strength was aroused even further after reading one of Jim’s letters to his sister: “You and I shall one day share with Him the promised triumph when He comes.... Exulting we shall follow and wonder then that we ever disbelieved.” Even someone who sacrificed his entire life for the Lord disbelieved and had moments of slacking desire. This sense of humanity behind such an exalted figure was encouraging.
The Lord used people and experiences to bring me closer to Him. The accident with the boat, the music from a retreat, the horse who changed my heart, and the character of Jim Elliot lead me on toward the light. As I continue on my journey, I know I will face more valleys and more hills; more cloudy days and more bright skies; more ups and more downs. But I pray for the strength to cling forever to the love of my King.

All of these moments in my life have empowered me to face the darkness festering about the earth; the darkness I imagined when hearing From the Inside Out. As it attacks a righteous faith, I pray for strength to continue on. From every direction, the enemy sweeps in to take me away from the living water offered by a savior. He attempts to break me down to the meager faith of a child. The battle rages onward as I struggle to feel my Lord’s presence; the presence of a sacrificial king who gave me life by giving up his own. And so I call out. I reach for help that comes as I stand, remaining wondrously lost in the clutches of the cross.